One inevitably longs to be in a position where all things glitter and glisten in a never-ending stream of golden sun. To be able to dance in the light is an utmost preference to stumbling amidst sinewy shadows of black. In short, the very word happy denotes a better situation than sad. For example, I know when I hide as opposed to where I prefer to reside. Both, I am very aware, I argue, cannot happen simultaneously. Alas presents the very apparent existence of binary opposition whose derivatives of black versus white scenarios are permitted to reside in all manner of things. Look to the Structuralists for this perspective. Quite simply, as a mirror reflects, one lends itself to the other in order to exist.
I consider this oppositional shift in relation to the mortal being where any association of permanence does not easily lend itself. To explain, nothing is fixed emotionally, spiritually or physically, we shift and change in waves. Sometimes for better, at other times inevitably for worse. So when a person, a most precious person, alters from one binary state to the other, impossibly, irrevocably, frustratingly, even hopelessly before you, is where I would like to place emphasis.
(Note to the reader. A sad undertone, almost moan, of inspiration pervades the narrative of this entry, the title says it all).
There are a number of reasons why I write about this dreadful process, for now I will address the most obvious. To begin with I acknowledge the need for any remote cathartic possibility, to express and release through words would seem a kinder option than riding the emotional nose-dives alone. Further, to see the written word of thought upon a page makes it more real in some curious way; pinning down, I suggest, is better than confinement. Further still, I realise writing, whilst residing in this ever-closing space, enables one to make sense of the dreadful dis-order of it. Thus one can at least attempt to breathe through, pace and evaluate a very questionable use of the word ‘progress’ in relation to the Condition. (Yes, for the reader a link, upper case C is intentional). Finally, one needs to map this journey, albeit on a rather swaggered road of short reliefs and re-directions. The outcome, rest assured, is entirely destined. It is, as the appalling cliché would suggest, a matter of Time.
Within the title the dilemma makes itself known. I, and a very significant other have become entrenched and suspended within this well appropriated term. So many times, uttered under my breath, I have used this expression.’ The Long Wait’, I consider while you discover, poses as the lid of an on going experience. The metaphorical jar depicted beneath the title embodies the holder of a deplorable mêlée of sufferance. The contents are thus riddled with doubt. This sour fruit compote I sample and frequent with a very, very dear person in my life.
It takes place in a room with a clock, every few months, usually three to four, for at least the last four years. Sometimes the calendar distance between the visit to The Long Wait is greater. One could almost forget for a moment, take a breath and sigh in the welcome period of ambiguous absence. In this absence, like a guilty silence, it would seem there is also pretence where less emphasis or urgency is placed. Awaited growth or progress, such deplorable terms, however force change. For the greater part of the latter year to date, with an alarmingly accelerated growth, one has attended TLW with a view to a now ever-more unspeakable void. Sounds like a lyric to which I cannot apply to a song. This strange, unsure destination or unimaginable ‘view to a void’ you will understand, is, rarely for me, hard to locate with music.
Pause. I must pay attention to the wonders of music and contextualise appropriately with the content here. Stay with me, for a thought enters my mind in the process of reflection and kindly provides a well-needed link. Music, yes a true love, leading self-indulgent joy, always and ever.
It would be fair to say that my love of music was delightfully born from the distant echo of her singing. Whether dutifully sloshing in the kitchen, shovelling at the hearth, pegging out washing unsuitably in winkle pickers or simply voicing a marvellously random outburst, “I say a little prayer for you” rings loud and clear from her ‘then kitchen’. I say a little prayer for you too lovely lady and pay my respects to Aretha Franklin& Burt Bacharach, of course. There was never a time, it has to be said, where if the infamous Hacker wireless was on, that my mother could not be heard singing whilst swaying to some tune or other. This was a good time in my life. Sun did shine, her smile reflected the sun, her beauty outward from within could not be replicated by anyone.
At this point in her life she wore her hair high, pinned sleek and tucked seamlessly into a pleat. The upward sweep of her hair enhanced by Raven Black, thanks to the Harmony tube, revealed a most delicate nape and beautifully shaped neck. The neck always, and truly I mean always, laced with a generous application of perfume, preferably Blue Grass but mostly other. Needless to say as she whisked through the front door chasing time and work, the departing slam was the catalyst of a most precious, unique waft of scent. Divine was the air mark of my mother, exquisitely comprised of a near cosmetic trinity; lipstick, hair ‘lacquer’ (her term) and perfume. The quiet left behind; a miniature mourn and reminder of her missed presence till her much awaited return. As a truly devoted child from the age of six, you understand, often I would linger outside her place of work, monitor her progress, through glass, and wait.
The Long wait continues. Ironic when the background music filters into the troubled mind. I question what the consultant is about to discover with those skilled hands, familiar to the place of origin. More time passes, painfully slow and I sense her agitation. ‘Don’t bring me down’ continues to play, ELO for those of you who would not know. More ironic is the knowledge that this track is the last from the 1979 album ‘Discovery’. Here in this room, sickly sweet, furnished with beech coloured handles on chairs dressed in powder-calm blue, the discovery is unwelcome. Yet still the insinuation of the lyrics, the song and sense of nostalgia initiates a strangely sordid smirk. I am very aware of the innate need to still find a strand of humour where it does not belong. In the face of adversity the last thing I wish to do is laugh. So snuffed suitably the half-smile is now replaced by a sideways glance or glimpse of another’s eyes that ensures, from whichever slant, that the clock is always in range.
It was not always this way you by now understand. Why else do I reflect and relive those precious, now more faded memories of sunnier days. Ever the Trojan was my mother in better health, yes and quite the binary opposite to which I refer to at the beginning of this entry. Never to forget, I refer to all manner of what she was able to achieve in considerably harder times. Regardless of these times, there was always an evening meal prepared by eleven in the morning, groceries were carried, not driven and the house a picture of polish where it was necessary. During this time our socks were, too, always white, hair had been groomed to perfection and faces wiped to effect. But further, she worked as many as three jobs at any one time. In fact the miraculous magnitude of her strength, wisdom and kindness to all may well serve as a laconic encapsulation of who my mother was/is. Now, given different circumstance, she applies these strengths still. It is just so very different; more sporadic somehow, sliding in and out on a mood, health, momentary basis. I talk to her with enticing lines and enthusiasm, but little registers. I guide her along the same route; regular destination, but she never knows where we are or where we are going. I look into the same striking blue eyes but they dart, anxious ridden mostly, to then reside and settle in some far away place. When she is out of reach, unbounded, I often wonder what she is thinking. I hope it is warm and safe in that far away place mum. The C word changes people in many ways that cannot be explained. There is no consistency to be gleaned from something insidiously concealed. I never remember her being this distant, untouchable or, more frequently now, absent.
He says we need to consider another form of treatment; the pills are no longer a successful distraction for the C. The third blister pack did not prove their worth. I hate this. My eyes burn and well, my mother seems entirely removed, perhaps this is better. Chemo as opposed to Radiotherapy; we tried that before, surgery is, of course, out. Tower block, tick-tock, time to reflect, look to the left through a window that forces the gaze to another room much as this. The yellowed clock in another grey build is visible, though its numerals are indistinguishable. This depiction of ‘no time’ spells the agony of it; there is little time, perhaps a little more pending the dreaded chemo hope with its string of side effects. How do you tell her that? Through tears now, concealed from the dispensary counter and those who know the signs of a hidden face. The Long Wait continues. Here we have a fizzy drinks machine without a measure of what I truly desire. Did I mention the change of location? Did I say the prescribed wait was approximately two hours and twenty-five minutes before these pills could be dispensed? The pills that you can only obtain from a tower block, this block, thus a compulsory walk and hence the forcible dislocate from the ailing arm that needs me the most. I wait, as does she. In our own private hell space, tense, stifled breath and struggling to comprehend the next stage. We both bear the weight and the wait of it, separated but the same. This is the stuff evoked by The Nightmare Jar, an expression coined by my dear son, who unknowingly has captured this experience so well. Another jar, another attempt to preserve. Three chemo courses later this proves not to be the case. We wait. This time for the arm, that is to say, the radiotherapy limb to oscillate once more to a wider sweep of my dear mother’s body. It can, after all perhaps “shrink things back” I heard the nurse say. I feel as pallid as the all-grey zone in which I sit and my mother lies. Co-ordinates set, target locked, I must leave her on the bed, mid-air, to view her on a screen. As it administers invisible treatment the minutes pulse, literally, the sound an audible reminder of the real. This is real, alas further substantiated by this dialogue. Today was the last day of consecutive applications; the date with the laser, curious grid and robotic arm is done. The Long Wait hence continues, the next blue card to attend another waiting room is in view. Three weeks, we discuss, three weeks, we wait…
I hope, in that far away place, my mother ‘daydreams of nests’. As Gaston Bachelard’s concept would suggest:
A nest is a precarious thing, and yet it sets us up to daydreaming of security. Why does this obvious precariousness not arrest daydreams of this kind? The answer to this paradox is simple: when we dream, we are phenomenologists without realising it. In a sort of naïve way, we relive the instinct of the bird, taking pleasure in accentuating the mimetic features of the green nest in green leaves. The nest is a lyrical bouquet of leaves. It participates in the peace of the vegetable world. It is a point in the atmosphere of happiness that always surrounds large trees. And so when we examine a nest, we place ourselves at the origin of confidence in the world, we receive a beginning of confidence, an urge toward cosmic confidence. […] Our house, apprehended in it’s dream potentiality, becomes a nest in the world, and we shall live their in complete confidence’.
So precious lady, make your nest where all things glitter and glisten in a never-ending stream of golden sun, take your pleasure and dream.
