Conversations With Death

Each month the lovely Always Josefa hosts a “Conversations Over Coffee” linkup. This month’s theme is conversations with death. 

The older I get, the more I worry about you. Well, the more I think about you. And it’s not in a fond way. You’ve taken too many people I know, too young. And I can never seem to get my head around you. All I can think is that I hope you won’t be coming for me any time soon.

I have heard people, young and old, say they’re not scared of you. The old people I think may even welcome you, the young people I think just refuse to believe you will ever visit them. If I am honest, I am scared of you. Mostly because I am not ready. I hope you hear me loud and clear. I still have way too much to do. Maybe when I am old I will be unafraid.

I will say, I’m thankful you took my dad quickly, and didn’t force him to live a life of incompetency, like the life you let my uncle live before you finally took him. My grandmother still doesn’t understand why you took him before her. And I still don’t know why you took my friend’s 3 year old son in such a violent way. There is no rhyme, reason or method to your madness.

What is there after you? Life? Eternity? Heaven? Hell? Do you even know? Who do you take your orders from, anyway? Or do you operate on your own terms? I’ve got an idea, how about you start operating like Santa? Make a naughty and nice list, check it twice. Here’s a hint, the people you should visit are on the naughty list.

If it’s alright with you, I’d like to carry on pretending you don’t exist, if you could promise me you’ll leave me well alone for the next 40 or so years. Shake on it?

Linking up with Always Josefa for Conversations Over Coffee

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Talking To The Dead

Something started in our house, a few weeks (months?) ago, and at first I sort of encouraged it, but now I’m starting to grow concerned about it.

A little history – my husband’s dad passed away less than a year before I met hubby. I never got to meet him, so our son certainly didn’t get to. At least, not in this life or on this side. Then my dad passed away when Nick was just 2.5 years old. I was sad for what I had lost, but devastated for what my son was lost. He was now grandfatherless. No little boy should be grandfatherless.

Recently he has started talking about his “grandpa” in reference to the mechanic’s dad. There is a picture of him on our book shelf, and one of Nick and my dad (his “granddad”). He talks about where his grandpa lives, what he and his grandpa have done, often says, “I really miss my grandpa” and the other day he asked me if we could see him, or if he was going to call us. When I said he wasn’t going to call, he got really upset.

I haven’t had a chance to talk to his teacher, but I am guessing that someone at school may do a lot with their grandpa and Nick is taking their stories in and projecting them back into his own stories? Or perhaps he just has a really good imagination? Or maybe they’re talking about families at school?

This past weekend it started to get a bit out of control. It was no longer just a passing comment, but full blown conversations and melt downs over not being able to see his grandpa. He blamed his tantrum at soccer on missing his grandpa. I tried to use it to my advantage, and said, “Well I don’t think your grandpa would have been happy with you having a tantrum, do you?” I am not sure it really worked.

Last night when I got home from work he had apparently been talking for 10 minutes about how he missed his grandpa. Then he said his grandpa was dead, but his grandad was alive. I sat down and told him his granddad was not alive, but that I so wished he was. At this point, I was in tears. How do you explain this to a 5 year old? How do you explain that other kids get to have grandpas who take them to do fun things? I told him he was lucky because he had nanna, and baba, but I am not sure that was much consolation.

I’m seriously to the point of wondering if we need a psych/counsellor to deal with it?

But first, I’m reaching out to my fellow bloggers, my fellow IBOTers, to ask for your input?

Have you been through this? What do we do?

My Mental Health: A Team Friday Linkup

I thought I should link up with Team Friday today for a few reasons. One, it’s been a while since I’ve linked up. Two, the lovely Stacey-Lee is gracious enough to host, the least I can do is support her. Third, and mostly, because the idea behind Team Friday has been such a massive part of my life the last 7 months, I need to keep this going.

People ask me if I am still on my “health kick” or still on my “diet”. I try to explain it’s not a kick, a fad, a diet, a passing phase. It is my life now. It is my routine, my regular, my habit. Physically, I comes leaps and bounds in the last seven months. Physically I am trimmer, stronger, fitter.

Mentally, well, that is another story. I thought I had come a long way. Turns out I’ve probably really only come a short way. I am happier. I tend to worry and stress far less about things out of my control. I think I have a much more positive and thankful outlook on life in general.

But I’m still suffering from anxiety. It started after my dad passed away, I think. I thought I had worked on it, made progress, but this week I’m severely doubting that. I have a phobia. A genuine, panic-inducing, fear. Of death. I thought I was afraid to fly, but I think that’s just a transfer from the true fear. I love my life. I don’t want it to be cut short. I want to grow old, be a grandmother, enjoy much much more time here. I wasted too much time not being happy. But the irony in all this is that my fear is stopping me from actually enjoying things. We’re about to leave on an 8 day South Island holiday and I’m so exhausted from the stress about flying, I don’t know how I’ll enjoy the actual holiday.

I have moments, brief and fleeting moments, where I am ok with it all. But for the most part I am gripped with fear. My palms sweat, my heart races, my stomach ties in knots and my chest tightens. My legs don’t want to work, I can’t focus on anything and I would do just about anything to NOT have to get on the plane. More irony. My father wouldn’t have been able to step foot on a plane even if it wasn’t going anywhere. Did his fear transfer to me when he died?

I hoped we’d be on a big plane, but we’re not. It’s the same size as the plane we went to Melbourne on. Surely a bigger plane would be needed for international travel? I think I feel safer on bigger planes. I don’t know why. But then how can I even start to question such an irrational fear?

The mind is a strange, strange and powerful place. For now I’ll attempted to subdue it with drugs (thanks Doc!) but maybe it’s time to start looking at a long-term, drug-free solution to this problem.

Linking up with Stacey-Lee at Get On With It Already for Team Friday

And Mama Grace for FYBF