Friday, 24 August 2012

Back In The Saddle.

Exactly five weeks ago I walked into a hospital room to help my mother pack up all of her stuff while her husband lay in the bed. He had just passed away. His beautiful head was nestled back against a pink horseshoe pillow. I didn't touch him or say goodbye as we'd just had a whole terrible month of that and I just wanted to bring mum home.

I couldn't pack fast enough. Death was right there, in front of our very eyes. Mum really wanted that pink ruffled horseshoe pillow and tried to get it but it was too hard so we had to ask a nurse. I couldn't watch, as the nurse gently eased the pillow out from underneath.

Mum grabbed the pillow. I didn't want to touch it .. it had death on it.  We all walked out for the last time, stopping only to take a photo of me and my mothers shoes, next to a feather outside on the pavement.


Tomorrow I will be on a panel at the Melbourne Writers Festival called New News: Editors Talk  "What can bloggers teach our mainstream media editors about audience engagement, and on the other hand, what lessons has mainstream media got for the newest and edgiest entrants to the media circus?"

(Even though the tickets are officially sold out, I have been told that there are still some available if you're around.)

I'm usually great at speaking but I'm not sure how I'll go tomorrow. I often joke that I'm a great public speaker from all the years of recovery meetings where I've spilled my guts and tears freely, finely honing my skills.

Lately I'm only just hanging in there. By the thinnest thread. Lost my mind and broke my heart. You should see my mothers eyes ... they are SO green. The greenest they've ever been. Painfully, beautifully green.

I hunch over my car, grimace, stop myself from weeping, scrawl in a ball, walk around the house in shock and trauma. Every time I come here, the only words inside are DEATH. CANCER. GONE. DEAD. PAIN. PAIN. PAIN.

I don't want to do that, be that. So I'm not - here. In real life, where all my real feeling are? Yeah. It's all fucked up.

Thing is, you know what happened to that scary pink ruffled death pillow, five weeks ago? My niece grabbed it out of the car with glee and turned it upside down, stood astride it, and galloped off.


She rode that pink death pillow all the way inside, stopping only to neigh along the way.

I stood in mums driveway, alone and aghast at how quickly life moves on.


My two boys, my buoys, my joys. I have been having a wicked few weeks. They pull me up and out, every time.

I am indebted, enriched, erased, renewed.

I owe them.


Edenland passed a million pageviews the other day ... I was wondering if you could do this quick, five-minute survey, so I can get a better understanding of - you? There's a $150 Westfield gift voucher up for grabs, and I'd really appreciate it.

Click here to take survey (Or the link up the top of my sidebar. Thanks. Heaps.)


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Write to be understood, speak to be heard. - Lawrence Powell

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