I spend a lot of time right now thinking about time.
Wanting more time, less time.
Wanting space free of time.
But there's nowhere I go, nothing I do where there isn't a clock ticking in the background of my mind. A clock counting down.
I read this post by Stephanie and knew exactly what she was talking about. We are only a few days different in age and this year we've got more than birthdays in common. This is a great post, but not up to Stephanie's usual standard of clear ordered thought. I think maybe it's the disorder that feels so true to me right now.
I can't make sense of the see saw I feel between the most basic of survival instincts, the human embrace of love that has me scrambling, fighting, clawing for every precious extra day I can share with my mum and the recognition of the living hell she has sliding painfully, terrifyingly towards death.
She wishes fervently for a swift passing and an end to her suffering and uncertainty. She hates lingering in this place, growing more feeble and dependent and all too knowing. She hates impacting on the lives of those she loves, she hates being so reduced and in such a public way. She hates the surreal future-less life.
But her body, like ours, fights. It rallies at every opportunity to remain here. It pushes her to think and plan and strategise how to cope. It shows all the strengths that have carried her through this life, that have seen her recover from significant blows, that have given life to me and my siblings and so many many others.
Months and months ago we booked this weekend away, a winter birthday treat in one of the most beautiful places on earth. Both D and I have been coming here regularly since we were kids and it holds a special wild beauty soft spot for us. We marvel how deeply our memories hold, how unchanging the landscape and landmarks are, even while so much else has changed.
And it is a treat to be here in this beauty. Sitting tucked up in our toasty warm cabin between blustery walks, doing puzzles, playing games, having snacks. Living life.
But mum seems so far away. I know being with her won't change that, it's loss not distance I feel.
Utterly perversely I think I'm also grieving for the end of hexagon purgatory. While the blanket isn't actually finished, there's only the border to do. I wove in the last end on the 460th hex on the night of my birthday and my sense of achievement was strangely over shadowed by the sense of loss.
I've been working on the blanket in earnest since mum was diagnosed and it seemed then like the project that could never end. It's been with me at hospitals and beside beds and in hospice. It's been on my mind while I tried to solve the final design elements of the half hexes and border, dealing with discontinued yarn and blocking in parallel with visiting schedules and funeral plans.
I think the hole left behind scares me a little. I'm still not really able to knit, so what will I do now? What will I take with me to bury my head in when looking straight ahead is just too hard? How can I balance my urge to make with my feeling of futility and wasted effort?
I'm trusting something will come, I know it always does. The will to survive and make always wins out, even as the light is fading. But I'm just a cork bobbing on the ocean right now, trying to hold my breath when the waves pull me under and enjoy the sun when I can.