From the Blog
Dear Friend, Old friend, new friend, true friend. If you are reading this, you know who you are. I want to write here now to say that I am so glad that our paths crossed when they did, all those many years ago, or only just recently.
Anyone who has lost someone close to them knows what I mean when I say there’s a hole in my heart that won’t ever be filled. At least not on this earth. My brother Greg’s absence is an abyss not only within me, but also in the family landscape. It is always there, but at times it seems more dangerous or delicate to walk around it, like at birthday, or on the anniversary of his accident, and at other significant events.
Step into any writing class and you are likely to hear these two key principles: firstly, write what you know, and secondly, write what you want to read. I’ve been thinking about a third one recently: write what you need to hear.
Sometimes you just have those crying days. Those days when the tide fills and swells, and the tears come. Often, you feel them building at the least expected and the least convenient of times. They come when you are alone, and they come when you are in public. You feel raw, and it takes very little to chafe against the surface of your skin, and you are exposed.
Anyone who has known me for more than five minutes will know this about me. I am not a builder. Of anything. Not even a gingerbread house is safe in my hands. In fact, when it comes to making stuff I’ve no more skill than my six-month old baby, J, no matter how cute and builderly-like he may look in his overalls.
It’s known in the medical world (or at least the patient-doctor version of it) by its cute little nickname: endo. Until fairly recently, it seems, endometriosis has been relatively quiet. But a just released story in The Guardian circulating social media is speaking out. When I read it today in my living room while feeding my third baby I cried.
Trying to tidy with a toddler is like attempting to sweep leaves in the presence of a hurricane… If you pour it, they will spill it; if you change it, they will dirty it; if you find it, they will lose it… Suspect silence..
Before we had kids Dr M and I often wouldn’t eat dinner until at least 8:30pm. Okay, sometimes 10pm. Even when we just had E, we’d call her our little party-baby and take her with us everywhere, anytime. She’d sit beside us in cafes often late into the night in her little capsule, nestled into her blanket, blissfully unaware of time as we worked on study or writing deadlines.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my brother Greg lately. My parents’ son. So many peoples’ friend. The years since the car accident that took him from us have added up to more than I wish to count, but numbers don’t always correspond with experience. Sometimes I feel he is closer today than he was ten, even fifteen, years ago. Memory can be precious like that. It doesn’t age.
And he is everywhere but where he should be, Images of his poor kid-body washed up on the beach like seaweed seared across our screens.
Dear Friend, Old friend, new friend, true friend. If you are reading this, you know who you are. I want to write here now to say that I am so glad that our paths crossed when they did, all those many years ago, or only just recently.
Anyone who has lost someone close to them knows what I mean when I say there’s a hole in my heart that won’t ever be filled. At least not on this earth. My brother Greg’s absence is an abyss not only within me, but also in the family landscape. It is always there, but at times it seems more dangerous or delicate to walk around it, like at birthday, or on the anniversary of his accident, and at other significant events.
Step into any writing class and you are likely to hear these two key principles: firstly, write what you know, and secondly, write what you want to read. I’ve been thinking about a third one recently: write what you need to hear.
Sometimes you just have those crying days. Those days when the tide fills and swells, and the tears come. Often, you feel them building at the least expected and the least convenient of times. They come when you are alone, and they come when you are in public. You feel raw, and it takes very little to chafe against the surface of your skin, and you are exposed.
Anyone who has known me for more than five minutes will know this about me. I am not a builder. Of anything. Not even a gingerbread house is safe in my hands. In fact, when it comes to making stuff I’ve no more skill than my six-month old baby, J, no matter how cute and builderly-like he may look in his overalls.
It’s known in the medical world (or at least the patient-doctor version of it) by its cute little nickname: endo. Until fairly recently, it seems, endometriosis has been relatively quiet. But a just released story in The Guardian circulating social media is speaking out. When I read it today in my living room while feeding my third baby I cried.
Trying to tidy with a toddler is like attempting to sweep leaves in the presence of a hurricane… If you pour it, they will spill it; if you change it, they will dirty it; if you find it, they will lose it… Suspect silence..
Before we had kids Dr M and I often wouldn’t eat dinner until at least 8:30pm. Okay, sometimes 10pm. Even when we just had E, we’d call her our little party-baby and take her with us everywhere, anytime. She’d sit beside us in cafes often late into the night in her little capsule, nestled into her blanket, blissfully unaware of time as we worked on study or writing deadlines.
I’ve been thinking a lot about my brother Greg lately. My parents’ son. So many peoples’ friend. The years since the car accident that took him from us have added up to more than I wish to count, but numbers don’t always correspond with experience. Sometimes I feel he is closer today than he was ten, even fifteen, years ago. Memory can be precious like that. It doesn’t age.
And he is everywhere but where he should be, Images of his poor kid-body washed up on the beach like seaweed seared across our screens.
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