William Frederick Dudson

 

 

I've spent my day searching through cemeteries for  my grandfather’s gravesite because that's what you do on Valentine’s Day when you are me and ever so slightly odd.  I know very little about my grandfather. He died before I was born and my father, who was only 10 at the time, has rarely spoken of him.

 His photo sits on my dressing table and I stare at it often, trying to get a sense of just who he was. The essence of that young man in his military uniform posing for the camera. All I've ever gotten back is a face that looks uncannily like my brother's. And that freaks me out at 7am each morning. But it also makes me smile because he's smiling in just the same goofy way my brother does even though they have never met.

Little is written on his headstone.  Only his name - William Frederick Dudson - and that he was loved and loved my grandmother. A brief message etched in stone.  No mention of the ten children, thirty grandchildren and numerous others walking this earth, doing their thing, making their mark.  Only the why of it all. 

That he loved.

 And here I was standing there amongst stone crosses and statues of the Virgin Mary trying to understand who the man in that photo was and what his name, above me on my family tree means.

Only because he loved.

 This man, who breathed his last breath 9 years before I drew my first, his essence, when everything else was stripped away was summed up by those that knew him in two words.

HE LOVED.

And because he did my father was born and my brothers and sister are here.

My children exist.

And I am here.

Reading his love letter to me. To us.

On Valentine’s Day.

How amazing is that!

.

 

 

 

That little pink t shirt.

Sometimes you've just got to wonder.

 My 12 year old son is sewing in the corner he's created for that purpose in the lounge. An old  classical record screeches from the turntable he just had to have a few months back. His way of  recreating the many happy hours  spent with his bio mum; listening to her collection of '80s music, on their last access visit. I have her to thank for the weekends spent flicking through record piles at every op shop in Tauranga,  buying anything that seemed even remotely familiar.  The one playing now is not one of them, Alexi bought it on her trip away, and its full of 'waltzes and polkas and other works of J & J Strauss.' Whoever they are. Alexi is so much more adventurous than Daniel and I and we are appreciating that right now. Its cheerful and upbeat and  a little bit odd. Bit only slightly.      

Sewing is Daniel's latest passion. He learnt the basics at school and came home so inspired we've been scouring op shops for cheap material ever since. Ever the spendthrift he gets great pleasure in saving money and  has decided old clothes are the best source of zips and buttons (after a trip to Spotlight where the price of them horrified him). Tonight he's making  a small cushion from a  pink babies t-shirt found tucked away in his wardrobe, leftover from  days spent dressing his poor little dog (I bet she's glad that passion died a natural death).

Its reappearance is bittersweet - for both of us (and probably the dog too for all we know). It belonged to a foster baby that arrived at a week old and stayed fourteen months. How we miss her. What I wouldn't give to hold her in my arms again, take in her sweet smell and catch her cheeky smile as she empties every cupboard of its contents and smears  food everywhere. Several times a day. Sitting still was not one of her virtues and she certainly kept us on our toes - and the house a mess.

 Its been a year exactly, since they told us she was going to a new family, that her future did not lay with us. A whole year and it still has not sunk in that she's gone. I see and hear her everywhere, in little girls chasing waves at the beach, scrunching up autumn leaves as I walk through the local reserve, calling out from the back seat as I negotiate congested Tauranga traffic.  I am haunted by her pain and confusion - the damage that was done when she was taken so suddenly, so inhumanely and my feeble efforts to advocate for her just making things worse. I miss her so much. My love for her runs deeper than the pain of her absence but together they, and the overwhelming gratitude I feel for the time we did have, draw me so close to the Source of all love its almost worth it. Its the place our souls connect freely and she led me there.

Aroha.

Her gift to me.

Anyway, as usual I digress. That is not what I was thinking when I started writing this post. It was going to be about the  " Little Women" moment we were all having, our sense of togetherness and the healing that was evident in it all. Alexi finds drawing difficult. Her art is a bone of contention, a gift she'd rather not have, a reminder of things she'd rather not think of. Pixies are her safe place. That and her bed. She spends so much time in there,so completely enshrouded by her duvet its hard to tell where one ends and another begins. But tonight she's up, the duvet replaced by a new pink fluffy dressing gown and she's smiling.

 And Daniel -  he looks happy too. Hunched over an old school desk we picked up off the side of the road, looking like an eccentric old man, sewing madly, ending each section with a flourish of scissors and cotton. Watching him is making me laugh. He's so darn cute.  

 Its been awhile since I've been able to say that about him - that he's happy and that I find his funny ways cute. He went mad when L left. The first person he'd truly opened his heart to since coming into care himself, the source of much needed healing, was gone and he could do nothing to stop it happening, to prevent the deepest wound of his life reopening. Abandoned - again!   It sent him downward  into what can only be called insanity. How much he hurt but how much he denied doing so. His anguish and pain seeping out through irrational thinking, meanness and negativity. He hated me so much for my lack of omnipotence. My inability to protect him, to stop them from taking his 'little sis.'

But like I said its been a year now. I wouldn't say we have come to the end of our grief, I don't think we ever will, but the shock is waning. We are coming into a saner place.

 Perhaps making that little cushion is his spirits way of reminding us of what we still have. Her spirit is still very much with us and tonight it feels especially close even if her physical body is not.

This cushion is tangible evidence her chubby little brown body was here. We have the t shirt to prove it. Complete with dribble stains.

Then again who knows.        

         

      

The Rantings of a Middle-aged Doormat

      A sane person walking into my house today would have beat a hasty retreat. The soggy noodles squashed into the carpet, chippie packets strewn about and packs of children in every crevice and cavity would have been too much. They were for me. I have been trying to get to my computer all day, unsuccessfully, to write a short story.

Not any short story mind you. This one has to be witty and well-written, imaginative and creative with just the right amount of literary devices. A story to grab a reader’s interest from the beginning and leave them with something worthwhile to think about at the end. I have a deadline looming and have been trying for a month but for some reason the right words just keep alluding me. Perhaps, like my floor, they are buried under the paraphernalia of childhood activity; drowned out by the incessant Brrr! Brrr! of the phone ringing.

Its hard to conjure up foreign worlds and amazing plots when it keeps intruding. When I first moved back to my home town I resented the way it controlled my life. I often unplugged it when I wanted some peace but people complained so much I don’t do that any more. The tranquillity that moved here with me is long gone anyway. So there isn’t much point.

I did try to hold onto it at the beginning but with the busyness of resuming my old life it didn’t last long. In rare quiet moments I’d remember back to days spent sitting on the front porch of my tumbled down cottage in the country, watching the graceful dance of the windmills on the nearby hills, listening to the birds singing and enjoying the clean fresh air around me. It felt like, after all my years of searching I had finally found home. I was where I was meant to be. Fate, however, had other ideas and after two idyllic years I was called back to reality, once again, by a phone call. Something was up. My family needed me and so I moved back here. Sometimes I curse Thomas Edison.

Anyway, back to today’s phone calls. The first one came through at 6.30 am. Just after I’d pulled my weary body from the bed I share with the foxy I inherited from daughter No.1. I don’t like dogs anymore than I do children but nobody believes me. I guess, with three in the house it is hard to be convincing. They think I’m joking and laugh when I complain about their mess, fur and the doggie smell that assaults my senses everywhere I turn. I have strict rules about where they sleep and what they can do but the dogs listen to me about as much as children do. So I’ve given up. I’ve also given up on limiting the amount of children I look after. There is no point.

For some strange reason people think I’m good with them. That I like them even. Friend and foe drop then off with rapt abandon - and who can blame them. I rarely say no. 

That first call was from a friend asking if I could watch her 5 year old for the day. She had the ’flu and he was already bored. I reasoned Bailey could play with my young son and that would free me up to write my story. Sounds good in theory but the reality, when he arrived, did not quite match the fantasy. Proof I do have an imagination after all though. Instead of catching that sliver while it was there and running with it I was conned into answering such bizarre questions as “If I had all the money in the world would the bank be big enough to hold it,’ and using Google to find intelligent answers.

Intellectually stimulated they disappeared while I was on the phone to harassed parent no.2. She had put her back out and Toby had woken with a bad cold and couldn’t go to kindy. Could I have him for the day? What the heck, I thought. He can play with the boys. Likely story. Toby preferred to squeeze the life out the ginger kitten daughter No.3 had rescued from a home worse than ours. So we made gingerbread together. Helped by Azi, the two year old we managed to get flour throughout the house and forgot to add the sugar. But at least the kitten was safe.

By the time we had decorated the biscuits with coloured icing, sprinkles and chocolate hail my story consisted of a line of nnnnnnnnnnnnnnnnns the three year old had written on the blank page of my computer. Not quite the literary devices I had in mind but it was better than anything I’d been able to come up with all day. It was time to pick kids up from school so nothing much I could do about it now.

Pulling into the school I received a txt from a friend on his way to the hospital with another brain bleed. Could I pick up his two children and keep them until his wife finished work. How could I refuse? I couldn’t very well leave them at school in the rain and it was an emergency.

Did I forget to mention it was raining? Yes, by the bucketful, filling up the holes the dogs had dug in the front lawn, spilling out over the guttering I never get time to clean and dripping down the flue to come to a sizzling halt on the dilapidated Kent fire. Another thing I need to fix.

I’d just piled everyone out of the car, taken off coats and boots, fed the hordes and reloaded the dishwasher when the phone rang again. I reluctantly picked up the receiver. It had taken a while to find buried under a pile of children’s’ artwork on a kauri dresser I’d once imagined displaying an antique vase full of fresh flowers. More proof of a creative side but not the type stories are made from.

  “Mum’s sick. Can you come get us?” It was ten year old Sarah. I have been providing respite care for her family since she was a baby and was often called up to look after them at a moments notice.

“All four of you?”

“Yes.” How on earth was I going to fit everyone into the van? Luckily my 20 year old daughter was just pulling into the driveway and I was able to con her into minding a few kids while I embarked on my rescue mission. She hates kids more than I do but people believe her and don’t even go there. Except her mother. I now had thirteen children running through the house like rats through the streets of medieval London; sheets being made into huts, baking smells wafting out from the kitchen, candle and crayon experiments at the table, toys scattered everywhere, the baby was crying the sound of the teenagers music was blaring down from the upstairs bedroom. It was mayhem and the next time the phone rang I could hardly hear it above the din.

This time it was the hospital wanting me to come in the next day. My test results for ovarian cancer had come in and treatment was urgent. My first thought was one of delight. How welcome the peace and cleanliness of a hospital ward would be right now. Any other feelings that tried to emerge were quickly shelved and would have to stay there until the kids were in bed, the house cleaned up and my story written.

Fat chance! A few hours later, just as I had sat down was about to type my first word the jangle of the front gate heralded the arrival of another visitor - my eldest daughter calling in after an arduous day of her own. As we chattered and caught up with each other over our chamomile tea (grown myself back when life flowed at a simpler pace) the house settled down to the rhythmic drumming of the rain on the roof and the incessant drip of the fire place leak. Only now it was worse and the carpet was getting wet, too.

And that’s where I am now. Its late and I have barely stopped in 17 hours. Finally the house is quiet. I’ve turned off the phone and locked all the doors. As I slump my weary body down on the computer chair and bring up Microsoft Word I realise, if I count the nnnnnnnnnnnnnnns already on the computer I still have 1499 more words to write. I know somewhere deep inside me is a story trying to get out if only I know how to reach down and grab it. It won’t be tonight though. I don’t have the energy. I hardly have the strength to turn off the computer and drag myself to bed.

I only wish I’d remembered to turn the electric blanket on.

 This was written about two weeks before I had an operation for a 3 kg ovarian cyst. A week later I was diagnosed with Acute Myeloid Leukaemia. It is a reminder of how crazy my life had become in the months (years) leading up to my illness. When the consultant confirmed my leukaemia I did not want treatment and only did so from the urging of my family. My life was more than I could manage and I was ready to opt out big time.

Several times during my hospital stay I dreamt of a baby I had forgotten to feed and change. Sometimes it was hidden away in a cupboard, other times lost and neglected amongst the busyness of my day. That baby was me. I was so overwhelmed by the needs of those around me I had forgotten to nurture myself. I was so far gone I had forgotten I even had needs. I had convinced myself that I was living authentically.
 
I go back to this story often. It is my reality check. I never want things to get this crazy again. I no longer have the energy or desire to do what I once did. I say 'no' often now and people listen. Even the dogs. An insurance claim paid for a new fireplace and my kauri dresser displays ornaments and a family photo.
 
I'm not there yet though. I still have a way to go before I'm living a life that fits.      

The Joy of Giving Birth

“What’s your dog’s name?” she asks getting out of the car. I’m riveted to the spot, staring, taking in all I can of her soft brown skin, hazel eyes and badly cut short hair. She has a ribbon in it, tied into a bow on top of her head like a Christmas present. Her clothes are old, stained and too small. “Jesse.” I say. “Would you like to pat her?” I’m too slow. She’s already off exploring the front yard like an animal let out of its cage, everywhere at once. Within seconds she has climbed a tree, used the swing and asked several questions. “Come build a marble-run,” another child suggests and soon we have bits of yellow and red plastic spread over the lounge floor. I make coffee and serve biscuits for Charlie and Judy, the elderly couple who have cared for the new arrival since she entered foster care two and a half years ago. Several weeks earlier I had read an advertisement in the local paper asking for permanent foster parents for a 10 year old high needs child who loved art and animals. Straight away I knew this child was meant for us and we applied to CYFS to become her new parents. After several home visits, lengthy phone-calls, prayer and hoping here we were –meeting our new daughter for the first time. I watched amazed as she flitted through the house, into the backyard. She noticed our housetruck and wanted to look inside. They weren’t joking when they warned us she needed to be monitored like a toddler. She was everywhere at once. I set up salt dough on the back deck and we sat around creating animals. I’m not very arty but I think she made a cat. She was keen to spend the afternoon with us and after Judy and Charlie left we headed toward Awakeri Hot Pools. She chattered and asked questions beside me the whole time. So different to the quiet, withdrawn child I’d pictured. Dropping her home afterwards felt like leaving my baby with strangers. She sat by the gate watching me go, a sad expression on her face. That was ten years ago. Since then we have been irrevocably joined by an unseen umbilical cord. We co-slept and explored the world together. My passion to love and be with my new daughter was as strong as it had been when my biological children were babies and she, in turn, clung to me like a baby koala. It was intense, all-consuming and not always healthy. She was so damaged by all that her short life had been. We soon became weighed down by her reactions to an unsafe world - Reactive Attachment Disorder, ADHD, Disassociation, Oppositional Defiance Disorder, Learning Lags and Developmental Delays – and life become a steep learning curve. Together we sort God, changed, regressed, repented, fought, struggled, loved, built memories, cemented ties and grew up. It took years for her to acknowledge me as her mum and the trust between us is still developing. It has been hard pushing her out into a waiting world - this labour has been ten difficult gut-wrenching years long and I am exhausted. Over time the cord between us wound tightly, no longer a life source but stunting her growth. She struggles to choose life and I struggle to let her go. But we are getting there. Like any birth the transforming of that small, confused, waif into the gorgeous, confident young lady of today is a miracle. I am in awe just thinking about it. She is now renting a flat a learning to live independantly. My heart fills with joy every time I see her. I am thankful she is my daughter and proud of her maturity and goodness - a testament to her tenacity and the healing power of God’s love. We’ve come a long way, the two of us, and I can’t wait to see what God has planned for us next. It is time for us to enter into the joy of our Lord. Matthew 25.21 ‘For I will turn your mourning into Joy’ – the Bible.

My house is quiet - other than the crick crick of the fire beside me and the soft breathing of the five year old on my couch - I hear nothing! The TV is off, the exchange student out, the children sleeping. Its so rare its weird and I'm not sure what the best way is to enjoy it. Do I sit, let my thoughts wander, savour the moment, read the newly arrived Blood Cancer newsletter hiding underneath the books and papers on the coffee table or get up from my warm spot, dry the dishes, clear away the days rubble and put on another load of washing? All day my tasks have chosen me. Its been a wild, demanding ride and I've tried to stay calm and hang on to my sanity. Be gratful even. I've been at everyone's beck and call. The phone's rung, I've answered it; friends visited, I've sat and chattered over coffee; daughter No.1's invited me over, I've sat on her porch and watched her daycare and foster children hold baby chickens. I've driven the boy to his first day volunteering at the SPCA and shared his anger and disapointment when the head lady said he was too young; taken daughter no.3 to her horse and picked her up when she'd finished riding. I've organised the exchange student's trip out of town tomorrow, shopped for groceries; filled out forms, supervised and sent schoolwork off to the Correspondence School, answered txts, cooked meals, feed the baby, picked up daycare kids from school, taken them to the park, listened, talked, encouraged, disciplined, been my 20 yr olds brain and boosted my 10 year olds's ego, reinforced boundaries, changed nappies, cleaned, gooed at the baby - and filled the gaps with prayer. Its now 11 o'clock at night and its finally stopped. I'm sitting at the computer - lost. I have no idea what to do and no-one around to decide for me. Bed looks good but I'm waiting for the last of my daycare kids to be picked up. Her grandmother is late, very late and if she doesn't arrive soon my foster baby will be waking for her next feed before I even get to bed. I wonder what Louise Hay would say if she turned up on my doorstep. Her insight would be welcome right now. I know I've chosen this life, quite consciously most of the time. What I can't figure out is why! Surely a nice quiet bach nestled amounst bush, in a secluded bay somewhere would reflect my nature more. I found the perfect spot while on holiday a few weekends back. In a sleepy little seaside village, steeped in personal history, four little baches bunched together at the end of the road - bush backyard, sand and sea in front. It looked idylic. My mind often goes there when its not being occupied by the hundred and one demands of those around me but I doubt my body will ever join it. I hate shifting and I'd miss everyone too much. Unless I convince them all to come with me.... Sounds like a plan.