Hello Michelle,
Thank you so much for your message. You’re quite right, it is my birthday today (though, sadly, not 21 again!) I’d completely forgotten I’d filled in those details on my profile, so your message was quite the nice surprise!
I still can’t believe how supportive everyone on the forum is being, but I suppose we’re all in the same boat, aren’t we?
Anyway, how are you? How was your cousin’s wedding? What did you wear in the end? I know exactly what you mean about choosing an outfit that detracts attention, by the way. I never used to wear skirts before, but these days I practically live in them. I put some jeans on the other day and the legs just looked like deflated balloons. I felt so self-conscious, but then I reminded myself of how lucky I was to have survived. Do you ever have moments like that?
It’s funny (coincidental) that you mentioned your dream. I’ve been having one similar since September. Like you, I dreamt that something was pressing down on my legs. It was so heavy that I couldn’t lift it and no matter how much I screamed, no one heard me. Sometimes I even wake up convinced that I can taste smoke in my mouth. I told my psychiatrist about it and she said that these kinds of dreams are ‘a way for the mind to process and deal with a traumatic event’ and that ‘they’ll pass in time’. Perhaps she’s right, but every morning that I wake from one it’s like I’m reliving that day. As if going through it once wasn’t enough.
In answer to your question, I am getting a little better in the wheelchair (my arms are certainly a lot stronger than they’ve ever been!) I’m still not used to the looks I get from people, though. You’d think people had seen it all in London, but it seems that a woman without legs is still quite the head-turner. It sounds like you’ve been having similar reactions. I suppose it just takes some time to get used to it all, doesn’t it?
Anyway, on a brighter note, what are you doing for New Year’s Eve? Friends have invited me round for dinner, but I’m tempted to stay in with the cat and a good novel in front of the fire. It feels like a long time since I’ve had any normality in my life.
Well, if I don’t hear from you before, I hope that you have a lovely Christmas and see 2002 in with style.
Best,
Tilda
PS - I’ve just re-read what I’ve written. It probably won’t surprise you to know that I’m not as calm and collected as I come across. Like you, there are mornings I wake up and don’t even think I can get out of bed, but I’m taking it a day at a time. I think that’s the only way to get through it, isn’t it?
Thursday 23 July 2009
Saturday 18 July 2009
Well
With a flick of her thumb, Caroline tossed the coin into the deep well. It tripped, then fell through the metal grid. She waited for the inevitable splash. She waited and waited, but no sound came. A frown creased her brow. How disappointing. Standing on her tip-toes, she rested her hands on the stone and peered into the opening. The damp smell reminded her of the copse back home after the rain, when the leaves on the trees looked like sleek leather and the mud squelched beneath her feet.
Overhead, seagulls circled and squawked in the sunny, cloudless sky; in the distance, an ice cream van jingle-jangled along the Cornish roads. The image of a ‘99’ flashed in Caroline’s mind. How long had it been since her last? Two hours at least. That was respectable. They were on holiday after all.
‘Did you make a wish?’
She turned to see her mother. She had one hand on Lizzie’s wheelchair, the other shielding her eyes from the sun. She was wearing the ‘No 1 Mum’ baseball cap that Caroline gave her for Christmas.
‘I can’t tell you what it was,’ Caroline said, rejoining her mother and sister. ‘Or else it won’t come true.’
Not that it was difficult to guess what she’d wished for since her wishes had been the same for the last ten years.
Caroline looked at Lizzie, a scarf protecting her sister’s bald head from the sun. Her eyes were so sunken that they looked like two spoon scoops in snow, and her usually pallid skin looked even greyer here in the country; here where everything was so fresh and lush.
Caroline took the wheelchair from her mother and the three of them made their way towards the picnic benches on the other side of the cliff top.
‘Why did that well have a grate over the top, Mammy?’ Caroline asked.
Her mother took a moment to answer. ‘I suppose in case someone fell down by accident. Are you girls hungry? I’m starving. I can’t wait for my sandwich. Doesn’t it look nice over there? I hope we can get a table.’
‘How would they fall down by accident?' Lizzie asked. Her voice was so thin that Caroline strained to hear. ‘Someone couldn’t fall down a well by accident.’
Their mother made a show of shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s in case an animal or something fell down. You know, like a cat or a dog. You know what it’s like on the farm. Animals can’t be controlled. It’s probably for some reason like that.’
They reached the picnic area and took one of the benches in the shade, ‘so that Lizzie doesn’t get too hot in the sun.’
‘Will you girls be alright here?’ their mother asked. ‘I’ve to go to the loo. I’ll be back in a minute. Start eating if you like, but make sure to save me some cake!’
Their mother laughed a laugh that sounded forced.
The girls watched their mother make her way towards the wooden block of washrooms.
When she was out of sight, Lizzie said, ‘You know why there’s a grate over the top of the well, don’t you?’
‘No,’ Caroline replied, unwrapping her clingfilmed celery sticks. ‘Why is there a grate over the well?’
Lizzy rolled her eyes. ‘Jesus, Caroline, you’re so silly. You don’t know anything.’ She leant forwards in her wheelchair. ‘It’s to stop people throwing themselves down there. It’s to stop them killing themselves.’
Caroline’s breath caught in her throat. She stopped unwrapping her celery sticks. What did her sister mean?
She had heard of people killing one another, but she’d never imagined that someone would want to kill themselves. Sure, why on earth would they?
‘Do you think Mammy knew that?’ she asked.
‘She did indeed.’
‘So why didn’t she tell me?’
‘Because she doesn’t like to talk about death, does she?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because of me. Because of me being ill.’
This made no sense to Caroline, and the expression she wore must have communicated this to her sister for she said, ‘She thinks the mention of death upsets me.’
‘And does it?’
Lizzie looked away. ‘Not at all.’
‘Honestly?’
‘Honestly.’
Lizzie looked back and Caroline could tell from the tears in her eyes that she was lying. She rested her hand on her sister’s, but said nothing. What was there to say?
Overhead, seagulls circled and squawked in the sunny, cloudless sky; in the distance, an ice cream van jingle-jangled along the Cornish roads. The image of a ‘99’ flashed in Caroline’s mind. How long had it been since her last? Two hours at least. That was respectable. They were on holiday after all.
‘Did you make a wish?’
She turned to see her mother. She had one hand on Lizzie’s wheelchair, the other shielding her eyes from the sun. She was wearing the ‘No 1 Mum’ baseball cap that Caroline gave her for Christmas.
‘I can’t tell you what it was,’ Caroline said, rejoining her mother and sister. ‘Or else it won’t come true.’
Not that it was difficult to guess what she’d wished for since her wishes had been the same for the last ten years.
Caroline looked at Lizzie, a scarf protecting her sister’s bald head from the sun. Her eyes were so sunken that they looked like two spoon scoops in snow, and her usually pallid skin looked even greyer here in the country; here where everything was so fresh and lush.
Caroline took the wheelchair from her mother and the three of them made their way towards the picnic benches on the other side of the cliff top.
‘Why did that well have a grate over the top, Mammy?’ Caroline asked.
Her mother took a moment to answer. ‘I suppose in case someone fell down by accident. Are you girls hungry? I’m starving. I can’t wait for my sandwich. Doesn’t it look nice over there? I hope we can get a table.’
‘How would they fall down by accident?' Lizzie asked. Her voice was so thin that Caroline strained to hear. ‘Someone couldn’t fall down a well by accident.’
Their mother made a show of shaking her head and shrugging her shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Maybe it’s in case an animal or something fell down. You know, like a cat or a dog. You know what it’s like on the farm. Animals can’t be controlled. It’s probably for some reason like that.’
They reached the picnic area and took one of the benches in the shade, ‘so that Lizzie doesn’t get too hot in the sun.’
‘Will you girls be alright here?’ their mother asked. ‘I’ve to go to the loo. I’ll be back in a minute. Start eating if you like, but make sure to save me some cake!’
Their mother laughed a laugh that sounded forced.
The girls watched their mother make her way towards the wooden block of washrooms.
When she was out of sight, Lizzie said, ‘You know why there’s a grate over the top of the well, don’t you?’
‘No,’ Caroline replied, unwrapping her clingfilmed celery sticks. ‘Why is there a grate over the well?’
Lizzy rolled her eyes. ‘Jesus, Caroline, you’re so silly. You don’t know anything.’ She leant forwards in her wheelchair. ‘It’s to stop people throwing themselves down there. It’s to stop them killing themselves.’
Caroline’s breath caught in her throat. She stopped unwrapping her celery sticks. What did her sister mean?
She had heard of people killing one another, but she’d never imagined that someone would want to kill themselves. Sure, why on earth would they?
‘Do you think Mammy knew that?’ she asked.
‘She did indeed.’
‘So why didn’t she tell me?’
‘Because she doesn’t like to talk about death, does she?’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because of me. Because of me being ill.’
This made no sense to Caroline, and the expression she wore must have communicated this to her sister for she said, ‘She thinks the mention of death upsets me.’
‘And does it?’
Lizzie looked away. ‘Not at all.’
‘Honestly?’
‘Honestly.’
Lizzie looked back and Caroline could tell from the tears in her eyes that she was lying. She rested her hand on her sister’s, but said nothing. What was there to say?
Tuesday 7 July 2009
Models
‘Mum, how did World War Two start?’
Amelia turned from the washing up. ‘I don’t know, sweetheart.’
‘You always say that.’ Harriet let out a sigh and muttered under her breath, ‘Dad would’ve known.’
Amelia looked away. Four months had passed, but still she wasn’t used to Jack being past tense. Her friends had assured her that this was normal, that it’d take time to accept he was gone. But how could they say what was normal? They’d not watched depression consume their husbands; they’d not come home to a final note on the dining room table; they’d not broached suicide with a nine year old who still played with dolls.
Drying her hands on the tea towel, Amelia sat at the kitchen table opposite her daughter whose attention was fixed on a model aircraft. Since finding Jack’s collection of Airfix sets in the loft, Harriet had spent the summer holidays perfecting the art of their creation. Looking at her now, Amelia felt a pang of guilt for not paying her enough attention recently, so wrapped up she’d been in her own loss.
‘What’re you making?’ she asked.
‘A Messerschmitt.’
‘Can I help?’
Harriet fixed her eyes on her as if weighing up her model-making abilities.
‘You could put these on.’ She handed her a sheet of stickers. ‘But I need to finish this bit first.’
Furrowing her brow, Harriet pressed the plastic parts from their mould with trembling hands. Her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth just as her father’s once had.
‘Hari,’ Amelia said. ‘I know things have been hard around here recently. I haven’t been a very good mum to you in the last few months. And I’m sorry.’
Harriet looked up quickly. ‘Okay.’
‘Okay,’ Amelia echoed. She glanced at the calendar on the fridge. ‘There’s still two weeks of the summer holiday left. How about we do a bike ride tomorrow?’
Harriet thought for a moment, drumming her fingers on the tabletop. ‘Can we go to the military museum instead? Dad said he’d take me, but-,’
She trailed off and the incomplete sentence hung between them.
‘Of course,’ Amelia said.
‘I think Dad would like that.’
‘I think he would too.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m getting there, sweetheart.’
‘Me too.’
‘Good.’ Amelia forced a smile and swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Now, what do you want me to do with these stickers?’
Amelia turned from the washing up. ‘I don’t know, sweetheart.’
‘You always say that.’ Harriet let out a sigh and muttered under her breath, ‘Dad would’ve known.’
Amelia looked away. Four months had passed, but still she wasn’t used to Jack being past tense. Her friends had assured her that this was normal, that it’d take time to accept he was gone. But how could they say what was normal? They’d not watched depression consume their husbands; they’d not come home to a final note on the dining room table; they’d not broached suicide with a nine year old who still played with dolls.
Drying her hands on the tea towel, Amelia sat at the kitchen table opposite her daughter whose attention was fixed on a model aircraft. Since finding Jack’s collection of Airfix sets in the loft, Harriet had spent the summer holidays perfecting the art of their creation. Looking at her now, Amelia felt a pang of guilt for not paying her enough attention recently, so wrapped up she’d been in her own loss.
‘What’re you making?’ she asked.
‘A Messerschmitt.’
‘Can I help?’
Harriet fixed her eyes on her as if weighing up her model-making abilities.
‘You could put these on.’ She handed her a sheet of stickers. ‘But I need to finish this bit first.’
Furrowing her brow, Harriet pressed the plastic parts from their mould with trembling hands. Her tongue poked out of the corner of her mouth just as her father’s once had.
‘Hari,’ Amelia said. ‘I know things have been hard around here recently. I haven’t been a very good mum to you in the last few months. And I’m sorry.’
Harriet looked up quickly. ‘Okay.’
‘Okay,’ Amelia echoed. She glanced at the calendar on the fridge. ‘There’s still two weeks of the summer holiday left. How about we do a bike ride tomorrow?’
Harriet thought for a moment, drumming her fingers on the tabletop. ‘Can we go to the military museum instead? Dad said he’d take me, but-,’
She trailed off and the incomplete sentence hung between them.
‘Of course,’ Amelia said.
‘I think Dad would like that.’
‘I think he would too.’
‘Are you okay?’
‘I’m getting there, sweetheart.’
‘Me too.’
‘Good.’ Amelia forced a smile and swallowed the lump in her throat. ‘Now, what do you want me to do with these stickers?’
Thursday 2 July 2009
Wednesday 1 July 2009
Neighbours
Full of expectation, Patty Jefferson rapped again on the door of number three Honeydew Drive. The house had been unoccupied for almost a year when someone moved in last week without being seen by any of the neighbours.
The arrival was a mystery to the other residents of the cosy cul-de-sac, not least of all Patty who viewed change as she viewed ready meals and toupees: with an inherent sense of trepidation.
Hearing footsteps approach on the other side of the door, Patty patted her neat silver bob in preparation of making a first impression.
Her smile soon slipped when she heard the footsteps retreat. As if in a trance, she stared at the peephole in the door, the Tupperware box of cookies suddenly heavy in her hands. She’d not even been given the opportunity to introduce herself. How rude!
Before she knew it, she was eye-level with the letterbox.
‘Helloooo,’ she called into the hallway cluttered with children’s toys. ’It’s Patty Jefferson. From number seven. I hope you’re settling in alright. It would be lovely to meet you. We’re a friendly bunch here in Honeydew.’
No response; simply silence.
As she closed the letterbox, Patty couldn’t help feeling deeply disappointed that her efforts had fallen flat. Maybe she was making more of this than necessary, but the idea that she didn’t know someone in the street was as foreign to her as Beirut. She’d long pushed to the back of her mind that there could be truth in the Daily Mail’s claims that the concept of community was extinct, but perhaps they’d been right all along.
She was halfway down the porch steps when the door opened behind her.
Brimming with anticipation, she turned on her heels and almost dropped her Tupperware in shock at the sight in front of her. Standing in the doorway was a woman in a hijab looking at Patty with wide, fearful eyes.
Patty was suddenly aware of her own stillness and willed herself to do or say something, anything. She’d only ever seen people like this in the news, in war-torn areas that couldn’t look any less like Cricklewood.
Still, ignorant she may have been, rude she was not.
‘I brought these for you,’ she said, holding out the Tupperware. ‘I hope that you can eat choco-, I mean, I hope you’ll enjoy them.’
The woman’s hands trembled as she took the box from Patty. Could it be that she was just as nervous about this meeting? Patty wondered. The idea had never occurred to her before, but, really, weren’t they both strangers to one another?
‘Thank you,’ the woman said quietly.
‘Oh, you’re welcome.’ Patty said, her voice louder than usual.
The woman smiled shyly. ‘Would like come in?’ she asked.
Patty was taken aback. She hadn’t imagined that she would receive an invitation to this woman’s house and it took a moment for her to form a response.
‘That would be lovely,’ she said at last, surprising herself with her answer.
The arrival was a mystery to the other residents of the cosy cul-de-sac, not least of all Patty who viewed change as she viewed ready meals and toupees: with an inherent sense of trepidation.
Hearing footsteps approach on the other side of the door, Patty patted her neat silver bob in preparation of making a first impression.
Her smile soon slipped when she heard the footsteps retreat. As if in a trance, she stared at the peephole in the door, the Tupperware box of cookies suddenly heavy in her hands. She’d not even been given the opportunity to introduce herself. How rude!
Before she knew it, she was eye-level with the letterbox.
‘Helloooo,’ she called into the hallway cluttered with children’s toys. ’It’s Patty Jefferson. From number seven. I hope you’re settling in alright. It would be lovely to meet you. We’re a friendly bunch here in Honeydew.’
No response; simply silence.
As she closed the letterbox, Patty couldn’t help feeling deeply disappointed that her efforts had fallen flat. Maybe she was making more of this than necessary, but the idea that she didn’t know someone in the street was as foreign to her as Beirut. She’d long pushed to the back of her mind that there could be truth in the Daily Mail’s claims that the concept of community was extinct, but perhaps they’d been right all along.
She was halfway down the porch steps when the door opened behind her.
Brimming with anticipation, she turned on her heels and almost dropped her Tupperware in shock at the sight in front of her. Standing in the doorway was a woman in a hijab looking at Patty with wide, fearful eyes.
Patty was suddenly aware of her own stillness and willed herself to do or say something, anything. She’d only ever seen people like this in the news, in war-torn areas that couldn’t look any less like Cricklewood.
Still, ignorant she may have been, rude she was not.
‘I brought these for you,’ she said, holding out the Tupperware. ‘I hope that you can eat choco-, I mean, I hope you’ll enjoy them.’
The woman’s hands trembled as she took the box from Patty. Could it be that she was just as nervous about this meeting? Patty wondered. The idea had never occurred to her before, but, really, weren’t they both strangers to one another?
‘Thank you,’ the woman said quietly.
‘Oh, you’re welcome.’ Patty said, her voice louder than usual.
The woman smiled shyly. ‘Would like come in?’ she asked.
Patty was taken aback. She hadn’t imagined that she would receive an invitation to this woman’s house and it took a moment for her to form a response.
‘That would be lovely,’ she said at last, surprising herself with her answer.
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