Why does no-one tell you?. I was totally unprepared.
We've just taken our eldest boy to his very prestigious university. We couldn’t be more proud. For the last 2 years all our energy has gone into supporting his efforts, helping with preparations for exams, interviews, making sure he hit all the deadlines, helping with his personal statements. He worked so hard. No-one deserved success more than him. Then, offer secured and exams passed. So exciting. Champagne and celebrations. A lovely summer holiday. Lots of high jinx with his friends. Lots of smug boasting to colleagues at work. At last time to go. Deciding what to take; laughing, teasing about cooking and laundry, the price of food. Piling it all into the back of the car and off we go. Picked up his room key, marvelled at his beautiful college grounds. Chatted with the other mums and dads. So proud. So pleased. He was in his element. Glowing with excitement. Wanting us to go so he could dive right in, soak it all up.
Back in the car. Then it hit us. Out of the blue, a stomach churning jolt of dread. What was going on? I hadn't felt this bad since my first proper boyfriend dumped me when I was sixteen. That was it. We'd just said goodbye to our baby. We've done our bit, it's all in his hands now. Half of me was saying 'For Gods sake, get a grip. He'll be back for Christmas in a few weeks. He's only 2 hours away, we can pop down and see him any time we like. We've still got the other boy at home.' But it didn't make any difference. What I was experiencing, what we both were feeling was real grief. I was quite literally bereft. Welcome to Empty Nest Syndrome.
Quite frankly and to my shame, I think part of the problem is pure green-eyed envy. My university years were some of the best years of my life. I enjoyed every minute of them and he's got it all ahead of him. I'm so jealous!
But mostly, I'm in mourning because that time, the years watching him grow, being the most important person in his life is over and however our relationship develops in the future, it will never be the same again and I miss it.
Thursday 13 October 2011
Wednesday 15 June 2011
Not a diet blog
I was watching a dieting programme on the TV the other night. Because there's nothing I like more than slumping in front of the TV at the end of a long day watching absolute drivel. This one was the one where they match a thin person and a fat person and make them swap lifestyles. There's a handsome male doctor and an attractive lady doctor to help them on their quest. Every programme is exactly the same and has a psycho-babble bit in the middle where handsome male doctor has a serious chat to the fat one or the thin one who is struggling with their commitment to the quest and uncovers secrets from their past which have contributed to their current state of fatness or thinness. Once this titbit has been revealed and explained to the grateful victim, they inevitably go forward armed with this knowledge and beat their eating / non eating demons. The fat one always loses 3 stone and the thin one always puts on about 7 pounds. I'm totally addicted to it and feel as proud of their achievements as if I hadn't spent the entire programme nipping into the kitchen for another biscuit.
Well, I've had a bit of a life long battle with my own weight, tending as I do towards the strapping end of the spectrum. From time to time, I reach a point where I decide Something Must Be Done and religiously stick to the current fashionable diet for three or four months and lose 2 or 3 stone. Then over the next year or so put it all back on again.
So, I thought, having just reached the SMBD stage once again, I'll give myself a handsome doctor talking to to see what dark secret in my background has given me an addiction to stuffing my face.
Why do you eat ? (me, talking to myself)
I like food
Why do you like food?
I'm always hungry
Any other reason?
I want to treat myself
Why?
Because it's fun and because I'm bored
OK, well let's look back at your childhood. What was that like?
Hmm, well, we were quite poor. We had very boring plain food. There was no money for treats. When we did have treats, it was always food related. Christmas dinner, Pancake Tuesday, Easter eggs, ice cream sundaes on birthdays, bonfire toffee on bonfire night. And those occasions were always fun. So in my mind, eating is associated with fun.
Hey, it's clever this isn't it? I'm fat because I like having fun. Oh.
Well, I've had a bit of a life long battle with my own weight, tending as I do towards the strapping end of the spectrum. From time to time, I reach a point where I decide Something Must Be Done and religiously stick to the current fashionable diet for three or four months and lose 2 or 3 stone. Then over the next year or so put it all back on again.
So, I thought, having just reached the SMBD stage once again, I'll give myself a handsome doctor talking to to see what dark secret in my background has given me an addiction to stuffing my face.
Why do you eat ? (me, talking to myself)
I like food
Why do you like food?
I'm always hungry
Any other reason?
I want to treat myself
Why?
Because it's fun and because I'm bored
OK, well let's look back at your childhood. What was that like?
Hmm, well, we were quite poor. We had very boring plain food. There was no money for treats. When we did have treats, it was always food related. Christmas dinner, Pancake Tuesday, Easter eggs, ice cream sundaes on birthdays, bonfire toffee on bonfire night. And those occasions were always fun. So in my mind, eating is associated with fun.
Hey, it's clever this isn't it? I'm fat because I like having fun. Oh.
Wednesday 13 April 2011
In the back of my mind
I was thinking of going to see my doctor and, like you do, I was having entire conversations with him in my head. Because when I go to see him, he'll ask me about my weight (up) after he spent 6 months helping me to lose 3 stone.
Well, you see, I was doing fine and then my life went a bit pear shaped. Last May my 46 year old, disruptive, schizophrenic, paranoid, psychotic, chain smoking, alcoholic brother ran out of medication on the Friday of a bank holiday. On phoning the GP surgery, the practice manager told him his prescription would not be ready til the following Tuesday. Because even if you have been a patient at this practice for 40 years and clearly have significant mental health needs, a bank holiday is a bank holiday. If we started making exceptions for sick people, who could say where it would all end?
While my 83 year old mother battled with the kafka-esque monolith that passes for a mental health serice in our town in an effort to track down some-one with sufficient authority to tell the power crazed bitch at the surgery to pull the stick out of uptight arse and sort out the prescription, my brother worked his way down a bottle of brandy. Running out of cigarettes, he called a cab and went downtown to get more from his usual illegal, but cheap, tobacco supplier. When he got there he realised he had forgotten his wallet, could not pay the cab driver and to top it all, the shop was closed. It being a bank holiday. And 11.30pm at night. On the wrong side of a bottle of brandy and without his normal dose of pharmaceutical cosh, he decided enough was enough and threw himself off the towns picturesque victorian railway bridge.
He was in intensive care for 6 weeks. He bashed his head, broke both ankles, both legs in several places, his pelvis and several ribs. He finally got out of hospital last month and is back home with Mum.
Til next time.
Well, you see, I was doing fine and then my life went a bit pear shaped. Last May my 46 year old, disruptive, schizophrenic, paranoid, psychotic, chain smoking, alcoholic brother ran out of medication on the Friday of a bank holiday. On phoning the GP surgery, the practice manager told him his prescription would not be ready til the following Tuesday. Because even if you have been a patient at this practice for 40 years and clearly have significant mental health needs, a bank holiday is a bank holiday. If we started making exceptions for sick people, who could say where it would all end?
While my 83 year old mother battled with the kafka-esque monolith that passes for a mental health serice in our town in an effort to track down some-one with sufficient authority to tell the power crazed bitch at the surgery to pull the stick out of uptight arse and sort out the prescription, my brother worked his way down a bottle of brandy. Running out of cigarettes, he called a cab and went downtown to get more from his usual illegal, but cheap, tobacco supplier. When he got there he realised he had forgotten his wallet, could not pay the cab driver and to top it all, the shop was closed. It being a bank holiday. And 11.30pm at night. On the wrong side of a bottle of brandy and without his normal dose of pharmaceutical cosh, he decided enough was enough and threw himself off the towns picturesque victorian railway bridge.
He was in intensive care for 6 weeks. He bashed his head, broke both ankles, both legs in several places, his pelvis and several ribs. He finally got out of hospital last month and is back home with Mum.
Til next time.
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