annanotbob2's Diaryland Diary
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Tuesday, art, tired
I did this in the Tuesday art group this morning, based on photos of my garden, but in the style of the artist whose work I saw at the weekend, Katie Sollohub. I'm pretty pleased with it, apart from a few things that I'm going to improve next time. I mean, I forgot to put in the echiums, those massive plants that grow in five minutes every spring and tower over everything, with a gazillion bees buzzing around them, dipping in and out of the tiny blue flowers. So I'll put them in the next version.
Although I was doing my own painting, I still turned up to the zoom meeting with the gang from the recovery centre, as it's very soothing and reassuring to hang out with them even if loads of them have opinions that drive me mad. Honestly, the level of feminist awareness is virtually zero, loads of awful chat about attractiveness or ugliness that fills me with despair as these are mostly bloody women. Today we soon went from the queen to P Andrew who apparently is guilty of nothing more than being silly and a bit naive and we should all be glad he's being given another chance and certainly not ask questions about £12million of public money being spent to shut someone up and avoid a court case.
Still, I did keep my gob shut as I'd like to keep in with this lot even if on days like this I wonder why.
It's Grandson's birthday on Thursday - how can he be 23? Bless him, he's such a dear. For his birthday he'd like things to go on the balcony of his flat so I'm getting him a half barrel that he can fill with water for a miniature water lily, which I will also provide. And a Buddha. Everywhere needs a Buddha. I have loads as I always buy them if I spot them in a charity shop but they're all tiny indoor ones no good for out on the balcony. I thought he might like this but wasn't sure so asked him and he's keen. Good, as that's all the ideas I have.
Today has been odd, I realise, because of Facebook memories, again. Today it was a post from 2017, when Sam was in the hospice, when we were still in that period of expecting her to die soon. I can't remember now precisely when she was first referred there, but this was probably about two and a half weeks in. This is what I'd written back then:
Still here, holding the paper in front of me but not really reading it. Ghastly being here; impossible to be anywhere else. Can't believe I'm chatting shit about it on the fucking Internet but apparently that's who I am #fuckms #daughter #family #love #hospice #love #love #love
and what came to me today is that this period of time has kind of floated out of my consciousness. I'm left with the joy that she did recover and we ended up having over two more years, but that time in the hospice, and the period a few weeks later when she relapsed again, had another bout of sepsis, as predicted by the doctor in the hospice, so again we prepared for her to die, but she recovered again, thank fuck, but the waiting, on tenterhooks, the awful fucking waiting and hating it but not wanting it to end because that was going to be worse. THIS WAS FUCKING HUGE. MONUMENTAL even. Weeks and weeks of this, and I'm still tired, probably still from this, unacknowledged. I'm exhausted, innit. I asked the acupuncturist what she could feel in my pulses and she just said, "Empty," kind of wearily. Yeah me too. So bed, for fuck's sake.
12:53 a.m. - 01.06.22
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