Category: Health

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Here’s looking at you, Joost

I wouldn’t normally devote a blog to the day’s sad news – there’s enough of that going around these days God knows – because my aim is to lift our spirits with these posts, but I guess I also want to make us think twice about certain things, and in that context it fits.

For yesterday, a well known, Dutch writer/poet/art critic committed suicide, Joost Zwagerman. Aged 51. A man whose huge enthusiasm for art spread infectiously throughout Holland the last year or two mainly because of his regular appearances on a daily chat show, DWDD.

And it just really got to me, the tragedy of this sad, sad deed.

Apparently he suffered from manic depression. Apparently his father attempted to end his own life some years ago. Apparently his best friend succeeded in doing just that a few months ago. I have to wonder.

The thing is… could anyone have helped him, stopped him from taking this irrevocable, drastic step? The never-ending question. Does it always have to be this way, that people who are ‘blessed with’ the huge gifts, are also burdened with an equally destructive or negative characteristic, in some dastardly universal balancing act? Think Van Gogh. Amy Winehouse. Robin Williams. Philip Seymour Hoffman (I could go on).

What must his family be going through, right now? Three daughters. The man himself had strong opinions about suicide, publicly shared those thoughts even, sharply criticising those who commit it for the huge damage it inflicts on those ‘left behind’ as he put it. How strange, how poignant, that he himself should now choose to go down that same, dark route with a new book about to be published. I guess that meant little, in the end.

I wasn’t familiar with him until he showed up on TV. I’m not that literary and as an Irish woman living in the Netherlands, have a tendency to stick to English-language books even though I speak the language. Because I’m a lazy sod on that score.

But I, and many others, was hugely impressed by Joost’ flamboyance, his energy, his sheer joy in sharing his (very broad) knowledge of specific painters/styles with us, the common folk. When he talked, we listened. Avidly. His eye picked out tiny details we’d otherwise have missed, his voice brought us information we could understand and appreciate, even with limited artistic knowledge. Secret snippets of information worked cleverly into paintings by old masters were a delight to him, and as he explained the thinking behind them it all morphed into something fascinating. Joyful. Uninhibited.

My husband would ‘shush’ me if I interrupted him while Joost was at large, on DWDD. I have a (mean) tendency to tease him about the programme, and how enamoured he is with its presenter although secretly I totally admire the man myself, and how well he manages it all. It’s an Irish thing: taking the Mick at any and every opportunity.

So here I go, just for you Joost – thank you for sharing your clever insights with us these past years, I’m so sorry you saw no other way ahead. To DWDD (and on behalf of my hubby and I): kudos to you Matthijs, for creating and encouraging this gifted, learned and special man to benefit and share in your unique platform. Hats off from me on this rather sad day.

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A paler shade of pyjamas!

My PJs have long ago decided to mix and match perfectly, for ever!

Since coming home from hospital last month, it’s the funniest thing really but I’ve totally become Queen of the Pyjamas. Every shape and colour I have in the house – with a few new ones thrown in for good measure – they’re all I want to wear right now.

And – slightly to my surprise – I find wearing them, lounging around in them a seriously enjoyable change from my normal routine! Slowly pulling a nice, soft, comfy (loose!!) top from the drawer and sliding it over my head before shrugging on a wide-banded pair of loose pants that won’t bother me in any way is so relaxing!

No fuss, no bothersome mix and match skills required… just one, happy and cosy little collection of pale pink, blue or grey cottons on offer, morning after morning. Fuzzy slippers. Fluffy socks. Maybe a bed jacket? or should I go all out and wrap myself into a bath robe? Decisions, decisions. Easy little ones without a hint of pressure butting in to spoil the mood.

Take today, for instance. I woke up wearing the loose, soft grey oversized T that I wore to bed (no surprises there, aint a lot of action going down these days, thank the lord!). After breakfast and a shower, I quietly and very slowly made my way back up two flights of stairs to ‘change’.

Now, under normal circumstances, i.e. when I’m working (which I’m not right now) and my health is good (which it aint right now), this routine would see me galloping at top speed back upstairs, my morning coffee threatening a reappearance as I raced to get into an outfit suitable for the office to make it out the door by 8am.

Sometimes – it all worked perfectly, because I’d more or less decided what to wear the evening before – and the vibe was good. But there have also been days when Mother Nature played tricks on me and the anticipated warm weather turned into wet, cold, rainy skies. That’s when my careful deliberation raced straight out the window into the damp mist. That’s when a mild panic would kick in. With 12 minutes left I’d be shovelling hangers back and forth, frantically pulling skirts and blouses from the closet in a rush for the bus but also to ‘look the part’.

Not so on the good ole PJ days! Lying quietly in wait for me, my PJs have long ago befriended each other and agreed to mix and match perfectly, for EVER. So the minute I’ve chosen just one piece, the rest of the gang join in like a happy little choir and I’m greeted by a humming, muted array of items, all perfectly amenable to being worn with my first choice.

What more can I say? Happy days. Pleasurable even, which is not what I expected at the start but just what I need right now.

So yay for PJs.

Yay for a calm and relaxed start to each day.

And yay to my on-going recovery, in the palest shades of grey.

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Hospital Shenanigans

“It’s not every day you’re yanked out of your life and dropped head first into Critical Care, now is it?!“

The thing is… I ended up in hospital for most of last week. One of those weird, unexpected medical emergencies that can jump at you out of the blue – the kind you think only happen to ‘other people’ – suddenly leapt at me and dragged me by the heels into a nightmare week. I got the whole shebang… strapped to a stretcher, a speedy gallop in the ambulance to Emergency Aid while my insides (seemingly) took flame. I’ll spare you the details. It’s not been pleasant.

But… as always, I couldn’t help but notice and wonder about the nicer elements that dribbled onto my path during the more ghastly hours. Moments to remember and either cherish or just plain snigger about. Like the wife of the Moroccan man who shared my room.

A complete stranger, she showed me such love that it took my breath away. Watched me carefully during every visit, as one would a child, and was faster on her feet than any nurse to gallop for a tray when my face showed danger signals… then washed it gently and sat stroking my arm until the wave passed. My “Moroccan Momma” I called her later. It made her smile.

The professionalism of the ambulance doctor/driver who calmly guided us through that first terrible hour, reaching me through the haze of pain and (like a mother tiger) successfully pushing me to top slot in A&E upon arrival. No mean feat.

The pretty, English lady who occupied the bed beside me for two nights. Sweet, clearly in a lot of discomfort, she quietly drew my curtains as needed, listened to my woes with patience as I did hers. Smiled a lot. No pressure.

The night nurse. An angel in slippers. Quietly checking I could cope with the nausea (I couldn’t) she helped me feel a little secure, a little cared for, in that hugely unfamiliar environment. It meant a lot.

And then there’s me. Bursting into tears two minutes before the entire medical team landed at my bed end on day three. A classic. Peeping out from behind a washcloth, I groaned inwardly at their fresh, youthful, sparkling white appearance and (mildly surprised) reactions to my mini melt down, for which I make no apology. I mean, it’s not every day you’re suddenly yanked out of your life and dropped head first into Critical Care, is it?! Worn out, Watered Down and Withered is how I felt looking up at them, a sad little voice yelling in my head “oh just you wait!! I’ve had many good years, I’m not always this pathetic!” and more of that ilk. When I finally reached for my list of ‘prepared questions’, drawn up at 5am that (sleepless) morning, I could swear their eyebrows lifted even higher. Hah! Made me laugh later anyway, always a good thing.

Odd though, the temporary relationships you can form with others, even with yourself in these unexpected situations. Intense, because on a physical level there can be no hiding. Intimate because there is a need for ‘connection’ to get you through the challenges, or sleepless nights. And real. It seems to me, that with all guise of our normal lives stripped away, we easily, ungrudgingly become equals again and barriers are lowered. We reach out, with greater ease. Our tolerance levels rise, our togetherness flourishes.

Might do the whole Euro Summit group some good, don’t you think, a quick spell together in the old A&E? Just one week, I’m not greedy.