40 Weeks: Week 32

I did have fun with this chapter, deciding what exactly the nursery would look like. And then I saw this wall art type picture and thought it was perfect- I didn't feel like Elphaba would want anything too cutesy.

Thoughts? I really like this, and it fit in with my yellow scheme, I'd decided on.

A Year Ago Today

Today is a year since my grandfather died.

It’s been 365 days. Some days it feels like much longer, some days it feels like it was only yesterday.

Grandad had been sick with cancer for about four years before he died, and it was probably two or three years since we knew it was terminal, and eventually... that would be it.

I was nineteen when he first got diagnosed, and twenty one when he died. Losing Grandad was really the first time that I had experienced death before. I’d had pets die, a second cousin who I’d only met a handful of times, but that was it.

Even now, there’s times when it doesn’t really feel real. I still go to refer to my grandparents collectively- as Grandma and Grandad, and then I have to stop and remind myself that “no, it’s just Grandma.”

It’s still a slap in the face when I see get a card from my grandmother, now just signed “love Grandma.” The hole is still there, and I imagine it always will be.

My Grandad was always so proud of his grandchildren, and he helped define my childhood in a lot of ways. We’ve always had a greater sense of family on that side- my mum’s side, probably because we saw my cousins more often and because we saw my grandparents less, it was always a treat to get together and spend time with them, and they always made our visits special.

When I think of Grandad, I remember the bone crushing hugs he would give us every time he saw us, as a “hello” and a “goodbye”. And I do mean bone crushing, usually uncomfortably tight that as children we just wanted to breathe, but once he was sick, you longed that he’d have the strength to give you just one more.

The “goodbye” hug was always accompanied by a wet kiss and a whisper. I can’t speak for my siblings or cousins, but for me it was always “you’re beautiful” or “love you lots”. Until not that long ago, my grandfather was the only person who called me beautiful- which my lovely friend Julia has been determined to rectify ever since I told her that about a year and a half ago, and she now makes sure I hear it every opportunity possible. Including a YouTube video which is still one (if not THE) greatest gift I’ve ever received.

Grandad always told me I was his “favourite second-eldest granddaughter” (conveniently), and he had this extremely comforting presence. I can’t describe it, just that I always felt safe with him. Whenever he and Grandma came to visit,  we’d know he was here, because there would be a whistle at the door. I can’t describe the whistle, my siblings and I just knew it as Grandad’s.

Whenever we came to stay, we got spoiled. Grandma would (and does actually!) make jelly for us to have as dessert, along with yogos and cheese sticks/triangles (the only cheese my sister would eat). we got to pick our favourite meals, and they always made sure to have lemonade (my favourite) in the fridge.

I can’t even tell you the number of second hand bookshops my grandparents happily took me to every visit I had with them, knowing my love of reading. My grandma is a big reader, which I’m forever thankful for because it was her that introduced me to Anne of Green Gables, Trixie Belden, the Tomorrow series (although that was because my older cousin had read it in school), and all these classic books I still love today. Grandad was less of a reader, but still happily came with us, because it was spending time together.

And the milkshakes. Oh, the milkshakes. Grandad had many gifts, probably more than I’m aware of, but if there was one thing he could do, it was make a milkshake. When we were going to stay at Grandma and Grandad’s, we knew that meant one thing for sure- milkshakes for breakfast. He didn’t use a milkshake maker, or a blender or anything. It was just him shaking a covered cup of milk and topping. And they were light and fluffy and bliss.

After he died, my cousin revealed he had never had one of Grandad’s milkshakes. The rest of us all felt appropriate sympathy for him.  It may seem strange, and maybe you might try one and say that it wasn’t that great, but we adored them.

One of my favourite things about Grandad was how much he loved my grandmother. I remember when he was briefly moved into a hospice between hospital stays because he was too sick to come home, and he was devastated because he wouldn’t be home with my grandmother ever again. He always said the thing he missed most was lying next to her every night. They’d been married for 53 years when he died.

So, he died Saturday February 25^th, 2012.

As I said, we knew it was coming. But nothing actually prepares you for the moment when it actually does.

We had rushed up to Newcastle not long before Christmas the year before, because the doctor had told Grandma that was probably going to be it. So the entire family went up to say our goodbyes. My uncle flew down from Queensland.  On some level, I was actually really happy to have all the family together, especially when I hadn’t seen my aunt and uncle in a while, and it was my first time seeing my eldest cousin and his wife and daughter since they had moved back New Zealand shortly before.

So we were told on this day to say our goodbyes, which was the hardest thing I’ve ever had to do. In the movies, it’s always this moving moment with big speeches and both parties come out of the room at peace.

That’s a load of crap.

In reality, it’s super awkward. You don’t know what to say, you’re in a freaking hospital, and Grandma and mum had told us before not to get upset because Grandad didn’t want tears.

Well, I am a crier. I cry at everything. I cry watching The Lion King, I cried just the other week (in excitement) after I booked tickets to see Idina Menzel at the Sydney Opera House in June. So, asking me not to cry when I think I’m saying goodbye to my grandfather? Not going to happen.

And then of course, if you don’t come close to crying, you feel like a horrible person. Why don’t I want to cry? Am I that heartless? Why can I cry when Sirius Black dies in Harry Potter, but not when my own grandfather is about to die?

So that was December 2011. That year, I finished my Diploma of Education. I’d dreamed of being a teacher since I was seven and it was finally happening. And Grandad had told that to every nurse, doctor, whoever that entered the room when I visited him in hospital from the time he was first diagnosed.

I was lucky enough to be offered a job rather quickly for 2012 in Quandialla- a tiny little town in Western NSW (Quandialla is about an hour from Young, if that helps anyone). This meant for a year, I would be living four hours away from family and friends- and I don’t as of yet drive, so it’s not like I could make weekend trips back home to visit Grandad.

We entered 2012 and Grandad was still with us. I was moving in January, so about a week or so before I left I caught the train up to visit Grandma and Grandad. Some part of me knew that this could be the last time I saw him, unless he was still going to be here come April when I came home for school holidays.

I was doing really well at keeping it together that day. And then when Grandad hugged me goodbye- not quite as tight as he used to, and kind of awkwardly as happens when one party in a hug is lying down- he whispered in my ear the usual. I was beautiful and he loved me. And then he added that was proud of me, and I was going to be the best teacher in New South Wales.

That was when I lost it. I managed to hold it together until I left the room, but that was pretty much it.

The last time I spoke to Grandad was the Thursday before he died, the 23^rd of February. But honestly, I try and keep that day in January as my last memory of Grandad, because on the Thursday he couldn’t stay awake for very long and wasn’t really coherent.

I was super excited that weekend, because the assistant principal at the school was going to Sydney to visit her daughter and had offered me a ride so I could go home. It was my first trip home since leaving, and I was really excited at the idea of seeing my family and friends. I made plans with mum to go to the movies on Saturday night and see The Vow and it was going to be a great weekend.

That was the plan.

It was Saturday afternoon and I was hanging out in my room with mum, when my phone rang and it was my grandmother. At the time I thought it was kind of a weird conversation, but I didn’t really think about it. I answered, she said hello and told me about a book she was reading that I was welcome to read after her, and then she said goodbye.

About a minute later, Grandma rang again, on mum’s phone. Mum answered and after a moment said “it’s happened, hasn’t it?”

Then she left the room.

I went and immediately got my sister, who was the only sibling home at the moment, and we just hung around outside mum and dad’s bedroom door until they opened it and confirmed what I knew the minute mum left the room. It had happened. Grandad was gone.

Not long after that, I must have gone back to my room and cried, but I have no memory of that. I remember feeling really numb. Five minutes ago, I’d been having a conversation with friends on twitter, and planning to go to a movie that night. And suddenly, I had one less grandparent.

I remember being numb. I remember having a million different thoughts swirling around my head and unable to really isolate any enough to focus on them. I remember thinking ‘well, I guess we’re not going to the movies anymore’ and being disappointed about that because I’d really been looking forward to spending time with mum and seeing The Vow. And then I remember feeling horrible for being disappointed about not seeing a movie when this had just happened.

And I remember staring at my computer screen, and watching the conversation continue on twitter without me. People talking about completely normal things, the world was turning, their lives were moving on as usual. And mine had completely stopped.

I remember pausing, because how do you explain what just happened? Finally, I typed “My grandfather just died and I don’t know what to do.”

I sent the tweet and shut down the computer. I am always on my computer. It is my lifeline, my one item I would save in a fire, it’s everything. But I couldn’t even think about tweeting, or writing or doing anything in that moment. Because how could I just keep living my life as if it was just any other day? It seemed wrong.

Eventually I think it was Dad who came into see me. I was sitting on the edge of my bed, staring into space. My throat was completely blocked, I couldn’t even speak. He (we’ll just assume for the sake of this post that it was Dad, because again, I honestly have no memory of parts of this day) told me that he was taking mum and picking up my other sister from work, before taking them to meet my aunt and uncle at Sutton Forest, who were coming back from the event they’d been attending in Canberra to be with my grandmother. Then my aunt and uncle would take them up to Newcastle to be with Grandma.

I remember being slightly offended that I wasn’t invited to go up to Newcastle too, and then again, feeling like a horrible person because that was really not what mattered in this moment. I do remember this part. Dad asked if I wanted to come for a drive, and I said no. Frankly, I wanted to curl up in a ball and stare at the wall some more. That sounded like a great plan for the next month at this point.

I think I was in shock. Mum told me later my face was gray and they were a little worried about me, so they insisted on me coming along. I barely spoke the entire drive. I couldn’t even form words. My sister’s best friend was coming over to be with her while we were gone, but I couldn’t bring myself to do anything after sending that initial tweet. Because once the words were out there, it was real. And I wasn’t ready for that.

After we got to Sutton Forest and everyone left, Dad suggested we go into MacDonald’s and have a drink. I wasn’t hungry or thirsty, but I had enough brain activity to remember (thank you Harry Potter) that chocolate is supposed to be good for shock (well, in Potter universe anyway, and that’s good enough for me), so I made myself get a hot chocolate and chocolate cake.

Dad went to the bathroom while we were there, and by that stage it had been about an hour and a half, and I thought I should call my best friend Kristel and tell her. As soon as she picked up the phone I was in tears. I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t bring myself to say the words.  They literally got stuck in my throat before I finally forced myself to say them.

So, I’m sitting in MacDonald’s on the phone crying. Dad doesn’t comment, and when we’re leaving he asks if I want to drive (I’m on my L’s so- hours!). I have no idea why I said yes. And it was one of those moments where I couldn’t believe it seemed like a normal day- but it wasn’t. In hindsight, I guess Dad wanted to give me something else to focus on, but I swear I could have crashed the car. I have no memory of that drive, I was on complete auto-pilot. We decided on the way home I wasn’t going to go back to Quandialla the next day, it wasn’t worth it when I’d have to come back somehow for the funeral.

So when we got home, I had to call my Head Teacher and the Assistant Principal and tell them. I cried during both phone calls, and they were both understanding about it and told me to take all the time I needed and not to worry about school.

And then I called my friend Nat, because I’d been talking to her only that morning about Grandad. And she left her boyfriend to come sit with me, which I appreciated more than I think I’ve told her. And I talked. Somehow. Words still weren’t really coming, but it was better than crying. I felt so empty and still numb.

But talking helped to focus on and sort out the millions of thoughts in my head from the time we got the phone call.

At some point, I checked twitter, and I had heaps of tweets from all my friends sending their love, prayers and condolences. Which helped and didn’t help. It was great to know they were thinking of me but...

“I’m sorry.”

That’s the most common response you get when someone dies. Or when something bad happens. And it feels like the right thing to say... until you’re on the receiving end.

Do you have any idea how insignificant those words are? “I’m sorry”

Why? You did nothing. You can’t apologise and make it all better. Or the people who add a :( to an “I’m [so] sorry” (the “so” is optional). A sad face emoticon does not even begin to describe how I’m feeling. Why is there no emoticon or symbol for indescribable grief? For numbness? For feeling like you’ve been kicked in the stomach?

I don’t mean to sound unappreciative of everyone who sent me a tweet, or a message or a Facebook post or whatever, because I really did appreciate them and it meant the world to know that they were all thinking of me; but it’s just... the words “I’m sorry” grate on me. Even now.

Now, I’ve promised myself that when something bad happens to a friend, I won’t say “I’m sorry.” I haven’t yet landed on an appropriate substitute, but I’m trying.  

So that was a year ago today.

That was an incredibly hard week. Going to church the next day and seeing everyone- those who had heard, and having to tell those that hadn’t. Going shopping for something to wear to the funeral- because I’d only intended to come for a weekend and had nothing appropriate with me. That was the worst shopping trip of my life. You’re buying something for an occasion that you don’t ever want to attend, and you have to make sure it’s an appropriate colour and style, which isn’t always easy.

And then to top it all off, it rained pretty much the whole week, which lead to flash flooding in rural areas, including Quandialla, so I was just hoping I’d come back to a dry house (I did, just FYI).

And now a year later, I’m back home. Unemployed.

I’ve been struggling for the past few weeks, between being unemployed and knowing today was coming.

I decided I had to write this, not only to try and get some closure on that day, but also to really focus on my good memories of Grandad, and not of him being sick or the day he left us.

I love you Grandad. And I miss you.

Not a great photo,  one of the last taken with Grandad before he got sick.  February 2007.

I'm tired

I've dreamed of being a teacher since I was 7 years old, it's all I've pretty much ever wanted to do. And in 2011 I fulfilled that dream, completing my Graduate Diploma of Education and qualifying as a High School English and History teacher. And a few weeks before graduation, I got a phone call. Telling me that there was a job for a year in Quandialla for a year, and did I want it? I had no idea where Quandialla was, but I figured a job was a job, it was only for a year and it would be a good experience.

Quandialla it turned out, was a tiny town in Western NSW, about an hours drive from Young. There was about 30 kids in the entire school from Kindergarten to Year 12. I moved out there, moving out of home for the first time, moving four hours away from all my family and friends. It was the scariest thing I've ever done. It was a difficult year, but also rewarding. The kids were great, and I learned a lot, but I was terribly homesick.

By term 3, term 4, I started applying for jobs, knowing my contract was up at the end of the year. Nothing but rejection letters. At the end of last year, I said goodbye to the kids and the other teachers and moved back home. Which is not all fun- it's a long story, but basically my family is living with my grandparents so there's 8 of us in a 4 bedroom house and I'm sharing a room with my 17 year old brother.
And I'm still unemployed. Still getting nothing but rejection letters, which are really feeling like a giant "You suck" from the universe. I haven't been unemployed since I was 16, and that was only a month between part time jobs.

I've got my name down for casual work at almost every school in the local area, and still nothing. Part of me knows that this is only going into week 4 of term, so it's not quite at the stage where heaps of teachers are calling in sick yet, but my self-esteem is still taking a blow, which has never been great with to begin with.

The thing is, many people, well meaning people, keep asking me how the job search is going. A lot. My parents, my grandparents, people at church, Facebook friends, former colleagues. And the more people ask, the more I feel like shooting myself (figuratively). Even worse is when people suggest I simply go back to Woolworths,where I worked for 5.5 years through high school and uni- which was kind of the point of uni, so I wasn't going to be a checkout chick forever.

I just... I feel stuck. And depressed. And thoroughly discouraged. Now I'm wondering if I'm truly meant to be a teacher after all. Otherwise, wouldn't I have a job? And I am trying. But the thing is- uni spends a whole year trying to tell us how to teach. But they wait until the last day to give us a 20 minute talk on how to apply for jobs? And that's not even taking into account what I've been learning recently- that every school, every panel, every person going through the piles of job applications every time they want to hire someone- is looking for something different. And they're not going to tell you what they want. You apparently have to guess, or read minds.

I am depressed. I am stressed. I don't sleep well. I cry a lot. Over everything. I pretty much only eat when I feel really sick because I haven't eaten- not because I'm starving myself or anything, I'm simply not hungry and forget to eat. And then I generally eat dinner, because by that time of night, I am hungry.

And I've thought of trying to find other work- not in teaching. I know, I know. I'm 22, I have the rest of my life to teach... but I have no skills. I've never done admin or office work. I can pack groceries really well (seriously, I got compliments on it from customers). I can write (If I could get paid for writing fairly decent fan fiction, I'd be set). I'm a good teacher... well, I thought I was a good teacher, or at least becoming a good teacher.

It's so tempting to give up, but I don't want to give up. I don't want to be a quitter. I've never really quit anything (well, I quit Economics at school, but I hated that). I just... I don't know what to do any more.

Elphaba's dress in 40 Weeks

This is supposed to be the dress Elphaba wore to Ibrahim and Kasmira's anniversary banquet in 40 Weeks.

But in blue

One of my lovely readers/Twitter followers just sent me this, and I had to share.

Please Explain

I have a question I hope people can explain to me, because I've noticed two terms being linked together, and I honestly don't see the connection: Delta Goodrem and bogan.

Now, this isn't a "Delta is so amazing and why don't people like her" post. I've ranted before about my pet hate of people saying they "hate" celebrities they don't know, etc. Whatever. To recap that- "if you don't like her music, that's fine. That's your personal taste. But I don't understand how you can hate someone you've never met and only seen maybe in interviews and on TV."

My point today is that I've seen a few articles over the last few years that all seem to suggest that all Delta Goodrem fans are bogans. And I take offence to that implication. And I'm also slightly confused.

A bogan, according to Wikipedia (yes, it has its own Wikipedia page), is defined as:

"an individual who is recognised to be from an unsophisticated background or someone whose limited education, speech, clothing, attitude and behaviour exemplifies a lack of manners and education."

 The most recent article I've found, which inspired me to write this post, was in WA Today and written by comedian Xavier Toby as he talked about penguins and racism. This does actually make sense if you read the article, and also raised the awesome point of, "Penguin Books [which] makes no sense, because penguins can't read." LOL.

However, the end of the article finished with this quote,

"just because you notice that someone is wearing happy pants and an Ed Hardy shirt, reading Delta Goodrem's biography, and has a car with a personalised number plate and a My Family sticker,"

Again, it makes sense in context. 

I am 22, well educated (Bachelor's Degree and a Post Graduate Degree), polite and generally well-developed human being. My family lives in a nice house and I don't think we match the description of "bogan" at all. Likewise, I know many Delta fans who are just like me.

So, where did this association between Delta Goodrem and bogan come from? Delta herself is from the Hills District in Sydney, which is a fairly high class area. 

I'm just a little confused. Can anyone shed some light on this please? Did "bogan" suddenly stop being seen as a bad thing and I didn't get the memo?

UPDATE:

I went back and found some of the other Delta=Bogan articles I remembered and here a few select quotes from these articles:

Bogans on parade: "Today's bogans reside in huge neo-Georgian cubes with no eaves and seven plasma TVs, which were purchased on an 18-month interest-free plan. They read Zoo Weekly magazine and Twilight novels, idolise Delta Goodrem and tend to use malapropisms such as ''for all intensive purposes'' and ''escapegoats''. 


Bogans confused by Categate: "Several bogan heads exploded, some converted to Scientology, and a few sought refuge in the dulcet tones of Delta Goodrem."

This entire article from a site called Things Bogans Like. 

The T-shirt: A History

So, this mostly evolved from when I was writing Taking Chances and I went to mention a T-shirt (I think it was chapter 21...) and then had to think, because pretty much everyone knows I like to try and keep my Oz as realistic as possible.

And surprise, surprise, I found the history of the T-shirt online (seriously, Google and Wikipedia have everything). So here we go:

"The T-shirt evolved from undergarments used in the 19th century, through cutting the one-piece "union suit" underwear into separate top and bottom garments, with the top long enough to tuck under the waistband of the bottoms. T-shirts, with and without buttons, were adopted by miners and stevedores during the late 19th century as a convenient covering for hot environments.

T-shirts, as a slip-on garment without buttons, originally became popular in the United States when they were issued by the U.S. Navy during or following the Spanish American War. These were a crew-necked, short-sleeved, white cotton undershirt to be worn under a uniform. It became common for sailors and Marines in work parties, the early submarines, and tropical climates to remove their uniform "jacket", wearing (and soiling) only the undershirt."

The Spanish-American War, just FYI (because as an Australian I had no idea what that was), is listed as the following:

"The Spanish–American War was a conflict in 1898 between Spain and the United States, effectively the result of American intervention in the ongoing Cuban War of Independence. American attacks on Spain's Pacific possessions led to involvement in thePhilippine Revolution and ultimately to the Philippine–American War." 

So there you go. I had no idea it had been around that long!

And because I have my own form of logic as to what era I use to set Oz in (I go by the movie was made in 1939, which in terms of the musical is Act 2 and most people usually agree there's about 2 or 3 years between Act 1 and Act 2, which would make it 1936-1937. I know the Wizard of Oz book came first, but I  use the movie because that's where the Wicked book and musical get their inspiration from), it makes it very possible that certain characters (Fiyero) would have T-shirts to wear, albeit usually as an undergarment.

That's just me though!

Review: Silver Lining Playbook

So tonight I saw Silver Lining Playbook.  I saw the trailer when I went and saw Les Mis and although I'm not a huge Bradley Cooper fan, I thought it looked good. Plus, I like Jennifer Lawrence.

And it was a really good movie. At times it felt a little slow, but the cast was great and it was funny.

I actually found it a really interesting insight into mental illness (I hope that's the politically correct term) and especially bipolar, because of course, that's what Patrick (Bradley Cooper) and Tiffany (Jennifer Lawrence) suffer from. And although much of the laughs come from things that Pat or Tiffany say and do, it's not because the film makes light of them or mocks them.

It's just that the characters usually say or do exactly what they're thinking, which is funny. And sometimes it's exactly what you and I would want to say or do. One of my favourite moments (no spoilers that will ruin the plot!) is when Pat is reading Hemingway's Farewell to Arms. He reaches the end, and dissatisfied with the unhappy ending (apparently, I haven't actually read the book myself)- throws it out the window. Who hasn't read a book or seen a movie or a TV show or something and been so dissatisfied with the ending or something that happens, or a character that you want to throw the book?

I have. Many times. I never have, mostly because my mum (also a book lover) drilled it into me from the time I was born that "books are friends (not food. Sorry. Finding Nemo pun)."

It was also interesting to see how people treat people with mental illness. Pat has people staring at him openly through windows, and interestingly (and frustratingly, at least for me) was that whenever something happened and Pat was involved, he was never given the chance to explain his side of things. People (his parents, cops, etc) just immediately jumped in with a lecture about why would he do that and how bad it was.

The other interesting thing (maybe mild spoilers here, so if you don't want to know, just skip this paragraph), was that Pat's parents don't really seem to know how to treat their son, but his father has his own issues- namely major OCD. And that's a huge thing, especially regarding his relationship with Pat.

As I said, it felt a little slow at times, but other than that, I really enjoyed it. And I was excited to see Julia Stiles in a minor role. I haven't seen her in much lately!