gingerwookey

2 weeks before Christmas, I was clumsy.

I walked down stairs I’d traversed 100 times before. But this time, hypermobility, natural clumsiness, or exhaustion got the better of me and I slipped and fell 3 steps from the bottom.

I landed ungracefully, having tried to save both myself and my laptop bag in the moment I lost balance. I thought I had just wounded my pride, until I realised I couldn’t feel anything in my left pinky finger. I also couldn’t move it from its curved position, and there was an alarming dent near the knuckle where previously it had been straight.

My first reaction, as a right-dominant-handed person was: I really wish this happened to my right hand.

Which seems irrational if you do not know that I have played the violin for over 45 years. My right hand just holds the bow. As long as I *can* hold it, and my wrist flexes, that’s all it needs to do. Hell, I met a syndactylous right-handed violin player in one orchestra, and she was fabulous.

My left hand however. My fingers need to race and position without conscious thought. They need to know exactly where they are at all times. They also need to remember all previous positions for every piece of music they have ever played, and also every piece of music my ears and brain have remembered. Plus every piece of music my brain invents off the cuff, and every piece of sheet music I read. These left-hand fingers have a huge job ahead of them.

I’m now 10 days out of having my finger strapped into a traction splint for four weeks, and have a removable plastic splint. I’m doing physio 10+ times per day. And slowly, so very slowly, my finger is remembering that it can move under instruction from my brain. Mere millimetres at present, but I’m hoping and working for complete rehabilitation.

When I had my first appointment at the hospital and I asked how long recovery would take, the consultant said “it depends how motivated you are to do physiotherapy”. This is clearly someone who doesn’t know me. I have so much motivation.

All I think of is Uma Thurman in Kill Bill part 1. “Wiggle the top joint of your pinky finger” I say, as I stare at it. It has started to, and I’m now measuring increments in the angle of movement.

The remaining fingers in my left hand, are pacing out scales and arpeggios so they don’t get lazy. And Bach’s double violin concerto in D minor, because that’s a favourite.

So I will be playing as normal again by Easter. That’s my self-set target, because we have to have aspirations. I think this might be the longest time I haven’t played for, so my neighbours will be relishing this time of peace. Joke’s on them, because it’s going to get noisier the second I’m signed off to play again. I mean, it’s got to be good physio, surely?

As I write this, I have a warm and silky bundle of cat pressed up all cosy against my knee. After a long time of massaging her jaw and under her ears to the point where her eyes just closed slowly and she melted into my hands, she is now having a thorough and contented wash of her paws and legs and flanks.

This makes me very happy, as other than her almost white nose and gums you wouldn’t know, in this moment, that there is a thing wrong with her. Just a little 5-year old calico cat who is loved and contented.

Sadly, that is not the case. She’s on a daily dose of steroids to mask her reactive symptoms, and B12 supplements to help her make new blood cells as the old ones are destroying themselves very quickly.

After many weeks of blood tests and scans last year, the vets have narrowed down the options to being most likely a lymphoma. This will definitely be the thing that kills her, but at the moment we don’t know when. It could be weeks, it could months, it could possibly (unlikely) even be years.

So we will take these good moments, and enjoy them to the maximum. Oh to be a much-loved house cat who is cared for, and fed delicious food, and medicated in surreptitious ways to ensure your last days are filled with comfort and peace.

I had to explain incels to my OH yesterday. He’d never heard the term before the Plymouth shooting https://en.m.wikipedia.org/wiki/Plymouth_shooting, and was surprised it was a thing that I’d not only heard of, but could speak about with knowledge and insight.

It made me realise that despite the fact he’s considerate, concerned, intelligent and switched on, he has literally no lived experience in being a woman, and therefore doesn’t have The Fear.

Why does that make a difference, I hear the feminist men say?

Here’s a story. My OH decided to cycle back from his parent’s house several years ago. “I’ll be back before dark” he said. “I won’t need to take my lights with me”.

Now to a woman, this is a commitment. This is telling a concerned other party when your expected arrival time is. If you miss that deadline and can’t be contacted to explain a delay, it means all systems go for search and trace. I can see all the women reading this nodding. We all KNOW that this is how it works.

Reader. We got to 90 minutes past dark. I was home with two preschool children, one a babe in arms, and didn’t want to panic them. I discreetly phoned his parent’s house and found out when he left. Did the calculations for when he should have been home. Phoned the local hospitals and police just to see if a cyclist had been hit by a car. Prepped the children for a little drive to “go and meet daddy on the way home” so I could see for myself if he was beside the road somewhere.

He turned up dog tired as we were getting ready to leave, 2 hours after dark. Angry with me because I’d “made a fuss”. Turns out he was out of practise with cycling so it took him longer to do the distance, and when he got to our village he stopped at the pub for a beer before coming all the way home.

It never once occurred to him that he’d given a deadline he’d missed. Never occurred to him that this would alarm me. Never occurred to him that there could be any reason other than him being out of shape that would delay his return home. I bet that even if you asked him today he would say I over reacted, that I was panicking needlessly, that I was probably post-partum hormonal and that’s why I acted the way I did.

That, dear reader, is a prime example of male privilege. Cis white straight men don’t need to look out for each other in the way that cis white straight women* do. It doesn’t occur to him even now, that he did anything that provoked concern that day. I’m over reacting. I’m panicking over nothing. And this, mind you, is worrying over an accident, not over anything another human would do.

I don’t know how to explain, without telling stories of all the times that I and my friends *weren’t* ok, and that being alone or separated from a group is unsafe, and that you need to have someone on the phone when you’re walking home in the dark, and that opportunities often come with huge scarring costs, that cycling or walking on your own in the dark with no fear IS A HUGE FUCKING CIS WHITE STRAIGHT MALE PRIVILEGE.

So yes. Incels. Am I surprised? Nope. Because to a certain type of person there are always groups of humans who can be classed as less than. Because they have no empathy at all and can’t conceive of a life that isn’t theirs. Poor them, who are involuntarily celibate. Or, if you want to put a more sane spin on it, any women that they approach can see that “women” aren’t “people” as far as the incel is concerned, and with the life experience they have the woman makes the sensible decision to get the hell away. Of course this only feeds into the delusion that women are manipulative and greedy, and ends up with another shooting/suicide to prove that it’s All Women’s Fault. Again.

So we have The Fear. It’s constant and unrelenting and when I’m out after dark I know that I’m far more attuned to what’s going on than I possibly should be. When I’m in a public place in the daytime I’m scanning for things that alarm me. And I know for sure that this surprises people who know me because I am confident, and won’t be talked down to, and all the rest. But I know in my bones that fundamentally one loon with a knife or a gun and an axe to grind won’t see me as a person. Because to them, I’m not. I’m just a woman.

*I feel I should note that I’m being very specific with the cis white straight prefix because I’m so aware that there are other huge concerns if none of those prefixes apply to you. And I’m aware of my privilege in not having to jump those hurdles too.

It’s been a strange sort of 12-month. We’ve seen the shape of our regular world change and change again.

From coffees and weekend with friends, we’ve gone to Zoom chats and distanced shouted conversations. From a kiss on greeting we’ve moved to elbow bumps and Bluetooth hugs.

But in among all this we’ve seen global and local events take the narrative for a short time. Black Lives Matter. Not All Men. Yes All Women. Don’t Cage Children. Trans Lives Matter. These are still important, sadly everyday issues.

A good friend, who makes *badges* among other things, in response to the murder of Sarah Everard asked for suggestions for inclusive and appropriate badges. Badges are good. They express strong sentiments in user friendly terms, and, as bonus, can include rainbows. Rainbows are always good.

Some of the suggestions were amazing. Mine less so, and I apologised because they came from a place of anger.

No, he said.

Be angry, he said. You are allowed to feel your feelings.

Oh. My. Gods.

I don’t think I have ever been encouraged to feel anger before. It’s a negative emotion, after all. It reduces us to our basic atavistic selves.

But, by the very heart of me, I cannot tell you how liberating this invitation felt.

Be. Angry.

BE. ANGRY.

We are ALLOWED to feel angry. Our anger cuts through the bullshit of manners, of politics, of social expectation. We do NOT have to accept the status quo. We do not have to accept being diminished, being muted, being ignored.

I’m exploring what this means, for me. I have lived with a default state of anger for I don’t know how many years, and have always hidden it because, you know, we should be considerate and polite and conciliatory. The idea that I’m allowed to be angry vocally and publicly feels… liberating. Scary. Do the people I know want to see the unexpurgated person I am? Will it have any benefit to any cause close to my heart?

I don’t know, in all honesty. I don’t know how much of my anger I will make public. I don’t know how I can use this permission, from myself, to be angry, to make any change in how I react to the world, or how I interact with the world.

But this is a journey that I find exhilarating.

This is something I have been thinking about considerably in recent years.

You see, I have reached that age where dear friends, friends who have seen me change from awkward child to equally awkward adult, and then again to to my awkward middle years, have most inconsiderately up and died without asking permission or ANYTHING.

This, I respectfully submit, is not only impolite but also inconsiderate.

You don’t get to buy your way into my heart and life by being decent, funny, good, and intelligent, just to suddenly make your apologies and leave. Sometimes without even any warning! And no promises even of knocking pictures off the wall or fritzing the TV signal after you have left this mortal coil.

No.

You just died. Sometimes after an illness where, to be fair, I can see that death was better for you; sometimes with no warning at all and just the memories of a last conversation that were never intended to be Final Words.

But this is the point. That version of me, that version that only you saw and valued; that person only existed for you.

And that person died with you, never to be reborn.

I miss you, and I miss that part of me.

Always.

How many words are there for love?

The Greeks; they knew the score.

Four main words, and more than nine more.

There’s Agape: The gods favour you above another.

There’s Phileo: The affection between sister and brother.

There’s Eros: I love you with every inch of me.

There’s Stergo: you are my child, you are the best of me.

All these words to mean I care. I listen. A version of me exists only for you.

Don’t leave me. Don’t silence me. Don’t kill the part of me within you.

I live

I love

I am.

Children.

They do this thing. They get bigger and older and more interesting every day.

And that’s all well and good when they’re teeny and you’re entranced by their every snot bubble, but when they hit that age and you realise that this incredible creature that shares 50% of your DNA is interested in baffling pursuits that frankly bore you rigid, it does become a slight issue.

Yes, I’m talking about FOOTBALL. Oh, and Pokemon cards and Wimpy Kid books and Rainbows and running club and all the rest of course, but mainly football.

Because suddenly you become that parent that you swore you would never be, that parent whose entire week revolves around Getting Children To After School Activities.

(a digression: No word of a lie, a doctor friend of mine who has three kids ended up writing two entire sides of A4 instructions on which kids needed to be where, when, and which other kids needed to be picked up and dropped off, and which other parents would be delivering child A, B, or C to which location after which event, oh and of course what equipment and clothing was needed: that was only to cover a period of 36 hours while she and her husband (also a doctor) had overlapping shifts and antisocial sleep requirements)

You seriously need a degree in event management to cope with the logistics once you have more than one child.

Once you have sorted the “no, you can’t do beat boxing class as well as guppy breeding; they’re on the same night”, and worked out when you will have a chance to do anything other than deliver small squabbling humans to different venues, you then realise the next horror: you have to Be Involved. Your child expects you to be interested in what they’re doing and Watch Them Do Sports.

Because of course if you don’t then they will know you don’t care about them and their future lives will be Ruined. Forever. Permanently.

So with this firmly fixed in your head, you now understand why I am actively encouraging them to watch Star Trek (the original series) and black and white films I remember from when kid’s TV didn’t operate for 14 hours a day. This is why I forcibly read my own book and get them to curl up with me while they read theirs. This is why they have a huge selection of whistles and harmonicas and other instruments that they are never told off for playing. Loudly. And why their dressing up clothes take up more space than their actual wardrobe.

Just a bit of me. Go on. Just enjoy a tiny fraction of the things I can genuinely be excited about….

I remember you.

Painfully sounding letters, then words

Looking up, expecting criticism

Surprised by praise. Your face smoothing

From worried frown to relieved smile.

I still see you.

Scared and fierce. Dreading the journey.

Holding your brother to keep him safe

Not releasing the last hugs,  the last goodbyes

Breaking inside, and already knowing to hide.

When you came back

Almost grown, protecting those you love

With secrets and denial. They grew inside

And destroyed what you tried to build.

Years of love rejected, nearly broke you.

And here you are.

Almost whole. Almost healed. Almost well.

Looking into your son’s smile, you’ve found

The meaning of love, and life, and hope.

And I hold you close in my heart.

Always.

Will you represent me?

Will you speak the words I’d say?

Will you think of cause and effect?

Will you plan for future days?

Or will my words die in your throat

When headlines hate in strident font

and paint as villains to overthrow

those who question, and urge to plan.