Death Of A Friend – Saying Goodbye to Bert

Nurse Bert

“We who choose to surround ourselves
with lives even more temporary than our
own, live within a fragile circle;
easily and often breached.
Unable to accept its awful gaps,
we would still live no other way.
We cherish memory as the only
certain immortality, never fully
understanding the necessary plan.”
~ Irving Townsend

 

And so it seems that for the next installment in my Wednesday series on death and dying that I shall be writing about something very raw and close to home…

On Sunday January 15 at 4am Ben and I made one of the hardest decisions we have yet made for our little family. We chose to euthanise our darling dog, Bert.

It was an entirely unexpected place to find ourselves in. Although, if you have read last Monday’s post, you will see that I was in fact forewarned, after having chosen the oracle card for the week ahead earlier on Saturday morning. A card that I discounted and put down, so that later I might choose another, better card.

That card was such a portend; a heartbroken woman, tears running down her face, cradling in her arms her dead dog – the little ginger pup with the red collar.

Grief

Who would have thought on a sunshiny Saturday morning, with our two dogs Harry and Bert well and happy and flourishing, that by Saturday evening it would all be going horribly downhill for one of them?

Dear readers, this is so often the way death finds us and our loved ones. This is the way the world is. One moment life is fine and normal. The next moment everything is different. Changed forever.

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Our Saturday started as Ben and I grabbed a coffee and the weekend papers in town then headed home to sit on the veranda. We did some writing together before the heat of the day while Bert and Harry sat at our feet, went off for a little wander, and then came back to the shade again.

The farm is in the grip of a heatwave. As I sat down mid-morning to do a little prep work and then start a day of skype readings with clients the boys all retreated to our air-conditioned bedroom – the one cool room in the house. Bert stayed there all day, happy on the bed. Harry and Ben did a little farm work and then came back to the bedroom. It was just too hot for anything!

When I finished work just before 6pm we all headed up to the pool. While Ben and I swam Harry and Bert ran around the edges, following us. Eventually Bert tired of the game and lay down. He’d only been lying there a few minutes when he stood up suddenly. He was violently ill. After which he pooed everywhere and began to shake. Bert looked at me and our eyes locked. I got a terrible cold feeling and a sense of certainty that he was going to die. He collapsed in front of me.

It all happened in seconds.  But even now those seconds feel like hours. I called to Ben that something was wrong and we jumped out of the pool and hurried to Bert’s side. Ben thought he might have eaten something. I was sure it was more urgent than that.

I ran back to the house, my heart pounding, and began to ring the local vets. Frantically I called vet after vet. Most were on holidays. No-one answered the phone. Finally, on the sixth call a vet in Lismore, a thirty minute drive away, picked up. If we came straight away she would meet us at the clinic. By this time Ben had brought Bert down to the house. Our beloved dog was lying on our bedroom floor, his gums pale, his breathing laboured, his heart beat erratic, his body twisted with pain.

I was sure it was a snake bite.

Leaving Harry in our room, Ben carried Bert to the ute and placed him in the back seat, where I climbed in beside him to cradle his head and comfort him as Ben drove us to get help.

Our poor dog. He was in a bad way, and as I felt his heart race and slow and flutter beneath my fingers it was all I could do to stay calm. I poured every ounce of love I had into him, and told Bert stories to keep him quiet and listening to my voice.

While our world spun, life went on as normal for most everyone else. Families came to the dinner table, or sat in front of television. People went about their lives. This is how it is when your world is falling apart. Other people’s lives are progressing as they always have. The only sky that falls is yours. It’s as if you move into a parallel dimension.

The vet was young and inexperienced. She was not sure what to do. She kept walking out of the surgery room, leaving us alone for long periods of time. It did not instill us with confidence.

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It took several goes for her to find a vein. She did a coagulation test, and told us it wasn’t a snake bite. She thought our sick dog might have eaten something. Meanwhile Bert was increasingly distraught, and then began to poo an acrid foaming mess of faeces and blood. The vet thought she might give Bert a drip and then leave him alone in the clinic overnight, after which the senior vets could assess him and give him some scans the next morning.

Our dog was shaking and moaning and the vet wanted to leave him alone and unattended in a cage all night.

Ben asked for other options. The vet suggested an emergency vet hospital on the Gold Coast. But less than an hour further up the road and we could be back in Brisbane, with a place to sleep, and close to our trusted family vet come Monday morning. As soon as the drip was in place we paid the bill and Ben carried Bert out to the car, our plan already decided.

I sat in the back with Bert’s head on my lap, wads of towels under him to catch the stinking bloody waste that kept oozing from him. We strapped the drip to the door frame and raced away.

Ben hugged the speed limit as he drove us home to the farm. The familiar country roads went by in a blur. Night fell. It was still stinking hot, and I was grateful that the car was cool and quiet.

At home one of us stayed with Bert while we took turns picking up Harry Dog and locking the house and sheds. I grabbed a bottle of essential oil and my computer. There was no time for anything else.

We were soon on our way again. Ben concentrated on the road, and Harry Dog sat in the front seat, twisted around so that he could see Bert and I, his eyes worried and fretful.

I rubbed Peace and Calming Oil (the same one I used when I helped my friend Angela to pass) on my hands and then let Bert breathe it in. I rubbed it along his spine. It took away his agitation and helped him to settle. It helped me too.

I noticed everything. The velvety feel of Bert’s muzzle, the raggedness of his breathing, Harry’s gentle and frequent sighs, the steady drip of the saline from the bag into the tube that was bandaged to Bert’s leg.

As we drove I patted Bert, and talked to him. I breathed in his pain, and breathed out love. I thought about the fact that here we suddenly were, pushing ourselves on this frantic journey to get help for our loved one – enroute to an excellent animal medical facility. I was monitoring Bert’s drip, we were safe, and yet there were so many people in the world in that same moment who did not have the care, attention or even the rudimentary treatments afforded our dog.

Bert settled under my touch and rested. But his eyes tracked our movements and he did not sleep. If I stopped patting him or talking to him he nudged me until I began again. He seemed unaware of the smells and the ooze. He became peaceful. Almost content. I filled the car with gentle talk about burgers and walks and adventures and lots of food stories. Bert loved his food, and burgers most of all.

When we arrived at the veterinary hospital it was just before midnight. Ben went ahead to get help and soon orderlies came with a stretcher. They carried Bert away, Ben following, while Harry and I stayed with the car.

As soon as the heavy doors shut and we could no longer see them, Harry began to whimper. I could not quieten him. He did not want me to put essential oil on him. I understood. He wanted to feel his feelings. He did not want to be pacified. Eventually the whimper became a howl. I crawled onto the front seat beside him and held him in my arms. I couldn’t cry, so Harry did for us. Nothing I did gave him any comfort. It was awful.

Ben took forever. Enough time for me to wipe up most of the shit and the blood from myself and the car. Enough time for me to use the remains of a bottle of water to clean things as best I could and to dump all the filthy towels into a vet waste bin.

Finally Ben returned and beckoned us to come inside. The vets had suggested that we bring Harry too, so we clipped him onto a leash and he trotted in beside us.

Reception was similar to a hospital waiting room. While Bert was being attended to by the vet team a nurse brought me a cup of tea. Ben couldn’t stomach one. We sat in uncomfortable chairs and waited, Harry lying pressed against our feet. Above us the minutes ticked by on a gigantic clock.

Then they brought me Bert’s big red leather collar, which I stuffed into my bag.

Ben kept one hand on me, and one hand on Harry. Somehow his hands steadied us enough that we could breathe again and be calm.

The night dragged on.

The emergency vet came and talked to us. The young country vet in Lismore had not forwarded Bert’s test results and records like she had promised us. They were running new tests but it was clear that Bert was a very, very ill boy. I asked if she could run the snake venom panel again, and the vet told us that the first test in Lismore would have been done too soon, and therefore was possibly unreliable. The best way to test would be with urine, but they’d need to insert a catheter. Bert was dangerously dehydrated so they were currently pumping him full of fluid. The vet agreed that it looked like snakebite, but the tests would take at least an hour. She was quietly reassuring. They were getting things under control.

I still felt cold to my core. It didn’t seem real and at the same time every detail was seared into my memory. I was certain we were losing him.

The vet went back into the surgery to do her work and a nurse took us to another room where we began filling in forms and giving our credit card details.

Finally we were asked to come through into the big, airy treatment room. There were several dogs in crates, most of them sleeping. There was medical equipment everywhere, and teams of people in scrubs working at lab stations.

It was three in the morning and Bert was now resting on a comfy bed in a large open cage on floor level. The nurses had given him a pillow for his head and a stuffed toy to keep him company. The vet was sitting beside him on the floor.

Harry went over and licked his face and cried a little. Bert rallied and licked him back. Suddenly Harry pulled away and went and sat on his own with his back to us, near the door. Ben and I gave Bert cuddles and hugs, and told him what a good boy he was and how much we loved him.

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The vet staff urged us to go home. Bert was stable, they had given him pain meds and he was getting dopey. Soon he would sleep. They would call us as soon as they had any results. We could come back and see him in the morning.

One final round of cuddles and we did go home. We scrubbed ourselves clean under long hot showers and then slid into bed, worried and exhausted.

We’d only just gotten to sleep when the phone rang. It was 4am. The vet had news. She had decided to do an ultrasound of Bert’s belly while they waited for the snakebite kit. She’d found a large mass on his spleen that was bleeding heavily into his abdomen. Then the snakebite test had come back positive. Bert needed urgent surgery for the mass, but his blood wasn’t clotting because of the snakebite. If she attempted surgery in his current state he’d bleed out.

He was bleeding out anyway.

On top of that it was likely he had damage from the snake venom. Heart damage. Nerve damage.

The vet was distraught but professional. She began talking surgeries, transfusions, risks, medications. Chemotherapy. Radiation. Months. Pain management.

Everything was risk. Everything was a gamble. All of it would mean more suffering for our beautiful boy. But she could try.

Meanwhile Bert was resting comfortably, finally asleep from the pain meds and a sedative.

So, Ben and I told her we’d call her back.

We sat on the bed with Harry beside us and we didn’t even need to talk. We just looked at each other and both of us shook our heads, tears running down our faces. It was enough. We couldn’t let him suffer.

So we called her straight back and asked her to euthanise him. We didn’t want for him to have to wait for us to travel to see him one more time (although we wanted to, but that was about our needs, not Bert’s), or to wake him up when he was finally calm and asleep. The vet explained that it was easy for her to do. She just needed to add a little extra medication to his drip. The vet promised us that she would hold him and stay with him until he passed. She had been unable to be with one of her own animals a few weeks before when her elderly pet had taken ill and had needed to be put to sleep. It was something she wanted to do now for Bert. I knew she would help Bert to feel loved, and one more time Nurse Bert got to comfort and support someone in need.

Because that’s what our beautiful dog always did. He loved you and stayed with you and looked after you until he was sure you were okay again.

It’s been ten days now.

Our home feels emptier.

Harry Dog is pining and clingy.

There’s too much room on the bed.

If I drop food on the floor it stays there.

Even though we are grieving our hearts are full, because this goofy dog who came into our lives when I found him abandoned and near death one hot summer afternoon – in a cardboard box at a suburban shopping centre – turned out to be one of the greatest friends we’ve even known.

We’d had him nine years almost to the day.

Nurse Bert. Our dog. Our friend. <3

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A Quiet Wednesday Today

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“When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.”
~ Kahlil Gibran

 

Wednesday is my day for posting about death and dying.

Today just happens to be Ben’s birthday as well.

And for us, death and dying just came right to our front door, with the recent heartbreaking and sudden loss of our dear friend, Nurse Bert, the bestest and goofiest dog we have ever known.

I have tried, but I still can’t bring myself to tell you what happened yet. It was a little like being in a war zone for those last few hours of Bert’s life. We are still running on adrenaline and not enough sleep. We’re all still bruised and traumatised and too numb. We’re all still raw and feeling too much and not numb enough.

That’s what death brings to those who remain. A deep grief and sorrow. A total disorientation. An ocean of feeling and a desperate need to be able to find a way to navigate that ocean without our flimsy crafts being tossed around and going under.

On top of all of which I am undergoing procedures to help settle this intractable antibiotic-resistant UTI, which has been making life a misery.

While enduring a heatwave.

And with a dog left behind who is mourning the loss of his brother hard, and for whom there is currently only sadness in this world. Poor Cafe Dog, our sweet Harry, needs extra cuddles and care right now.

So, today we are having a very quiet day at home. We might just retreat to the only room with air-con – the bedroom – and all have a cuddle and a cry and try to catch up on some sleep.

Thank you so much for your outpouring of love and support. It has been such a comfort to us all.

Hug your loved ones, and be kind to yourselves and each other, today and always,

Much love to you from Nicole, Ben and Harry xx

Vale, Good Sir Bertle, the most distinguished Nurse, companion and burger connoisseur.

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Nurse Bert

The Week Ahead – Oracle Reading for Monday 16 January

Grief

“Grief does not change you… It reveals you.”
~ John Green

Hello, dear friends!

I apologise that today’s post is late in coming. In fact I was unsure if I would even be able to write it at all. But here it is.

Here’s the oracle card I have chosen this Monday, and my take on the energetic outlook for the week ahead.

‘Grief’ is from the Chakra Wisdom Oracle Deck by Tori Hartman.

On Saturday morning I chose this card for the week ahead. I thought I might get organised and write my weekly post early, before my unplugged Sunday, and so that I might spend Monday morning (today) working on my almost-finished memoir.

When I pulled this card, I did a double-take. Oh, I thought, looking closely at the picture. It’s a heart-broken girl holding her dead dog. I can’t post that! So, I put the card down, and I moved onto another project and then some client readings and suddenly it was Saturday afternoon, and I forgot all about that card, and I went for a swim on that hot afternoon, with Ben my husband, and with Harry and Bert our dogs.

Well, some of you already know what happened next. Bert collapsed without warning. The next minute we were racing him to a vet. And then racing him from our country home back to a big veterinary hospital in the city. Our beloved dog Bert died at 4am on Sunday. We are all heartbroken. Yesterday was just a wash of tears.

And then this morning I remembered the card, and wept anew.

But, that’s enough of me. I need to talk about this card, and how it relates to you.

Grief is actually a beautiful card. An important card. I’m sure some of you are feeling these energies right now. These energies of grief and loss and tragedy and yearning and heartache and regret and disappointment and emptiness, right as the year began fresh. What an awful energy, you might think, to strike right when we need to be  hopeful and optimistic and to enjoy our fresh start.

It’s okay. The Grief card has a powerful message for you this week.

This is what grief reminds you: Grief is just love with nowhere to go.

That’s as it should be when you first lose something. Until you learn how to keep loving without it.

If you let grief keep rebounding inside you with no expression and no flow, eventually it can lead to frustration, anger, and then to depression.

All of that love, if you don’t eventually give it form again with something else, all of that love held as grief will weigh you down, and prevent you from living truly and fully in your life.

So, feel into the energy of grief this week, for in it are the seeds of so much locked-up positive emotion, so many gifts, so much power to propel you forward again.

This might be grief around relationships, choices, changing circumstances, mistakes, outcomes, all manner of loss…

Where have you got energy locked up in grief? Where is there energy trapped in your life with nowhere to go? How can you untangle that and repurpose it and give it somewhere to flow again?

How can you take all of this love with nowhere to go, and channel it into something new and good?

You might be surprised at the breakthroughs you have this week!

Supportive crystals this week? Rose Quartz, Chrysocolla, Green Aventurine and Citrine. Helpful essential oils? Young Living’s Inner Child essential oil blend, or  a combination (or singly!) of any of orange, jasmine, rosemary and geranium.

Feelings are a part of our lives for a reason. They help us to understand ourselves and the world around us, and they light the path for us, if we can be brave enough to follow where they lead.

Holding you, as always, in my thoughts, prayers and meditations.  All my love,

Nicole ❤ xx

 

 

Suicides and Sudden Deaths – Perspectives From My Experience as a Psychic

Image from www.radiomonash.net

Image from www.radiomonash.net

“Did you really want to die?”
“No one commits suicide because they want to die.”
“Then why do they do it?”
“Because they want to stop the pain.”
~ Tiffanie DeBartolo

 

The morning I am blogging about suicide comes directly after the night where I have been awake for most of it, messaging and then skyping with a suicidal client.

It comes directly after the news that another person in one of my Lyme support groups has taken their own life.

It comes two days after a very ill friend died, in a way that could technically be viewed as assisted suicide. She had been in great pain, and was in palliative care. The morphine given to her in increased doses relieved her pain but depressed her respiration and slowed her heart rate, speeding her death. All of us were relieved that there was no pain or suffering in her final hours.

Suicide, and thoughts of suicide, are common in our society. I’m grateful that we are starting to have more of an open dialogue around this. As a psychic I have been witness to perspectives on suicide that most people don’t have. I’d like to share these perspectives with you, in the hope that you will begin to see suicide differently.

 

Suicide is defined as the voluntary and intentional taking of one’s own life. I have seen four circumstances that I define as suicide (*note that this classification is my own):

  1. Being in a situation where help is (or is perceived to be) unavailable and the escalating pain, illness (mental or physical) and lack of control make ending a life seem to be the only viable option. This situation, arising out of desperation, exhaustion, disconnection or other intense negative emotional states is the most common form of suicide that I have encountered. It is also the one most regretted by those who take action to end their lives.
  2. The deliberate sacrificing of one’s life for a greater purpose or higher ideal. The primary motivation behind this type of rare act is love, and it is usually a spur-of-moment choice. I do not include martyrdoms for ideological causes (such as suicide bombings) in this category. Instead think of the parent who risks and loses their life to save their child. The spouse whose last act in a car accident is to position the car so that their partner is spared the worst of the impact.
  3. The assisted and hastened death of someone who is already dying and whose life has run its course.
  4. The deliberate ending of a life where that life’s parameters are non-negotiable, non-changeable and no longer acceptable to the person living that life. That person is not in the same situation as the first circumstance I discussed. The decisions made here come from a place of clarity and peace, rather than from heightened emotional distress or disturbed thinking.

Suicide is, in so many ways, a complex issue.

There is much to say about this topic, and it has raised so many questions from you, my dear readers, that I am going to break this subject down into more posts over the coming Wednesdays. I’ll examine each type of suicide, and I’ll also look at accidental and sudden deaths, and how these impact the soul, as well as those left behind.

Be aware that in the overwhelming majority of suicides there is a realisation of deep regret at their actions in the moments before and after death –  when they understand that it was truly not what they wanted to do, that they have made a terrible mistake but that it is now too late to change this sudden ending of their precious life.

And of course the fallout for loved ones left behind after suicide is often immense, life-altering and devastating.

No matter what the circumstance of the suicide I can render the truth of it down to this. After death, ultimately, a soul returns to love.

Wherever you are this week, and whatever head space you are in, know that you matter to me, and that you are in my thoughts, meditations and prayers.

Be kind to yourself. Reach out to others. Live from compassion. Life is messy and sometimes hard, but we’re all in it together.

All my love, Nicole xx

 

Need Help To Cope?

The following links provide support for those who are suicidal or bereaved by suicide:

Australia List of links and contact numbers here

 

International Support 

Wikipedia has a great list of international support services here

Suicide.org also lists support services for all corners of the globe here

 

Listening as a Healing Tool

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“You do not have to be good.
You do not have to walk on your knees
for a hundred miles through the desert, repenting.
You only have to let the soft animal of your body
love what it loves.
Tell me about despair, yours, and I will tell you mine.
Meanwhile the world goes on.
Meanwhile the sun and the clear pebbles of the rain
are moving across the landscapes,
over the prairies and the deep trees,
the mountains and the rivers.
Meanwhile the wild geese, high in the clean blue air,
are heading home again.
Whoever you are, no matter how lonely,
the world offers itself to your imagination,
calls to you like the wild geese, harsh and exciting –
over and over announcing your place
in the family of things.”
~ Mary Oliver

 

Unexpectedly, yesterday afternoon, I felt a sadness descend upon me.

At first I tried to ignore it.

Then, to laugh it off.

I immersed myself in busy-ness.

But it didn’t go away. Instead it settled on my bones like a numbing fog.

Until I could barely think or move or breathe.

I couldn’t think why. I couldn’t shift it at all. I was burdened with this great weight.

Finally, not knowing what else to do, I climbed the hill behind my little farm house and sat down in the thick plush grass of the old orchard. The hill continued on behind me, and I felt safe with it at my back. The sun shone above me. And as I sat I remembered my old Aboriginal Aunty, and what she said to me once, when I was experiencing a similar kind of sadness, brought on by homesickness and worry.

Just go outside, she said. Go sit down, and listen a lil bit.

Listen to what? I asked.

Just listen. All dem answers come when you just listen. Go on, go now. Sit. Be quiet. Open your eyes. Open your ears. Be alive with listening.

An Aboriginal woman sits by rock carvings in Western Australia. Photograph: Medford Taylor/Getty

An Aboriginal woman sits by rock carvings in Western Australia. Photograph: Medford Taylor/Getty

Be alive with listening. Isn’t that the most beautiful thing you’ve ever heard? Such wisdom in those words.

Yesterday, remembering that, I sat quietly, with nature all around me.

I listened.

I waited.

I trusted…

I heard the grass finches chirping and peeping and flitting from place to place. I heard the birr of their wings. I heard the rush of air as a flock of fat pigeons flew overhead.

I heard my husband down on the flats by the river, driving the tractor that tows the spike aerator. I smelled the good clean scent of dirt and grass.

I filled my ears and there was more and more to hear. Bugs and beetles and birdsong and cows. A distant call from a renegade rooster.

I heard the sleepiness of Sunday afternoon. I heard Harry and Bert playing dog wars in the back yard. I heard the rustle and creak of the heavy boughs of the Sydney gums as the wind shifted and the salty afternoon air blew in from the bay.

The afternoon shadows grew longer, and still I sat.

The sun warmed my skin. The breeze tangled my hair. The grass tickled my calves.

I heard my heart beating. I felt its pulse strong and steady in my throat. In my ears. In my hands.

As I listened something inside me grew larger –  a vast lake of silence – and I found myself rowing out into the middle of that lake in the small boat of my mind. There I bobbed, every breath a ripple taking me closer and closer to what it was that was troubling me so.

Image from macwallhd.com

Image from macwallhd.com

I remembered, then.

Being with my friend Angela as she died. Holding her hand, whispering comforts, and watching the flickering artery in her neck through translucent skin that was stretched too thin over her bones.

At first you could see the beat was steady but weak.

As the afternoon and then the night dragged on that flickering pulse became weaker. The beat more irregular. Her breathing too. I waited to see if each breath might be the last. If that flickering pulse would slow to a stop. But I was busy then, holding space for Angela, helping ease her into that place of transition. Being the support crew for her and her loved ones. I sang to her, I whispered, I anointed her with oils, I helped her to die. It was all for her. There was no space for me to feel my feelings. Not then. I was busy holding that space of peace and love and oneness.

Yesterday, in the sun with the hill at my back I remembered my own pain, and tears ran down my face. I tapped into a grief and a rage so strong it felt as if I were the one who couldn’t breathe, couldn’t flow, couldn’t find my peace.

It all came flooding out and I let myself cry until there were no more tears.

 

Then I listened some more.

I felt the earth cradling my bones. I felt the breeze caress my cheek. I heard the throb and drum of my own strong heart. I heard the trees breathing. I heard the earth sighing. I heard the world turning.

The first stars came out as the sun sank behind the curve of the horizon. My little farm house lit up with a soft glow from the kitchen light. I could see Ben come up from the river paddock and call the dogs home. He glanced up and saw me sitting in the grass and pulled the door to, happy just to know where I was.

I remembered how peaceful Angela was, after my work with her. How I helped her find that place of sanctuary.

I heard the truth of that place being whispered back to me by the earth, the sky, the trees, the stars. I heard the truth of everything being perfect in each moment. I felt the peace in my own heart. I felt it sink into my bones, until I was light with the weightlessness.

I came back down to my little farmhouse, cooked an omelette, took a shower, and crawled into bed. The windows were flung wide. I was still listening, and the earth and the moon and the stars and the sky kept whispering their comforts to me. I fell asleep to their song.

“The earth has music for those who listen.”
~ George Santayana

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Weekend Roasts, Owls and My Email Address!

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“Are you still forgetting things?” “I don’t know, I can’t remember,” I said.”
~ Stephen King, Duma Key

 

Last night Angela’s husband came around to the farm for a roast dinner. It’s only a week since Angela passed away, and everything is so hard and new for him. Before her breast cancer diagnosis Ange had also suffered from lyme disease, and the tick which bit her left her with a profound red meat allergy. It’s been years since they’ve had red meat at their house. I promised her I would cook plenty of lamb roasts and steak barbeques for her husband, who has always loved that kind of food.

He arrived early enough that we could go check out the tawny frogmouth owl and her chicks in her precarious nest in the teak tree beside the kitchen, after which we ate well, drank red wine, told stories, problem-solved and let all of our collective dogs roam around the house or collapse at our feet in sandy heaps (after their beach adventures yesterday morning!).

The grief of Angela’s loss is raw for us all. But saying her name, laughing and remembering, and letting it be okay for tears to fall was good medicine.

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It’s been a hectic month or so for me, and somehow when I sent out my blog post early yesterday with all of my coming courses and workshops I put the wrong email address on there. It’s all fixed on the post now, but for those of you who missed it here it is again. In fact, here are numerous contact details. I promise at least one of these will work:

You can contact me by email, via my wonderful PA, Dana at: nicolecodyinfo@gmail.com

and the link is nicolecodyinfo@gmail.com Dana works part-time and is a busy mum, so you won’t always get an instantaneous response, but she is awesome at getting back to people promptly and at helping you with whatever you might need.

My official website (forgive it, as it is old and in the process of being revamped for launch in 2016) is www.nicolecody.com and the contact form is here.

You can reach us by phone at +61 7 3256 0815 or at 0438 438 775 (that’s +61 438 438 775 for international callers)

We’re on facebook here: Cauldrons and Cupcakes and you can leave a message for me anytime!

and if you get really stuck, there is this email cauldronsandcupcakes@gmail.com – although it might take me a few days to get back to you as I am usually swamped with messages and emails. 🙂

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It’s a bright sunny morning here at the farm, after days of broody skies and gloom, so my washing machine is busy turning muddy farm clothes and sandy couch covers back to clean. A day of chores and writing for me, and some gardening later, in the cool of the afternoon. But now it’s off to breakfast with Cafe Dog, who needs his daily fix of social. That’s him yesterday morning at the beach BEFORE he became one big sand monster!

Sending much,love to you all, Nicole (((HUGS))) xoxo

Sometimes We Just Need A Hug

Image from A Purple Puffin

Image from A Purple Puffin

“Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for by doing that some have entertained angels without knowing it.” 
~ Anonymous, Holy Bible: King James Version

 

Yesterday morning, very early, my husband took me out to an inner-city cafe for a good coffee. We took a sidewalk table, and Ben went inside to place our order.

While I waited for him a young man came around the corner, his eyes red rimmed, his distress obvious for all to see although he was doing his best to hold things together.

He walked across to a post office box and checked for mail, and then walked past me again. Just a few feet further on he stopped in front of a shop window, his shoulders heaving with silent sobs. A moment later he crammed his fist in his mouth to stop from wailing.

“God, honestly…” a patron at another table complained loudly. “Gay men are just so dramatic. Go home, sweetheart!”

Before I knew what I was doing I was up and on my feet, rummaging for a clean tissue in my pocket. I put my hand on the young man’s arm.

“Are you alright?” I asked.

He shook his head. No. No, he wasn’t. The absolute agony on his face was heart-rending.

I pulled him in and held in my arms, and let him cry on my shoulder until there were no more tears to cry. I gave him the tissue.

“Will you be okay?” I whispered.

He nodded. “Yeah. Thanks,” he whispered back, squeezing my hand and trying his best to smile. “My dad just died. I hadn’t spoken to him since… well, you know. I loved him anyway. He was my dad.”

We hugged again, and he went on his way. Ben came out and we sat back down.

“Who was that?” my husband asked. “Was he okay?”

“He’ll be fine,” I said, sipping my coffee.

“Did you know him?” my husband pressed.

“Not personally, but my heart I did,” I answered.

 

When we are brave enough to be open and vulnerable – when we meet heart to heart, soul to soul – we are never strangers, we are only love.

You being here makes the world a better place. Be love today.

Image from Lalumuk

Image from Lalumuk