The Journey (12): Now
Oct13200611:42 a.m.
The days just before and after the run were so full, I didn't have time to do more than jot down observations for blogs I wanted to write, much less get near a computer.
Things are still busier than usual but I'd like to finish what I started, because the process of describing the running, has been at least as important, for me, as actually doing it. It seems to be a combination of running and writing, that brings these revelations about where I'm at. And I really didn't realise when I first started writing this blog that I might just as well have called it 'coming to terms with having a child with Diabetes Type One'.
So, I'll be writing up my notes and putting up my last posts over the next couple of weeks. Most of you already know that I did complete the run, but I hope that won't spoil your enjoyment of the end of my story.
A couple of people have asked me if I ever found out anything more about the devils and angels on the lane in Blog 8. Well I did, but nothing very exciting. They were created by a local artist as directions to a party with a devils and angels theme. It strikes me as so French that they weren't taken down after the event, (which was years ago). I suppose whether or not the art enriches the countryside is a moot point. Did I enjoy being startled? Perhaps not, but it was interesting. (Bit like a Dom Joly experience).
Anyway, here I am, still pre-Great North Run. If you read Blog Eleven then this is what happened next:
'Mes collines ! Mes collines !', Marcel Pagnol's voice shouts out of my chest as I run back into the deep greens, blues, and purples, of what I've begun to think of as my own magical hills.
Above me the sky's a swirling grey, clouds are pegged to the top of the mountain and a solitary bird, one speck of determination in a huge expanse of sky, flies upward toward the rocky outcrop at the summit.
For a few moments I go with the bird, up and up, while all around is air. 'I deserve to rejoice in life. I accept all the pleasure life has to offer', I say a few times under my breath. It's the affirmation for my ankle.
I lose sight of the bird, but the impression of it stays, black on white, in front of my eyes as I run on, turning away from the steep ascent of the lane and down a track, where the ground levels out a bit.
'Three days', Sidoine said. 'Rest for three days and then you can run'.
Yesterday, sorting through old papers, looking for something else, I came across some photos of the Great South Run. There I was, grinning my head off, wearing the same running shorts I still prefer, (in spite of having bought new ones). I thought I looked young and carefree, incredible what a difference five years can make!
I haven't looked at photographs from so long ago for a little while. To be more specific I haven't looked at pre-diabetes photographs. I found, at some point, that it hurt to see photographs of Marmaduke, pre-diagnosis, so I put the photo albums away.
But now I saw, with a little start, a pre-diabetes Marmaduke standing alongside me in some of these Great South Run photos. Two years old, in red tartan trousers he was waving his arms in the air.
I looked at his face and thought, 'I think we cut his hair too short'. It surprised me that that was all I thought. Curious, I went upstairs to fetch the photos that made me cry last time I looked at them:
In one, a toddler Marmaduke had pulled all the pans out of a kitchen cupboard and was lying in the bottom of the cupboard, cuddling Digger, his favourite toy dog.
Looking at the picture didn't make me cry. Instead I searched for what it was that upset me before.
The second photo was from the kindergarten of a private school Marmaduke started at before we came to France. He was wearing a shirt and tie with a grey v-neck jersey, looking quite grown-up, even though he was only three. He was smiling a smile that said 'I know you're trying to make me laugh you silly man and I like it'.
Again I looked, quite consciously, for the sadness I found before. When I did so, I found I was thinking about the future, about all the trauma Marmaduke still had ahead of him in that photo. I was thinking that he didn't know yet, about his diabetes and how it would affect things.
But I didn't think that was the whole story. So I took the two photographs, stood them up in front of me and tried to write a poem.
I stopped before I was done, but this is how far I got:
Imagine you could sleep as long as you want without having to wake up for a blood test or something to eat. Imagine I could buy a packet of sweets on a whim, and hand you one. Imagine you could skip a snack or move lunchtime, no big deal. Imagine you could go on the children's club weekend camp without having to take me with you. Imagine Mummy and Daddy never argued about how much insulin you need. Imagine being able to eat birthday cake in the middle of the afternoon like the others at school today. Imagine having lunch with your friend and his family, just you and them. Imagine you don't have to keep finding undamaged skin to inject into.
I stopped trying to make a poem because I reached a point where I found out something else. I found out that some of the upset I've felt looking at pre-diabetes photos, was to do with looking back - with wanting things back as they were.
I remember how, during the first few months of sleeplessness after Marmaduke's diagnosis, I spoke to Chris in the middle of the night, saying,'Don't forget it never used to be like this. Don't forget what it used to be like'.
I run on with my own words echoing in my ears. Did I think this was good advice? Or was it just that I couldn't bear to lose something very precious?
It's been raining the last few days and the milkshake sweetness of summer has been replaced by a heavier, earthier, smell. It's the scent of things descending back into the soil. Although for now there's still plenty on the surface: long green spikes with catkins dangling from their tips, wild rose-hips, violet and yellow flowers, and perfectly spherical purple thistleheads.
On my right there are grapevines with leaves already turning red and gold, although these fields are still waiting for the harvest. Black grapes hang in bunches like the full udders of cows, fat invitations to nimble fingers. Or perhaps these grapes will be swallowed by the shiny jaws of new machinery; I'm thinking of the ten feet tall, blue tractor our neighbour has bought, the cartoon-shark teeth at its base. Great blue tractors like that one, giant cousins of the miniature reds, are recent arrivals. But their presence is already changing the way people live.
On the other side of me is a wood. The forest floor slants down into a dark mushroom-creeping tangle of roots, hidden places and dead things. I let my eyes travel into the depths, then I look back at the sky.
For a moment, I have a sense of being at one with things, of embracing summer and autumn, air and earth, dark and light, the old way of life and the new.
My neck is stiff, my back is sore. I have a sharp intermittent pain in my right shin and my ankle feels like a wooden replacement part in need of oil. But I note these things in the same way I might make a list for packing a case. I note them only because I said I would call Sidoine to let her know how I get on.
Over-ridingly what I feel is GOOD. I'm flying.
And what happens next may be hanging in the balance, but isn't it always? It doesn't seem to matter. As long as I'm running now.
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