Liisa: the story continues

This happened in 2005, in India.

Liisa: a strange story

I'm sitting in a shop looking at some malas when a group of people comes in. Two women and one man. They ask to see some jewelley, one of the women sits down, browsing the ware on the counter. 

Something makes me look up, and ask: You must be from somewhere in Scandinavia, right? She turns to me, with a smile of slight wonder on her face, and says: Yes, actually, we are from Finland. 

I smile back at her and suddenly, the strangest thing: I'm focussing on her eyes, which are bright blue and have an expression of childish awe and wonderment in them. My focus broadens, and it seems as if the rest of her is gradually building up around those eyes. 

A face lined with age but still with such gentleness and sweetness as to take your breath away. Long luxurious hair, wavy and streaked with grey, hands tanned and gnarled with old age, a spectacular sparkling yellow stone on her finger. To my utter amazement I realise that I know this woman. "Liisa," I say. "Liisa L ."

She looks at me with an almost blank expression. Then she realises who I am, it's coming back to her. She had a little Tibetan Buddhist shop in downtown Helsinki, and I used to spend many happy hours there, talking and feeling so much at home. It's safe to say that she's one of the sweetest persons I have ever had the privilege to meet. And now, after 10 years, we meet here in India like that! What are the odds of something like this happening? 

We agree to get together the next day and as we meet, I immediately get to the point. She used to be Tibetan Buddhist, right? So how come she's here in this town where Westerners (except myself!) usually come to get a darshan with this Great Guru? 

This is what she told me:

When she was a young woman, she was living in a very unhappy marriage. Her husband was a quiet man but quite partial to drink and when he did get into the bottle, it was hard for him to get out again. She felt trapped as they had two children and she didn't have enough money to leave. 

Then, one day, a friend passed by her house and said: Look, Liisa, I think you should come to India with us. There's a big group of people going and when there, we are getting a bus and just driving around, visiting every holy place and meeting every holy man we can find. 

Right there and then she decided that she would go, no matter what, she had to do it. She had had a habit of buying books every time her paycheck came in (she was an elementary school teacher) and by that time, her collection was already considerable. So she called a second-hand bookstore and they came and bought all her books. In order to move this load, they had to bring a truck! 

So now she had the money for her trip to India. She arranged for a babysitter and off she went, knowing that something, a solution must be waiting for her in that faraway land. Curiously enough, her husband, who usually showed no emotion, except when drunken, was now pleading with her not to go and promising to reform himself if she only would stay home. But Liisa did not yield to his pleas. 

The trip to India was everything she had hoped for. For a month, they cruised the country, stopping at historical sites, visiting temples and getting darshans from gurus. The last stop would be the very same little town. 

This town is famous for a great guru who, back in the 70ies when Liisa visited, was only beginning to gather fame. Liisa was sceptical, she had no great love for the guru business, all this kow-towing, alleged miracles, what not. 

But when they finally got there, she felt as if that was the place she was meant to be. Her heart filled with peace, she plopped down in the dust and thought: I'm not moving from this place. They'll have to drag me out first. The rest of the group went to raid the shops for saris as the guru was rumoured to be very conservative when it came to ladies' dressing code. Liisa remained seated in the darshan area. By and by, people started coming back and soon it was darshan time. The guru appeared. 

What happened next is in Liisa's words. "As soon as I saw him, my heart filled with indescribable love, my eyes were brimming over with tears. I sprang up and as if carried by some force greater than myself, I moved towards him. Before I knew what was happening, I found myself on the ground, prostrating myself before him and trying to kiss his feet. 

At the same time a part of my consciousness was witnessing the scene, horrified. I'm not the kind of person to demonastrate emotion like that, I was mortified of what my friends would think of it all. I felt I would have to stay in that position because, for sure, I wouldn't have the nerve to face anybody after shaming myself like that! 

The guru gently put his hand on top of my head, then under my chin and forced me to look up. So, he said. You are the one who doesn't believe in miracles? Look, he said. And suddenly his palm filled with holy ash, vibhuti. Eat it up, he ordered. I licked, and it was sweet. 

Now, said the guru. What do you want?

Sobbing, I repeated just one sentence, over and over again: Please, heal my husband.

He looked at me and asked: Just this? But surely, you must want something for yourself, too?

No, no, I said, if you could just make him well, that's enough for me.

All right, the guru said, so be it." 

After that, there's really not much left to tell. Regardless of what Liisa felt in the beginning about not wanting to leave, she now didn't have a problem with that. She felt that she had found the thing she had come for. 

The hole that she had carried in her heart had been healed and filled with this wonderful guru. The father he had lost in war when she was a child, the emotional cripple of a husband, the god she had never believed in - for her, the guru took the place of all that. 

She stepped out of the plane in Helsinki, a different woman. Before, she almost always dressed in black, wanting to shield herself from the rest of the world. Now she was wearing a bright yellow dress, with bare feet and flowers is her hair. She had been set free.

When she reached home, her husband had some news for her. He was to go on a business trip to Tallinn (which incidentally is my home town, across the Gulf of Finland, and Helsinki where Liisa was living) the very next day. So, he packed his bags and went. Liisa spent the day at home with the children. 

The next morning the telephone rang. It was from her husband's office. They informed her, that sadly, her husband had been found dead in his hotel room in Tallinn. While they were filling her in for details, she could only think of the guru and her wish. So he had done what he promised, he had taken him, she thought, not knowing whether to be glad or to feel guilty. 

What was even more interesting about all of this was that her husband had been found, fully dressed, in the bathtub of his hotel room. There was no obvious reason why he should have died, as confirmed by the coroner. A post mortem was carried out and repeated in Helsinki, and the result was still inconclusive. 

Still numb with it all, Liisa collected a considerable amount in insurance money, immediately sold her apartment in Helsinki and bought a farm house nearby. A place away from city life, a place where she could have animals and where the children could run free.

A little while after that, she accidentally met a Tibetan Buddhist who had a propsal for her. Liisa, as you now have this place in the country, wouldn't you want to occasionally rent it out to us for yoga classes, meditation courses and such, he asked. Needless to say, Liisa agreed. 

She was soon able to quit her day job and throw herself fully into this exiting new world of spirituality. She studied yoga and become an instructor herself, and after a some years they pooled their resources and opened a Tibetan Buddhist shop-cum-center in Helsinki. After that, she travelled to Nepal on a yearly basis, held classes in Buddhist philosophy etc. Her children grew up, married happily and had children of their own. 

As for Liisa ... through all of this, she has remained the same: the gentle, unassuming, humble and incredibly beautiful woman whose life, in a curious way, had been turned around back then in India.

She's an old age pensioner now and free to come to this town every year. The guru is still alive, and she usually spends three months here to be near him.

She says that here, she feels happy, calm and content and that everything is just as it's supposed to be. 

And seeing her shining and carefree face, I feel happy for her.

'''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''''

I guess a disclaimer is in order here: the author - that's me - does not have a positive or negative opinion on any of this. I myself wouldn't want a guru, though.

But ... in India, things are different than in a Western country. Strange things do happen there on a daily basis, people don't even pay much attention to this. It is as if the mindset of people, who believe that miracles are possible, facilitates the manifestation of thought into reality. My Tibetan friend once lauged and said: You Westerners ... you want miracles. You are so hung up on them but where I come from, what you call miracles ARE the ordinary reality.

So when in India, I take this in account, and do not scoff on such "superstition".

Many years have passed and the guru, Sai Baba, has died. I have had no contact with Liisa, and have not even remembered her often. Until today, when I reposted this story on my new facebook page. I wondered if she is still alive. Then suddenly, looking at her picture, I realized that I had seen her just recently. She was the "anesthesist" I was telling you about. An angel in this life, and in the other. I hardly cannot believe it myself ...

And now the other story, to refresh your memory:

I was taken down to the operating block, comfortably dozy. They had wrapped me in warmed green sheets and I was feeling quite content and at peace.

An older lady, about 65, appeared by my bedside. She was wearing surgical greens and had some kind of cap, a bit like a bath cap, that covered her hair. She looked faintly Nordic in her appearance: bright blue eyes, tanned, as if from spending most of her time outdoors, lots of wrinkles, and the kindest, most comforting smile. 

She took my hand in both of hers and held them. I thought: how very very kind of her, to take a moment to reassure the person in such manner. She said: "Hello, I am your anesthesist."

After that, I don't remember a thing, only that my last though had been that it is a bit unusual, she's quite old but I'm happy that it will be her taking care of me.

Next day we were swapping stories of our experiences with my room-mate and I asked her, what about the wonderful anesthesist that we had? She said no, hers had been a young man. 

I was still curious, so I proceeded to ask several nurses, also older, if they knew the anesthesists and in particular, if they knew an older lady doctor like that.

And what do you think? 

All of them said that there was no such person. And, shaking their heads, they said that I had probably dreamt it all.

But I know that I didn't dream, and that my anesthesist had, in fact, been an angel. 

A friend came to visit and when I told ger the story, she asked me if I remembered in which language the woman had spoken. English? Letzeburgesh? French? Estonian? 

No, I was certain: none of the above. My friend said that for her, that was the biggest proof that something not out if this world had happened ... that there was no actual language that I could spot.

Post op depression

This is unbelievable! This article describes the feelings I have been having down to a t! And how did I find it? It's 5 o'clock in the morning and I'm awake again ... 

By Lynn Beisner

April 17, 2013

30

Countless people suffer from post-surgical depression for months on end, so why aren't more people talking about it?

I have lost count of how many surgeries I've had in the wake of an accident that left me with internal injuries and scores of broken bones. I know the drill, how to prepare, and what to expect during recovery. 

There are two fairly predictable but distressing things that I go through nearly every time. And even though I know about them, they catch me by surprise every time.

The first is that I usually experience a very intense spike in pain the evening of the second or third day post-surgery. It usually hits at the end of first day that I am starting to feel like the worst has passed. I have showered or dressed, begun the process of returning to some form of normalcy. There is no gradual build-up of pain. Instead, it feels like a tsunami of pain, utterly unexpected and devastating.

What makes the pain-spike devastating is that it is an expert liar. It tells me that something has gone terribly wrong, that my doctor has truly screwed it up, and it berates me for having given my consent. Above all, it tells me that I will never get out of pain. Every damn time, I fail to realize that this is that pain spike, believe the lies it tells me, and have a mini-meltdown.

The second thing that I can never seem to remember is that I am very susceptible to post-surgical depression. And like the invariable pain-spike, I never recognize it when I am dealing with it, and believe the lies it tells me.  

Doctors have long been aware that many patients experience some form of post-surgical depression during the six months following an invasive procedure. But many physicians believe that being depressed after surgery is "understandable" and "unworthy of diagnosis or treatment." Since most people with post-surgical depression emerge from depression after about six months, many doctors considered post-surgical depression either benign or even helpful since it keeps people inactive. 

As a result, most people do not know that post-operative depression is a common complication of surgery. If it were as benign as many surgeons have assumed it was, perhaps this would not be such a problem. But researchers have discovered thatdepressed patients are more likely to have other complications.They are less able to cooperate in their after-care particularly in rehabilitative therapy. And for people like me who have an existing history of depression and anxiety, the recovery from post-surgical depression is neither guaranteed nor as straight-forward as some surgeons expect.

No one knows exactly why there is such a strong link between surgery and depression. Some researchers have hypothesized that many people experience post-surgical depression because it forces them to confront their own mortality. A theory that matches my own experience is that the length of time spent under anesthesia seems to be related to the likelihood and severity of depression.

Last summer I had a series of surgeries, and in the days following each I was hit by the infamous pain wave. Fortunately, my husband identified them and helped me through them. 

But we both missed the signs of one of the most serious post-surgical depressions I have ever had. What made it especially difficult and dangerous is that I never felt depressed or sad. 

The only time that I had overt depression symptoms was in the weeks before my final surgery. My family worried for a couple of weeks because of how desperate I felt. My pain had been poorly controlled and I could not bear the thought of another recovery in agony. Once I found a way of controlling pain, the desperation faded, and we assumed any depression had gone with it.

Instead, what followed was a growing belief that I had finally come to accept the truth of my life specifically and the nature of human existence in general. To put it in cliched terms, I was confronting my own mortality. But for me, it wasn’t death that I grappled with. Instead, I began giving a lot of thought to the fact that aging bodies are more vulnerable and that combined with our culture’s ageism, getting older is the steady and irreversible dwindling of options.

I believed the lies of depression when it told me that what I was capable of four months after a series of major surgeries was where I would be two years later. I gave away my bicycle and told my husband to sell our camping equipment. 

When my doctor told me that I would need at least one more major surgery in the next couple of years, I did not obsess about it. Instead, I became obsessed with what might happen to my husband. The idea of him going through what I had endured was intolerable to me. 

Yet it was all I could think about. I began to research the life-threatening illnesses I thought he might face. In graphic details, I imagined him grim-faced and stoic after open-heart surgery or anxious about learning how to orgasm again after prostate removal. At night while he slept, I checked his naked body for suspicious moles or growths comparing anything I found to online pictures.

My husband seemed incredibly fragile to me. I began to worry about how long he would be able to keep working in his chosen field of information technology. I thought of how he would suffer if he was unable to find a job. The poverty we might face paled in comparison to the sadness I anticipated him going through. 

I stopped even hoping for a future filled with joy and meaningful work. Life began to look like one long, painful, and sad slog into the grave. I wondered every day how I could just “opt out” without hurting my kids. 

Fortunately, my family knows about post-surgical depression. And although it took them a long while to recognize it, they were able to intervene before I fell over the edge. I began a new medication almost exactly six months after my last surgery. It was like a light came on, and suddenly I saw just how bad it had been. 

The thing that truly frightens me in retrospect was how normal I believed my thoughts were. Somehow I thought that everyone spent time anticipating the worst, that everyone thought about suicide every day. I did not recognize the symptoms.

What also concerns me is how few people know about this common and dangerous complication of surgery. It worries me that people suffer without understanding why and that their families are not alert to the signs of serious danger.

We need to bring to post-surgical depression the kind of awareness that we have brought to postpartum depression. People going into surgery need to know that it is a possibility, and they need to have a plan in place in the event that they begin experiencing symptoms. I think that this is especially true for people with mental health histories. They need to know that there are additional treatments available in times of crisis. We also need to talk about post-surgical depression more widely so that the family members and friends of post-surgical patients can keep an eye out as my family did. And people who serve as the support system for post-operative patients should know how they can help the person recover. 

Lynn Beisner is the pseudonym for a mother, a writer, and a feminist living somewhere East of the Mississippi. She is a regular contributor to Role/Reboot. You can find her on Facebook 

Road to recovery

The road to recovery is not straight nor narrow. It was only few days ago when I thought that everything was going South. Instead of getting better, I was hobbling more with each day. Then my therapist came back from his vacation and turned it around. Just one seance and I was walking without pain and limp. Apparently my trouble has to do with the muscle of the leg getting weak. Now all I have to do is to get it strong again. He made me do exercises and after the first day it was improved 80%! I was out walking with my aunt and forgot to lean on the crutches, was just carrying them like an umbrella. For about 200 meters! Tomorrow he will talk to the doctor to get me some gym time. Now I can really say that the operation was a success and recovery is possible! Finally, peace of mind.

Money matters!

I'm doing something I thought I would never do. Write about money. The first bills from the hospital are coming in and frankly, I'm scared shitless. As well as angry, angry as a wasp!

An example: the bill from the pre-op visit to the policlinic, which included a simple blood analysis and EKG. Altogether 360 euros, 79 of which laboratory costs and the rest: policlinic fees. 288 euros !!! 

Thing is that our sickness insurance will cover 80%. The hospital bed per day was 450 eur, seven days, and that only for staying there. Everything else will be billed separately. The doctors' fees, including for the operation were not so high: 1700 euros. Apparently everything that goes on in the hospital is the most expensive. And this is just for us, the hospitals are adding a hefty per cent to the euroworkers' bills. 

And we must not forget about the rehabilitation. I must thank the powers that be for the fact that I didn't choose to stay there, as was planned initially. Three weeks at close to 600 euros for the room! 

The next time something like this happens, I will just ask to be put to sleep and be done with it ... apparently, going to a hospital is not something that I can afford! So be it! Euthanize the eurotrash!

Back to the land of the living

Almost against myself, I'm travelling back to the land of the living. This body is an amazing thing! It seems to have a mind of its own, set on healing itself. And as soon as the first steps are made, everything starts to move uphill. The blues dissolve like thunder clouds and the skies are blue once again. I can see the horizon!

Alone

I stand alone. I have the feeling that if I keep telling people that I don't feel well, they will be fed up with me and turn away. And I see it will be a long, long struggle. Everybody else seems to handle physical infirmity well. Gung ho attitude! And I see only trouble ahead. It has been a huge disappointment to me that I should be so feeble-minded. And too weak to pretend. 

Something special

I was taken down to the operating block, comfortably dozy. They had wrapped me in warmed green sheets and I was feeling quite content and at peace.

An older lady, about 65, appeared by my bedside. She was wearing surgical greens and had some kind of cap, a bit like a bath cap, that covered her hair. She looked faintly Nordic in her appearance: bright blue eyes, tanned, as if from spending most of her time outdoors, lots of wrinkles, and the kindest, most comforting smile. 

She took my hand in both of hers and held them. I thought: how very very kind of her, to take a moment to reassure the person in such manner. She said: "Hello, I am your anesthesist."

After that, I don't remember a thing, only that my last though had been that it is a bit unusual, she's quite old but I'm happy that it will be her taking care of me.

Next day we were swapping stories of our experiences with my room-mate and I asked her, what about the wonderful anesthesist that we had? She said no, hers had been a young man. 

I was still curious, so I proceeded to ask several nurses, also older, if they knew the anesthesists and in particular, if they knew an older lady doctor like that.

And what do you think? 

All of them said that there was no such person. And, shaking their heads, they said that I had probably dreamt it all.

But I know that I didn't dream, and that my anesthesist had, in fact, been an angel. 

A friend came to visit and when I told ger the story, she asked me if I remembered in which language the woman had spoken. English? Letzeburgesh? French? Estonian? 

No, I was certain: none of the above. My friend said that for her, that was the biggest proof that something not out if this world had happened ... that there was no actual language that I could spot.

Bardo

This is the only way to describe it. I have died but not quite. The life that I used to know, my little dreams and joys, all gone. Rendered null and void by this thing that happened, this physical misery. It has shadowed everything and I half hope to wake up and discover that it was all a dream. A bad one. 

In a nutshell

Really?

Really? Could it be?

These days, I have been walking around (and sitting down) as if divided in two. One part of me is feeling at peace, comforted by the presence of my guest. The other half is in panic and sadness, calming down for a moment and then letting it rip again. Nothing much I have been able to do about it, except realise that it is an absolutely subjective matter, entirely dependant on my point of view.

The topic is, as before, the fact that I don't like my system breaking down. I don't like anyone's systems breaking down, for that matter! Dammit!

The obvious reaction to my worry would be: Hello, DUH! as our American friends so quaintly put it. Duh, indeed. What a surprise, people do get old. I feel like the proverbial little chicken, running around in circles and screaming: The sky is falling! The sky is falling down! while the rest of the population potters happily about, remaining oblivious to the impending disaster. Young people, old people, not bothered at all by the reality of life that we all must become old and frail and suffer.

In my desperation, I sent a mental note to God yesterday night, which said: Please, God, help me, send me some courage! I really need it!

And what do you think happened this morning?

Suddenly I experienced a shift in consciousness. It happened mid-stride, just as I was going to the cafeteria to get something to eat. It was as if a switch would have turned in another position. And suddenly I felt, what I had known before of a conscious level: EVERYTHING IS ALL RIGHT. No matter the state of health, no matter the pain, no matter the discomfort, it is all right. The state of mind can be, and is, at peace and not touched by the physical discomfort.

Also, the panicky feeling of having done everything wrong in my life and now failing to put it right: the impulse to run somewhere, do something useful, while I still can, to escape! that I had felt the entire weekend, subsided as well. It is simply not here any more, and I saw the futility of this thinking. As if from the side...

Now this is very interesting to see where it will go. I have had my share of illuminations which have lasted for longer or shorter periods, but the situation has never been serious before. And here, now, it IS serious, after a fashion. On how I learn to manage now, depends the quality of my living for the rest of my life. If I give in to panic and desperation because of the awful instability of the biological system, I will have some crappy years to look forward to.

On the other hand, if, with God's help, I should be able to develop a different frame of mind, and a more philosophical outlook, then it won't be so bad. It may even be quite good. The change has to rise from the very roots of my being, and the roots are where the change has to begin.

At this moment it feels as if it happened. I'm not sure if it's really so or if my mind just got so tired of this panicking that it has simply switched off, leaving *me* alone. It remains to be seen!

Visiting

We went to visit Tilly today with K. We were supposed to go out to the Juegdschlass for lunch together, so I went upstairs to help her down. 

Tilly had some bad news to tell me. She has had some trouble with her health lately and she had been worried about renewing her driver's licence. With her 86 years, the car is the most important thing for her.

At her age, they have to apply for the extension of the licence every year, and in preparation for that, Tilly had taken  a few driving lessons. It didn't go so well and yesterday, the instructor had said that in his opinion, she shouldn't be driving. He had said that her driving had gone so much worse since then, her reactions even more slow that it would be dangerous for her to drive. She is one of the bravest persons I have known but this ... she was devastated. Shaken. Frankly, gutted.

She will, of course, make do, as usual. But still, I felt so sorry that I would have wanted to weep. Which I didn't do, as it wouldn't help. 

We went to eat in Juegdschlass together, taking the dog with us. K hadn't been and as this is my favourite place and typically Letzebuergish, it was a good idea. Tilly and K got on fabulously, as well as K and Lola, the dog. We had a good meal, and the dog got all the cookies she could eat.

 

Later, we were sitting at Tilly's place and had some of her 50 year old moonshine. K got quite happy ... in addition to its old age, this liquor is very potent. (I just heard some suspicious noise, and yes, he's snoozing in the easy chair).

So all in all, it was a lovely day ... if it were not for Tilly's news. Dammit, this is not fair! 

Cake

Carrot and rice cake with dried apricots

This is my own invention. You need some boiled rice, maybe two cups. You have to understand, I don't use measurements. It depends on how much I have. OK. Rice. Then some grated carrot, maybe one cup. Stew it a bit. Then fromage blanc, which is called kohupiim in Estonia and is a staple. About 4 eggs, if big. 5 if not. Sugar, lots of it. The dough has to be really sweet because the rice will suck it all up. Then we need semolina, less than half a cup and flour. More than half a cup. Half a teaspoon of soda and some salt. Several good squirts of lemon juice. Dried apricots, cut into small pieces. Mix well, it has to have the thickness of thick pancake dough. Coat an oven pan with oil, lots of it, and pour the dough in. The oven has to be at 180 degrees. About an hour will do it, or maybe a little more. It has to be nice and golden and springy to the touch, soft but springy!

This ended a pleasant day, when we were visiting war graves. And the "Garden of Memories". Heh. He freaked out but not too much. 

Cooked some dinner, well basically just bangers. And the cake of which only half remains. And beer. We are out now. Quoting Onslow: I am sitting here completely surrounded by no beer. 

It has been a comforting and comfortable two days. 

Company

Company has arrived in the form of K, my gentleman friend. For the last 20 years, calling him boyfriend has felt, well, not quite right.

Anyhow, here he is, snoring in the other room and I feel peaceful for the first time since weeks. Apparently, I have been under so much stress that I hadn't realised it.

We went out for lunch at the Paraiser Plaz and later just stayed home, talking, but not even much. It was just as it was before. Myself on the sofa, him in the easy chair, drinking beer out of one can. I, snoozing a lot and him, trying to get some work done online.

It's such a good feeling to have a living soul here. I am able to be on my own but I feel safe when he's there, just sleeping and not doing much anything!

For a while

For a little while there will be company and I can feel a bit less alone. I mean, I usually don't feel alone, only lately it has been a constant. My boyfriend decided to come here after all for a week, starting tomorrow.

He hasn't been to my new flat yet, he only helped me move last year. As said, I'm mostly relieved that he'll come. All my friends are either away on vacation or just leaving.

I had a small crisis Monday to Tuesday, when my leg was hurting so bad I couldn't keep still. I finally caved Tuesday afternoon and escaped to my GP. He gave me a shot that both of my dogs had had at some point, so I knew it could raise the dead. Which it did, for a day and a half. Only these things have side effects and this particular medicine made my kidneys almost stop. 

So today I have been trying to get them going again, not taking any meds, drinking pineapple juice. it's normalizing little by little ... and the pain is also coming back. 

If for nothing else, this is one good reason to have a new hip now and not suffer any longer. I'm so full of all kinds of medication that eventually, it must start to feel in some place. 

Went to see JM on Tuesday, right after the Doc, so that was nice. They ALL are so terribly nice and supportive and ... worried. Which is sweet but I'd still rather not have this bad leg! How come that Letzebuerg has the sweetest guys? Only problem, they are either gay or married or a priest!

I had made a cake for JM's brotherhood: rice with apricots and carrots. It was really good, even if I say so myself. Got an e-mail this morning, with rave reviews.

Had lunch with Pat today, laughed a lot. Her friend is a grandmother as of yesterday morning, for the third time. And then there will be Pat's 50th birthday party to look forward to. And that will be it because after that I'll be at the hospital and life, as I know it, will change.

For me, the most incredible thing is, that I will go there on my own two feet, then be put to sleep and when I wake up, I will be as if I had been in a car crash! And I'm doing it all at my own free will!

I hadn't conceived it possible that such a thing could happen. Even when things were getting bad, I still didn't believe that it would come to that. And now it has!

I'm trying to psych myself into faking it until I make it. It is simply something that has to be done. And I'd bloody well muster some courage because I'll be needing it!

At least I found out that I actually like the electronic cigarette. That means that I can smoke in the hospital bed and nobody can tell me otherwise!

As said, K. will come tomorrow. We'll have lunch at the Juegdschlass with Tilly on Sunday. 

And then go and visit the military cemeteries: both American and German. 

I wonder if I should take him to Hamm, the Garden of Memories where my ashes will, one day (hopefully not too soon) be scattered on the Letzebuerg soil among other good Letzebuergers. That's the Ultimate Integration for you! I'm sure I'll freak him out :) It's morbid but strangely consoling!

I wonder

I wonder if I should write this down for myself?

Suddenly, or not so suddenly I see my fellow travellers in a different manner. Well, as of late I have been bothered, beyond reason, by the strange notions that people have, by their beliefs and convictions. It seems that, based an Estonian facebook group, the Museum of Nostalgy, a half of the people yearn for the Soviet times and think that everything is so much worse today, and Estonia has been sold into slavery in the EU. Another half, to my great dismay, holds Nazi paraphenalia (and not only that!) dear to their hearts. They too, think that everything is going down the drain and life these days sucks. They both hate and would do away with the following (short list): Africans (an average Estonian insists on his right to call them *negros*), gay people (*homos*, everyone in Estonia hates them). There are many more but I just won't bother.

Then, I have internet acquaintances among both the Conservatives and the Liberals. The Occupy movement. Muslims. Buddhists. I have to say, I don't particularly like any of their beliefs which they freely and aggressive share. For a while I let go of the most militant contacts and now ... I know some of these people for such a long time, I LIKE them although I might not care for their beliefs.

The same stands true of everyday life. I have known the people here for a sufficient period now to know what I don't like about them. Be it their habit of one-upmanship, be it their negativity, egocentrism ... but still, I like most of what I see.

It has been going in this direction for some time and here we are. Today in the morning I saw the truth of it: everyone is just trying to console himself: be it by idealising the past, our native land, our new country (myself), by different beliefs. Everyone is in the big illusion, trying to keep up his own illusion, an to somehow DEAL. I wanted to say, deal with with reality, but ... that IS the reality!

Everything's an illusion, except maybe for the trees and stars and such. They are here, no matter what our opinion of them is.

My conundrum at this point is not liking the course of life. I don't like seeing my body break down and knowing that from here, it can only get worse. As Richard would say: pieces of me will fall off! Nobody likes that!

My pillar of strength, Tilly, was near panic the other day when she realised that she may not get her driving licence this time. 86 years old and the car, for her, is freedom. The freedom to stay in her own home, with her dog and occasional friends. At that moment I realised that as long as it isn't about us, we may be logical and brave. But in the face of decay everyone falters. Death isn't the point, the immense frailty of this biological machine is.

And that's the reality. We must move on, in order to make room for other people to come.

What then is the point of it all? Catch the brief moment of beauty, maybe make a difference, LOVE people ... oh this is the main hurt. That all those sparks of light must fade. That such individuals as ... I'm not saying who, must fade away.

Well, what follows, where are the ways to deal with it, shall remain for our next session.

The week before the world was supposed to end

So, the world is supposed to end today ... no sign this far but there's still time. For me, this concept of the end of the world according to the Mayan calendar has been a faint annoyance for God knows how many years along with a host of other end times theories. All because many of my acquaintances are what you could call *New Agers*. Many were the times I tried to get them to accept a bet: if the world would not end, they would owe me a bottle of brandy. And vice versa. Somehow, nobody ever took to the idea. I wonder, why?

But the past week has been so extraordinary that, should the world end today, I would die a happy woman. So, just for my own sake, I wanted to write some of it down, in order not to forget completely. 

Monday. The day and the week began on a positive note. I had prayed to all my guardian angels that a certain person, who has been an almost constant pain, would be kept away from my person today. And, oh joy, she was missing!

Lunch with a good friend, a native to this land, who had just recently said that she is so glad that she had found such a good friend at her advanced age. That friend being myself. We were both a bit worried today, and heard each other out and gave encouragement. She said that we have to make sure nothing bad would happen to me because that would have a very bad effect on her. And, if I should end up in hospital, I was to make her responsible, as well as another friend, and they would take care of things. That was sweet. 

Tuesday. The aforesaid bane of my existence is still missing. Yay! I know it will not last but this is my last day at work this year and at least the end of the working year will be cloudless. 

In the evening I went to visit another friend, also native, with whom we have grown more and more close. She is 85 but God, what spirit! Clear as a bell, philosophical, kind, funny ... and she has a dog! She loans me the said animal to make little walks, good for the animal, good for me. We were chatting long into the night, and the dog was given (and gave) many cuddles and kisses. I went away, as I always do, with a light heart. She made me promise to call her as soon as I was back from the doctor tomorrow.

Wednesday. Had a good lie-in. No work for me today. Went to have my viscosupplement infiltrate at 12. This is so funny that everything medical should be such a positive experience here in Letzebuerg! The doc's my age and a funny guy. As well as a completely happy man and excellent at what he does. Got my viscosupplement and many silly jokes. He said that I had probably had a temperature because he's so hot! But of course! I made a silly joke myself, telling him that he would make an excellent veterinarian. That's because with all his jokes and friendly nudging, he somehow does his job without you noticing anything. And that's what's important! The animal must not notice anything! My leg felt immediately better. What bliss. 

In the evening, had a phone call from my  best girl friend in Estonia. We are like sisters, and its so good to feel the caring.

Thursday. Another cool doc to visit. This time, my main man. And he's never a disappointment. There was no secretary, and he came and turned up the radio, saying: some music for you, and making a funny face. Later had a nice talk. I left with the widest smile on my face and such a good feeling ...bless him! With him, I always feel that he's in my corner and this makes all the difference.

I had promised to call the elderly lady friend as soon as I'm back from all the docs, and I did. She was so sweet, she laughs all the time when she hears my voice. She said that I was the dog's best friend, and that the dog had cried when I had left. Which of course isn't good, but still ... I said that I enjoy our evenings so much and that she's suh a good influence to me. And she said, that she felt the same ... and meant it!

In the afternoon, yet another friend was due to come for coffee or tea afterward. He's another native guy, an artist, and a brilliant one at that. He had made marzipan, we had tea and he left quite late. It'll be my turn to visit him in his place the next time. 

In the evening I noticed an e-mail from the girl friend I mentioned first, and called her up. Had another good chat and my joy was complete. 

A week of only positive things, the sweetness of people plus the comfort of staying quietly at my new home which I love so much. I am overcome with gratitude... and then I suddenly realised that this was supposed to be the *end of the world* week. I choose to take it as a worthy ending to this era and hopefully, a harbinger of better times to come. And, as said, should the world end today, I wouldn't mind (too much).