Helpless but not hopeless

My helper has been called home for a week due to a family emergency. I am, so to speak, help-less. Fortunately though, I am not entirely hopeless. Tokyo training has kicked in and I am happily (or as happy as one can be in this situation) juggling the kids, meals and laundry. Dirt and grime is building up, but one finds the ability to overlook such things because there are more important things in life. Like my helper returning to her family in a time of crisis. Like me caring for my kids on my own, which most women around the world do without batting an eyelid.

I am so spoilt.

Your children, like shoots of the olive, around your table

To quote Psalm 128:3.

Now, how scary is this thought?

Growing old

In recent weeks, my grandmother has become bedridden and has to be fed through a tube in her nose. She can no longer speak and is lucid slightly more than half of the time. She is showing signs of dementia.

I never thought I’d say this, but I wish my grandmother would die. She is almost ninety. We all thought she wasn’t going to make it the day my parents called to say they were sending her into hospital. That morning, she had a high fever and wasn’t even conscious. But modern medical science saved the day. They pumped her with so much antibiotics that it killed what was ailing her and her organs, while old and frail, managed to revive. But at what cost? Where before she could still get up and walk aided, she now can no longer even pull herself up to sitting position. Where she could still eat, albeit with great difficulty, she is now stuck with an uncomfortable tube down her gullet. Her life has been prolonged, but we’re not sure exactly who is happy about it.

Such is the dilemma of life in this age, isn’t it? We can now prolong life for the sake of prolonging it, but what about quality of life? Who is to make that call between living and dying when the one in question is no longer able to do so?

I cannot say I’m happy that my grandmother made it through this crisis. We know she’s been ready to die for a while now, and yet, she lives on. The only consolation is that she is increasingly unaware of her situation, but for the moments that she is, I cannot even begin to imagine what she must be thinking. She doesn’t cry anymore when I tell her I’m leaving. I’m not sure she even remembers me when I’m not around. But I suppose that’s good for her, to not remember so much.

I now pray for the good Lord to take her home. So that her suffering may end and she can be happy again.

Which way is she going?

This is way cool.

I picked this up from Chris’ blog. Which way do you see the dancer spinning?

I’m not convinced by the theory behind it (or as it’s written there in the short article). I actually saw this on another blog and the theory stated there is entirely opposite.

But it is still a neat optical illusion. I saw her going clockwise first, but when I looked away and then back, she was going anti-clockwise. Then I lost it and she was going clockwise again. For a long while there I couldn’t get a repeat performance, but I’ve now finally figured out how to get her going both ways. Clockwise is definitely dominant for me, though. I have to concentrate to get her going anti-clockwise and the moment I lose focus, she’s going clockwise again.

Danny saw her going clockwise, and then anti-clockwise and got stuck there for the longest time. Now he can get her to flip back and forth at will.

Which way do you see her go?

Home safety #147: Keep nailpolish remover at home

How ironic. Just as I spent the entire evening before explaining to Sara why she’s allowed to use the paper glue herself when doing arts and crafts, but not the superglue to fix her hairclip. “Imagine! It’ll stick your fingers together and then, what would we do?”

What would we do indeed. This morning, in an attempt to fix said hairclip, I had superglue spill all over my fingers. In the two seconds it took for me to get to the sink to wash it off, the index and middle fingers of my left hand were stuck fast together. Sara teared over at the thought that Mommy’s fingers would be forever fused, and Mommy was little help, giggling at the sheer stupidity of the whole situation. I did know running my fused fingers under running water wasn’t going to help and that I needed a solvent of some sort, but all that came to mind was kerosene. Which is a tad strong and which we do not keep around the house. Fortunately, Danny had his head about him and suggested the use of nail polish remover.

After no small amount of soaking and rubbing, I have now unstuck the two fingers and hence am able to type again. They are, however, still largely caked with dried superglue, which I will continue to flake off during the course of the day.

Lesson to learn: Keep nailpolish remover at home, even if you don’t paint your nails. You never know when you’ll need some solvent.

Pole dancing: the verdict

Pole dancing rocks. Seriously.

There is something liberating about wearing three-inch heels and sashaying around a pole. Sure, we were otherwise dressed in exercise gear, but it was no less hilarious, with all that hip wiggling and hair tossing. I think my tummy muscles got as good a workout as the rest of me from all that laughing through the whole hour.

Mind you, pole dancing is HARD. Those professionals don’t look that good for nothing. It’s like gymnastics with a verticle pole. And let’s not forget the bruises too. Yikes.

Still, it is good fun. Too bad the once-a-week class clashes with my classes at the university. In the meantime, I will continue to badger the instructor to rustle up another group of ladies and hold class on another night of the week.