Far far away

I am on a trip to France and Spain, concentrating on mediaeval art and architecture. So far so good. After several days in Paris, we arrived yesterday evening at Dijon, where I am sitting awaiting le petit dejeuner. I am a bit early, and still in the throes of jetlag and overall confusion, trying to dredge up some remnants of school French. Other languages keep intruding. . Especially Italian. I wonder whether, once I am in Spain, all my schoolgirl French will interrupt as insistently as Italian is doing.

In Paris we visited Sainte Chapelle, with its glorious stained glass windows and soaringly high ceilings.. Then we visited Notre Dame, where High Mass was being celebrated, officials quickly separated the sheep from the goars and we goars were allowed ro walk around the outer aisles.
I cannot believe the number of selfie sticks there are used at every possible opportunity, irrespective of place, context and whatever else may be going on. It is quite bizarre.

The group was taken to a welcome dinner, at an apparently notable restaurant. We were given a mixed menu, and it was pretty ordinary. However the lights in the restaurant were very pretty, but we were left wondering what the food would have been like had we been able to choose.

The Cluny Museum was next, and it was most interesting. I do like mediaeval stuff, but am lesskeen on the negative attitude to humsnity and its manifold imperfections. Especially in all the  attitudes to women, as the source of sin and evil, without rights.

 There has been no formal process of introducing people to each other. It is all casual and happenstance, and Ithink quite a few of us find it difficult to remember names. Perhaps had there been an introductory meeting, this could have been done. Those of us who arrived on the same flight as I was on were picked up, but there was some sort of protest demonstration by motor bike riders, which completely gridlocked the city, so whatever would have been dine at that meeting did not get done.
The countryside is beautiful, the cattle are white, the trees are turning into their autumnal colours, and it is fascinating looking at the different housing and roof styles, and seeing how many flowers and vegetables are grown in people's gardens.

It is time now to assemble for the day's programme. We are going to Vezelay, and somewhere else. As I recover from jetlag  my possible future blog posts may become more coherent.
A bientot. 

Post-operative

The first cataract operation was done on Wednesday, and my daughter was with me, to drive me to the hospital, and bring me back home, and to note all the instructions for eye  drops, etc. She was great.  I am so glad she was with me, and able to get me home and organised before catching her flight home.  It made me better able to tolerate the fright and the stress.

When the anaesthetic is administered, so is an amnesiac, so that there is absolutely no memory of the procedure. This is a good thing. When you wake up you are plied with tea and biscuits, and tissues to mop up any tear duct which insistently and independently overflows. My daughter sorted me out and organised everything before flying back home.

Yesterday a friend took me for the first check up, and it was declared satisfactory. I am not permitted to drive yet, which cramps the style somewhat, and I decided to have a quiet day at home, rather than trying to get to the Italian class and then the lecture. I cannot get to choir, or drive to do some food shopping, but there are plenty of places nearby, such as sushi, quiches, and there is plenty of food in the freezer. I walked to the shops to buy a bag of chips and other things which are bad for me.

My expectation was that my sight would be improved immediately, but this is not so. It is a gradual improvement. But colours look different. The better eye, which is to be done next week, sees as before, but out of the left eye, the colours are all wrong. How weird.

Even weirder was the fact that while typing this, the alphabet suddenly changed into a language with a non-Roman alphabet which obviously wrote from right to left. Now how the heck did that happen?
 I should stop now while the earth is still spinning correctly on its axis.

Yet more proof of one's myriad imperfections

it took me four goes to type that heading. I blame my own incompetence, the fact that I am typing this with one finger on the iPad, and so on and so forth.
I am typing this on the iPad because my iMac has just been taken away to be made better. It was made worse because I foolishly downloaded an upgrade, only to remember too late that the upgrade will not support Word, or, in face, my photographs. I did manage (I think) to copy the documents onto a disc, and even this caused me a certain amount if grief because it took me some little while to get the disc out, until from the far off and dim recesses of my brain I remembered that the keyboard has an Eject key. Ecco fatto!

My next step was to search the internet to see whether I could  uninstall the software update. Oh No. Alas, and  Woe.

Off I went to the knitting group , where it was my particular and designated task to teach people how to crochet granny squares. There are some very speedy learners there, and we all had a good time. Usually some of us have lunch together afterwards. I told them all of the latest in what seems to be a long list of mistakes and other silly and humiliating things I have done. We all laughed heartily and shared various other horror stories. Then I said I needed to get a computer person to come and see what could be done. Oh, they said, there is a shop in this little arcade, where we always have lunch. You walked right past it, they told me.

So I went inside and discussed my errors and problem. It reminded me of going to Confession. The man came to my home and checked this and that, installed something else, and said he would need to take the computer back to the shop so that it could do all the things he had told it too, while he could be in his shop attending to people like me and perhaps with a few normal and rational people as well.
I hope all will be well, although I will have to learn a little about the alternative word processing system. This sort of thing is supposed to keep the brain active.

Next week is the first cataract removal. My younger daughter is staying here for a couple of days and will be able to take me to the hospital and back home, if they finishe me in time for her to do that and still catch her 3pm flight home. It will be a great comfort to have her with me. I should be all better before I leave on my trip. Perhaps after both eyes are better I can marginally improve the French and Spanish which are in my brain. Somewhere!

What can you see coming?

When I tripped and fell over some weeks ago, the lens of my glasses of my better eye was badly scratched. In the process of getting the glasses fixed, I had another eye examination. The optometrist said that the cataract on my bad eye really should be removed, and he wrote me out a referral to a specialist.

The prospect of having cataract surgery freaks me out. As a young child, I had surgery on my left eye, to correct its habit of wandering all over the place. I have never had normal vision, and, as far as I can tell, the effect of the surgery was probably cosmetic. The brain pattern must have been fixed, with each eye seeing separately, and never in a unified image.

The surgery was done when I was about six. Hospitals all those years ago were not family friendly, and family visits were few. My eyes were bandaged, and I had no idea what was going on. All I could do was to call for someone to come. I think I was in hospital for perhaps ten days, with a painful eye and much boredom. Once home, I did not wear glasses, and in early adulthood developed short-sightedness. Now the time has come to have another go at improving my sight.

Quite simply, I am traumatised and terrified. Evidently the trauma of the surgery is lurking inside me, waiting for anything to awaken it. The mere thought of needles and knives being used on my eyes, even if I am anaesthetised, makes me cry. People - doctors, nurses, and those who have had the surgery assure me that it is not too bad. It makes no difference to me. I remain terrified.

I talked to my GP about it, and have been to see the specialist. During the tests, the measurements and the consultation, I wept and wept. I wept all the way home and all throughout the night. The GP prescribed some tranquillisers, which I am using, and they do help. But I weep in the twinkling of an eye and the tears are lurking. I have had a lot of surgery in my life, mostly for very serious conditions, and none has given me this sort of trauma. This is different.

One of my sisters recommended counselling. She has not listened to me. Her 'solution' is not the one for me. I know what counselling can do to help, having had plenty during various crises of my life such as divorce, step-parenting and bereavement. This trauma is different. I resent her insensitivity and failure to listen to me. It made me very angry. That anger needs to be put aside.

Now that I have made the decision to have the surgery, I will do my best to be rational, to try to be calm, and to concentrate on the things and people who can truly help. After this ordeal, better sight should result. So it is worth doing, and I must bear it, and receive and appreciate the amazing technology and skills that will improve my sight. To those who will help me through this ordeal, that is, my children and friends, I give my grateful thanks and appreciation, and pots of quince jelly and cumquat marmalade.

There will be two separate operations, a week apart. Except from the cataracts, the eyes are healthy.

Warding off brain rot

Recently I re-read some of my old blog posts, going back quite a few years. There are accounts of my travels, and of my life with Dr P, his decline and his death, and all the things that had to be done and coped with in the aftermath. Life is simpler now, but lonelier. And in many ways it feels as though my life has contracted, and that I am becoming? have become? a less interesting person. Although, how does one judge how interesting you are?

This all made me think of that common remark sometimes appended to school reports. Must try harder, a useful catch-all summary.

OK, so I will try harder. And I do try.

There ar lots of things that I continue to do, and to enjoy. Singing, crocheting, music, reading and learning. And I make jam - too much jam, but it is a satisfying thing to do. the quince season has ended and there are many jars in the pantry. Last week I found some cumquats at the market, so I made cumquat marmalade. This is the best marmalade you could ever taste.  However, I suspect that I did not soak the fruit for long enough before cooking it, so perhaps I should not give jars away until I have either reassured myself - or what? It is probably edible.

There are papers to get in order, and bad habits of letting papers accumulate into a distressingly confused and confusing set of inchoate heaps. Yesterday I spent several hours sorting out all the material from the Italian classes. In one of the classes we students took it in turns to write an article. There they all were, higgledy-piggledy. They are now sorted, although what remains to be done, for my own essays, is to write in all the corrections, so that I have a perfect copy. (But I won't throw out the copies with all the mistakes.)

This particular set of tidying came about because the topic of the city of Matera came up, at my Italian class. Our teacher has returned from his Grand Tour, and he described his visit to Matera. And indeed, it is an unforgettable city, where the poor lived in caverns cut out of the rocks, and where they had to work for hours to get to their work in the fields, and had to leave their children alone all days. So they drugged them.

Now, if I were a novelist, I would have cunningly adopted a strategy of working backwards, but instead of such a meaningful and pre-decided strategy,my increasingly haphazard mind is doing quite a lot of butterfly-like flitting.

In a couple of months I am travelling to France and Spain, and I enrolled in an intensive French course. It is 50 years since I did any French, and, unsurprisingly, I was the worst in the class. There is, however, some French somewhere in my brain, and who knows what might pop out if put to the test.

I studied Spanish several years ago, and found it very interesting and appealing. As the knowledge is now well below the surface,  I enrolled in a Spanish class. This clashed with the Italian class I have been attending for many years. Never mind, I though, I will return to Italian next year.

When I arrived last Thursday, half an hour before the Spanish class was due to start, I tried to find its allocated room.  As I stood wondering whether anyone was going to turn up, the lift door opened, and out stepped my oldest stepdaughter. There has been absolutely no contact between the stepdaughters and me since the legal settlement was reached more than three years ago.

We said Hello, but nothing more. I felt very churned up. It makes you wonder about chance - how in such a large city we could encounter each other accidentally like this. I keep seeing her face. And I wonder how her sons are. I was fond of them, and of Dr P's other grandchildren. All the past history is running through my mind. I wish it would not.

I went downstairs to find out where the class was. Oh, the receptionist said, that class was cancelled.
Oh, I said, Nobody told me.

We enrolled you in another class, on Tuesdays. Oh, I said, nobody told me. So, of course, I had missed the first class.

The good thing is that I can continue in my Italian class. It is one of the joys in my life.

Perhaps Esperanto was devised to cope with this sort of concatenation of events?

A cooking spree

Since being widowed, my cooking standards have deteriorated significantly. Even that is not the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but, etc. I used to be a really good cook,  but after the end of my first marriage, the rot set in. Cooking for one person cramps the style.

And when I remarried, the standard and the achievement fell well below what it had been. My first husband was by no means love's young dream, but at least he appreciated the food. And in the years between divorce and remarriage, my standards declined. Cooking for oneself leads to decline of standards. It hardly seemed worthwhile to cook up a storm for oneself.

When Dr P appeared on the  scene, it quickly became apparent that he was no gourmet. Accustomed to fending for himself, he was a ham cheese and eggs man, interspersed by occasional Chinese meals - usually an omelette, or sometimes a curry. Not vegetables, though.  He was an extremely fussy eater, but was happy to fend for himself, and did not expect meals to be provided.
Once we moved in together, I had this wifely urge to do the cooking. It was neither expected or demanded, but eventually we worked out how to eat  together. But my cooking standard declined, and  now I am no longer the cook I was. Which is a pity.

Now, four years after Dr P's death, my standards have not risen very much. I have adopted easy solutions. Besides which, I worry about setting off the smoke alarms, which frighten me  fearfully. Yes, I am a real sook. And my social life is minimal.

A couple of days ago, friends came for lunch, and I cooked up a storm. And thoroughly enjoyed it. And managed it efficiently. Nor did I burn or ruin anything. Lunch was good. and there were leftovers. Very nice too.

Perhaps all is not lost. I may yet recover both my competence and enthusiasm.

Get fitter

My doctor recently advised me to get fitter. How much walking did I do, she asked. Well, I said, I walk to the bus, and here and there, and from the city to the art gallery. And sometimes I do go for a walk.

Do more, she advised. And so I did, the other day, and the result is not pretty. I tripped and fell, and grazed my face, hands and banged my knees, and my equilibrium and temper are also damaged. Bother, and words to that effect. Not a soul was around to help me to my feet, and so I staggered home to look at the damage.

The right lens on my spectacles was quite badly scratched, and so I betook myself to the optometrist to organise a new lens. While we were at it, he did another eye examination, and the left eye has deteriorated even more, and also has a cataract on it. So I should get it removed. And I will.

My eyes do not focus together, and as far as I know never did. As a child I had glasses, and when I was about 7 or 8 had surgery, to fix, or more probably, to straighten the wandering eye. As a child I never knew that the way I see differed from normal vision.

I think the surgery gave me a great horror and fear of having things done to my eyes, and the mere thought of having surgery while conscious fills me with dread. Not to mention having an anaesthetic injected into the eye. I think it will make me want to scream and faint. Fainting seems a very good idea, actually.

Recently while travelling on the bus I fell into conversation with a woman, through admiring her grandchild's lovely red hair. The woman had had a cataract operation, and she told me that you are doped with enormous quantities of painkillers and tranquillisers. I hope she is correct.

I have made an appointment with my doctor to check out the procedure.

There is always something to look forward to in life, and cataract surgery surely is one such something.
In the meantime I feel battered and bruised, and not just physically.

In the meantime, once my knees are less sore, I will try walking again. My daughter - always able to describe my defects and peculiarities (in a loving and caring way, of course)  says my upper body leans forward when I walk. I must straighten myself up. And out.

Oh well, nobody is perfect.