Yesterday when we were out driving in the country I ate something that made me ill. Very ill actually. By lunchtime I was heaving and by the end of it even a small sip of water came straight back up. But it didn’t last long – about 18 hours I suppose. A lot of weight in fluids has been lost and I feel empty but certainly not ready for food again, which is fine as we are travelling again today.
But now the sun has risen again (though this is an image of the sunset from the day before yesterday) and I came out to the couch where my computer was to think of what to tell you that was of any significance other than illness. Which I find a tedious discussion at the best of times.
And here is a Letter FROM Our Little Sister. Waiting in my inbox. Gabrielle has asked that I send it to you. So here it is in its entirety. This is why we are who we are.
(I wrote you and the Farmy Fellowship this. I was hoping that you could possibly post it on your blog, so that I could thank them).
I sit here on the end of my bed in New Zealand overlooking a dark country valley. I am watching the slightest hint of light in the distance indicating that dawn is coming. The birds are just waking with a few testing tweets, the cattle are starting to shuffle the occasional moo can be heard and my cat is watching with one eye slightly open. There is a heavy pregnant pause, we are waiting, waiting for light, waiting for understanding, waiting for something, I am waiting to cool down…..
Good morning, I am Gabrielle, I am the little sister that many of you focused your words towards as you shared your experience of menopause. I received the book from Celi’s hand a few days ago and have already both laughed and cried, and many many times thought ‘oh my gosh, that’s me’.
The book ‘Letters for my Little Sister’ sits quietly beside my bed, she to is waiting, waiting to be opened again, waiting to educate and support me, waiting to comfort me when I feel lost, waiting for me.
It is getting lighter outside now, there are hues of grey, purple and red as the dawn is quietly, carefully edging back the black cloak of the night. I can just make out the hills, the silhouettes of trees, I am starting to see into the distant shadows.
It is in the quiet that I can almost hear the whispers from the book now, the whispers from you, the Authors. The whispers that weave their way though the letters, escaping from the gently held words on her pages ‘I can give you solace’ ‘I can give you hope’ ‘I can give you a beginning’ ‘I understand’. These are whispers born from many hours of your combined experience and understanding of menopause. It is like the lightening sky outside that these whispers, your words, and Celi’s words, are edging back my own cloak of darkness, my cloak that was created in isolation, by the need to seek understanding from a clinically impersonal website, the cloak created in confusion and in sadness.
The Sun is almost up now, the birds are chirping noisily, dogs are barking and the new day has come with its colourful promises.
My thoughts have turned to my friends, friends that I know would benefit with the understanding given from reading your letters. I will give them a book to read, but not this particular copy, not this one, this one is my treasure.
It is through this particular tear stained copy that you and my sister Celi have given me the one thing that I have yearned for, but not received, in over 30 years….a Mothers Hug.
There now. This was what this book was all about. We did it – you and I.
And now I will gently pack my travelling bag and help clean this beach house. Then we will pile into a car again and go to another beach house about four hours drive from here across to the West Coast. Though I am not sure exactly how far. This beach is somewhere I have never been to though my daughter and her partner have – so they are taking me up there as a treat.
I am taking it very slowly.