The Sun has Set on 2022

What. A. Year! Looking back, 2022 wasn’t a bad year – when compared with its two Covid-lockdown predecessors – but it wasn’t one that I will remember with insatiable amounts of fondness because it was a hard and often unforgiving, relentless with its onslaught of car troubles, illness, and teary goodbyes.

I should have known that things didn’t bode well when I had to get The Toppie to the doctor in January because he was too weak to even stand. He was diagnosed with an intestinal bleed, which later required hospitalization. His iron levels were very low and combined with hyperglycemia, his symptoms mimicked those of a stroke.  It was a scary time for our little family, with me driving home from the hospital in the wee hours of the morning, crying into a voice note to a friend in Cape Town who was still awake to offer words of wisdom and comfort. Visiting The Toppie was tough because Covid infections were still high. The security guards at the provincial hospital see themselves as gods, which only exacerbated our already-high stress levels. The Toppie had scopes and what-not to find the source of the bleed but to no avail. With meds, the symptoms cleared up, but for every action, there is an equal and opposite reaction. More about that later…

The Bean and I went to a coffee shop in April called Axara. They serve pink lattes! Needless to say, I had to have one.

It was also the month I took myself out to dinner – something which I seldom do because it seems pitiful to dine alone. I went all out, three courses, and a tall G&T.

I also got to don a pretty dress because I was asked by my boss to attend the launch of the Garden Route Fashion Council.

June brought with it the end of mandatory mask-wearing. Three cheers for no more fogged-up glasses and maskne on my chin and cheeks. Finally, life was starting to feel pre-coronavirus normal. During the last week, our factory had its annual winter maintenance shutdown, so I had some time off. My friend, Shireen treated me to Elvis. Shireen is a real aficionado on the King of Rock ‘n Roll, so watching it with her made it even better!

Elizabeth and I also took a drive up to the St. Blaize lighthouse one morning for coffee and breakfast, mine being delicious carrot cake.

I had a few petsitting gigs too – I looked after a colleague’s two cats and three dogs in mid-August. Few things beat kitty snuggles and wagging tails.

For the first time in two years, I celebrated my birthday in September. Pre-2020, I would always have some kind of get-together, but this year, I didn’t have any kind of zeal to organize anything. The night before my birthday I went to watch little Nic’s school concert, a rendition of one of my best-loved stories, Alice in Wonderland. It was delightful.

On my actual birthday, my folks and I went to my favourite coffee roastery for a flat white, and the unveiling of a surprise for my folks – I had booked a cruise for them and me for April 2023.

Afterwards we had fish and chips at The Point and the weekend after, Eliza, Nathan, the kids and I ate ice cream sandwiches and then went for a meal. While it wasn’t a ‘regular’ birthday for me, it was one of the most memorable I have had in a long time.

The week after, I took ill. I contracted bronchitis, but thanks to Covid nine months earlier, it was the worst bout I have ever had; I eventually relented and went to the doctor when I started coughing blood. The GP prescribed meds and a chest cavity x-ray, but I could only afford the former. I petsat for Corine and another friend of hers – two brilliantly lovable Bassets Hounds.

Had life worked out differently, and had I also had a stronger stomach to deal with the dark side of what humans are capable of, I would have loved to have studied journalism. One of my biggest aspirations was to have my work published in a newspaper. The dream eventually came true, when my good friend, Corine, put in a good word for me with the local community rag, securing me a regular column. The brief was that it has to incorporate something about the town, without being advertorial. I would have loved to have called it Reflections of a Misfit as I do here, but ‘misfit’ has a negative connotation to some, so I went with Roots ‘n Reflections instead, because my roots run deep in this Sleepy Hollow (well, it’s not so sleepy anymore!) and because of the mandate, I like the idea of the posts being somewhat reflective. My first column was published in October. I was beaming with pride.

The Bean makes The Toppie buy the paper whenever a column of mine is inside, because she cuts them out and keeps them in a scrapbook. My friend, Ray, In East London also asked me to send hard copies to him so he can keep them with his late Mom’s stuff. She wanted me to ghostwrite her life story, but pancreatic cancer took her before we ever had the chance to sit down and make notes.

Another highlight was a visit with Michelle, Len, their two lovely kids, Michelle’s friend, Val, and Michelle’s folks at De Vette Mossel. Sand, sun, superb company and unlimited seafood – what more could a girl ask for? As always, visits with special friends are just never long enough though.

In November, on the eighteenth, Elizabeth turned 50 – she didn’t want a big shindig, so her family and some of her friends had a light bite to eat with her at her parents’ home. To many, fifty is a dreadful milestone to reach, but Elizabeth says she’s worked hard to be so old. Mind you, she doesn’t look it – not a single wrinkle, just like her mom who’s already in her late 70’s. Three cheers for good genes! Sadly, the day before, The Toppie got bad news – the meds he was on for the bleed, along with his other chronic prescriptions for diabetes and high BP damaged his kidneys. He now has stage 3B chronic disease, the likelihood of which means that his kidneys will eventually fail. I took the decision to move back to The Toppie and The Bean to be there for both of them. It wasn’t a decision I took lightly, but it is one I have peace about. The Bean is not going to cope on her own when things really take a turn for the worse with The Toppie. Some of my friends think I’m making a grave mistake; others understand that my parents are my priority because they are my immediate family. I often say there is a reason God didn’t give me a husband or kids – He had already laid this path out for me.

December finally arrived, which meant time hadn’t stopped as I had hoped it would. I had to bid farewell to Eliza, Nathan, and their boys on the 12^th, because they were embarking on the next chapter of their lives in Australia. Generally, I’m quite stoic when it comes to saying goodbye, but as I got up to get my keys, uttering the words, “there’s no point in delaying the inevitable”, my voice broke, and my vision blurred. We stood in the thick fog, all trying not to cry, failing hopelessly!

A week later Facebook reminded me that a year to the day, I had tested positive for Covid. It did a number on my lungs, which came to light when I got bronchitis earlier this year. I’m prone to chest infections, which I’ve often been able to shake off with OTC meds. Not this time… I eventually admitted defeat in the doctor’s surgery after I started coughing blood. He ordered a chest cavity X-ray and a list of meds including antibiotics. I couldn’t afford both, so to this day, as I write this, we still don’t know the extent of the damage to my lungs.

I shed more tears a few days before Christmas as I spoke to my landlord and his wife about having to move. They were the first ‘landpeople’ I’ve ever had, and I can honestly say I couldn’t have asked for better people to let me a part of their home. Nine years I’ve lived in The Cave, and to think, in less than thirty days it will be as it was when I first set foot in it back in 2014. I can only hope that the person/people that rent it in the future have as wonderful a time living there as I did and realize how lucky they are to have Uncle H and Aunty J as their lessors. They really are good people.

And here I am, winding down the first day of 2023 – unsure about what the year holds, but earnestly praying that it brings fewer trials, because 2022, despite all the happy moments here, left me physically and emotionally exhausted. I chose not to make any New Year’s Resolutions this year – instead, I am just going to take each day as it comes and try to find something good in it. I may as well start here – the good thing about today was that I finished a book a friend lent me titled Mr Wrong Number by Lynn Painter. It was relatable and ridiculously funny. Not a bad way to kick off the year…

Happy New Year to you all!

PS. The months of which I’ve made no mention in this post, don’t mean that nothing happened, it’s just that I don’t have any ‘happy snaps’ (as Elizabeth calls them) to share with the written content.

Pet Therapy

As many of you know, I love animals. I firmly believe that having a pet contributes to positive mental health. During the hard lockdown in 2020, I asked friends to send me pictures of their pets which I shared in this blog entry.

Days 14 & 15: We Were Past Halfway, Then We Weren’t Anymore, and Then it was Good Friday.

My previous pets control post has reached many people according to FB, but the stats on WordPress paint a different picture. I’m not complaining, merely stating a fact. Everyone that took part in the challenge – thank you! Your pets not only touched my heart, but those of many of my readers. Charles from work read the post, and sent this pic of his wannabee-lockdown-escapee, Tash, to me. I told him I’d include her in my next post, so here she is, in all her attempted-breakout glory.

Days 12 and 13: Pets Control

Yes, you read right. I did not have a dyslexic moment. The major portion of this post is going to be about my friends’ pets, and how furry, feathered, and scaled companions have made lockdown easier for many, including myself.

For those of you that are inclined to have Seriously-Sensitive-Susan moments, a great deal of this post is written tongue-in-cheek. The idea is not to offend, but to bring humour, and hope. Please read (and accept) it in that way.

A Tribute to a Pet Lost

Ever since I can remember, up until December 2006, we have had one. And, every single one has, as is true to its nature, owned us in a particular way.

We got her from Aunty Jean on the farm. When she came to live with us, at the tender age of six weeks, I thought she was the ugliest one of her species I had ever seen. Yet, as is often the case, she also experienced the proverbial ugly-duckling-to-a-beautiful-swan metamorphosis. She went from scraggly to stunning as she aged. She was a queen in the true sense of the word. Mom and Dad made the decision to spay her before she came into heat.

She had a disdainful demeanour, with that hint of humanity when she chose to allow us into her personal space. I’m honestly quite certain she was a British Monarch in her previous life. Either way she was Mom’s companion. And, even though Dad moaned and groaned about her, he loved her in his own special way. He would often feed her biltong when he thought no-one was looking.

There was a time in my life when I didn’t speak to either of my parents because of a man. It’s a long, sordid story. Enough said. Mom called me at work one day after eighteen months, inviting me for tea and a talk. I went to her and Dad’s house with much trepidation in my heart, not knowing what to expect. A tongue-lashing? An apology? It was a combination of both. We sat in the kitchen when she waltzed in and I said to Mom, “Where does that cat come from?”

“That’s Misty,” came the reply.

“Excuse me? That can’t possibly be Misty. Misty was scraggly with short hair.”

“It is Misty. I couldn’t believe the transformation myself. Even Aunty J said if she’d know this cat was going to turn out like this, she would never have given her away.”

I was stunned. She was the most beautiful Burmese cross Persian I had ever seen. Her colouring was dark, with a red sheen. Almost like a foggy sunset. She still had that snobbish cattidude, but it made her even more endearing. She was never a lap-cat at all. She showed no affection at all, unless she was out of sorts. She was the queen. The Lady of the Manor. We were her loyal subjects.

I moved back home in 2000. Misty remained a part of our family until December 2006. We moved to a new neighbourhood that November and she got into a scuffle with the ginger cat (now politely known as Misty Murderer, or worse, Voetsek!) next door. What hacks me off is that Misty Murderer came into our back yard, fought with her there, resulted in her death and still comes into our yard today. Had she been spayed, Misty might still be alive today. Shortly after that scuffle she became ill.

I was on holiday in East London when I got the tearful call from Mom.

“Misty had a fit my girl. She came up the stairs, walked up to Dad, rubbed up against his leg, let out a funny noise and just collapsed!”

Dad took her to the vet, where a number of diagnoses were probable until blood tests could confirm the exact illness. Tests were done and she was initially diagnosed with kidney trouble and treated for it. She got better, but relapsed shortly after.

She went back into Vet ICU and further testing revealed that she had contracted leukemia (aka Feline AIDS). It was too far advanced for the vet to do anything to save her. The vet explained to Dad that certain cats are carriers of the disease and transfer it to other cats during fights. Dad made the call to end her suffering and she was put to sleep. Mom was devastated. She cried for days. She still talks about Misty sometimes. She really misses her foggy sunset.

Every now and then I’ll be lying in bed and something will catch my eye in the mirror. It looks like Misty. And, if it is – I believe she is there to comfort Mom. I don’t think either one of them was ready to lose the other.

RIP Misty, old girl – you may be gone, but you’re not forgotten. You live on in our hearts.