mister dee-ath

Lately my thoughts have turned, again, towards death. I am not maudlin or morbid by nature-quite the opposite really-its just, there seems to be a lot of it around. Death, I mean.

There's nothing wrong with me. I'm not about to shuffle off, God willing. But near to me, that's quite another thing. My mother-in-law (who is really like a beloved sister) has a lymphatic cancer that, while currently stable, will one day claim her. A friend from my choir has recently had surgery on cancer-related illnesses with a more serious op. yet to come. Whilst in Japan I learned that an old school friend's father had died. My mother has a number of chronic illnesses and is really quite frail.

I've often said that death is like a strange bird perched upon my left shoulder, usually silent, but occassionally whispering into my ear. As a teenager I fell in love with the Romantic poets who, often as not, romanticised death through an examination of the impermanence of all things. Keats was seemingly 'half in love with easeful death', an attitude that is so completely at odds with the current youth-obsessed circus that it seems impossible that a mere two hundred years separates them.

No, I've never called death 'soft names in many a mused rhyme', much as I may once have subscribed to the theory. But I do like graveyards, which, in their serene authority, vanquish the trivial and put things in context.

If I knew that we might all meet again afterwards, in another place, then the loss would be bearable. But even then, only just.

just be happy, right?

How often do I get the question, 'What's it all about? Is there any meaning in existence?' Well, never, as it turns out. Which doesn't mean that I don't speculate on the matter from time to time.

If for a moment, we can set aside the metaphysics of the question, and focus on the purely rational, material aspects, then the answers (if indeed that's what they are) are unremittingly grim. On the simplest plane, existing, with the obvious rider that one needs to obtain the fundamentals of survival, is one answer. Existence requires no philosophy. It just is. Mr Dawkins would add that getting one's genes into the next generation is another 'meaning', or objective, if you like.

Ultimately and in the fullness of time, whatever the meaning of life is or isn't is futile speculation, born of the mankind's hubris. For starters, whether we achieve a meaning or not, everything as we know it will be swallowed up in a billion years or two by our (formerly) good friend, the sun. Should we somehow migrate to other worlds and escape the solar catastrophe. the evolution of the universe (whether a slow ebbing out or an implosion) will put paid to our hopes, permanently.

Which brings us back to the metaphysical. Whether religious beliefs are true or not, maybe its better to kid ouselves and carry on in the hope than stare at oblivion.

Calling Dr Pangloss.....

ole bruise head

Yesterday we took Tom to Tresillian day stay at Nepean Hospital. In case you don't know, Tresillian specialise in helping babies and toddlers get over sleep problems. More accurately, it might be fairer to say that Tresillian helps long-suffering parents get a reasonable nights sleep again.

The process, in short, is fairly brutal. After becoming sleepy, said toddler is taken to the cot, told nitey-nite and then left for as long as it takes for sleep to occur. In between time there is a great deal of wailing and tears and protest. Interventions by adults are swift and firm, with admonitions to go to sleep before an equally swift exit. Tough love indeed.

Tom's first attempt ended ignominiously after two hours of tears and left him with a number of forehead bruises. He had clearly executed his now famous head-butt upon the unsuspecting cot rail. Alas, to no avail.

Since then, he has had a number of promising episodes in which the crying time has fallen to about 10 minutes. We live daily in hope of continued improvements.

The photo was taken well before the events outlined above, but its clear that Tom was anticipating some unhappy occurrence.