When at the Goat Farm, I took a walk.

The other day I took time to walk around the goat farm. I discovered a dirt road leading toward Arles -- to explore further with my bike on my next visit. I visited the horse, who was in with the goats nibbling away, hiding beneath the trees when the heat became too strong. When Filou ran up to her barking louding, she simply charged him and put him in his place. But, as she didn't really want to come close to me, nor is she truly dangerous, she stopped after a step or two.

Isabelle was sleeping, her new quilt upon her knees. The others were busy in each his own way, and my particular skills -- cooking and cleaning -- weren't really in need at that moment. So, I wandered, I looked, I took in the evolving spring. The fluff along the ground dropped form the polinating trees. The butterflies posing gently upon a bright magenta flower, the rosemary in blossom.

Each spring I see anew. I revel in this beauty, the last spring for Isabelle. As with many who are in the midst of this path towards death, it seems she has stayed with us till this moment. Now that the flowers are opening. Now that the warmth has returned, now that her little grandson can explore this marvelous outdoor world on two feet, she is ready to depart. A last spring lived, sensed, seen, felt.

In the beauty of her sphere. Aware of this magical moment of grace, I am.

Life Lessons continue through Friendship

I’m sitting with Isabelle, formerly my goat cheese maker, in the sun in front of her home. She is now in a wheel chair. Too weak to walk where just two weeks ago, or maybe three? She had been doing the dishes and able to descend the stair case. It has been a steady descent since her epileptic fit just a month ago. I was lucky to see her as I did – alert, present, if without a memory to follow a conversation or remember where to put the compost.

She is sleeping more and more. Brief moments of waking are greeted with calm joy and presence by Paul Pierre, and other friends at her side. Meals are taken when she is ready. Gently, one by one, Paul Pierre guides and encourages her to eat, first the salad, commenting on the sauce made by their good friend, then some pea pods, a bit of lovely organic beef raised by a favorite farm, onwards to some cheese, perhaps a bit of fruit salad, wine, chocolate. It is no more than a bite of any of these, perhaps two. One of five of these bites she is able herself to bring to her lips. A gentle commentary accompanies each moment of the meal, nothing too profound, simply a moment of good humor, an appreciation of the texture and taste entering her mouth. Paul Pierre is reinforcing the present to her, accentuating the sensations of her body, perhaps keeping her with us on this plane?

During my last visit I had spent time showing her pictures of the children, JP, the goats and more. I attempted a similar offering today with photos of Venice and our mutual friend the beekeeper. She seemed to awaken and participate, enjoying the visuals as they passed upon the screen, but within ten minutes she was wearied. This tumor is ever evolving, and her presence is ever dimming.

As we sit outside, she drifts off to sleep. The dogs are at our feet: her wonderful Bearnese sheep dog, and Filou. Both have tendered their affection, their moist noses towards Isabelle, reached for a moment of grace as she patted them, felt them, saw them.

What is life after all? How many books and pod casts will I read and absorb when here the lesson is so deeply incised? What truly matters? I am selfishly living alongside, absorbing the blessings of their company. I am seeking answers for my path, my choices, my values. And here, so much of the noise, the blurry world simply falls away. I am in the warmth of a loving and caring group. I am in the warmth of a world warming into a full spring and soon summer. I am in the color of the flowers and the sounds of the buzzing flies, wasps, birds and snoring dog.

I'm aware of my effort to be there but not too much. My natural energy is ebullient, and here I need to be calm. I am sensitive to the energy, but not always able to control my speed of speech, my leap into movement. Her nap is precious, sacred, protected by all. Her need for sleep encouraged where I would speak with her, encourage connection. I'm not in sync, though my love is there. I'm in that state of "trying my best." There is a disconnect.

Will this be the last time that I visit? I shall offer again next week, but I know that I am not the most reposing of individuals. I bring tales, chatter, images, a chance for sharing. But she and Paul Pierre are past this now. It is a time to simply be at her side, d'assister à sa vie, to speak softly and lovingly, to rearrange her pillows and help her go from bed to wheel chair and back again. New information, a connection to the outside world, even laughter, are no longer on the menu. It is possible I've offered what I might at this point.

And yet, she is in me. I bring her with me as I drive back to pick the kids up at school. I’ve two lovely young boys who are there, interested, present, living day to day. I’ve turned away from the rushing, frantic existence. And somehow, the universe hasn’t abandoned me. I will work this season, I will pay my bills, feed my children, hold onto my house, cope on the basics. I’m not playing the stock market, I’ve not put oodles away for retirement. I’ve not really played by the rules of the system. But I am looking into a guitar class for Leo, seeing more friends, exchanging English conversation practice for a nourishing massage (once a week if I’m lucky). I am making my bread, tending my garden, tending my soul.

It doesn’t feel like a fantasy, it feels normal. In this world where the aged parent is taken in by the children, where the retirement home is a last ditch effort for only the most feeble and desperate, where loved ones are cared for and family means something... it’s more important to give and teach good values and be present in a relaxed and serene manner for my children than to chase after a nebulous retirement account. The last few years and the insanity of the banking crisis, the number of bankruptcies, etc., have led me to adopt the approach of lowering my expenses, limiting debt, and cultivating friends and loved ones.

I think I'm on the right path.

Being with a Friend

I suppose I've made it my mission, by love and by commitment, to be there for Isabelle and Paul Pierre to the extent that I'm helpful (when I'm present, Paul Pierre can leave to handle various errands, shop, be on the computer, etc.,) and that I bring joy and friendship and new topics of conversation to the table.

There are occasions elsewhere that the fact that I might make a slight slurping noise when I drink a very hot cup of tea, held in two hands just below my chin as I rest my elbows on the table is remarked upon. And there are those who find my conversation at times too self-centered. And at other times too full of questions focused on the person before me. Yes, I was raised in another land and these are things that aren't viewed with scorn or particular note in my birth country. However, if you served me in gold-leafed demi-tasse with silver spoons and damask cloth, not to worry, I would sip in a manner fit for a queen. But does any of that really matter?

How strange and diverse the things that pre-occupy. How absurd it all feels when in the presence of someone with but two months to live and her most adoring husband who will do anything to bring a smile to her face. The care I witness, the love, the tenderness, the will to be. Yes, tears do flow.

For Isabelle and Paul Pierre I am a story teller, I bring energy, I bring entertainment. I come to be with them in that moment, to distract, to entertain, to help as I might. I cook of course. I bring a loaf of my bread, or some of my wild rocket leaves, perhaps a bottle of JP's wine. I contribute.

This past visit I brought my yoga mat, many many photos and my itunes collection on my computer. I chatted, I took strange poses, I shared my visual life and my musical taste. Then I made lunch, and joined in discussions that ranged from architecture to family, children to culture, food to wine and much much more. Isabelle contributed as she could, often repeating the same two or three phrases that seemed apropos at all times. But she was there. Perhaps there was no more than 5 minutes history of our conversation at any given time in her head, but that was fine. She was there. She participated. She laughed. She expressed herself.

Paul Pierre told me that he'd had the recent news from the doctors that there would be perhaps two months at most. That gradually she'll sleep more and more. And with this is the decision to do his and our best. No more the no-salt diet. No more medicine. He still needs to encourage her to drink water, to rest. But from this point on in what way can he tempt her to eat? How can he make each moment pleasant? warm? tender? As the days warm he will bring her outside to sit and appreciate the evolving spring.

Inevitably, the day will come when she can no longer walk down those steps. Inevitably the day will come when she will have difficulty nourishing herself. Inevitably it will be harder and harder.

He will be there. His daughter will be there. A handful of dear friends and family members will be there. And when my presence is helpful, I will try too.

A Friend most in the Present

I believe the phrase is: The Past is History, the Future a Mystery, and the Present a Gift.

I've been spending time getting these ideas more clearly in my head. I've been listening to life-coaches and spiritual seekers as they are interviewed. I've been reading tales and suggestions for being in the present. I practice yoga, go biking with my kids, relish a good meal, stop to sniff the flowers.

But the concept is taken to a completely different level when I am in the present presence of Isabelle. If you go back through my blog posts to earlier tales of my goat cheese maker, you will read of her. She is a dear and wonderful friend now in the late stages of brain cancer.

Three weeks ago, I visited with Jonas for lunch and caught the magical moment of birthing goats. I was also privileged to share a moment of grace with Isabelle. She'd stopped her chemotherapy a couple of weeks earlier and was enjoying a time of renewed appetite, strength, humor. I shared a meal with her, Paul Pierre, two friends and Jonas. We laughed, we enjoyed the dish of Hachi Parmentier with chopped and sauteed swiss chard prepared by Paul Pierre (well we did, Jonas enjoyed the bread and butter and the orange cake). All but Isabelle partook of JP's rosé wine I'd brought along. She took a few pills with bubbly water. When the conversation at the table became a bit much, Isabelle went to play a game of solitaire on the computer. Yes, it would have been completely out of character two years' ago for her to do anything on the computer beyond business, but when you live with a tumor that is consuming your concept as she puts it, old assumptions go out the window.

I called Paul Pierre Saturday. I caught myself. I'd been going to ask, ça va? That classic and light-hearted opening to a conversation. But that wouldn't do at all. You're not truly a friend to someone living what he is living if you stay in the trite and hackneyed habits of simple conversation.

How did the past week go? Badly. Isabelle had an epileptic fit. She went into the hospital for a couple of days. She is home now, with an IV hookup, and her memory is gone. She is happy, lovely, self-deprecating and gracious as always. And she is in the present as few of us shall ever be.

In the time we spent together today, I was able to show her photographs, tell a few stories, laugh and share. And though she took it all in avidly, when she made attempts to respond to a train of thought, she just couldn't. I would finish her sentence, and then she'd say with a smile, humbly, excusing herself, "j'ai des trous. Je suis un peu bête, ça va passer j'espère."

This continued throughout my time. Tomorrow I return to be there while Paul Pierre does errands. I'll help make lunch, take her out to the sun, show her more photos, tell her about the kids, the goats. She'll listen, take it in, and perhaps just a few minutes later, she'll have forgotten what I just said.

Will she remember that I was here today?

Worrying about a child

Well, I did a Grandaddy Brady. And what does this mean you might ask? Let me explain. We've a thing in my family about worrying and testing for appendicitis. My mother's appendix exploded and she contracted peritonitis and was hospitalized for three weeks. Everafter my grandfather (a doctor himself) carried the torch of checking for sore stomachs, poking that right hand side below the belly button, and hurrying us to the hospital should the symptoms be indicative.

In fact I did have my appendix out when I was fourteen. I'm thus the only one of my siblings to have actually experienced the pains, the vomitting, the craziness and the urgency of it all.

And so, I must admit to being rather pre-disposed to consider this an option when my little one just doesn't seem to get better from his gastro, when he's just continuing to be wracked by dry heaves, deeply in pain, unable to fall back into a restorative sleep, crying out at the sharpness of the stabs in his abdomen. He wasn't even willing to get into a warm bath! (Unheard of in my family).

It was while I tried to take advantage of that bath (mustn't let hot water go to waste!) that it dawned on me that Jonas might be really sick. That I had no more than 5 minutes in the water before he called for me was also a sign. So I got moving.

At which point my support network totally failed me. I called seven different parents who drive -- if not the exact route I do -- extremely close to my house. And not a one answered his/her cell phone. I didn't want to leave my little boy alone in the house while I went to get the others. He just was so miserable, and I was really beginning to worry. But, pas de chance, off I had to go to get the others, leaving Jojo alone.

That extra time decided it. As quickly as I was able to drop off the older boys, I grabbed Jojo, his slippers, coat and a blanket, and piled him into the car and off to the hospital.

As we waited and waited and waited (two hours in the waiting room can seem very long when you've a very sad child tensing, moaning, crying with you) I felt as helpless as a flea. You want to be taken seriously -- I don't think I over react when it comes to my kids, probably I under react, if anything. But you see the nurses sending in the girl with the sore shoulder before you. Of course, all babies get priority treatment, which is as it should be. But isn't a possible appendicitis important? Are they thinking this is just a simple gastro and thus are letting us wait it out. Perhaps they're waiting for Jojo to fall asleep and thus show that he isn't truly that sick. Or?

At long last we did get taken to the doctor, and Jonas finally felt better. I watched how she tested to see if he truly had an appendicitis or not. I absorbed the lesson, felt hugely relieved, but also weary from all the tension of the day. And then, losing my way once, then at last finding it, carried my little boy back out to the car and home to bed.

And now, to sleep. I don't know if I'm humbled, or just weary. I'm sad to carry this burden alone. I suppose I could wonder why today of all days was one where the universe decided I needed to carry it all alone. I felt so completely demoralized when I couldn't reach anyone to help me get the boys back from school. Total system breakdown. But then, I coped, as I had to, and the day is over, as I suppose it was meant to be.

And now yes, to sleep.

Bookends

In the past couple of days I've been between sick friends, and happy children. Visiting a psychiatric hospital, and making birthday cakes for an eight year old. Sharing coffee with an ailing friend whose speach is slower and slower, her thoughts more and more fleeting, then lunching at a restaurant with a pair of eager and delighted little boys, drawing pictures on their place mats and eagerly dipping their fries in ketchup (well, the American one did, the French one stayed with the more continental choice of a sprinkle of salt).

I see the effects of anti-depressants on an otherwise ambitious powerhouse, felled by the loss of a most dearly-loved father figure and unable to maintain the ferocious pace he'd set himself. Suddenly, where before there was wit, speed, intensity, forward movement, now there is hesitation, and an otherness to his voice. How to reorient himself? His business? His life?

And I see the joy and eagerness in a little boy's eyes as he discovers his new animal cards and commences memorizing the weight, speed, age, locale and more of this new set of visuals.

I listen most carefully and fill in the blanks as my tumor-fighting friend shares memories, discusses her marriage, bread, cheese, living the agricultural life.

I am charmed by a helpful teen who problem-solves his way to helping me build a bicycle shed.

My bookshelf is held together by hope, youth, joy, expectations at one end and weariness, illness, fear, collapse, slow decay at the other.

Life is layered in so many ways. Joy comes in so many packages. The eyes of a sad man lighten when he sees a friend who has traveled far to see him. He is gracious and attentive to his fellow residents, none of whom have his mastery of language, nor his style in a cashmere coat. Two little boys playing hide and seek in the goat barn, setting up their cars' highway on the big table of the oil mill. They zoom, the turn, they live in their own bubble. And upstairs, a woman is proudly making a tart, something she used to do so easily, but which now marks an accomplishment of note. Her husband is there to care for her, but she still contributes to their meal. There is still much to give and share.

A visit to the Goat Cheese Makers

Unless otherwise noted, all materials on this blog are (c) 2009 by Madeleine Vedel




With the extra free time that my kids' school vacation has given me, I was able to visit Isabelle and Paul Pierre today. Isabelle is on new chemotherapy for her tumor, and her eyes were brighter, her step lighter than the last visit. She had on a new wig which was chicly cut, nicely straightened and shiny gray. She is hanging in there, though perfectly aware that her days are numbered. She and her doctors are doing their utmost to keep her present, able to think and cope in her daily life. She was delighted by my visit -- unable to drive nor truly having the energy to leave the farm these days. And, as usual, I try to keep my visits to an hour so I don't weary her too much, babbling as I do (but then she serves me this wonderful and very strong coffee).

I used to be apprehensive visiting sick friends. I think I'm not alone in having had to pass through a barrier of unease and maladroit sensations seeing loved ones suffering from life-threatening illness. I remember a turning point, however, when I went to see the mother of a friend of Leo and I simply offered to spend the weekend, so our kids could play, and said, what can I do? what would be of help? She was bed-ridden and it was as much to relieve her husband that I came, as to help her have a change of scenery, a new basket of books to read, new dishes to eat, etc., Visiting her as I was able, trying to help, but also making her laugh, I finally "got" it that you're alive while you're alive. Till that last breath leaves the body, whether you are ravaged by a nasty illness or not, you are very much alive and in this world. Avoiding discussing the illness is awkward and not always desired. Isabelle and I always begin our time together with an update on her doctors' visits, her treatments, her energy level, where she's at, and then we pass to life, my kids, etc., On occasion we've discussed other friends and family members who are sick, but more often we stick to the day to day details of our lives, my pleasure in my kids' growing social skills, reading, books, travel, her new grand-son.

When she tired, I went out to visit with Paul Pierre. He was hanging out the laundry. A task that Isabelle used to handle, but that had now fallen to him. We laughed over the necessity of acquiring the proper skills to hang laundry. Seriously! if you don't shake it out properly, and hang it carefully, you'll be ironing all the next day. For those of us none too fond of ironing, cultivating the proper technique and method is essential. Apparently though, Isabelle was finding her sheets rather wrinkled these days... Paul Pierre garrumphed and explained to me how he'd come up with a special technique to not put the marks of the clothes pins on the shoulders of his shirts. I have memories galore of my au pairs looking askance at me as I tried to explain the art of hanging laundry on a line. It was the rare girl who was willing to do it as I suggested. When you've been raised with dryers in all the homes you visit, it is hard to imagine that such an arcane task as laundry requires skill of any kind.


A good curdle in its mold, slowly draining.

From there, Paul Pierre guided me to the cheese laboratory so I could pick up some cheeses for my home. There, he showed me the unfortunate turn of events. Earlier this year he and Isabelle sold their cheesemaking laboratory and goats to a young woman who'd been their intern. With the goats, the equipment and the space, they'd also given her some carefully preserved (in the freezer) starter -- i.e. whey-- from a last batch of their cheese. They'd strongly suggested that once she started making the cheese she put away some of the starter just in case she'd need it in the future. Things became busy, and she forgot. In the last week or two, her cheese starting smelling off -- a bit acidic. Paul Pierre noticed this and suggested that she be a bit more careful. But, the situation simply grew out of her control. And, the last few batches of cheese have been bubbly, forming a far less lovely curdle, a murky whey, and putting air bubbles in her little cheeses, which are not aging correctly.



Cheeses as they should be.

Paul Pierre was disappointed and saddened by the turn of events. The lovely ferment starter that he and Isabelle had tended for 20 years is no longer. Another yeast has been allowed to take over, either by a shift in temperature, technique, humidity, or a slip in hygiene. Whatever the cause, the cheese the young woman is making no longer resembles theirs. And, it is no longer a good cheese. She needs to thoroughly clean out her laboratory, obtain a new ferment starter, and start over clean. She'll need to go back over the basic rules, and find the rhythm that works for her in this particular cheese lab.

Georgeanne Brennan wrote of her efforts at finding the right recipe of time, ferment, and temperature making cheese in Provence. (A Pig in Provence) It is a delicate art. Seemingly so easy, it requires trial and error to get just right, even when you do follow the directions to the letter.

But in time, the young intern will get it right. And in time, Paul Pierre will be able to truly pass the activity to her in full, proud of her independence and her future. The shifting passage from one generation to the next... to each his hurdles to leap.