Emotions Take Flight

This post was from exactly three weeks ago today at 12.35pm on Friday 12 September, 2014

Is this what butterflies feels like? It had been so long since I’d experienced them that I had almost forgotten what they felt like. Almost. I knew as I sat listening (ok semi-listening) to the flight attendant’s safety spiel, that I was in fact experiencing the sensation of butterflies in my stomach. At first it was the ‘exciting butterfly’ feeling which was quickly replaced by the ‘nervous butterfly’ feeling and finally I ended up with the ‘holy-crap butterfly’ feeling. As the small airline rumbled along the tarmac gaining speed, I caught one last glimpse of my son and husband out the window at the exact moment the plane’s wheels left the ground. In that same moment my butterflies escaped and the floodgates opened – I was now entering a full-blown emotional release (aka crying uncontrollably).

I was flying to Sydney to attend a writers’ workshop and I wouldn’t see my husband and kids for three days and two nights. I could feel the warmth of the sun through the window; I could see the clear blue sky and below the farms of Griffith looked like a giant eclectic patchwork quilt. It was then that not only was I feeling such appreciation for this moment, but also for being given the last back seat of the plane where no one could see my tears or hear my sniffles. I didn’t really have the energy to care anyway. The fact that I was aware of other people’s potential judgments (something I am usually pretty good at not caring about), only added fuel to the fire, or more accurately tears to the river I was now creating.

Freedom can feel liberating and terrifying all at once. I think for parents and particularly mums who have to fight tooth and nail for time to themselves, this is intensified. The plane passed through the clouds and it felt as though the sun, which only seconds before had been beaming through the window, had been turned off. Like those clouds, I floated between feeling that this trip was both self-indulgent and necessary.

I so desperately wanted to enjoy every moment of this wonderful opportunity. Yet here I was in a whirlpool of emotions – where my mind was in a whirl and my tears were supplying the pool. I thought “What is the point of this, if I was going to cry all weekend?” But I immediately answered my own question by instinctively knowing that this was merely a release. An intense letting go and soon it would be over. But right then and there I knew (from many past experiences of a similar nature) that I had to feel these emotions and not invalidate them, not to resist them or repress them. If I did as I had learned to do in the past, and feel these emotions wholeheartedly, I would completely let go of the old buried guck. Somehow I knew I didn’t have much of a choice in that one and my emotions were going to have their way with me whether I liked it or not.

Was I in such a state because just hours before I had been notified of the death of my old Pop? Were my butterfly feelings actually grief? I suspect I was experiencing a range of emotions and now I was entering grief. I was ok about it earlier. I told myself that my Pop was at peace and had gone ‘home‘ and that now he was with Nan. That they had both become stars, as I tell my 4 ½ year old son when someone dies. And as we commonly say, 91 years is a good innings.

I hadn’t seen my Pop for a while. He had been in a nursing home suffering from dementia. Although it had been years since I’d seen him, I had no guilt. There was no point in that. I had made peace with my decision not to visit more often. Some of my best years, some of my best memories were times with him and Nan, and he knew it – even if he couldn’t remember it. Anyway, I knew it and that’s all that mattered.

The attendant comes around. Surely she can tell I have been crying. She gives me an empathetic look so now my suspicion is confirmed. I muster the corner of my lip to rise in an awkward smile. As she routinely and politely asks “tea or coffee?” I catch a glimpse of my reflection in the coffee pot. It’s a case of panda eye (singular) instead of panda eyes (plural). So all in all not so bad and I choose to see that glass as half full. I also choose coffee in the hope that it will pep me up some and out of this emotional funk I am finding myself in. I can’t even really articulate all the things I am crying over, only that I know there are many, probably too many little things. It seems I am having a classic case of ‘build-up meltdown’ where you let things build-up over time without actively addressing them and then when something little (or not so little, like the death of your last grandparent) occurs, you lose it…big time. I welcome the clarity amidst the commotion.

I feel a lot of what I am weeping over has to do with perceived freedom. The motherhood thing. This trip not only represented me pursuing my dreams but it was something just for me. My own carved out window in time and space where I could do what I want when I wanted and essentially enjoy all the freedoms of life without thinking of anybody else. This time was about asking myself “what do I want to do?” without thinking of nappies, nap-times and if someone had added napkins to the shopping list. This time was about knowing for at least two whole days and nights I would not hear someone yell out “MUM!…..” and demand my attention.

I was about to exchange domesti-city for the big city and I couldn’t wait. My emotions, however, had their own agenda.

I thought about the post-its and plans I left – I forgot to conduct a fire drill (just joking…kind of). I had even made a copy of my Medicare and health insurance cards with strict instructions that “unless it is life-threatening, I don’t want to know.” And now it was time to let go. More tears. My tissue is no longer recognisable as a tissue but rather a glob of fibres barely holding together in my hand. And that’s precisely how I felt, barely holding on, barely holding it all together. Time to really let go. I don’t think I have much of a choice in this, it’s happening with or without me as a willing participant.

If my Pop could see me now – well I guess he already is – he would say “What the bloody hell is the matter? What are you so upset about?”, as if to say it isn’t worth worrying about. If Nan was here in person she would say “What ails you child?” in a way that you knew she was ready to help ease your pain. She was always on stand-by with one of her characteristically comforting hugs and a solution to your problem. I’ll never forget the time she whisked me off to the shops to buy a scarf and concealer – her solution to covering the hickeys that covered my neck!

The seatbelt chime loudly interrupts my reminiscing, to the point where I jump a little in my seat. Straight away though I feel it’s Pop’s way of telling me to “Just get on with it!” I decide to use that to switch my focus to what I’ve set out to do this weekend. And that’s to pursue my dream of becoming an author. It is in that moment a sense of indescribable peace washes over me. The tears have stopped. The clouds have parted. Time to let the sun shine in. I put on my headphones and play Pharrell Williams’ infectious song “Happy”.

I was not surprised to see how many people braved a bitterly cold, windy and rainy day to say their final goodbyes to my Pop. He made an impact on anyone who came into contact with him.

My nan and pop were among my biggest supporters. They were by my side when I was crowned the hotly contested title of Runner-up Cherry Queen for the Young Cherry Festival in 2000.