When we spoke he said simply “I miss cooking” in the most animated, dramatic way I have ever seen. Every facial muscle employed; stuck in the worst quandary of excitement consumed by frustration. Sort of like this face, but with much more angst and a lot less Planet Earth. If he could get up and run, his kitchen would be the first place we would run to.

He most misses making meals for his family and friends. Jim is a pretty exceptional cook.
It was 3:30pm and he listed, for the better part of a half hour, all the things he would create:

He would first sit by the pool with a glass of Bubbly, some crackers, blue cheese, hot peppers from his garden and some….peaches….

“did you say peaches, Dad?”

“yes, fresh peaches”

…ok, fresh peaches.

He told me about all the vegetable pies with flakey pastry, buttery velvet melting in the mouth. About the apple pies, stuffed with cinnamon steamy goodness; as if directly from the Garden of Eden. Fresh baked bread and home-made pizza crusts.

I fear that when he is ever able to get back to his kitchen we may all become morbidly obese, because he will never stop cooking again.
He told me, and I knew because I was fed for so many years, how the roasted potatoes would be golden and crunchy on the edges, the sautéed carrots needed to have a sweet crispness with a buttery garlic finish, the broccoli would be vividly steamed to perfection, like a lawn of sea salt crusted tiny trees. How the tomato and cucumber salad would luxuriate in a delicious pool of vinegary herb heaven. He gave me the step-by-step specific, special standards that a rack of lamb would need to be served flawlessly, and how he must do a quick final sear on each side to caramelize it to superb crusted precision; bowls of fresh mint sauce waiting, drizzle ready on the side.

He crossed his eyes and whispered a series of searing noises with his silent mouth to demonstrate exactly how lush the outside would be, and it took everything I had not to jump on the bed and hug him because it was so ridiculously adorable.

I told him that if he could get up and make that lamb right away, that I would eat it all. He knows that I have not eaten meat for over 14 years. He laughed and said he would make me some salmon.

“No, really Dad, if you come home right now and cook that lamb, I will eat the entire thing and all of its relatives, get up, let’s go home”

he grins “Ok, deal”

Mom reckoned that if she did some cleaning around the hospital that they might knock a couple of bucks off of our bill. So far it’s not working, but those ugly waiting room frames are pretty squeaky clean of late. She is so OCD such a busy lass.

I asked dad how he is able to stay so strong. I am trying to learn, for my betterment, how he is able to be so calm and patient in a situation that would likely crush most people. He said that he is approaching this time as a simple pause in his life. A time to consider, think and accept. A set of circumstances beyond his or any of our control, dictated by powers beyond our comprehension. A big hospital bed shaped pause button. I wish that we could just pause time altogether, the sunset said no.

It’s so hard to celebrate when someone so integral to life and hilarity is not present. It’s so hard to celebrate when all of our minds are collectively saturated with thoughts of him, and how he is doing and if he is ok and when he will be better and if… and what…. and what-if.

We don’t ponder on the what-if’s, instead we do what he loves best and celebrate life. So we all donned some of his ridiculously hideous brightly printed shirts, that he wears with religious commitment, and went out in the delicious sunshine salty ocean air and celebrated together.

Our hearts are on pause with him, but our lives and spirits are fuelling him to keep fighting so we can soon all wear ugly fabric together. Unite Hawaiian Prints, Unite!

My six-year-old nephew called at 6:30 am the other morning to ask when I was coming over to play. I told him to give me five minutes, and as he was hanging up the phone I heard him ask “Mum, how long is five minutes?”

How long is time really?

Sad times are syrupy, sticky-slow when you hurt and joy can hurdle by like warm wind in your hair when life is all too much fun. None of us know how long Dad will take to heal, we just know that he must and we will champion his every step of the journey.

The hope is to move him from ICU to the ward and then potentially home once we can get him set up on the new ventilator, which should arrive in a week. We don’t know how long that will be or how much time any of this might take. But really now, all of this time, is a tiny drop in life and we are taking each ‘five minutes’ as they unfold. While we all want to know an exact exit strategy the next steps are certainly not as clear as this sign. (Which incidentally seems to be of a man with one very long leg trying to escape some aggressively large letters.) Our sign will come when the time is right.

Tonight as this year blankets itself out and into a brand new next, we are just happy to still have time, love and each other. Happy New Year everyone, I hope everyone will ring this bad boy in Jim Craig styles.

Let’s light up the fire pit and shoot off some cannons!