good news!

 

When Isobella was four she was diagnosed with absence epilepsy (also known as petit mal epilepsy) which meant that she was having blank spells of ten seconds or so, many times a day. It took about six months to get this diagnosis, so although it was a big shock, there was some relief that we knew what was going on. When the time came to enrol her in school the epilepsy was not being controlled by the medication she was on, and we decided, completely unexpectedly to us, to homeschool her. Eventually we tried a new medication and it worked. We were very very grateful, even more so because the side-effects were mild. Since then the medication has continued to be successful, and Isobella has had no seizures for over a year.

Two weeks ago Isobella and I went to a specialist appointment and got some very good news. She has been seizure free for long enough that we can now wean her off her medication and presume that she has grown out of the epilepsy! We are thrilled. Ella doesn't really understand, but she is happy not to have to take her medicine anymore, and I am over the moon.

When we were in the process of diagnosing her epilepsy, my biggest fear was that somehow, either as a side-effect of the medication, or because the epilepsy itself ended up presenting as part of a more complicated scenario, my shining, bubbly girl would be some how lost. The thought broke my heart. I'm so grateful that my fear was only ever a fear. But it has made me appreciate even more than ever what an incredible thing the brain is. It holds within it the makings of our personality, our likes and dislikes, our plans and dreams... the things that form the essence of who we are. When the brain is damaged or compromised in some way, it changes us.

Or does it?  A person who suffers brain injury as a result of an accident may function differently, may be less able in some respects, may speak differently and seem so different to the person they were before the accident, but they are still the same person. Back in the days before we had Ella's seizures under control, I had to accept that whatever happened to her, whatever the side-effects of the medication were, she was still the same Isobella I held in my arms as a newborn, still the same girl who we loved and who loved us back.  This is something that many families know all to well. The families and partners of stroke and brain injury victims learn this lesson the hardest way, day in and day out.

Isobella is none the worse for her epilepsy. There's a chance that the epilepsy could return at a later stage, but that chance is so random that there's no point in even thinking about it. She is bright, articulate, curious and full of life. She's also a bit different. (I'm her Mum - I'm allowed to say these things!) Her brain is wired in such a way that everything is interesting, everything is exciting, everything warrants investigating and exploring. As you can imagine, this makes task completion a challenge! Do you know how long it takes this girl to brush her hair?! Sometimes it drives me almost mad, but most of the time I marvel at the wonder her brain is, and wish I could peek in one day and see what is actually going on in there.

Case in point, this morning. Isobella and I were in the bathroom together and I said "Did you have sweet dreams?" She looked up at me beaming, "Yes!" she said with a smile as wide as her face. "I was walking with Jesus in heaven and it was so so beautiful!" I took a breath and gathered myself together, and then asked her all about it. The paragraph that follows is all her words. I didn't prompt or suggest anything, I simply asked questions like "and then what happened?" By the end of the story, I was so overwhelmed that I almost disbelieved her, and asked her if she was making it up. But as you will see, this is not the kind of thing a kid can make up. You need to know that while Paddy and I are very much believers, there is no brain-washing going on at our place. We have talked about heaven in the past, but we've never ever talked about it in detail, we've never discussed whether it is an actual place, and we've never ever got close to talking about what it could look like. Scout's honour!

Isobella's dream:
“First I saw Jesus’ cross at the start of heaven, and God was crying, and all the angels were crying, everyone in heaven was crying. His servants came and took him off the cross and lay him on a special bed. Then he came back alive again. Then I saw Jesus on his throne with a rainbow over it and rainbow stairs going up to it, and then I went walking with Jesus down the rainbow path. His angels were on either side. It was very, very sparkly, sparklier than you have ever seen, sparklier than a star. Then I came home to number 66 in Jesus’ special carriage with angel horses. It was very very very sparkly.The carriage had ten angel horses. They had wings and things like a unicorn has. They shine and shine and have golden things all over them.  I came home straight back through the wall into the lounge and there was a big jar of gold in the middle of the floor, it was a present from Jesus. I took it to bed with me and looked at the gold and at the bottom of the gold was my Gideon bible. It was very early in the morning and it was very dark and quiet and all I could hear were the bells on the horses. Then I went to sleep and had a very big sleep in."

If you ask her, Isobella will tell you that she actually went to heaven last night.   If you ask her, she'll show you the exact place on the lounge wall that she came home through. She's six, right, and she has a lot to learn, but there are some things she knows much better than me.

what's in a name?

I was born in Madrid in 1974, to kiwi parents who were "doing their hippy thing" and travelling around Europe in a combi. My father had moved with his family to New Zealand from England at the age of 12, and my mother was born in the Waikato, to an English nurse and an Australian retired soldier.

My parents had met in Raglan, where my mum grew up, and got married at the Unitarian Church in Auckland just before they went overseas. Mum wore a green velvet cape over a long tunic, and my father a cream shirt with pirate sleeves and a pink scarf for a neck tie. They split up when I was two.You could say they probably should never have married, that they weren't really in love, but then they wouldn't have had me, and that would have been a shame. So my mother, on marrying my pink-scarfed father, morphed in an instant from Miss Bath to Mrs Munn, and I, on that moment I burst out of her in that lonely delivery ward in Madrid, became a Munn.

And a Munn I remained. My mother didn't change her name back to her maiden name after her divorce, and my dear half-sister who came along a few years later simply joined in, becoming a Munn as well. Our tight threesome had the ease and respectability that came with bearing one name, and from memory Mum was addressed as "Mrs Munn." I never lived with my father, and didn't always see him regularly, but he was my Dad, and I knew that was what made me a Munn.

When I was thirteen my mother re-married. She happily took the name of her love, a man who wrapped her in his arms and completely changed our world. For a while we talked about him adopting my sister and I, something that at that age I couldn't really comprehend, except that I knew it would make Mum happy. When the legal process slowed down and then ground to a halt, I was quietly relieved. As much as I loved my step-dad, I liked my name, and I was my name. So a Munn I stayed.

When I had my first stories published my name became even more important. My identity as a person and as a writer was sealed by seeing my name in print. When I met Paddy and we got engaged I was so thrilled to be in love, and so caught up in the romance of creating a life together, that I didn't hesitate to change my name and become a "Mrs." I was sure of one thing though, that I would always remain a Munn for my writing career.

And so for the last nine years I've had two names, and in a sense, two identities. One, the family me, a respectable Mrs in a comfortable family unit of just over 2.4 children. The other a phantom identity more from my past than my present, of a wannabe writer, struggling to marry the dreams I had as a young writer with my very ordinary reality.

Then earlier this year I applied for a writer-in-residence, and had to send in a proposal and CV as Idoya Munn. It felt strange, and at first almost like I was denying my identity as a wife and mother. However I found that it actually made me happy to see that name come to life again, and it didn't feel like putting on another identity, or using a pseudonym. It wasn't just a name, it was me.

When our eldest daughter was born six years ago, I had intended on giving her "Munn" as one of her names. I liked the Spanish tradition of passing on the mother's maiden name to the children, and I've always been a bit of a feminist at heart.  When it came to making the final decision I changed my mind, for the silly prejudice of not wanting to give her a really long name. But earlier this year, as "Idoya Munn" became more and more real, I realised I'd made a mistake. I wanted the girls to be part of my life as a writer, and I wanted their names to reflect both their father's heritage and my own. So we decided we would change their names by deedpoll, and give them Munn as a third christian name. It felt right. They loved the idea.

In the months that have come and gone since then, I have become more and more confident and secure in this identity I have as Idoya Munn. To the point where I now feel more like Idoya Munn than the "Mrs" I became. And so it seems logical that I make the call.  Who am I?  Am I the respectable Mrs who has a shadow life as a writer, or am I a writer who happens to have a wonderful, supportive family?

I have come to the conclusion that I am Idoya Munn. I've been using Munn more and more over the last few weeks, and the more I use it, the more I like it. I think the time is coming when I will use Munn more than my married name, and I expect that one day, when I get around to it, I'll change my name with the bank and various other official places. It's a big change, in some ways, and yet in other ways it is no change at all.

Library Stories - Palmerston North City Library

You might have noticed I gave you a wee hint in that post I wrote about coming home from holiday. I found a treasure when we were in Palmerston North, and it gave me the perfect opportunity to indulge in a little fantasy I've been nurturing.  I've had this idea that you might like to hear about random libraries.  An idea that whenever I travel, I can post a story or two about the libraries I find.  I know, libraries.  Mmmm... not everyone loves libraries the way I do.  But I figure, if you are reading this blog then you either love me enough to humour me, or you love words enough that you must appreciate a good library.  And anyway, it's got to have some novelty value, if nothing else. 

So on that note I have the pleasure of introducing to you my very first library story: Palmerston North City Library.  I couldn't have asked for the a better kick-off to this tradition.  See for yourself the wonder that is Palmy's City Library.

I happened to read last week that John Cleese once said about a visit to Palmerston North "If you ever do want to kill yourself, but lack the courage, I think a visit to Palmerston North will do the trick." !! Palmy does not have a reputation as a must-visit destination, and gets plenty of stick from New Zealanders for being a very ordinary, small and land-locked city. However, I've found a reason better than any to live in Palmerston North: the City Library.

We had a few hours left in Palmerston North before we drove to Napier, and my friend Mels who we were staying with happened to mention that the library was pretty special. So we went to see it - and I'm so glad. It was a revelation. As you can see, the library is big, open, light, and full of interesting and innovative architectural and functional details. Each area was spacious and well-laid out, with very clear and useful signage.  The kids section was tidy, the readers (something I always notice) were organised and stored in easy-to-access bins (rather than being in one messy pile, as they usually are.) There was a toddler's slide, and a playstation!  Now that's how you get the kids to go to the library!

Every where we went there was comfortable furniture to sit and read on.  There were rows of comfy arm chairs on every floor, set up by big windows that looked over the square, and beside them were listening posts for music, so you could read and listen to your choice of music.  One woman had made herself so comfortable that she had taken her shoes off.  If there was ever a good advertisement for a library, that's it!

I think that in another life, I would be quite happy to move to Palmerston North. I would be quite happy to make that library my second home, visit it every day, find myself a quiet corner and sit and write and research to my heart's content.    I can't agree with John Cleese about Palmerston North in the slightest. In fact, I would go so far as to say that in my version of heaven (the theology of which will not be discussed here) there is a library just like this one. Lucky Palmerston North.