Bittersweet

Why bittersweet, I wonder, not sweetbitter? How did this compound noun come to be created in this order, putting painful first and pleasurable second? (Yes, yes, I could open my OD of English Etymology to delve into the history of the word and perhaps discover a suggestion as to why it’s constructed this way . . . but that will only lead me down a rabbit hole . . . .)

I was thinking about the exact definition of “bittersweet” yesterday as my new step-dog and I walked a (tiny, tiny) portion of the Bruce Trail. 

I was trying to focus on living in the exact moment - truly appreciating the last of the bright autumn trees, the crunch of fallen maple leaves we were walking on, the difference in temperature between the sun and shade. 

But earlier I had read the BBC’s explanation as to why they don’t use the word “terrorist” after several Guardian articles about the Israel-Hamas war, so my mind kept circling back to the power of language.

When I passed a map of the entire Bruce Trail my first thought was, “Oh, Doug would have loved this walk.” I don’t know how much of it he walked - he lived in Southern Ontario for most of his life but I remember many stories about hikes in Algonquin Park, none about this trail. Still, my thought process was sweet first - then bitter - then sweet again.

We loved planning long walks in the UK, we loved the walks themselves, we loved having walked them. Hours spent pouring over maps & making picnic lunches, hours walking, hours reminiscing about the highlights of the walk. Win-win-win. 

I used to want to walk every mile of every walk, start to finish, including every side trail. Doug taught me to relax a little - and jump on a steam train for a mile of two, go off on a tangent at the risk of missing a few miles of the exact path, spend longer in a museum or at a ruin or foraging for mushrooms or berries, or admiring a view - then make up the difference with a bus at the end of the day if necessary. Once day we stopped for “just an hour” at an airplane museum in Carlisle because it was marked on the OS map. We spent the entire morning there.

I was reminded of that visit when David and I were in Germany last month. We went to the Technik Museum in Sinsheim; I had no idea how big a collection it was, or how fascinating I would find it. In four plus hours we barely scratched the surface. I sent Doug a postcard - even knowing he can’t read it, or even understand it when it's read to him. I was here, I thought of you, I thought of us. In this way I can witness what we had, what we’ve lost, and what I have. 

And how incredibly lucky am I to be able to turn to David and say, 'Doug would love this,' knowing that David will understand? 

That was the week of September 11th. For the first 17 years after the hurricane, I woke on September 11th every year and thought “Ivan.” Last year I was on holiday with my Mum, and the significance of the date didn’t register until mid-morning. This year it was late afternoon before I realized what day it was. It’s possible there will come a time when the entire day will pass without my acknowledging Ivan (though unlikely because that is also the date of 9/11, and the news coverage of that anniversary reminds me of my own before/ after life-changing moment).

In the library this week I picked up a novel in which a Caribbean hurricane plays a part in both scene-setting and plot. For many years I would have put it down again, but this week I checked it out. I may even read it before it’s due back. 

Thanksgiving Monday - another day of ‘remember whens.’ I was lucky enough to spend the day with my dear friend, Donna. We reminisced about Thanksgiving 2019 which we spent with our husbands and another couple. 

Doug moved into long term care soon afterwards, and the two other husbands have both since passed. Despite the many changes in our lives since that meal only four years ago, Donna and I are both still thankful for fundamentally the same things now as then. Sweet  . . . bitter . . . sweet. 

Random Thoughts on Bravery

Thankful Grateful Blessed

I have discovered that I am marking the passage of years by the appearance of this sign in Doug’s care home. Thanksgiving - again? Has an entire year really passed since last Thanksgiving? I find myself taking stock of my year - accomplishments & disappointments, joys & sorrows, blessings & burdens - and thinking about what I can (try to) achieve in the last months of this year. 

Live music at Doug's care home; a post-Covid joy I'll never again take for granted 

My problems fade to insignificance when I read the news, and between reports of wars and deaths I interpose Jay Rayner’s restaurant reviews and the Culture & Lifestyle rabbit hole that leads to. Recently an actor whose work I admire said of another actor (whose work I don’t know) “ . . . this woman showed up and claimed her seat at the table with nothing on her face. I am so impressed and floored by this act of courage and rebellion.”

In the past I might have scoffed, “That’s courage?! Come on!” But today I try to imagine what it might be like to be a person who is expected to present a certain image in public, or even a person who wears make up on a regular basis. I have zero lived experience of this, so I can’t judge the degree of bravery it takes for someone who is photographed a zillion times a day to leave her house makeup-free. 

Visiting Doug: I rarely wear make up so this is not a show of bravery on my part

(I have chosen to crop his face from the picture; I'd rather remember him as he looked, not as he looks)

As a creative writing teacher, I ask my students to include an aesthetic statement when they submit a piece of work. I explain that if I have an understanding of what they are aiming for, I’ll be better position to mark their work in a way which will be more useful to them. Not only “I think this worked well because/ you may wish to revisit this because . . . ” but also “I believe you met your objective in this way/ perhaps your desired result is let down by this section because . . . ”

For some classes I use as an example the poetry of Rupi Kaur, who writes in lowercase, almost punctuation free. She has explained that this is not a random, meaningless choice, but “in the gurmukhi script... all letters are treated the same. i enjoy how simple that is. how symmetrical and how absolutely straightforward . . . a visual representation of what i want to see more of within the world: equalness... so in order to preserve these small details of my mother language i include them within this language. no case distinction and only periods.” I choose to believe the ‘bare faced’ actor has as compelling an explanation for her choice, and wonder if she considers herself a courageous rebel. 

Back to the newspaper: I have become my paternal grandmother; I remember her reading the obituaries every morning and I do the same. So many speak of the “brave battle” a loved one has fought, with cancer, with heart disease, with a mental illness. Apart from my ambivalence about the war metaphor so often used, I question the use of “bravery” here, but remind myself - again - that I can’t guess at someone else’s lived experience.

Spring 1973 - my sister and I with our Granny Ells

I speak of Doug as “living with dementia” knowing it was not a choice he made. It’s not anything over which he has any control. He IS a brave man - he’s made lots of courageous choices in the past, and done many things I consider deserving of the term. (If the Toronto Star’s archives weren’t kept behind a paywall, I’d link here to his reports from the front lines of El Salvador’s civil war.) I am thankful that I knew him when he was well, and was able to witness his courage.

The ping of an incoming email. A friend, who ends her note with, “You are brave and good.” I hope she is right. I hope that I am brave and that I am good. I’m grateful that she can see those characteristics in me, especially on the days when I cannot. 

On to the book reviews where there will be one that applauds the bravery of the writer to tackle a certain subject, to expose secrets, or to dare to craft a novel in an innovative way. I tell my students they are brave to write at all - and brave again to share their writing with the rest of us. I am blessed to have students who are willing to push themselves far from their comfort zones, with the added bonus that their confidence helps me grow too. 

The weather has turned. A long, warm autumn, with hot summer-weather days has, overnight, become the start of winter, with the first snowfall of the season causing two highway accidents north of North Bay over Thanksgiving weekend. Next time I visit Doug I'll bundle him up, and together we'll brave the cold.