H is for hope

One of Piper’s favourite places to sit is in front of the glass doors that lead from our sun room to our deck. It gives her a great view of the birds & chipmunks & squirrels at the feeder, the ducks on the shore, the pigeons and gulls and herons flying by, and, the deer that occasionally walk along the beach. Sometimes deer visit the deck, sometimes they help themselves to greens from the garden. 

We saw them the other morning, and I don’t think Piper left her spot the entire time I was at work. I’m sure she kept watch (in-between naps). They had come by once, they might come back again. 

I am not so different from my cat. Sometimes Doug makes a joke, or asks a question, or says something that sounds so like an ordinary sentence in response to the current discussion. For the rest of my visit I hang on to the hope that it wasn't a one-off. He appeared to be lucid once, that lucidly might come back again. 

I am not a mind-reader, though I’m getting better and better - I think, I hope - at deciphering clues in order to understand Doug’s non-verbal communication. I consider myself an expert at the art of the one-sided conversation. I award myself an Oscar several times a month for acting cheerful when I want to weep, strong and and capable when I feel inadequate and weak.

"I think of her every time I pull deadheads, a few when I walk by, and scatter them across the lawn.  And though I rarely visit aquariums, when I do, I find the moon jellies and watch them glide down through the water like a sky full of parachutists and think of death and regret.    

       And then I remember the hope.

       The beautiful moments of hope." (from my short story, Moon Jellies)

Apparently I have always believed in the power of hope. 

Onwards, with love. 

Happy Anniversary to Us!

 

These are the two wedding photos I chose to post on Social Media on Wednesday to celebrate our ninth wedding anniversary. 

At the moment when this one was being taken, I was reciting my vows, written using the extended metaphor of a long walk, because walking was such an important part of our courtship and relationship. 

“Doug, I chose to walk through life with you, and you alone. At times I may rush ahead - but I will always stop and wait for you. At times I may fall behind - but I will always catch up to you.  

Together we will navigate this journey. When we have to climb a seemingly endless hill, we can stop and admire the view while we catch our breath. When we get lost, we’ll use compass and map to find a route home. In times of sorrow I will comfort you, in times of joy I will celebrate with you; I will love you always.

I will point out the beauty in cold, wet weather as I do in warm sunshine, and cherish the everyday moments as well as the wondrous. At bumps in the road I will stay the course, at forks in the path let’s decide jointly which direction to follow.

I promise we will travel as husband and wife through stormy days and still, for better or for worse, for richer or for poorer, in sickness and in health, all the days of our lives until death do us part.”

Five years ago we spent our anniversary in Melton Mowbray, back in England for my summer job (teaching at Churchill College, in Cambridge).

We spent our Honeymoon walking Hadrian’s Wall and the Speyside Way. Halfway through the walk we decided we’d celebrate our tenth anniversary retracing our steps, allowing ourselves more time so that we could fully explore all the museums (and distilleries!) (and pubs!) en route. 

We  were confident our marriage wouldn’t fail (as I hope every honeymooning couple is!); it never occurred to us that in a decade’s time (less), Doug would no longer be able to walk any distance. 

Our wedding was a happy, happy day, and exactly what we had planned and wished for. A gathering of our beloved friends and family who witnessed our vows which we said in the garden of my childhood home, overlooking the Ottawa River. From Elise Joy Blaha Cripe  I borrowed a tradition which has become more precious than I could ever have imagined it would. We used cards as table numbers, and we asked the guests to write notes inside them.

My sister has kept all the cards, and sends us the corresponding one each year; this year she delivered it with flowers. This bittersweet window on the past is remarkable - a tangible reminder of the love surrounding us on our wedding day.

I recently learned that #gratitude is consider a cliché on Instagram. (Of course it is! ha ha It's probably the hashtag I use the most often.) Cliché or not, when I think back to our wedding day, and every day of our marriage since, my most overwhelming feeling is one of gratitude. 

This is the Important Thing

I am not a quick thinker. Certainly I am not great at thinking on the fly; I’m much better at more slowly organising my thoughts in writing. I write lists. I sometimes revisit conversations I’ve had in person, via a follow up text or email, in order to make sure I truly communicated what I intended to. I write reminders to myself. (On the backs on old envelopes, as my maternal grandfather did.) Perhaps it's no surprise that I called my short story collect Notes Towards Recovery. 

There are hearts everywhere, when I look for them. I found this rock in a friend's garden when I was weeding with her Mum and her eldest daughter on a gloriously perfect summer afternoon. 

After a prolonged acrimonious divorce, when I decided to bow out of the legal fight, I wrote myself a letter. It is deeply sad - difficult and painful to read. (I haven’t read it it years; just knowing it’s there is sometimes all the reminder I need.) In it, I detailed some of the most abusive incidents of my marriage, and reminded myself that I was alive - was extraordinarily lucky to have survived, both physically and mentally. By comparison, nothing else mattered. It felt as if I was starting over, with nothing, as I turned 40. (I did not have nothing. I had, and have, an amazing family and equally amazing life long friends. I am blessed indeed.) 

A scrapbook page I made in response to the prompt "risk." The journaling reads: I have scuba dived with sharks, parasailed in the Alps, survived a monsoon in India, and a category five hurricane in Cayman . . . but the most courageous risk I've ever taken was to admit failure, leave a bad marriage, move back to Canada, and start all over again at age forty. If I'd had any idea how difficult it would be, I might not have been brave enough to let go.

A much happier memo to myself is the wedding manifesto I composed before starting to plan my wedding with Doug. (I’m sure I nicked parts from other people - I’m sorry I can’t credit them. Thank you, whoever you are, for your ideas and for so generously sharing them online.)

My Wedding Manifesto

  

x

I am marrying the man I love and with whom I intend to spend the rest of my life.  

This is the important thing.

It would be lovely to celebrate our marriage with a gloriously sunny day but the weather is beyond anyone’s control.  If it rains, it rains - I will not let precipitation diminish my enjoyment of the day.

I will pause often during the day to appreciate my family and friends, the view, the music, the details, the food and to listen to Tom singing me down the aisle, Paul conducting the ceremony, the hymns, the speeches.  I will remember to capture the memories that can’t be photographed.

I will enjoy the evening as it unfolds, embracing the company of the friends & family who choose to stay on and celebrate with us, however many or few that may be.

This is an important day in my life, but so too are days and years to follow.  Doug and I are an older couple, we won’t go into debt for the reception or honeymoon.  We don’t need a theme or matching colour scheme or any extras the glossy mags and websites try to sell.  

This is a classy and sophisticated garden party.  Timeless, elegant, fun.

(My sister has full veto power over any and all of the above.)

x

  

It was a wonderful day! I have happy, happy memories. 

This is the important thing. I return to those five words when I find myself spiralling down a path of guilt, fear, sorrow, or hopelessness. What matters? What truly matters? And note that it is “the thing” - singular. Yes climate change, yes systemic racism, yes truth and reconciliation, yes homelessness, yes to all the things I need to help fix, and do better, and change about myself. But right now, this second, what is the singular most important thing, over which I have any control? 

A good friend reminds me that Doug’s basic needs are being met: he is fed, clothed, toileted, washed, cared for. I know the people who work at his care home; he is also being spoken to, listened to, loved.

When he was well, and we lived in England, we often agreed that we liked long distance walking and narrow boating in part because we were forced to slow down, and that helped us to notice a great many details we might otherwise have missed. I am finding comfort in that thought as we navigate this next stage of Covid, the all too brief summer season, Doug’s continued decline in health. 

Slow down. Take. Deep breath. Appreciate the details. A sunrise, a sunset, a heart-shaped rock, a waterlily. 

 

Holes in the World

I have a love-hate relationship wth pathetic fallacy, both in fiction and in real life. (Hmmmm . . . . I am assuming I’m not the only person who anthropomorphises literary terms?) Sometimes the technique works well - I love the building storm mirroring increasing tension in Helen Dunmore’s Talking to the Dead, and I have written a novel about a woman discovering what really matters in her life, which I’ve set against the backdrop of a category five hurricane (write what you know, write what you know . . .). Sometimes, however, it’s easy to feel that the weather is just too on the nose. 

Last week I said goodbye to two members of our Breakfast Club. On Saturday, in brilliant sunshine, Dennis was laid to rest. The Covid rules were relaxed with hours to spare, so his service could be held in a church with family and friends, then we were able to gather at his graveside for the committal service, then in a lakeside garden to break bread and share favourite memories. Six months after his death, this funeral was truly a celebration of a life well lived; the warm summer day was perfect. There was a single Monarch butterfly flitting amongst us. In a novel, it would have been too much. 

On Wednesday, in a cold, heavy rain, Jim was sent off with a full Catholic Mass. His illness was sudden, unexpected; he leaves behind his wife, who is living with Dementia. I pretended the rain was disguising my tears. 

And then, on Friday evening, Rose, another of our friends who was living with Dementia, passed over to the spirit world.

So much loss.

The week was not improved by visiting politicians I strongly dislike and do not support. One had been poorly briefed about the new care home building project he was there to announce; he pointed out the “beautiful view” the residents will have of the lake (the current home is actually right beside the lake, with an even prettier view.) He seemed oddly focussed on looks: “We’re going to build the most beautiful long term care home this town has ever seen,” he said. Well . . . thanks. How about the staff? How about the funding? How about the level of care? How about all the promises made a year ago which have not yet been fulfilled? How about making that $3/ hour pay rise for PSWs permanent? 

I know how hard working they are, the PSWs at my husband’s care home. I know what hours they put in, how often they work over time, how much they love the residents, the many, many things they do far above and beyond their job descriptions, how little support they receive from some quarters.

People are free to raise money however they choose, of course (so long as it’s not illegal). People are free to spend their money however they choose. I know this. Even so, my heart broke to read of people “spending” $1,000 for a burger and pop and the chance to hobnob with said politicians. I hope everyone who donated $1,000 to the re-election campaign also wrote a $1,000 cheque to our local food bank, or community kitchen. How many meals would $1,000 buy? How many people could be fed with $1,000 worth of groceries? (How little will $1,000 truly buy in terms of re-election TV or radio ads, glossy posters, team retreats, office supplies, whatever else the money is spent on?)

Jim was a friend I rang when I needed to rant. In turn, I was a friend he rang when he needed to cry. We also laughed a lot together, but, most of all, we were both good listeners.

“Where you used to be, there is a hole in the world, which I find myself constantly walking around in the daytime, and falling in at night. I miss you like hell.”  -Edna St. Vincent Millay 

Reframing

My sister introduced me to reframing years ago, and it’s something I’ve been using successfully every since. It ties in well with other inside-voice chants of mine: It’s all about choices! Look for the silver lining! Onwards, with love. We regularly text each other with a fact and our re-framed take of that fact - from the super simple (I invited a friend for tea on the deck but it’s pouring rain . . . but how great for the garden, and OK, now I’m going to have to hoover the worst of the cat hair & clean the washrooms) to the more serious (Doug’s absolute lack of recognition when I visit breaks my heart . . . but I love that he’s no longer angry or sad when I leave, and I’m glad to think he’s not lonely without me when I’m not there). It’s becoming, slowly, a (good) habit - but it’s still not automatic, and it’s certainly not always easy. 

Shovelling snow in North Bay, November, 2017 (We cleared the driveway even though we didn't own a car . . . but how lucky were we to be able to move the snow, to get the fresh air & exercise, to reap all the benefits of living in a country with such glorious winter weather?!)

And then, every so often, I discover another way of looking at things which seems to make the process of reframing a titch less difficult. I was recently introduced to a wonderful blog, and the line in this post really spoke to me. “Having never been a 10 year old boy, sometimes I forget that he hasn’t been either, and all of the things he’s going through are absolutely new to him, too.”

Taking photographs in London, England, 2017

Ah! Lightbulb! Doug has never before been a person living with late stage Dementia, and I have never before been a caregiver for a husband living with late stage Dementia. All the things he’s currently going through are new to him, and new to me. We both have to adjust, but we’ll get through this. (It’s only a learning curve, not dissimilar to the learning curve I’m experiencing with my new job.)

Researching, Normandy, France, 2017

I have also recently re-read a workbook, Forget Me Not, which Doug started (but never finished) in November 2017. At the time it was so sad to watch him struggle to write (hindsight, hindsight - he could still write then!) but I’m glad he captured and saved these few words. “What comforts you when you’re upset? My wife - always.” 

“What comforts you when you’re upset? My wife - always.” I hope this is still true. 

On Not Judging

I  judge. All the time. I form instant critical (negative) opinions based on little to no evidence  . . . and I’m sure there are many more times when I’m not even aware that I’m being judgemental because I’m viewing life through my personal, deeply held belief system. (Life would be bleak indeed without books. Travel is the greatest life experience. Education is important. Wealth is only an indication of wealth.)

I have just started a new teaching job for the summer, which I am absolutely loving. I’ve changed the route I take to campus, however, so as to avoid a billboard with a photoshopped (I am assuming!) picture of a very slender woman in a tiny bikini: “Fat Attack. Summer 2021. This is MY summer.” 

Who came up with that advertising campaign? Who okayed it? Was that really the best they could do? Did they not think about the message they’re giving their viewers? 

Really?!  In 2021?!  It’s not enough that I’m doing my very best to survive a global pandemic . . . I’m also supposed to be worrying about having a beach ready bikini body? As if my body shape &/ or the number on a scale is in any way connected to my self worth. As if my body &/ or that number on the scale is not the very least interesting thing about me. As if anyone at my funeral will comment that yeah, I was a kind person, but too bad about that belly/ those extra pounds. As if thinner = happier, or thinner = better, or  . . . . This is an old rant: it makes me tired, it makes me angry, and it makes me sad. But I will keep ranting, and pushing for change, because change won’t happen with silence. 

Oops. That was only supposed to be a brief example of how much I know I judge complete strangers, and how society makes it so easy for people to judge complete strangers.

Nope. Not including a photo of that dang billboard here - the advertiser needs no more publicity. Instead, here's a tub of ice cream I recently bought myself. And ate. And enjoyed. (And yeah, technically it's not ice cream, because it's dairy-free.) 

I don’t understand anti-vaxxers, but I am trying to listen to them without instant negative judgement. I don’t understand people who support a politician I distrust and strongly dislike, but I am trying to listen to them without instant negative judgement. (So far epic fail in both cases, but I’ll keep trying.)

Piper, my cat, continues to teach me what truly unconditional love looks like. 

It’s not at all helpful when someone tells me that, “I would never do X! I could never do that!” 

Move a loved one into a long term care home. Visit every single day. Not visit every single day. Take a loved one off drugs. Put a loved one on drugs. Take a loved one home for a visit. Not take a loved one home for a visit. 

I don’t know what I’ll do until I’m faced with making the decisions I have to make, but then I do the very best I can with the information I have.  

I will try my best to support whatever decision someone else makes for her loved one - I only ask in return that that person do the same for me. Without judgement. 

Better Living Through Chemistry

I was raised by a Physicist-Mathematician and a Biologist - so it’s not entirely surprising that I believe in Science, fact-based decisions, empirical evidence. (Please, please, please don’t send me a FaceBook “article” about how adding mushrooms, coconut oil, and rosemary to a diet, or eliminating gluten, cheese, and margarine, will cure Dementia. I appreciate you thinking about Doug, but rather than forwarding those “scientific breakthroughs!!” to me, I would be happier if you performed an anonymous act of kindness. As of this moment in time, there is no cure for Dementia. Thank you.) 

I am also a fiction writer, so I strongly believe in the power of imagination. Though I don’t think, two years ago, I could have imagined Covid, or how it would change the world, or that in June 2021 both Doug and I would have received our first and second jabs and would be as fully vaccinated as possible against it.  

March, 2021

June, 2021

Post-Covid life will never be the same as pre-Covid life (she writes, stating the obvious) - but the vaccination is helping me see a way forward: yesterday my sister was able to visit Doug for the first time since March 2019. Our nephew, our nieces, my brother-in-law, and my Mum will all also be able to visit him. #family for the win

It’s been hot and sunny where I live this week; when I water my garden rainbows appear, arcing between the spray of water and the seedlings in the earth. (“If you have a garden and a library, you have everything you need.” – Marcus Tullius Cicero) 

It feels especially fitting, given that June is Pride month. Rainbows everywhere. Love everywhere. Doug and I went to the Gay Pride parade in Toronto several times; we both loved giving out ‘Mum hugs’ and ‘Dad hugs’ (yes, yes, pre-Covid, when hugs were risk-free) (and yes, yes, even though I am not a Mum and he is not a Dad). #love for the win #hope for the future