Self-Acceptance

A year after a serious fracture I am still not able to exercise as I would like. The end result? Fifteen pounds overweight and a totally different perception of my own body. Clothes that used to fit me perfectly now hang in my closet unworn as I struggle to find my new self-image in a mirror that tells me over and over again that there are too many lumps and bumps visible, especially in light coloured clothing.

The answer, I thought, might lie in something Oprah apparently swears by; a pair of Spanx.

The saleslady at the store where I bought a pair a few days ago, was not terribly helpful. She showed me her limited collection and then, looking me up and down, said: "What are you, a Large?" I would hardly have needed reinforced underwear had I been a Small....

I admit fully that I bought my Spanx with great misgivings, not knowing what else to do given that we are about to head south to our winter home where linens and cottons are the cool but unforgiving fabrics of choice. I ignored that little voice inside my head that was saying....are you nuts?...
Instead, I paid a hefty $50 and took my secret purchase home, momentary lulled into thinking that I would now feel better about myself.

Once home, I removed the Spanx from the package in the privacy of my bathroom. I hoisted one leg into the flesh-coloured leg opening, then the other. I tried valiantly to pull the Spanx up towards my waist but nothing moved. The fit around the thighs was so tight, the scene reminded me of an episode of "Friends", the one where Ross gets stuck in a pair of leather pants. I started to laugh at the memory and then at myself, as I continued to try to bring the Spanx up from my thighs to my waist. It took me several minutes and required incredible force!

I eventually got things where they needed to be but by then I was so hot and uncomfortable, and the look of these skin-coloured panels holding me in around the middle while above and below, my flesh was being squeezed out, made me aware of how ridiculous I was behaving towards myself and gave me new insight into how far we women will go to try to look perfect.

So I had a bit of a talk with myself. I reminded myself that I am now of a certain age and that I am lucky that my fracture has healed so well. In any case, this look would require getting undressed in the dark, since it would have scared my poor hubby to see me in this type of sausage casing. Furthermore, I could honestly say that I was not willing to spend even five more minutes feeling this uncomfortable. With all due respect to women who enjoy their Spanx, this product is clearly not for me.

I ripped those Spanx off my body, enjoying the rush of feeling free once more. Yes, I am still lumpy and bumpy but at least I can breathe! And if truth be told, I was a little bit ashamed of having bought into the whole idea that you can cheat your way to a smoother figure. From now on, people will have to accept me for who I am, not for the way I look. And that includes me.

WISHES AND LAWS

There is a man in Winnipeg who has recently been arrested for not having provided minimal care for his aged mother after she suffered a fall in the home that they shared. She had apparently pleaded not to be taken to hospital as she feared being put into a care facility. Instead, she asked for a blanket so she could remain on the floor. Her son, perhaps understanding her fear, complied.

It took five days for his mother to die.

I have always believed that my body and my life belong to me, Nobody but me has the right to decide what I do with my life except in the case where my actions might inadvertently injure someone else. Should I decide that I do not want to die in a hospital but rather on a mountain top, a beach, or even a bathroom floor, I feel that I have the absolute right to make that choice. Not only that, I believe that my family and my doctor must support me at that point, not fight my decision.

In the case of someone who has dementia, as the woman in question, it gets a little trickier. Does someone with a failing memory lose the right to decide what to do with his or her life? What if the disease is at the early stages when periods of clarity are still possible? Is a person with a brain tumour automatically deemed incapable of choosing his or her end?

I am  not talking about assisted suicide or euthanasia. I refer simply to the fact my life is mine, to do with what I feel is right for me at any given time. I am an adult. I have raised my family and paid my taxes, I am in debt to no one. Why should I not be able to choose where and how I will die?

Statistically, most of us will end up in a hospital or institution. It is simply easier to hook someone up with a catheter and ply them with morphine injections than it is to try to keep them clean and comfortable at home. It also transfers the onus of responsibility onto the medical profession and relieves the legal complications a doting son might have to endure if he were to honour his mother's last wishes.

That doesn't mean it is the right choice for everyone. I, for one, would be horrified to die in a hospital and would do everything in my power to avoid that scenario. I would much rather lie on the floor of my home and wait for Nature to do what it eventually must. The only way to ensure that my choice about my life can be met and respected, is to state very clearly what I want and then back it up with a legal document that would protect my loved ones.

Sadly, the woman in Winnipeg seems to not have left a Living Will behind. Her son, will, therefore, likely pay a hefty price for what I believe was her rightful choice; to determine where and how she wanted to die.

DROWNING

Drowning is like a slow-motion dance with the rest of your life.

The final choreography is heavy in its weightlessness, each little movement bringing you closer to the truth of who you are.

Something as sharp as broken glass enters your mind, cutting veins at their deepest, causing blood to rush out of ears, nose, mouth.  Blood, like blue water, can becomes beautiful and translucent, allowing us to glimpse the hidden folds of our own time. It does not flow but pools instead, shifting sand into old, nearly forgotten wounds.

I take two steps forward in the shallow water that is my destiny.  The ground beneath me falls away almost instantly. My mind spins in disbelief as my toes try to stretch towards a bottom that is no longer there. Water simultaneously washes over my head, blurring my vision and muffling sounds. Electricity surges through my entire body. A split second and everything familiar no longer is. I come up for air, try to find the horizon. I keep my head above water and breathe. I notice the most mundane things passing by me; floating seaweed, a cloud, the sound of my own heart, even as fear beats heavy fists against my ribs.

Who is watching? Can anyone see my anguish, so raw and exposed? Life, like death and birth is propelled by a force from beyond the stars. We start out like water and end in dust, dancing for a brief time in between. We do not realize until the moment of truth, that this must all be done alone.

Then comes a silence that envelopes me and erodes my thoughts. It enters my mind like creeping vapour and settles in corners I cannot fathom. Memories come from afar as though in a dream.
I begin to soar, first over water, then above the trees, my belly skimming the highest branches. I look down at all the places where I have lived, all the people I have loved, and my heart rejoices as the wind kisses my cheeks.  Air rushes past my ears as I pick up speed and glide with ease over great distances. I see the room where you first looked at me with intimate eyes, the very spot where you made me tremble with unquenched desire and a peace descends upon my heart.

On a table I see my name in red ink, angry slashes on a white page. I come up for air once again. I absorb that the sky is still blue in spite of my own tragedy. The world will continue no matter what happens to me. I reach out but can only feel my own deep grief as well as joy at having been loved.  I am still dancing, not yet ready to be touched by a watery hand.

And then I understand completely. Memories are more painful than the cuts of knives, and water, fluid, clear, intoxicating water, is much more powerful than metal.  I can become a prisoner of my own fear or I can let go and allow the dance to take me to the place where even the mirror does not recognize me.

HOME IS WHERE YOU HANG YOUR HEART

It doesn’t really matter if immigration takes place because of war or persecution, or simply to try and give your children a better life. The mere act of migrating from the country of your birth to another means the migrant will forever be torn between two places; the one he loves because his roots are there and the one he loves enough to try and transplant himself.

I have lived with this duality for most of my life. I arrived in Canada as a child and I have grown to love and value being a Canadian. I have contributed to Canada's future by working hard and giving it two children, one grandchild, and over time, many tax dollars! I have buried loved ones here, made lasting friendships and traveled from coast to coast, appreciating our Canadian diversity and vastness and beauty at every turn. I am a proud ambassador of most of what Canada stands for and can get quite cranky when I hear unjust criticism of it.

But I admit freely that I have never lost my yearning for the light and the language and the music of my birth country, knowing full well that if I were magically transported there this very minute, I would feel like a total stranger. The country has moved forward without me and the span that has created can no longer be bridged.

What we immigrants really pine for is not so much a physical place as a moment in time that is long gone. This is why we get so excited when we stumble upon a restaurant that serves foods we grew up with, or hear a song in our mother tongue; it instantly transports us to all those lost moments and allows us a few seconds of reprieve from those feelings of permanent loss. One could say that to become an immigrant is to live in a permanent state of grief and that this dull ache becomes totally acceptable over time, as the positive aspects of the new chosen life, hopefully outweigh the negatives one has opted to leave behind.

I have been a proud Canadian for 50 years now but I know that I will forever long for a pocketful of memories that keep a certain light and language and music, alive in my soul.

 

January

I was sitting at my hair dresser's this morning, sipping a latte and reading about William and Kate in a magazine. It was either that or read about the Kardashians  and I really wasn't up to that. I wish them well but I think they should all be shipped to a far off island.
I was lamenting the fact that it was -36 outside and that my boots, which I had hoped would see me through one more winter, had started to leak this week. I reviewed, in my head, all the things I still have to do before tomorrow and then got that niggly feeling that I had forgotten something.
And sure enough, I had.
I had forgotten to enjoy the moment I was in! How many more good moments am I entitled to before Fate intervenes? Like learning to tread water, I am teaching myself to not hurry forward all the time nor to look back over my shoulder at things that have already taken place. That's a waste of a precious commodity; my own time allotment. But sometimes I forget and fall back into my old pattern of wistful nostalgia combined with a kind of 'must-do' nervous energy.
My hairdresser, a young woman of 39 who looks all of 20, perhaps got a whiff of my winter mood and suggested that I might do something dramatic with my hair. The old "you can always grow it out" mantra worked. With only a second's hesitation  I gave her the go-ahead and returned to my reading, leaving her to get creative.
When I next looked up, two inches of hair were gone and the rest was layered and wispy. I finished my latte, put on some fresh lipstick, paid, (Woo-hoo, I am now entitled to a senior discount!) got back into my heavy coat and leaky boots, and left for home feeling good about absolutely everything.
It's not the haircut, although a new look is always psychologically refreshing. No, it's the fact that I took the time to just be and to savour everything around me; the flavour of the coffee, the sound of the scissors snipping away, the photos of Kate Middleton, now pregnant like my own daughter was not long ago. And yes, even the feeble sunlight which I enjoyed as I walked home in our  frigid weather.
With no other thought than getting inside as quickly as possible, I turned into my walkway, fished the keys out of my pocket and opened my front door. A wall of warmth greeted me as my sunglasses fogged up and my nose dribbled. Our old dog, deaf now and no longer very energetic, wagged his tail upon seeing me. As I unzipped my coat and removed my boots I caught a glimpse of myself in the hallway mirror. The woolen hat I had worn had given me static electricity and I no longer looked anywhere near as glamorous as I felt!
But that's okay. I had a great morning in spite of everything. None of us know how many more winter days we will experience in good health so I'm glad I took the time to enjoy this one. I wonder if the Kardashians know anything about living in the moment?

Christmas Gratitude

It goes without saying that the most precious gift to come my way this year is our grandson, a strong and healthy boy with lungs to match and a smile that melts our hearts.  But there were countless other blessings as well for which I am most grateful.
One in particular came in the form of an unexpected gift.  In the fall, a very dear friend of mine lost her elderly mother. She had been chronically ill for quite some time so it was not a surprise when things took a turn for the worse. Nonetheless, it is always a shock to lose your mother and my friend was quite sideswiped by how intensely she felt her loss.
True to form, however, she and her sisters did what their mother would have wanted them to do under the circumstances. They got organized, rolled up their sleeves and got to work. There were phone calls to make, cards to send out, and an entire apartment to empty. Time for grieving would come soon enough.
I first met my friend’s mother some 25 years ago when she would come to our city to visit her daughter. My friend would pick her up at the train station and then give her free reign in the kitchen where she always took all the cupboards apart so she could wash down and then re-paper the shelves. It drove my friend nuts but she never complained because she knew it was a gift from the heart, something that made her mother feel useful.
Every time she came I would make it a point to go and say hello to her, partly because she was a very nice woman and I enjoyed talking to her but also because my friend objected strenuously to her smoking in the house. This meant she was often banished to the garden where she would sit alone puffing away, much to her daughter’s displeasure. It was her only vice, as she once told me, one she was never able to give it up, not even when her health went into serious decline.  As an ex-smoker myself, I was not as offended by her bad habit as my friend was so I would sit with her on the porch and we would have these brief little chats about motherhood, about recipes, her grandchildren and above all, my friendship with her daughter, a full ashtray on the table between us.
I was genuinely saddened when poor health prevented her from further visits a few years ago, sadder still when I heard that she had passed away. I was happy however, to note that all of her daughters had managed to spend quality time with her at the end and that they had had the opportunity to say their good-byes. Her courage was extraordinary for she did not want to linger and go piecemeal once she learned of her final prognosis. Upon hearing it she made sure that her ending would be dignified and on her own terms. This was a great comfort, even to me.
A few weeks ago my friend came to visit me with a little bag. Imagine my surprise and genuine delight when I opened it and discovered a beautiful china tea cup that had once belonged to her mother. What an honour to be given something that she had treasured throughout her life. A gift like that is immeasurable in value because you then hold a piece of that person’s history in your hands. It connects you forever to that person and to those she loved. In my case, it has added a new dimension to the bond with my friend because by entrusting me with this cup, she is telling me that I have a lasting place in her heart. There is no better gift than that.

 

Unconditional

I have been very busy since becoming a grandmother. Our little man arrived ten weeks ago under blue skies which I pray is an indication of many such days ahead. One doesn’t want to be greedy but I wish this precious boy all the happiness this world has to offer even though I know he will not always be spared his share of hardship and grief.

When I first laid eyes on him, my throat constricted and my heart actually felt a physical burst of love.  I was so happy to see him and I  got teary at the mere thought that my daughter and her husband had finally had their dream come true. They had waited a very long time for this precious gift. Good things come to those who wait.

By no means is our boy an easy baby. He is a light sleeper and he has digestive issues. His parents have spent many nights rocking, cradling, singing, pacing, burping, coddling, worrying.  When I hear these stories I always remember my own time as a new mother, a time when things were done very differently.

For one thing, I think we worried less. My daughter’s crib had a bumper pad and she also had a thick blanket which I used without fear to cover her up to her chin. We had no monitoring device with a video camera for me to observe her 24/7. If I wanted to know how she was I had to climb the stairs, which I did many times a day. Back then we even laid our babies on their sides or on their stomachs to sleep which is absolutely verboten nowadays.  

The six year gap between my two children meant that by the time the second one arrived, the world had moved from cloth to disposable diapers (hurray, no more lugging a heavy diaper pail up and down the stairs!)  and Tommy Tipee had invented the monitor, a hideous set of plastic boxes with thick brown antennas which allowed even our neighbours, who also had this contraption for their baby, to listen in as I read my baby a story every night.

I was without fear when it came to my babies, believing with all my heart that only I knew best what they needed and wanted. It never occurred to me to heed the warnings on labels or government decrees. By today’s standards, that would likely make me a negligent mother. But I am watching my daughter's confidence grow and blossom as she has come to understand her own strength as a mother. It is like passing on am invisible torch.

I have discovered that I am willing to be taught new tricks. I like the video cam monitor very much as it gives you lasting peace of mind. I also like the natural fabrics that are now used for cribs and baby things in general. No more plastic and no more synthetics!  I could not use my collapsible baby stroller in winter but my grandson has a Cadillac model which will allow his parents to push their way through even thick snowbanks.

There are no rights and wrongs. Every generation has to find the middle ground of balance and harmony. For me it was all about getting my babies on to a schedule as soon as possible so that I could lead a life within those bounds. My daughter, in contrast, feeds on demand which means that her baby has no particular schedule.  She doesn’t have much opportunity yet for things not related to baby….but she is very willing to make that sacrifice for the sake of her son’s well-being. If only we had known then, what we know now…

As much as I am learning how to be a modern grandmother, my daughter has a new-found respect for me as a parent. You can’t really tell anyone how tough it is to be a parent until they are in the game. It’s nice to have that acknowledged.

So we are clucking along, my daughter and I, like the two mother hens that we are,  watching and loving our little man from our respective points of view. He will be all the richer for the unconditional love which flows so freely towards him, allowing us to cull the best from our combined experiences. Everyone benefits when things are done lovingly and respectfully.

 

As I said, I have been very busy.

Find Your Courage

This month marks the eighth anniversary of Kelly-Anne Drummond’s murder, a young woman I unfortunately never got to meet but who worked on the same film as I, “Dreams and Mirrors”, the year before her death. That coincidental link has haunted me for years, especially as her murder took place at a time when I was actively researching and writing about the topic of abuse and the code of silence that still surrounds it.

Statistically, Kelly-Anne was just one more Montreal woman who lost her life in a ‘domestic’. As the story of her tragedy unfolded, however, and her accused boyfriend went to trial, I saw many photos of her and of her grieving mother in the newspaper and the story suddenly had a face and became very personal. My heart went out to Kelly-Anne’s mother, Doreen Haddad, because I also have a daughter and could fathom some of what this mother was likely going through. I finally met Doreen six years later.

It was at the screening of “Dreams and Mirrors” which had been dedicated to Kelly-Anne. I could see that Doreen wanted to use her tragic experience to benefit others and I knew that I could help. We talked about making a film to highlight the red-flag moments and we expanded the idea to include a web presence so that it would have maximum impact on the targeted audience; young women who believe that having a boyfriend, even one who does not respect you or treat you well, is better than having none.

There were problems from the get-go, from a sponsor supposedly interested in new media projects but who never attended any of our meetings, to the cost of setting up an interactive website. Funding was an ongoing issue. Schools I approached thought it was a great idea to make a video on the topic to generate a discussion on violence and abuse in relationships, but they had no budget to actually commission such a film. The truth is that the topic of domestic violence makes everyone uncomfortable.

Thanks to a producer friend who did all the legwork while I was overseas for six months, I was able to at least get an on-camera interview with Doreen.  I asked a colleague in Toronto to help me and he drove five hours in rain and hail to come do so.  We then spent an entire day with Doreen at her home and got her to tell us about the days and weeks leading up to Kelly-Anne’s death and the cruel details of her actual murder. As my colleague, a father of two daughters later said….it was the toughest thing he ever had to film.

It would be another year before we were able to edit the footage, again with the aid of a colleague who gave of her time and allowed me the free use of her editing equipment. All the people involved agreed to help me tell Kelly-Anne’s story because, like me, they believe that the subject of abuse and domestic violence should not remain taboo.  What we have, after a two year struggle, is a seven minute film about the red-flag moments that indicate domestic violence is taking place.

It took great courage for Doreen to tell her story so honestly. She wishes every single day that she had known then what she knows now; that her daughter was too proud or maybe just too scared to come forward and ask for help in dealing with her abusive boyfriend. In remembering their last conversation, Doreen tearfully asks “what could I have done differently that day?”

What can any parent do when an adult child is making a mistake that might cost them their lives? That is the question we address in my film, Find Your Courage. To see a clip, watch Caroline van Vlaardingen’s report on violence in teen relationships on CTV on October 26^th. Then please do your part to help educate people and remove the stigma of this dark topic so that the victims themselves, can come forward before they become a statistic, like Kelly-Anne Drummond.

Next Chapter

Summer is quickly coming to a close. Days are already getting shorter and there is a feeling of fall in the air, especially early in the morning when I am out walking my dog. I am so looking forward to September and the impending birth of my grandchild!

So with all this change in the air, I felt it was time to implement a few of my own, which in my case included sprucing up this site. Many thanks to the talented and charming Amelie Roy for her help in creating this new look which more accurately represents the kind of musings I want to share with you as I enter the next phase of my life.

As for the title change from AGING GRACEFULLY to MENTAL SOFA, there is a story behind that: Years ago when I was studying at Concordia one of my professors surprised us one morning by having placed a lump of clay on our desks as we walked into class. “Make something that represents where you go in your mind when you are troubled,” was the only instruction she gave.

Since I perceived myself at the time as someone who has no artistic talent, (I have since revised that opinion) I felt quite paralyzed. I sat there staring at the grey lump in front of me wondering what on earth I might be able to produce. Finally, with class time running out, I formed a crude sofa-like object and called it, when asked to give it a title, My Mental Sofa. I realized, as I looked at the lumpy shape in front of me, that it was an absolutely accurate symbol of where I go for my quiet time. It still stands on my shelf today, decorated over the years by little trinkets, and reminds me that we are all creative in our own right.

On Becoming a Grand Mother

I have just finished reading a delightful book, Isa and May, by Margaret Forster, which is about a granddaughter’s quest to understand both of her grandmothers better. Naturally, this has got me thinking about my own grandmothers, especially since I am about to become one myself. I am taking this rite of passage very seriously and I am savouring every moment leading up to the big day.

Such was their influence on me that I still think of my grandmothers with amazing frequency in spite of the many years they’ve been gone. My paternal grandmother, unfortunately moved far away when I was still quite young and suddenly died shortly afterwards.  The few memories I have of her are, however still sharp and clear. I might add that every time I think of her I feel a strong physical connection to her. I can totally recall sitting in her lap, fingering one of her brooches or sitting next to her as my grandfather serenaded her, which, to my great embarrassment,  he did often.  I am told I look like her and certainly I can see from the few photos that I have, that we share some physical traits, most notably our unruly hair.

My other grandmother, the one who actually raised me, is often the voice inside my head. When I was young I thought she was perfect. She was tiny but very strong, well-read but also street smart, generous and kind but also tough as nails. You always wanted to stay on her good side and you certainly never wanted to get caught doing something you weren’t supposed to. She had many rules and regulations, the first one being that a ‘good’ child was praised, a ‘bad’ one, punished. Since I was rebellious and had a vivid imagination, I often got myself into trouble, causing her, poor woman, no end of grief.

In hindsight, I recognize that she was simply doing the best she could with what she and my grandfather had left to give, which after having survived both World Wars, a serious economic depression and immigration late in life, wasn’t much.  That they shared their small house with me is a gift I am eternally grateful for even though I now see that the atmosphere in that home was not exactly ideal for a young child. Emotionally exhausted elders are not necessarily the best child-minders, even if they are well-meaning and loving in their own way.

I would like to do better now that my turn is coming. So I think about all this as I prepare to receive the newest member of our family and I ponder what it is about being a grandmother that thrills me so. For one thing, it’s a chance to share the joys of motherhood with my daughter. Soon she, too, will know what it is to experience the miracle of childbirth, the perfect harmony Nature provides. It will surely enrich our mother-daughter relationship by putting us on a more equal footing; two women who are both mothers.

On a more personal level, becoming a grandmother means that I have come full cycle. I am now at the point where my grandmothers were when I was born, with the chance to impart upon my grandchild some of the legacies these two women left with me. As a grandmother, I will become the nurturer of our collective cultural traditions as well as the keeper of our family lore. I will be the bridge between the past and the future of our clan, in order to give my grandchild a true sense of self within that circle.

I am grateful to live in a time of peace and prosperity and to have the energy and good health my own grandmothers did not. I will make sure that my grandchild knows how lucky we both are. I look forward to the day our little one arrives, to loving it with abandon and to seeing if by chance I have passed down my unruly hair.

Water Damage

What I didn't need, shortly before going away for three weeks, was a flood in our living room. But that is what we got last week when we woke up and found a little lake at the foot of our stairs and a giant water bubble on the adjacent living room ceiling.
At first I thought we'd had a leak in our bathroom but it turns out to have been a valve inside a closet which controls the water to the roof garden. Being in a closet, we never noticed that it had sprung a leak and that the water was working its way down between the walls.
What a mess! Although it was pointed out to me that it was lucky to have happened while we were still here, and not a week after our departure. So true.
We called our insurance company who sent someone that same day to have a look. The man very emphatically said that the entire ceiling (which was then still dripping into a bucket) would have to come down as mold would grow and possibly spread beyond the immediate area, one rippled wall would have to be replaced and the floor, where it had gotten wet, would also have to be replaced, re-sanded and varnished to match the colour. I explained that we were about to leave for an extended trip....not a problem, said he, we will do the work while you're gone and we will move all your furniture out!
The thought of having strangers in our house during our absence and more to the point, having them moving our personal things about, did not seem like a good idea to me. But before we could even object to that, the man told us that since we live in a condo, their insurance would also have to be involved. We waited three days for that representative to come and assess.
His evaluation was that repairing the floor would not be enough, the entire living and dining room floors would have to be pulled up and replaced, sanded and varnished....because there might be moisture underneath.
By now we were less than a week away from our departure and we still did not have a final decision on who was going to pay for what. And if we didn't want the work done while we were gone we would have to face living with the turmoil and plaster dust when we get back which made the idea of an extended holiday rather pointless.
With the weekend upon us we decided to take matters into our own hands. We called our own contractor. His assessment of the work is less dramatic than that of the insurance men. Because we know him and trust him, we feel confident in his opinion and in letting him work while we're gone.
Interestingly, with all the time that has elapsed since this first happened, our floor has had a chance to dry out nicely and now looks the same as before. Time really does bring counsel if one only has the patience to ride things out....
We have only made an insurance claim once in all the years we've been married and as I recall, we did not get the full value of our loss at that time. In our present predicament and with a hefty deductible, we have decided that it is in our best interest to repair the damages and pay for them out of our own pocket, during a time that suits us, than it is to wait for two insurance companies to come to an agreement. No doubt they will still be at it on the day of our departure.

Spring

I always feel energized after my early morning walk with my dog. On today's walk we saw several robins hopping around and a magnificent red-winged black bird singing his little heart out. Birds are chirping and rustling in the trees and shrubs along the canal where I live and the dog is busy sniffing exciting new scents. Nature is coming back to life all around us.

So it is with sadness that we received news last week of a death in the family. A much-loved uncle has passed after a long, interesting life. He was 93 and had been in frail health the last few years. In photos that his son sent us just days before his passing, we could see that he was tired of living. His eyes had that look that comes with a pre-eminent departure, a look that seems to say….I no longer have the vitality to be here….In that sense, it wasn’t a tragic death at all, yet for us who loved him, the turning of that page leaves a hole.

My husband used to tell me about his uncle long before I ever met him. He was a Naval Officer, a devoted son to his widowed mother, a supportive older brother to my mother-in-law. To my husband, who lost his father at a young age, he was a surrogate father. When I first went to the family home where my husband was brought up, I saw a framed photo of his uncle in his naval uniform and I saw for myself that his handsome face showed the humour, determination and kindness hubby was always telling me about. When I finally met him he did not disappoint. His face was open and smiling and full of curiosity and I could see that he had influenced my husband greatly because they had many of the same traits.

In subsequent years, after he had retired, he made it a point to come and see us when we would visit my mother-in-law and we even managed to make a few day trips together, once, to the delight of our son, to visit a war ship, another time to explore the walled-in city of Carcasonne.

In spite of the fact that in his later years he had to look after his wife who suffered from dementia, he was always in a cheerful mood, always interested in what others had to say. He never bemoaned his fate, never complained. He wasn’t a very tall man but he made up for that by always carrying himself with great dignity. He was an excellent tennis player and a graceful dancer. He was, above all else, a loving father to his children.

Of the many lovely memories I have of this uncle, the most enduring one is surely his arrival at our niece’s wedding a few years back. He was in his late eighties, recently widowed and had survived a serious back operation, yet he walked as erect as ever, in a pin-striped summer suit, white shoes and a a killer pair of sunglasses. He smiled at everyone but saved his brightest for the bride. And afterwards, in the evening when the music started he could be seen asking all the ladies at the reception to dance.  And dance they did; The paso doble, foxtrot, cha cha. He knew them all and he executed his steps beautifully on that dance floor while the rest of us watched in awe and clapped.

On our next visit we could see he had diminished slightly. His hearing had gone and he walked a little slower, with a bit of a bend in his spine. He was still interested in everything but without being able to hear properly, the strain of following a conversation sometimes proved too much. He ate less and napped more. On the morning of our departure, hubby tiptoed into his room to say his good-bye. He kissed his uncle on the forehead and told him how much he loved him which is a wonderful thing to have done because it turned out to be the last time we would see him.

 Although this spring has brought our family heartache, it has also brought great joy, for we have recently found out that we will become grandparents in the fall. One life gone, another well on its way.

Let's Start Talking

“As abuse often begins in teenage relationships, preventive programs are essential to ending the cycle of domestic violence. Everyone has the responsibility to step up and end violence against women.”

Ulester Douglas, Director, Training for Men Stopping Violence, Atlanta, GA

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I thought of this quote when I watched singer/dancer Chris Brown give an electrifying performance during the recent Grammy Awards. I wondered, as the audience cheered and clapped, if he had really repented for having been physically abusive towards the singer, Rihanna with whom he was living at the time, or if he was still the same insecure young man who had allowed his anger to morph into rage, turning the woman he supposedly loved into his punching bag back in 2009.

Only time will tell if he has learned to take responsibility for those actions and managed to turn his thinking about women and violence around.

In the meantime, we all have a collective responsibility, to do our part to end violence against women whether it’s taking place in Hollywood or in the house next door.

The overall annual cost of domestic violence here in Canada is in excess of $6.9 billion. That’s to cover lost wages plus a range of services victims of violence need, from police intervention, employment insurance, medical costs, counseling and legal costs, child-protection agencies, food banks and temporary shelters.

In the city where I live, which is not even the largest in the country, police receive 15,000 conjugal violence calls annually.

Of those, an average of 22 a year, end up being homicides.

The assumption that things automatically improve once a woman walks away from violence to re-start her life, is to grossly simplify the facts. Women who have been abused have a higher need to visit emergency rooms, rely more on food banks, require longer employment insurance payments and use legal aid even years after their ordeal. Recent research out of the University of British Columbia cites females who end relationships because of violence, continue to be plagued by health issues, legal troubles and economic hardships long after the event, translating into a cost of $13,162 annually per woman.

Here are four things we could do that could make a difference:

·         Find out what the stats are for your city/town.

·         Talk about them to start a dialogue and brings awareness to your community.

·         Donate time, money and/or clothing to organizations that work to protect abused women and children.

·         Make sure to teach your sons/nephews/students to express anger constructively and to treat females respectfully.

Because the real cost of domestic violence is a society full of emotionally wounded children, some of whom will grow up to be bullies, while others will become their victims.

Meryl does Maggie

The film “The Iron Lady” is surely one of Meryl Streep’s greatest acting achievements. Her interpretation of Margaret Thatcher at the height of her power is nothing short of brilliant; her depiction of the ailing, elderly, demented Maggie, sublime.

Some critics have a different view of the film. It has been expressed by some, including Mrs. Thatcher’s children that the release of this film while the lady is still alive is insensitive, and that portraying her dementia so graphically, is intrusive. I beg to differ.

Whether you liked her politics or not, Margaret Thatcher was a public figure by her own volition and as such she remains a person of interest. She is, therefore, fair game for writers and movie makers, the same way Princess Diana was and still is. That Mrs. Thatcher’s power has diminished as she has aged and become confused, is as much a part of her story as were her years as Prime Minister.

That point aside, a high caliber film like this could do much to get us sensitized to the plight of people who grow old and then suffer the indignity of losing their memory. It doesn’t seem to come naturally to us as a society. Dementia, and Alzheimer's in particular, seem to have become the leprosy of our generation. Yet our population is aging quickly now and many of us will personally know the despair of losing some cognitive abilities or the plight of watching a loved one go through that. Should we not stop treating the elderly as though they are invisible or already dead? Should we not applaud a film that tackles the subject head-on and with great sensitivity?

The film does an excellent job of representing how those with dementia experience their losses. We cannot know, of course, if Mrs. Thatcher really sees and hears her late husband speak to her as the movie depicts, but we surely can imagine how grief over the loss of her spouse might make her faded memories come to life, perhaps as a coping mechanism to dull her crippling emotional pain. Who, watching that very human process unfold in the film could find that offensive other than someone uncomfortable with their own process of aging?

Of course, not everyone is as lucky as Mrs. T. who lives in a large house with staff to look after her. Most elders have to fend for themselves and when they are no longer capable, they are placed in institutions where they are reduced to living in a place they do not recognize and which holds no memories for them. The medical world uses a term to explain the mental decline of severely demented elders: they refer to it as social death, as opposed to biological death.  People with full-blown dementia are often deemed to be of no further use, and are, therefore, considered to be socially dead. This is perhaps what Ms. Streep portrayed best in the film; she made an elderly woman who happened to be Margaret Thatcher, seem very human and even endearing in her present frailty.

The Iron Lady is not a film about Margaret Thatcher so much as it is about the discomfort and anguish of watching an elderly woman fade away.

Christmas Memories

My childhood memories of Christmas do not centre on religion, presents or family meals. What has remained in my memory all these years is the feeling of magic, which is part of the innocence children experience when they are young and which we sadly lose when we discover that the holiday is a man-made event.

When I was a little girl, growing up in a German household, Christmas was a time of many secrets. Although I did not know it at the time, money was scarce in our household and gifts were kept small, although my mother was always very generous. In the lead-up to the big day, there was never any sign of wrapping paper, nobody ever talked about lists or having to go shopping. The only pre-Christmas excitement came from opening a window a day on my Advent calendar throughout December. Everything else just appeared as if by magic, making the possibility of angels and Santa Claus and elves seem very real.

The biggest secrecy of all was around the decorating of the Christmas tree. It was always done on Christmas Eve, behind closed doors by the grown-ups. Kids were absolutely forbidden to watch or participate. To ensure that there would be no peeking, the curtains were drawn and the door to the living room was tightly shut. All my cousin and I could do, was listen to the rustling and murmurings coming through the keyhole as we waited impatiently to see the end result.

Once it was dark, all the lights in the house were turned off and the door was slowly opened. The sight of our tree all decorated and lit up with real candles, never failed to excite us. It was, in many ways, more splendid than the gifts underneath the tree. Adding to the sense of wonder was the smell of singed pine needles, which our grandparents would snip off as they walked around the tree, bucket of water and scissors always at the ready.

Eventually, after the gifts had been distributed, the candles on the tree would be extinguished, one by one, and the lights turned back on. We would get cookies and chocolates while the adults drank mulled wine and sang German Christmas carols.

Although we have, for the most part, kept to our old traditions, there were a couple of years when hubby and I took the kids to celebrate Christmas in Florida.  Near the villa where we stayed was a pool where all the visiting kids congregated to play. It was there that our then five-year old son heard one kid declare loudly to all the others that there was no such thing as Santa. Shattered, our son turned to his older sister and said: “it’s not true, is it, there really IS a Santa!” To which our daughter, truthfully replied that, no, the kid was telling the truth, there was no such thing. Our son’s disbelief was heartbreaking to witness and I remember having to console him for the rest of the afternoon.

This year we had two little children visiting on the day hubby and I trimmed our tree. He and I were snarling at each other because the last strand of lights wouldn’t light up and I wanted that taken care of before the girls arrived. I quickly sent hubby to the hardware store around the corner before it closed to get another strand. He came back with outdoor lights. He went back. He returned with indoor lights this time only the strand was too short. Back he went again. This time he returned with some sort of weird contraption; a net with light bulbs that was meant for an outdoor bush. We should have been laughing but we were both seething by then. He finally got it right just as the store was closing. It was then that I found the spare bulbs that would have salvaged the original strand of lights, at the bottom of the box holding all the decorations….

We hurriedly put the basic decorations up, leaving the rest for the little girls who arrived shortly thereafter. They are six and four respectively so they still believe in magic and their faces, so full of wonder and awe, were the best Christmas present hubby and I could have asked for. They giggled and chatted about Father Christmas as they added some decorations wherever they could reach. I found it in my heart to not try and make the tree perfect after they had left, preferring to savour their pleasure every time I see two balls of the same colour hanging side by side, which in my childhood home would have been 'verboten.'

May you experience simplicity and see the joy of innocence on the faces of those you love this holiday season.

November Snow

I woke up to a white world this morning. The first snow fall is always magical and takes me back to my childhood when winter was just a pile of days and weeks in which to skate and toboggan and make snow angels, instead of being the interminably long period of time it is now. The concept of time changes drastically as you age.

When you are young you never believe that you will grow old. It is something that will happen to other people, not you.

As you grow up you begin to accept that you likely will grow old but later, much, much later. Certainly not now, in the prime of your life! You will be active! You will be positive! Aging can be delayed, postponed, put off for decades!

In your middle years you can no longer hide some of the signs that start to creep into your daily life; a bad back, crow’s feet, having to wear reading glasses. For women, the big one is grey hair, which is like a neon sign, seemingly telling the world that you are no longer in your prime. Some say that gray hair makes you invisible.

Your kids grow up, your friends start to have ailments, some of them serious. Your parents begin to need extra help with certain chores and the mirror offers you proof on a more regular basis that you are aging. The hope, at this point, is that you’ve acquired a bit of wisdom along the way, and a life philosophy to guide you, otherwise this stage can be positively frightening.

And then you arrive at what I call the invisible timeline. Once crossed, and that happens when you least expect it, you cannot ever go back. From that demarcation point onwards, you see everything in a different light.  You may feel youthful but your youth is behind you. You may be healthy but illness is no longer an abstract. You may look great for your age but energy levels have changed. At best, that knowledge  is a very sobering nanosecond, one in which you look in the mirror and see whatever is your truth; you will never become a brain surgeon , never again fit into a size 8, never recapture wasted moments….and yes, those really are your  jowls looking back at you.

Mercifully, once this sobering act is over you are free to live your life as you see fit. Mother Nature (or is Father Time??) help you settle into your new mindset, one in which you clear a lot of mental debris in order to make room for new priorities. It’s a long process, hopefully one that will take many years to complete. With all that clutter gone from your mind, you are free to enjoy small pleasures without guilt.

The snow is still coming down but I am nice and warm sitting in my living room. I think I will read my magazine, the one with Tony Bennett on the cover. At 85, he has just recorded a new album…

A State of Mind

It has certainly been a year of transition in our household. The latest twist, one that came out of left field, is that hubby has retired. A better explanation would be that he has sold his shares of the company at a time when he is still healthy enough to enjoy other activities. In an unplanned, two week period, my husband has gone from being a full-time entrepreneur, to a man of leisure.
With our adult children long gone from the nest we have often been in deep discussions about how ‘retirement’ would look for us when we got there. I had hoped that 2012 would be the year so was a little startled a few weeks ago when hubby announced the moment to leave the company had arrived. With the economy being what it is these days we knew that such an opportunity might not come again for many years, so we jumped at the chance, knowing we would work out the details as we went.

My husband has always loved what he does and he always approached work with a very positive, can-do attitude. Tenacity is his middle name. But many months of battling overseas, combined with a genuine longing to slow down and ‘smell the roses’ as they say, had worn him down and made this past year very stressful for him. You get to a point in life where you simply don’t want to live like that anymore.

These days, the word retirement brings to mind something completely different from how it was for the previous generation. It is no longer about getting a gold watch after 30 or 40 years of being loyal to one company. Retirement today brings many choices to the table and ends up being a time of great transition which might include everything from travel, going back to school, learning a new language, doing part-time work, consulting, mentoring, volunteering, exploring artistic mediums, to sports, or possibly all of the above. . With good health, longevity and the all-important good financial planning, a retiree today can hopefully enjoy these things for some 20 or even 30 years.

All those things require a sort of re-aligning of priorities and a financial plan to back it all up. Do we downsize or stay put? Should we entertain the idea of having a second home, either, a country house, a beach condo or a shack in the woods? Is this when we buy ourselves a motorcycle and take off across the continent? Or will we offer our time to work in Africa with AIDS orphans for a year?
The biggest and most immediate change, or so people tell me, will be to our daily routines. Hubby will apparently now want to ‘do’ stuff with me all the time and will, therefore, cut into my time. Luckily, we have always traveled well together and we have equally always been very respectful of one another’s space which speaks volumes now that we really need those qualities. No doubt he will continue to cycle and train for his marathons, leaving me to pick the films we will see or the art galleries and museums that are of interest. We balance each other well and that may make this whole retirement business very enjoyable.

One thing is for sure. Retirement is no longer a destination, it’s become a state of mind, and that means a constant measuring with adjustments as you go.

Remembering

I will address the question of the day, especially as I have actually been asked more than once this week: Where were you on 9/11?


I was in Vancouver, about to film two back-to-back episodes for a series on women and their financial situations. The crew and I had just finished a three day shoot in a beautiful place called Christina Lake up in the mountains and had then driven down to Vancouver along some of Canada’s most scenic routes. I remember how grateful I felt to see such wondrous sights and to travel with such a great group of hard-working, dedicated people. We had, by then, logged many miles together, having crossed Canada from coast to coast in search of our stories, which we often found in small, out of the way communities that required sleeping in crappy motels and eating bad food. So we were excited to finally be in a big city where we were booked into a decent hotel and where we knew we would all be able to satisfy our craving for good, fresh food.

Filming days are traditionally very long so we always had a hearty breakfast. On September 11th I headed down to the hotel coffee shop around 7:00 a.m. With the time difference, the life-altering events on the east coast were already well under way. Our director of photography was already at the table and I noticed right away that he looked ashen. What’s wrong? I asked. He pointed to the tv above the counter, unable to speak.

My first reaction upon seeing a plane flying into a skyscraper was that this was some kind of joke. Like millions of people all over the world, my brain would not compute what my eyes were seeing. My stomach lurched as I realized it was not a joke. I took what I was looking at to be a terrible accident. I sat down and my colleague said a very bad swearword in French.

Other crew members started to trickle in. Nobody in the restaurant spoke above a whisper. We were still trying to get our heads around it all when the tv showed images of the tower being hit. Our collective numbness was suddenly replaced by fear for our loved ones. We started to think about people we knew who lived in New York and we all reached for our phones. I called my husband.

He reassured me that our children were safe, that he had already been in contact with their schools and that he himself was heading home to be with them. He sounded as incredulous as I felt. I was due to fly home the next day but it was already becoming clear that air space was being emptied and that all airports were shutting down.

Next, I called my Executive Producer who had family in New York. They were, mercifully, accounted for and safe. Going home the next day was going to be out of the question. He suggested that we just stay where we were and sit tight until things became clearer.

So my shell-shocked crew and I decided that we would go ahead with the work at hand. We proceeded to the house of our next subject which was high up in North Vancouver with an incredible view of the harbor. It was a brilliantly sunny fall day. I wondered how something so awful could be happening on such a nice day but then we focused on the task at hand. We needed to be doing something normal and familiar.

I remember nothing about the actual interview. I do remember, very clearly, that we all stayed very close and very quiet. That evening we huddled in our director’s room. We stopped watching the news and turned on a movie instead, just to get a reprieve from those awful images. We kept calling home to report that all flights had been cancelled and that we were stuck. We had philosophical discussions about the Middle East, about Palestine, about Islam, and the folly of our times. We did not yet know who was to blame for the attack.

Three days later Vancouver airport slowly came back to life and we headed there with the hope of getting home. I will never forget the sight of all those airplanes as we approached. Vancouver had been one of the first airports to receive American planes ordered to land; the tarmac looked like a giant parking lot.

Inside the terminal, the lineups were long but the chaos was organized. Airline employees were making the rounds and handing out bottled water to waiting passengers. Although we all wanted to get home, we also dreaded getting into an airplane and the mood was thus very somber. The thought of the thousands of victims made me tearful. I was not the only one to shed a quiet tear and it seemed normal to pat the back of a stranger.

In the end, my crew flew out on one plane while I ended up on another. I thus had a few hours on my own to contemplate the greatest tragedy of my lifetime, one that would forever change the way any of us travel. There can be no doubt that we are all more afraid of flying since that day and terribly irritated by the inconvenience of the ongoing security measures that are now imposed on us. The horror and absurdity of 9/11 filled every one of us with collective anger and grief and I wanted more than anything, that day flying home, to be with my children, even as I understood that nothing I could say or do would erase the dreadful images that were played relentlessly, over and over.

I think every generation has catastrophic moments that turn the tide of history. Those who witnessed the liberation of death camps after World War II, for instance were surely also marred by the images before them. The mass graves of thousands of Cambodians, the slaughter of innocent people anywhere, Vietnam, Bosnia, Iraq; even violent death by natural disasters like tsunamis or earthquakes, all are terrible events which the media brings into our homes over and over and over again .

I won’t be glued to my tv this weekend, watching images that are already imprinted in my mind. Instead, I will send positive thoughts to the families who suffered losses and hope that time has helped them heal.

HOME AGAIN

After three months of living abroad I now wrestle daily with being happy to be home and at the same time also missing some of what I have left behind. It isn’t that one place is better than another, far from it. It’s more about how each place makes me feel.


At home everything is comfortable, familiar, predictable and safe. These are all good things and I value them for what they are; the culmination of years of hard work and the trappings of a very blessed life. Above all else, being home gives me access to my children and that is a gift I never can take for granted for it is a given that our off-spring are ours for only a short period of time and that they will eventually make their own way towards where they need to be, which is not necessarily going to be by our side.

Being away from home for an extended period, as opposed to going on a two week vacation, whether to Ireland or anywhere else, immediately offers a different dimension to life. You are thrown a little off-balance every day by new experiences, whether negative or positive, and you always have to check what your reaction to any given situation is. It’s a bit like constantly taking your own pulse and thus getting to know a part of yourself that doesn’t often come out in familiar territory; the excited you, the scared you, the euphoric you, the curious you...

It is through this process of questioning and finding answers that the shedding of old ideas and the embracing of new growth, comes from. This automatically means you feel more alive, living more on the edge, with all senses coming into focus a little sharper. I discovered, through this process, that I have a bit of a nomadic wanderer in me and that living in another culture and climate, far from all that I hold dear, actually suits my temperament and my restless nature. The experience made me more interesting to myself because I gained a new dimension.

I am back home now and happily so. Yet I am not quite ready to lose that part of me that I found in Dublin. I genuinely rejoice at once again having access to family and friends, and of course, those silly little things I missed, like a shower that doesn’t dribble, a clothes dryer that actually dries clothes, the warm colours of our walls, cotton bedsheets and the peaceful view beyond our window, just to name a few. But I confess that at the end of the day, lying in our comfortable bed waiting to fall asleep, a part of me pines for what was in the tiny, noisy flat above the friendly Lemon Jelly restaurant. It's where I discovered that there is more to me than I remembered.

As the saying goes....wherever you go, there you are.

Summer in Dublin

It is a sunny18 degrees here under bright blue skies and anyone who can sit outside drinking a pint of Guinness or a coffee, is doing so. Summer has descended on Dublin at last and the euphoria of being able to shed rain jackets, scarves and closed shoes, is shared even by me.


In the first week of July, street planters, which had mostly been disappointingly empty since my arrival, suddenly were filled to bursting with colourful floral arrangements. I never saw anyone working on them so must assume that those same leprechauns who handle street sanitation were responsible. Every main street and restaurant is suddenly bedecked in an abundance of flowers.

As though on cue, tourists are arriving here as fast as Ryan Air can fly them in. They bring much needed money and a vibrancy that is palpable as one walks along Dublin streets, especially at night when young people from all over the world take over the bars and pubs. Many is the night that hubby and I have been woken from a deep sleep by happily intoxicated people below our bedroom window shouting or singing lusty songs in various languages. Living centrally has its disadvantages.

My favourite pedestrian shopping area, Henry Street, which is near our flat, is filled not only with the usual local shoppers, it now also has mimes, buskers, and students being paid to hold signs that tell tourists where they can go for a cheap lunch, a quick Tarot reading, a haircut. Mothers with prams mingle with street vendors peddling cherries and grapes, while elderly men try to get spare change for tap dancing on a piece of plywood or singing an Irish song. Shopping was never so entertaining.

In the three months I have been here I have gone from being a tourist myself, to feeling native. Just the other day I was asked by a French couple if I knew the way to O’Connell Street. I was pleased as punch to be taken for a Dubliner. On another occasion, I overheard three girls query a route among one another so I went over and showed them on a map the best route to take. I am paying forward the kindness that was shown to me when I first arrived.

On the other side of the Liffey, in Temple Bar and beyond, young smokers mill in doorways, music spilling onto the streets from establishments that advertise live entertainment and a set menu. The Early Bird Special is popular here, especially with North Americans who are used to dining before dark. The cycle of 24 hours is very different here; it doesn’t get dark much before 10:30 which makes for a long day. Hubby and I have taken many walks along the river at dusk when the lights begin to be reflected in the water and the bridges are lit up. Pure magic and it’s for free!

My time here is almost done but I will leave Dublin on a high, a mental summer festival that will be remembered till the end of my days. There have been so many highlights and so many genuinely wonderful moments that I will need months to sort through all my memories. As a writer, I can  now confirm that this city makes a great impact on those of us who need to express themselves with words.