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.