Emergency Landing Part 2

See Part 1 here.

In case there is any confusion on the timeline of all this, it happened a month ago and only now, because of the trauma and ensuing grief, I can only write about it, thanks to a dear fellow-writer who encouraged me to do this to release some of the pain and loss that felt so bottled up inside me. A huge namaste and thanks to all you wonderful readers who shine their light of warmth and healing my way via comments and emails.

I would ask why are ambulances so incredibly uncomfortable? They seem to reverberate with each pebble the tires hit and speedbumps are bone rattling. But we make it to the hospital and I am transferred to another gurney and vitals are unhooked and rehooked and to my surprise my (I view them as my own special) paramedics stay with me in the hallway. I ask them about this and they tell me I am conscious and they want to keep me that way so they show me baby pics on their phones and ask me about myself and I ask them their names and then ask them about themselves. All very gossippy and chatty. 

One of my biggest fears has always been: An emergency hallway in a vast impersonal hospital, all alone, lying on a gurney forgotten, others freewheeling around me, ignoring me. Well, here I was. I can't get hold of Daughter, finally I get hold of Niece, turns out Daughter was out of cell range in her crack of dawn early morning walk. She now heads into town. Nearly 2 hours away. My two paramedic buddies keep me company. There is so much activity around me. Most of it horrific. 

Drug addicts, knife wounds, one naked young woman rushed by me, pregnant. Minutes later there is screaming as a middle aged woman rushes by following the woman. I have never heard such keening in my life as the pain of that woman crying over her dead daughter, the victim of a car accident, her baby inside her. A woman in a side corridor shouting for pain meds, overhearing her, my paramedics saying she goes to every hospital around trying to get a fix. Judy, they all knew her name. A man behind me in the hall raving like a lunatic. Tied to his gurney. Dementia, my medics tell me. Not enough facilities to handle 'em all. So they wind up in emerg. Not to mention the homeless, they pile in here too, not enough shelters. The unknown underbelly of the ERs. Probably everywhere. 

Daughter texts: she has arrived but they won't let her into this section of the hospital, it's forbidden unless I'm dead and she wishes to say goodbye. Our dark humour always saves the day. She has to wait until I'm assessed in triage.

Finally, finally, I'm transferred onto yet another stretcher and wheeled into triage. I am assessed. Things are getting blurry. There's so much activity all around me and beside me. They're asking me about my meds, they are concerned my kidneys are failing, my heart is failing. Suddenly, Daughter is beside me, holding my hand crying. I start to cry. A team of doctors come by and ask me about DNR (do not resuscitate). As I stare blankly at all of them in turn they proceed to tell me in graphic detail what happens if they attempt to resuscitate me. Broken ribs, brain damage, possible stroke. Vegetative state. I look at Daughter, she looks at me. I say clearly: Definitely DNR.

And I resign myself to die. 

Emergency Landing - Part 1

In the middle of the night I come to an abrupt halt. My breathing is ragged, my heart rate is beating at an extremely slow place. I feel it. I do not look at my FitBit as I know I could go into panic mode. I struggle to breathe lying down. I call 811, a health care line. I can barely talk. A kind of insanity has taken over my brain. 811 would have an answer for me if I tell them I have been sick for at least two weeks and my internist, whom I had seen on a regularly scheduled visit, had said I had a virus and it would take 6-8 weeks to recover as he had had it himself. No worries, it just takes time.

811 had no answers but the nurse on duty said very slowly, several times, "Call 911, emergency" "Call 911, emergency". I remember thinking I didn't want to bother them with my trivial emergency. But feeling desperate, I do so.

Within 5 minutes a fire truck shows up and two young cheerful fire fighters bang and clatter into my apartment, wiring me up to their equipment assuring me they are trying to locate an ambulance - many aspects of our health care system here, with a doctor as premier of the province! - is a complete and utter disaster. Finally an ambulance shows up and I am carted downstairs. Our elevator, in a seniors' building, is too small to handle a stretcher.

I spend an inordinate amount of time in the ambulance in the parking lot getting hooked up to all sorts of machines while paramedics telegraph my vitals ahead to the hospital. It doesn't sound good. I look at myself remotely from overhead. I tend to do this when stressed and confused. I find a woman in a pair of men's pjs, partially covered by a 1000 year old hoodie which she uses as a robe, now opened to accommodate the wires plastering her body, and on her feet a pair of worn brown slippers. She clutches her cellphone and her wallet in one fist. No one has told her to pack a bag, locate her purse. She might as well be naked, or a laughing stock.

Its 5 o'clock in the morning now as evidenced by a clock in the ambulance. Too early to call anyone. And what would I say? "I made a mistake? Get me off this ambulance?"

I think of the book I have half read. The Netflix series I am half way through. I think of my bestie Helen who left a book half read before she succumbed to the glioblastoma that squeezed the life out of her. 

So this is how I die, I thought. Ridiculously, in an ambulance in a parking lot, in my old pjs, in my shabby old comfie LLBean hoodie 3 sizes too big for me, old weary slippers on my feet, desperately needing a haircut and someone to hold her hand.

Sunday Selections

First of all. thanks for all the lovely and welcome and comforting messages of support I received from you all, my faithful readers, on my last post. Humbly grateful.

Joining others in this Sunday Selection mix of photo-dumps.

Elephant's Child

From The Highrise

Drifting through Life

And maybe more.

I ventured outdoors for coffee with a friend at my local Timmie's (i.e. Tim Horton's - a massive Canadian café chain)) affectionately known as the "Nazi Café" due to pretty horrendous and contemptuous staff which inevitably has empty tables. Great for the long chat.

Another friend took me out for dinner at our local diner which has solid hearty meals, nothing close to gourmet, but lawdie what a feed. We each took boxes of leftovers home.

I spent a wedge of time at the ocean yesterday which I always find settling and grounding. Just birds and me and the odd shell/stone picker at the beach. I'm not crying as much so healing is happening from the trauma of the past few weeks. The sun was setting and it was a bit hazy which matched my mood.

Hospital grub. Need I say more?

I took this shot sometime in mid October as I was fascinated with the birds feeding on the grass at this park by Mundy Pond (a large lake) which I would run around on better days along with my beloved final dog, Ansa, the best border collie in the whole wide world.

Ah, Ansa, loved and missed by all who knew you.

Blog Break

 

I've put an unimaginable week behind me and I will post about all of it very soon. Sometimes it takes me a while to process traumatic life events. Suffice to say  is I almost lost my life in hospital after an emergency situation and then a few days later my beloved brother died from a brutal effing cancer.

Here is a tribute I wrote for his funeral service tomorrow.

 You left us quietly as you came

Uncomplaining, gently strong,

And you will never know the depth

Of all you left behind for us.

The length of our grief is measured

In our loss and pain and love

But you would tell us to cop it

And laugh at an old joke instead.

Your light is not extinguished

It burns brightly in all the hearts

Who loved you, for all you brought -

Kindness and compassion and care.

Soar with the stars, our Tony

Your earth journey is over

You were the best of us

And your legacy sustains us

Forever.

Sunday Selections

 Joining others in this Sunday Selection mix of photo-dumps.

Elephant's Child

From The Highrise

Drifting through Life

And maybe more.

Hand-painted with real wild flowers silk scarf from Daughter made by her.

I can't imagine ever, ever having 2" plastic nails glued on to my own nails. I couldn't get closer to photo without being intrusive. But seriously?

View from my window today, such a sparkling day. 

Picture from the 1890s in Newfoundland from the book below. These women designed these water carriers for the buckets.

This is the book with fascinating photos from across Canada from the 1890s early 1900s by Edith S Watson.  They were only recently found, literally, in an attic.

Grandgirl sends me postcards with lovely letters written on the back. This one arrived this week from Normandy. She hiked these cliffs. She's an incredible climber in her spare time, of which she has very little.

Sunday Selections

 Joining others in this Sunday Selection mix of photo-dumps.

Elephant's Child

From The Highrise

Drifting through Life

And maybe more.

Grandmother Moon staring in at me through the mist the other night.

A fishing community, Twillingate a few weeks ago.

One of those views from the side of the road, Gambo, Newfoundland.

I take far too many photos of the beautiful city I live in, St John's Newfoundland.

St. John's from the fabulous restaurant "The Rooms" above the harbour.

Waking Up

Dear Diary:

I am wondering at myself for the past few months there. Wondering why I was not picking up the phone when a friend rang or responding when they texted requesting a lunch date, sometimes white-lying a text back saying I was "too busy," sometimes white-lying further and inventing something.

Lying down for a nap today the phone rings from a friend who's supposed to be on a 3 month cruise, I don't pick up and I lay there and thought, what the hell is going on with my non-answering such calls.

And then the bells went off and I realized that 99% of all recent friend contact made to me out here on The Rock is someone requesting something. With the exception of family and friends from the good old days. 

I wasn't mistaken today. Cruise friend had left a message saying she was leaving on October 1st and there was a new urgency in her life regarding the book I had been helping her with (a memoir) . Apparently she had shared the contents with  a friend and the friend had gone ahead and written her own memoir on the same theme and now maybe I could edit the remaining chapters while she was gone and then fire it off to a publisher forthwith as there was a rush now.

Note there is no offer of payment even though a 3 month cruise must cost a fortune. 

I should add she's not alone in these types of requests. I get request for all kinds of free help, writing, editing, accounting, financial and taxation advice. Usually prefaced with "You're so good at this and it will only take you a few minutes." Note upon requesting the free work they also devalue it.

I took a long hard look at myself after playing this message and thought why am I attracting these kinds of people into my life?

Obviously I'm a people pleaser. But when most of my relationships are transactional in some hidden way it makes me stop and reevaluate all of them. A lunch is cheap when you're looking for hundreds of dollars worth of free work.

My energy is compromised as I have ongoing health issues but I note I am rarely if ever asked how my health is. Most commonly I am told "you don't look sick" or " you look full of beans to me." Why thank you, when did you get your doctorate?" I think.

This morning there was an email from someone who wanted a "bit of training" as she was now a treasurer of a group and had no experience with spreadsheets. I responded, of course before the bells went off in the afternoon.

I feel remarkably stupid for not seeing all this before.

I am currently doing paid work for a writer who respects me and pays me well. So there's the upside.

I need to spend more time with friends who want nothing from me, though they are often distant from me geographically. 

And any free labour from here on in is verboten.

Watch this space.  

The Irish in Me

The Irish language stalks me at times. More so perhaps now that I'm older. Even in disuse. as it has to be out here on The Edge, I sometimes grasp for the English. When I sympathize with someone, when I'm searching for the words to express my sorrow, I will throw up "Ta bronach orm" which expresses my feelings far more deeply than the English does. Translated - that's "the sorrow is on me." Similarly when I am happy "Ta athas orm" - the happiness is on me. Recognizing in a deep way that these feelings are temporary, on loan as you will.

A fair part of my education in Ireland was bilingual but in teenage years became quinquelingual - well not fluently but passably. Irish, English, Latin,  French and Italian. Even in English classics teaching, Irish was thrown at us now and again to express frustration "is amadan tu!" which translated is "You're an idiot!" Latin has always served me well being the foundation of so many English words. The Irish language has been passed down here in many words which often delight me when emerging from Newfoundlanders. "I have no meas in that". Being one. Meas is the Irish for value. "What a slebheen!" Sleveen - to pronounce it - means a no good, a layabout.

"Uisce" means water in Irish.  Pronounced "ishka."  The word whiskey is derived from Uisce Beatha (ishka baha) literally the water of life. Take that as you will. 

Some of the old songs I can sing to myself are in Irish, some wonderful poetry too which also does not translate well as it captures the sounds of the sea and the winds and the emotions.

"I heard the banshees* last night," my Granny would say in passing as she made breakfast. And sure enough, down the road would come a neighbour bearing news of a death in the village.

Sure I've heard the banshee myself. When Granny died. And I was far, far away.

*banshee, (“woman of the fairies”) supernatural being in Irish and other Celtic folklore whose mournful “keening,” or wailing screaming or lamentation, at night was believed to foretell the death of a member of the family of the person who heard the spirit.

Sunday Selections

Joining others in this Sunday Selection mix of photo-dumps.

Elephant's Child

From The Highrise

Drifting through Life

And maybe more! 

A couple of days ago at my favourite beach with no one else around. Bliss. Me and the water do something for each other.

I took this shot of the trees and sky but the incredible sky drained the green from the trees.

A new resident in the building places his art all around along with gardening vegetables outside ( we have magnificent grounds)

Another one of his pieces. He's an extremely kind, shy and gentle man.

This is the lake below where I live. I tried to catch a skiff in the shot but I really don't know what happened to it.

I took this shot of Daughter on a nearby cliff when we were away recently in Twillingate, Newfoundland.

This was a lovely old café in the town and I adored how they centered the puffin portrait.

The Unwritable

I don't see many oldies writing about depression so I'm punching down on the keys here today and writing about my visits from the Black Dog.

He's been away more years than I can count and I have written about him before which I will link to later.

My PHC, who is pretty terrific, marked all the stuff going on with me yesterday and ordered lab work on new criteria one of which was B12. Not often done so special requisition.

Then she said: I can put you in touch with a therapist if you are dealing with depression.

Now I seriously had not added depression to my list of issues and I gaped slack jawed at her (further convincing her, no doubt, that I was definitely in the dark clutches of it.) I managed to sputter "Hang on a minute here, I'm NOT suicidal."

So I check in with Dr. Google on the symptoms to refresh myself

The psychological symptoms of depression include:

• continuous low mood or sadness.
• feeling hopeless and helpless.
• having low self-esteem.
• feeling tearful.
• feeling guilt-ridden.
• feeling irritable and intolerant of others.
• having no motivation or interest in things.
• finding it difficult to make decisions.

I would add constant pain and exhaustion and grief to that mix.

And I imagine you could call me full blown and cuddling down with The Black Dog.

These are the forbidden things to write about.

But I do write about forbidden things.

I'm running out of old people who have the unmitigated gall to run off on me and die and not be around to discuss their visits with the Black Dog.

But I truly believe I'm not alone as a depressed oldie.

And I owe an apology to my PHC, she knew.

Links to other posts on this forbidden topic.

Thou Shalt Not

I was thinking today about how I was raised on a whole list of "Thou Shat Nots'

These were all grounded in the following (simple version):

8 shalt nots you will note if you pay attention to such things. These were all hanging in classrooms and churches. All this was gobblydeegook to a young child who had to learn them all for her First Communion and tell the holy priest what each meant  before she made her First Confession, the evil wee thing.

I thought God was a bossy man. Demanding all this from me. Even thinking about such forbidden actions (like disobeying my parents See Number 5) was a criminal action resulting in acres of repetitive prayers as penance after the aforesaid confession, for God, this petty tyrant, would be offended forever if I didn't seek forgiveness for each transgression.

I was one of those kids that preceded everything she uttered with the word why. You can imagine how absolutely annoying I was in asking parents and teachers to explain all the whys in the above 10 COMMANDMENTS (They always sounded like commands from a general to me). I remember the stuttering and stammering around Adultery as I pushed and pushed about how could daddy want another child's mummy.

Coveting was explained as wanting another child's toys or sweets. I had a million of those particular sins, wanting their bikes and train sets and nicer sweets than I had. I kept the priest busy every Saturday keeping track of it all.

Wanting to murder my annoying little brothers was another Big One. They drove me mad in countless ways. But even the thought of hurting them qualified as another Big One. And I thought about it a lot and had to count those thoughts and report them faithfully.

The neighbour boy would steal our balls and puncture our bicycle tires so there was no honouring happening there, let me tell you, hard as I tried and hard as I confessed my failure to do so every week.

All this to say there were no Shalts at all in my wee life. No good stuff. No guidance. No orderly 10 instructions on living in positivity. Just this heavy burden of constant sin, evidence of my own worthlessness. God was disinterested in the good stuff like hugging your baby brother when he fell and cried or sharing your biscuits with a child who never had any.

I thought the Ten Commands from this useless General were an absolute bust. And he should have tried harder with his soldier Moses who did all the chiseling and carving on the mountain top and then had to carry all that gear and big heavy stone on his back on the way back down and then yell at everyone going by that this was the way they had to live now or God would be mad at them and rain hell fire and damnation on them all lickety-split so shut up and listen you pagan heathens. 

And now in my doddery elderly condition I would condense the whole shit show of orders and neediness down to one word.

Kind. Be kind. 

The Ordinary

 I embrace it in times of stress and worry.

Just carrying on doing the do things if my body happens to co-operate that day. And my mind is not seething with "why bothers"

I'll hit 81 next week. (I know I'm as shocked as you.)

I find I am diminishing as I age, much of the time I feel irrelevant. Though I'm trying not to geezer my way through these last few years.

Life is not like before where I couldn't keep up with social demands and entertaining in my own home (I really, really miss that). The phone rings with other old geezers like myself, sometimes lonely, sometimes helpful. I find we help each other out more, picking up or dropping off or just now when fireworks ripped the night sky apart, texting to complain about the helpless animals affected. We've lived that with beloved pets

I don't start sentences with "In my time"

I try not to say "I've seen it all before" - though that's a tough one.

But I have, seen it all before I mean. War threats (try the sixties) revolutionary music, skirts that barely covered the arse (now they buy them ripped but I hold my tongue)and tall boots that were like scaffolding(they never quite went away, did they?)

Like some, I don't complain about modern technology (I embrace every twist and turn - hello TikTok!) or young people - most inspire me and teach me.

I am grateful for all I still can do (on my good days, mark you!) 

One close friend, a year younger than me, has just lost her driver's license. Mine was renewed for 5 years recently and I am beyond happy about that. I still love driving and miss the days when I'd belt across Canada with my dog in tow. My insurance rates are laughably low. I won't jinx it by telling you why though you can probably guess. 64 years of driving under my belt now. I learned on the rough old boreens of Ireland.

I'm rambling on - now I see I am an old geezer.

Here's a few pics.

Dinner last night. A freshly caught salmon from a friend.

A lovely lunch overlooking the ferries and boats a few days ago.

Flowers from a friend today which lifted me up from loneliness for my family of origin. 

Much to be grateful for. And I am.

Question Time

Questions, the social kind,

Looking for answers, yes,

But not bothered by evasions,

Delusions, quirks and quarks

As they by their deft ducking

Reveal a little more 

Of what is safely stored

Not quite concealed

From the saucy

Inquisitor.

1. When do you feel insecure?
2. When do you feel most secure?
3. What do you view as success?
4. What do you view as failure?
5. What's the hardest challenge right now?
6. What do you miss most?
7. What do you treasure most?

 (1) When I think too deeply about the state of the planet and politics, wars, climate change, famine and the upending of so many citizens from their own countries. Not for me, but for my granddaughter's generation.

(2) I had to really think about that and it's in the company of my daughter.

(3) In having helped others, been of service to those around me, in my efforts to be kind by listening and counselling when asked. I know I have been at my best when being listened to and really heard and I've tried to pass that on to others.

(4) When I have been unkind or impatient. See 3. I find myself holding back rather than revealing who I am or not telling those cherished by me how much I love them enough. I was startled recently when a fellow tenant in the building declared her love of me in front of a few others, telling people why. And the warmth from this I felt for days afterwards. I need to do more of this myself.

(5) My hardest challenge has always been self-care. I need to do more of my physio, book health appointments, lose my embarrassment and get the goddam rollator and walk more. Embrace old age rather than trying to dodge it.

(6) I have to say my younger daughter who is estranged from her entire family and friends for the close to twenty years and lives in another country. I would add to that those beloveds who have died, some far too young. Many in the last ten years have broken my heart.

(7) My elder daughter and granddaughter, my family of origin, and my dear surviving friends who never fail to boost me up and call out my crap now and again.

I like this little piece sent by a friend recently.

And please share your thoughts if you wish on the questions.

Much Ado About Nothing.

 I don't really know what I'm writing about here, I'll just go with my own flow. I could transcribe my hand written journal but I'm afraid you'd completely snore off before reaching the end of a couple of sentences.

I am seeing all these pics of my five siblings in Ireland and feeling quite sad and yes, my old friend The Black Dog lurks in the undergrowth of my mind.

WhatsApp and Zoom keeps us all together and I can see my sick brother being taken out and about to old spots and it was a big thrill to see the photo of my four brothers today. I can't remember the last time a photo was taken of the four of them as they live in three different countries. 

All this to say with incredible heat and humidity and yes, loneliness for family,  I need a fainting couch and some smelling salts. I have always hated heat and time in the tropics has been wasted on me. I have never understood the concept of wintering in the sunnier climes like Florida and Arizona. I thrive in the cold, not the heat. And this 95% humidity does my head in. One of the reasons I moved here was to escape the viciousness of Ontario summers. But climate change has caught up with Newfoundland. An island not equipped for heat.

So I've accomplished nothing in the last ten days. There's a huge cooling porch in my building but I would have to put on a nice face and engage socially which feels like a mountain I can't climb at the moment.

I actually drove down to take a pic of JK Rowling's yacht in the harbour in the fog.

And stopped to catch these ducks in the fog in the lake near my home.

Sunday Selections

 Joining others in this Sunday Selection mix of photo-dumps.

Elephant's Child

From The Highrise

Drifting through Life

And maybe more!

Rambling around my apartment time:

I stole a cutting from the conservatory a couple of months ago and put it in this wee wall vase. It's grateful.

I love this mini garden on a side table.

A little tribute wall behind the door in my bedroom of the dear ones lost in the last few years. Some of the kindest people I have ever known. The one on the left is me and my bestie (since we were 6 years old). The two on the right were treasured mentors.

I am editing my part memoir of a stretch of time when I was only 23 years old which had a lasting impact on me. Chapter outlines, character outlines, magnifying glass for my not so good anymore eye sight.

This most gorgeous hand-painted card from a dear artist friend received a few days ago. We have travelled a long, convoluted path together encouraging each other's artistic endeavours. 

Childhood Trauma.

The hospital of 1949 horror still standing, 3rd window from left, 2nd floor.

Indulge me, please, if you would. This is long but heartfelt.

My #2 brother (I have 4) is going through an extremely rough time at the moment on a gurney in a hospital corridor exposed to lights, noise and the comings and goings of strangers. He's only allowed one visitor at a time. If you could call that interrupted and overheard time a "visit". He is very ill with a cancer that has gone crazy in his body and was moved (via taxi!) to hospital yesterday as he had developed clots in his left leg. Public health care in my home country is drastically underfunded and he told me last night that when he asked for a pillow there was none forthcoming as there were no funds for that kind of health care. To call me upset would be understating the whole situation as I imagine myself where he is and would want to die. A 'kill me now' scenario.

I'm in flashback mode Daughter reminded me today.

I'll give you the scene:

A six year old girl (me) in hospital with eye infections after an operation on them, plus a removal of adenoids and tonsils. Blood. Lots. In an adult ward as there were no children's hospitals back then, 74 years ago. Terrified. The adult patients around me "teased" me constantly. In those days child abuse was called "teasing" They told me my parents had forgotten about me, told me I was going blind. You get the picture.

Missing my mother who had two younger boys at home. My bandages were taken off one day and I was told to go into the corner to a baby's cot. Inside that cot was brother #2 with something pouring out of his ears. He was bawling his head off clutching his ears. I remember shutting down completely, holding his little hand. He was only a year old. He still had no words but "mama." 

I worked everything out inside my head. My parents were abandoning us, one by one. But they had missed brother #1 so they must be keeping him. Maybe he was a better child, maybe we were bad children like I was told by the priest at school. All born bad. Only when I had my First Confession would I be cleaned of my  original sin. Maybe I had infected my brother with my sin. As I had already  been told I had infected him with the measles that had put me and him in the hospital. 

Mum arrived that night. She and dad took turns each night. I wouldn't let her go, I screamed and cried and followed her down the stairs hanging on to her and I saw I had made her cry and that made me worse, shouting at her even more to take me and my brother out of there.

The nurses pried me off her and told me how awful I was upsetting her like that and threw me on my bed telling the ward not to speak to me as I was a very bad girl upsetting my mother like that.

My father arrived the following night in a towering rage. He dragged me over to my brother's cot and said I was upsetting everyone, the whole hospital, with my naughtiness and whinging and rudeness, look at my brother crying all the time on account of me.

If I ever did this again, my mother would never visit me. Never. Put that in my pipe and smoke it. Never. And that would mean she wouldn't see my brother either.

And I shut up. I shut up on situations when I shouldn't have shut up. I recognized at a very early age that my feelings didn't count, my voice was of no value. And I could be abandoned at the drop of a hat.

I learned to speak up through therapy and support, not to take things lying down, to call out evil and abuse. To help where I could, to scream and shout at authorities, to advocate for the homeless and seniors in poverty. To see and call out government ineptitude. To write and petition and not ever people-please to make my own life easier and never worry about what "others" might think. My true friends would love me as I love them.

I spoke up today, to my family to do more. To help my little brother more. To get him out of an intolerable situation if at all possible. To fight for him, for that little guy in the cot in the corner, crying himself to sleep. Exhausted.

 

Serious Hot Stuff

Interview on Churchill Falls evacuation, wild fires. In Labrador.

I started my blog way back in the mists of time writing about this. And here I am twenty years later, still thinking, talking and writing it.

Like a nonsense of an oul granny wittering away about her favourite cat.

I moved to Newfoundland for a few reasons. A primary one was climate change. Newfoundland was deemed one of the safest places in the world in which to live.

If you want to read what Gwyn Dyer says about it, here's the link Gwyn Dyer.

Here's the pertinent paragraph:

What price do you see Newfoundland and Labrador paying with regards to climate change?
Newfoundland pays a smaller price than most places. I’ve talked to a lot of people about this; scientists and so on, and I’d say we’re one of the three or four most favoured places, that now have a significant population in the world, to withstand the ravages of climate change because of global warming. Essentially, the oceans are cooler than the land here. We have an oceanic climate and we’re very far north as these things go. Put those two things together and what you don’t get in Newfoundland is what you do get in most land parts of the planet, which is: the heating over land is much higher than the global average.

My direct observations, having lived here now for twenty odd years:

Summers are hotter, far more humidity, a longer fog season.

Birds are hurting. Many, many more are thrown on our shores by unseasonable storms. Hurricanes have taken out a few towns. Wildfires are rampant today in Labrador with a whole town evacuated. Labrador, reminder, home of the Innuit and igloos and dog teams. Migrations are iffy.

Icebergs are getting bigger and bigger as Greenland melts. Awesome for the tourists, bad for the rising sea levels here and everywhere.

Shorelines are changing, vanishing. I noticed that when I lived around the bay and I'd note the changes in daily walks with my dog along the shore outside my house.

And today, as I fold my winter clothes into storage, I note I never had to do that before. There was only one set of clothes when I moved here. A medium set. Now I wear the summer clothes of yore. Light cotton, head band for the sweat. Air conditioning has become de rigeur here now. None in my building, as it was never built to withstand such excruciating heat and there's talk of expensive retro-fitting.

Lawns were never watered, now they are. BBQs and outdoor bonfires are forbidden across the whole island as of yesterday. Unheard of before. Water levels will lower before too long now. 

Grapes are now growing here and some have managed to grow quinoa. More heat resistant paving is being thrown on the roads.

And, yes. the heat season has expanded and heightened to such an extent that private swimming pools are being installed in many homes.

I just placed a hold in the Library on the book The Heat Will Kill You First

I saw several interviews with the author and maybe it's better to know what's coming and plan the pre-exit strategy.

Thoughts?

Narcissism Magnified

 All sorts of thoughts crowd into your head some days. At least they do in mine.

I am so grateful for the massive reach-out in my last post. Like a ginormous hug. I have the best of readers. The absolute best.

It meant more than I can say as I traverse a sad journey alone apart from the support of my family and you wonderful readers.

I had one of those thoughts about aging this morning and I'm throwing it down here.

The natural (unnatural?) instinct of old age is to get more and more selfish. The organ recital for one. Every time I meet some people (fellow tenants, randoms in coffee shops) they launch into their ailments. I call it the organ recital. That's fine but they never offer a question as to my state of being. 

I am blessed in that I have a fellow traveler in our journeys of ill health and we launch into our challenges, big and small with each other and care deeply about ongoing nasty health issues. But that's it for me. I get comfort from her emails and I trust she from mine.

I rarely talk about mine to others unless asked (and I am astonished how rarely I am asked.) 

But around me the bleats go on but I also notice that their language is full of bleats. About everything. And I have to deal with them being in the position I am.

 There is so little joy in these elders' lives and I wonder why. I could list all The Things and they are all the same.

• Nobody calls
• Nobody visits
• I hate the *fill in the blank* here
• I don't like being bossed around.
• Organ Recital.
• I'm bored.
• So and so is pissing me off.
• Nobody cares if I live or die.
• Life was so much better back then.

They've stopped caring about others, feel no need for learning new things or exploring ideas. Have very few hobbies and hate being alone with their own negative thoughts so inflict them on others willy nilly.

 

One of the things I do when feeling down and sorry for myself is to reach out to someone else. Always. 

I was crap yesterday and reached out to my neighbour who's is down with Covid yet again (doesn't believe in masks) and cooked her dinner and dropped it off outside her door. I forgot my grief. Forgot my own stubborn body in those moments. And thought to myself, I just know her daughters won't give a fig and how lonely is that for her? I know she's all about herself when they're around her. So basically, it's self-inflicted isolation. 

It's easy to be kind to the loveables but I find being kind to the unloveables raises me out of myself more. It's more of an effort.

The isolation of old age can be a form of narcissism, A dear friend always maintains that our contrary traits in youth really magnify in old age.

I see it all around me. The What About Me Syndrome. 

Long post. Oops.

Thoughts? How do you deal with it?

MEMENTO MORI

Ben Bulben

The last 3 lines of W. B. Yeats' poem. I sat there one time under the shadow of Ben Bulben and read the entire poem. And looked up finally and saw that of all people, the Clancy Brothers were there too, to pay their respects. Gobsmacked doesn't cover it.

Under bare Ben Bulben's head

In Drumcliff churchyard Yeats is laid,   

An ancestor was rector there

Long years ago; a church stands near,

By the road an ancient Cross.

No marble, no conventional phrase,   

On limestone quarried near the spot   

By his command these words are cut:

               Cast a cold eye   

               On life, on death.   

               Horseman, pass by!

Simple and powerful.

I am struck recently by the number of my blog readers who have died. Leaving memento mori on their blogs, some blogs have vanished. I have some last cards
sent by a few in the mail. With their photos. The Big C has taken most of them.

I can't even count the real life friends who have died. Another twenty five? Two of whom are also seriously ill right now.

All this to say, it accounts for extreme loneliness at times, wishing for that physical shoulder to lean on, the understanding, the depth of compassion and caring that comes from really old friends, the ones who climbed trees with you or cribbed your homework.

I am going through a very rough patch at the moment. Someone I love deeply is going through a sudden and rapid life changing ordeal. And the world is being turned on its axle.

I have tried sharing my depth of sadness out here but have been abandoned, one time physically in mid sentence, a couple of times (I haven't shared it hardly at all) by those on text who are my closer newer friends who live nearby but these have never followed up with questions about how am I doing, and get on with their own demands on my time as if this terrible thing isn't happening.

And speaking of time, I am so very grateful I am busy and involved with three different projects, I light a candle and play some gentle music and sing some of the old songs I would sing on stage back in the day. Self-soothing.

I am very grateful for a blog friend who stays in touch every day as we lurch along together with many challenges but have the honesty to spill it out and commiserate. 

But yes, loneliness stalks me like never before while still grateful I am on this side of the daisies as I view an afterlife as twaddle.

But I think we only hit this point of life when we survive and outlive our dearies and look around us when hurting and go whoa, Nelly, where are they all gone?

My dad. a widower forever, described it to me one time but I didn't listen, there must have  been pain in his voice but I didn't notice. I blithely said "Da, why don't you make some new friends?"

Karma. Ta, Da.

Before I hit the post button, I dove into other memento mori posts I have written over the years and was astonished at how many there were. All the old lovers are dead now, the last one in September. 

Memento Mori