Random thoughts from an older perspective, writing, politics, spirituality, climate change, movies, knitting, writing, reading, acting, activism focussing on aging.
I MUST STAY DRUNK ON WRITING SO REALITY DOES NOT DESTROY ME.
I'm just going to throw randoms out here today. I was looking through some old albums (so many, lord, so many) and selected some that bring me joy with brief descriptions
I love this one of Ansa smelling the wild irises as we hiked the cliffs to Cape St. Mary's which has one of the largest gannet populations in the world.
This was the glorious view from the deck of my last house. I could watch the fishing boats and seals from my front door.
I loved photographing my knitting on old boats and docks.
I must have hundred of pictures of sunsets from my deck at the house.
And for those who wonder about such things - here is a fishing boat posing nicely between icebergs (melting rapidly)
Does anyone else out there keep shaking their heads lately and wishing they could wake up to Kamala as president and an all is well feeling in the chest?
Me too. I find most don't even want to talk about all that is happening in this world right now and He still hasn't been sworn in. I see His idiot son grinning like a maniac as he lands in Greenland planting a virtual flag like Hillary on the peak of Everest. "This is ours now, Daddy, right?" And He grins in response and tells the press in a rambling incoherent mess of an "interview," "We'll no longer call it the Gulf of Mexico, it will now be the Gulf of America."
I only read Him now, I can't look at His great melon face or listen to that awful drawn out whiny voice.
I threw my X account to the curb and restored my sanity on BlueSky and yes, I have cut my news intake by at least 50%. If you need any good soothing series to stream, just let me know and I will share my fixes. For now, BlueSky is a decent place with kindred spirits. I need to know I am not alone in my horror and grief for the world that is now gone. He promises to bomb the tar out of the Middle East as soon as He ascends the throne. Along with controlling Canada and Panama and sending the military into Mexico.
And his tech-bro buddies will now suspend fact-checking on all the platforms.
We are on our own now.
But humour is saving a lot of us from despair. We need to laugh more. And like someone said recently, empathy is the missing factor in all these monsters. We all need more empathy for the pain and suffering so many are suffering.
A repost of one of my most popular posts ever. I miss throwing these fabulous celebrations of women as my mother and grandmother did before me.
Of all the posts or articles I have ever written, this is the one that has gotten the most attention and the most links from other blogs and publications. I reprint it here in its entirety and I am so, so happy this beautiful custom is now being held all over the world and not just in Ireland. Emails from New York, Australia, New Zealand, Scotland and even Germany tell me it is being revitalized. Long may it continue! ----------------------------------------------------------------------
The following is a copy of a column I wrote several years ago. I realize that not many of you may have heard of this beautiful old Irish tradition and thought it deserved another audience. ---------------------------------------------------------------------- Nollaig Na Mban - "Little Christmas" - or "Women's Christmas" as my mother used to call it - always fell on January 6 and was a tradition unto itself. Maybe it was just a peculiarity of the time and place in which I grew up - Cork, Ireland in the fifties and sixties in the last century. (And I don't think I ever thought I would write "last century" with such cheerful abandon!)
I was remembering Women's Christmas and wondering whatever happened to it and if anyone in Ireland is carrying on its charm and wonder anymore, or are we all swept up permanently in the Big Day, December 25 itself. I've talked to some Ukrainian friends here and they celebrate their traditional Christmas on that day - Twelfth Night as it is known in England - but I believe that Women's Christmas was unique to a time and place in Ireland now gone forever. But I hope not.
The day of the Women's Christmas women were supposed to take it completely easy after all the hustle, bustle and hard work of the prior months, with the men now taking care of them and cooking and cleaning all day. I can assure you that this never happened in my house as, like many men of his era, my father didn't know one end of a broom from the other and boiling a kettle was the peak of his culinary skill.
However, my mother was the eldest female of her family so consequently her sisters, sisters-in-law, aunts and mother came around on that day and a smaller, daintier version of the Christmas meal was served. On the menu were: a bird (usually a fine roast chicken), a smaller lighter plum pudding and a lovely cake, usually dressed up in the fanciest of pink wrappers with silver sprinkles everywhere on the pink and white icing. The most delicate of my mother's tea sets was brought out, my own favourite, the lavender and pale green set. I would love to hold one of these little saucers up to the light and put my hand behind it, as it was so fragile you would see all your fingers through it.
Gifts were exchanged, usually the most feminine of presents, perfume or talc, bottles of Harvey's Bristol Cream were lined up on the sideboard and the fun would begin. I was encouraged by the grandmothers and great-aunts to always give my mother a little gift on that day for the woman that she was and I did, from a very early age. I would buy something small in Woolworth's on Patrick Street, a little comb or my personal favourite, those fiercely aromatic bath cubes, which were a whole three pence each. I would wrap it up in layers and layers of newspaper and it was always exclaimed over with the phrase, "Well now, I can hardly wait to use this"!
The coal fire would be stacked up high and already lit in the front room before anyone arrived, with Bord na Mona briquettes piled on the fender around it, and any male showing his face would be banished to some other spot in the house.
I remember the women gabbing all day and in the heel of the evening getting into the stories and songs of which I never, ever tired. My female cousins and I would sense the privilege of being included in all of this, there was a respect in us and never did we exemplify more the ideal of children being seen and not heard than on that day. Unasked, we poured the drinks and ran outside to boil another kettle to make a fresh pot or brought in the sandwiches and the fairy cakes and the chocolates and exotic biscuits in the later part of the day.
I remember the hoots of laughter as my aunts dipped their ladyfinger biscuits into their sherries, letting us have a small sample of the incredible taste. This was the one day in the year that I could get a sense of how the older women in my family were when they were young girls themselves. Full of fun and music and stories. I learned about their old boyfriends and who courted them, how one of my uncles had dated all four sisters before settling on my aunt. How wild he was and how she tamed him.
I'd learn of the sad miscarriages and the stillbirths, the neighbours who went peculiar from the change or the drink, the priests who got spoiled in Africa and became pagan; or who had the failing, the old great grandaunt who took on fierce odd after her son married. I didn't know what a lot of it meant then but I stored it all away to ponder on in later years.
They would dredge up old musical numbers from their single days and sing a few bars while one or two got up and showed off their dancing legs. Sweet Afton cigarettes were lit and my grandmother would puff on her dudeen and we all could hardly see each other for the clouds of smoke.
Stories were told and they would get caught up on all the doings they might have missed in their conversations all year, obscure marriages and births, sometimes in Australia or other far flung and exotic outposts of the Irish Diaspora. But most of all I remember the peals of laughter which resounded throughout the house all day and evening.
A moment would come in the midst of all the hilarity when the time for a spot of prayer came. Out of the big black handbags that never left their sides would come the rosaries. These would be threaded through their fingers and all the heads would bow in unison. I never knew the prayer and haven't heard it since but it was to St Brigid, the women's saint of Ireland, and it involved her taking all the troubles of the year before and parking them somewhere in heaven and thus they were never to be seen again. This was followed by a minute of silence (while St Brigid did what she was asked, I have no doubt), then a fervent "Thanks be to God and all His saints" and a reverent kiss on the cross of the various rosaries which were all tucked away carefully into the handbags again. Then the glasses of sherry or the cups of tea were refilled and the whooping and carrying on would begin afresh, the bothers and griefs of the past year now permanently banished and forever.
And I wish this for all of you out there - both at home and abroad.
Not much of a selection. Was only trotting about for essentials and my energy factory was not good until I went off one of my meds (did a deep dive) which was making me constantly fatigued and constantly nauseous. What doc and everyone was putting down to long range effects of the Noro was in fact, incorrect. Nearly a week off the meds now and symptoms have vanished. I'm waiting for a return call from my doc. So here we go:
A book mailed in October by one of my brothers who loved it. It's about our clan, my mother's, the O'Sullivan Bearas of Dursey Island who were 99.9% massacred by the British in the 16th century. I love receiving a book from someone who read it and loved it and then took the trouble to mail it. Our PO went on strike here so it had a long holiday somewhere. We rode the cable car there some years ago and were incredibly moved knowing we descended from just a couple of survivors.
A handmade knitter's mug from my daughter which I will cherish. I christened it this morning. It's one of those mugs with a lovely feel. Just the right weight and a decent handle.
This wonderful cartoonist resigned after 16 years with the Washington Post when they refused to publish her latest cartoon showing Bezos (Amazon) et al kowtowing to their new god. Mickey represents the owner of the WaPo which is owned by Disney.
An earthquake alarmed many up near Lewisport here in Newfoundland. Houses shook and there were mysterious and odd loud bangs. 2.8 on the Richter. I have long believed that all this undersea drilling for oil is causing huge disturbances in the earth's crust. There are massive quantities of oil being pumped out of our surrounding ocean here.
An old favourite photo of my precious Ansa at Lance's Point. She loved all living creatures, tended to a host of barn cats on my land and joined these birds in their foraging. Animals were never afraid of her.
A sweet owl to add to my collection of owls (my spirit animal), gifted by my next door neighbour.
I have many reasons to be grateful in this world of ours. I did a list this morning. I also did a list of improvements I could make in my life. Mainly in the arena of taking more time to savour the goodness and beauty around me. Interestingly enough (to me) was the desire to do "less" of things that don't seem to be helpful in any way. One of these was the news. I am a news junkie. I have no idea if this enhances my life in any way. My feeling is it doesn't. I worry about the future I can do nothing about. I think vengeful thoughts on all those who do such horrific harm in the world in the name of (take your pick) religion, land, hatred, vengeance. Count the wars. Count the dead babies and helpless women and men who never did harm to anyone.
I look at the newspaper headlines just now and it's all about a New Orleans massacre by "terrorists" a word which is used oddly. Anyone who kills anyone else is surely a terrorist? But no, it usually means someone "foreign" (read not white) never a local. A husband who kills his wife is a terrorist. We know in our hearts he has terrorized her for years. A man who machine-guns children in their schools is a terrorist, mentally troubled or not. All the headlines are meant to alarm and yes, "terrorize" us by specters of such boogeymen everywhere, hiding in every corner. Keeping us compliant and fearful and looking for a saviour to keep us all "safe." Enter Trump.
Interesting. I never know where my blog posts will take me. Look what one headline can do.
I don't make resolutions. But I will try to be kinder to others, less judgmental. We are all staggering along and it's so easy to love the people that agree with us and far more admirable to love those who do not. I live in a building where it is easy to flaunt my own intelligence and judge others for not being as smart. But "smart" is totally subjective. I do not suffer fools easily and I have a huge challenge in not showing that. Which, of course, is a reflection of my own insecurities. I did not sit in therapists' offices for nuttin ya know.
I think we all work on ourselves until the casket lid slams down. At least I do. I can laugh at myself too which is essential. And we learn and grow. Hopefully. Yearningly.
My blogworld saved my sanity many times. In not feeling alone. Some of you I have gotten so close to over the many years of shared thoughts. Many of you passed on and I miss your pithy insights and dear friendships. But i celebrate all of those wonderful readers who take the time to comment and commiserate and share.
I wish us all gentleness (thank you Kylie for the word!) in the coming year. We will need tons of it.
Tibb's Eve is a Newfoundland tradition on December 23rd that marks the unofficial start of Christmas. It's a day for pre-Christmas fun, and is also known as Tip's Eve or Tipsy Eve:
Celebrations
Tibb's Eve is a time to decorate, sing, bake, and have a few drinks with friends. Some people attend music shows, while others have family potlucks
Customs
Tibb's Eve customs vary by community and family, but some traditions include decorating the tree, singing and dancing, and making handmade Christmas cookies.
Meaning
Tibb's Eve is popularly interpreted to mean the day one can get "tipsy" and start drinking Christmas cheer.
Bars
Bars have embraced Tibb's Eve and compete to attract customers.
Returning home
Many Newfoundlanders return to their home communities for Christmas, and Tibb's Eve is a time to reconnect with friends before Christmas Eve and Christmas Day.
Tibb's Eve is a sacred tradition in Newfoundland, and is only known in Newfoundland.
Thank you all for your lovely words of support on my last post. I found this on line and it spoke to me so deeply I thought to share it with all of you who have suffered similarly.
On those days when you miss someone the most, as though your memories are sharp enough to slice through skin and bone, remember how they loved you. Remember how they loved you and do that, for yourself. In their name, in their honour. Love yourself, as they loved you. They would like that. On those days when you miss someone the most, love yourself harder.
Many of long time readers will know that I went through grief-counselling some years back when my physical health began to suffer and my doctor of the time referred me to this amazing grief therapist. I had lost 8 close friends in the space of 18 months and the symptoms of my grief were not what you'd imagine as in crying all the time or depression. No, I was wound tighter than a drum with my blood pressure soaring through the roof and my tricky kidneys beginning to fail.
I was with the therapist for a 6 months of weekly sessions and he was incredibly understanding. He passed on much wisdom to me. One was when you suffer a severe heart breaking loss it opens up all the other losses in your life once again. Yes.
Well reader, I am there. All the chickens, so to speak, are home to roost now. My missing daughter's birthday was last week and that compounded everything, all the losses.
I tried to track down Peter, my grief therapist today but failed. I will try again. He was, I think, older than I. My siblings appear to be all cheerful and getting on with things so I find I can't/won't attend the weekly Sibling Zooms. I can't handle cheer. A friend dropped off a poinsettia and a fresh caught salmon yesterday and I could barely thank her but cried like a baby after she left. Kindness does me in.
I light a candle for the last photo taken of my brother every day and talk to him, hoping I'm not going right off the ledge.
I have delayed reaction to loss and I am hoping with Grandgirl staying with me by the end of the week I will climb out of this pit as it is affecting my overall health. I'm constantly nauseous and exhausted and not fit as we say out here.
The fact I am writing all of this down is a good sign, n'est pas?
Many of you are familiar with my local beach, I visited it last week and it was completely deserted so I took advantage of some bitingly blue shots.
My 9 year old great niece was the only child performer in Stars on Ice at our vast arena. Not a bit of nerves on her and she brought the house down with her skill and triple axle moves.
Over the last few days there's been a lot of buzz on social media about the "olden days." Romanticized in extremis I should add. Christmases past particularly but more often than not about lovely smells in kitchens and 4 clotheslines and the lovely old wood stove used for everything from baking and boiling to hot water and heat.
Romantic for some, perhaps, but a drill down into those blissful times will reveal an overworked mother, often with multiple children - my sister-in-law is the youngest of 17 - you read that right - who baked all the family bread and did all the laundry by hand, mended her children's clothes - having made them - if lucky - on a treadle sewing machine with her tired legs after a labour-intensive day and if she had enough oil for the lamp to sew by.
She tended the kitchen garden and collected the eggs and made the butter and milked the one cow or many if it was a farm. She collected the wool from the sheep to spin it and knit her family's sweaters and socks and cut down the father's shabby clothes to fit her sons and used flour sacks - often dying them in different colours from dye harvested from flowers and vegetables to dress her daughters. She bottled and preserved all the fruit and vegetables, down to the excessive eggs for the winter season.
She never, ever stopped. Her husband had it comparatively easy. Escaping from the house to do his work in a factory. an office or a farm or as a general labourer. He came home at night and put his feet up and was served his supper and fresh clothes for the morning and read his newspaper if he was lucky enough to borrow or buy one. And the children were told not to bother Daddy after his hard day.
The woman's incredibly hard day was demeaned and dismissed, despite what she had sacrificed to be this unpaid slave breeder. By her husband, by his buddies, by her church - who also expected she would supply free labour to clean the church and wash and starch the altar linens and her sons' surplices if they were altar boys.
She had 3 choices - service to the church (nun or teacher or nurse - the church owned the convents, the schools and the hospitals and profited greatly), marriage, or a single life, mocked and condemned because she couldn't "get" a man.
She never could use her brain or get educated to a higher level beyond grade school. With rare exceptions from more enlightened parents.
I was born in 1943 and lived with my grandparents for a while and witnessed this lifestyle first hand even though all their children had gone, some to emigration. Granda still worked as a labourer and granny had no electricity and no running water and even with just me in the house, she worked non-stop from dawn to dusk. Financially and religiously trapped forever.
She passed on many words of wisdom to me, the top one being: "Get an education, colleen* and you'll avoid this."
Words I followed, never wanting the lifestyle of either her or of my mother.
So yes, I am enraged by all this memory washing. A lot of it by men. Who to this day don't ever understand (and don't want to) the workload and sacrifice of their mothers or sisters. Apparently they all "enjoyed it."
Just the back of his head, I can't bear that face or voice anymore. Fakery all the way down to the lifts in his shoes.
I imagine many of us are. About where THIS is all going. The wee tiny planet I mean. This earth we walk on.
I try and stay away from the news these days, Most unlike me as I'm a bit of a news junkie. The Guardian, Morning Joe until he and Mika snivelled off down to Mar-a-Lago to kiss the ring of Orange Jesus (OJ). Many of the US papers which I once respected are now gone sideways as well, kowtowing like cowards in advance to what is to come.
We are extremely nervous in Canada too as our conservative top dog is a Heritage Foundation graduate and a worshipper of the OJ and could be our next PM as Trudeau just ain't got it according to most electors, see polls.
We know what all this will bring. Christian Fascism. Extreme.
I mentioned I try and stay away from the news but I have to open one eye and check it out more often than I like. PBS, Irish Times. CBC - our national news has weirded out. No good insightful coverage anymore.
OJ proceeds with his appalling and terrifying cabinet appointments. One more evil than the next. I don't often use that word but evil and indecent and criminal comes to mind from all surrounding OJ. And the outrage, though unsurprising, about Joe Biden pardoning his son was laughable. He would never have pardoned him only that OJ promised to incarcerate him forever on a retribution tour of revenge on the "enemies within". And that list is terrifying. Military tribunals, etc. All for the offence of disloyalty. Baby Bush set the precedent for torture and OJ would relish that.
He WILL suspend future elections. He will encourage other countries to go far, far, right and suspend theirs. And plunder every treasury he can get those orange hands on. Women will live as in 1850 with no votes, no divorce, no health care and fair game for any predator - and there are many in the cabinet and elsewhere.
It shows the weakness in the whole farcical structure of government in the US when OJ can infest the Supreme Court and other judicial bodies with his briberies or blackmail and turn the whole shaky edifice on its head into an unrestrained oligarchy/autocracy.
I am chillingly reminded of when Nazi Germany tried to "export" all the Jews and when that failed, resorted to prison camps, followed by death camps.
Wait and see as all these countries he asked to house them are now rejecting OJ's attempts to export his millions of emigrants. He is already talking of numbering them. Carefully following in the steps of his hero Hitler and Project 2025.
I so want to be wrong in all of the above. But alas and alack I don't think I am.
My heart is with my American friends. Just about breaking for them.
Come to Newfoundland, you would be welcome on this isolated rock that everyone seems to forget about. You'd love it here.
It took me days to put up and decorate my tree but I'm so proud of the finished result.
Went shopping in my favourite thrift stores for 3 pairs of desperately needed PJ bottoms (I always wear men's coz POCKETS). The rest of the world was at malls as it was Black Friday, hardly anyone in the thrift. It's vast, I'm only showing about 1/3 of it. Full of treasures.
Some of my favourite cheeses, I'm a divil for the fancy cheeses.
Two connected things on a theme which I love
A friend dropped by with this gorgeous Christmas cactus and 2 pots of her homemade jam.
And lastly, Grandgirl, who lives in Paris, gifts me with things tres francais. A set of these napkins with French herbs printed on them.
Health Sciences Centre, St. John's Newfoundland and Labrador.
I slept off and on for a few hours. Daughter went to my place and stayed and gathered up items of need. Niece came to meet her at the hospital with more essentials, including a book of poetry. I heard all the noises around me. Triage is a very noisy place but what struck me most was the comradery of the staff. Often raucous and humorous but also so extraordinarily helpful with each other, shouting "you want help with that, here, let me do that, let me lift her head, let me bandage that head for you." I found it extraordinarily moving. Around me were the unconscious, the moaners, the injured, the dying. I looked at my tubes and my wires and my vitals on screen and someone spotted me and came over and said, beaming, "everything is improving". Blood and urine had been taken every hour or so and the kidneys were ticking back up.
Around 6 a.m. I was moved to a kind of holding station with 2 other beds. It soon became evident that the man across from me was dying, his family came in and a priest. the last rites were performed. The woman next to me was youngish, 60 or so, but had post-covid dementia, something not written about much but appallingly evident in ER now, as one of the nurses told me. She wanted to play with the contents of the linen cupboard: incontinence pads, kleenex and wipes and laid them all on her bed and moved them around like a chessboard. She was non-verbal. Her 30-ish daughter was with her, crying, trying to calm her but the nurse stopped her, the playing kept her mother happy and quiet.
I got my first meal halfway through the day. the man across had died and was moved and I cried inconsolably, realizing that his last moments should have been private and were public enough for me to hear it all, the grieving and the prayers. My innards were still in turmoil from the infection. But I managed to get the bland meal down me. I could not manage the next meal. It was revolting. Daughter went away and got me a sandwich which I devoured. This was going well.
Later that night I was moved to a ward in the "real" part of the hospital with a real bed. But when I left the holding station I passed the nursing station where the four staff on duty applauded and cheered me on my way out on the gurney. Which moved me no end. I imagine not many leave there alive and alert. I waved back like a queen. Crying again in gratitude.
The real bed felt like paradise. The large room not so much. Across from me a woman dying. A year older than me according to the hushed conversation of her family. Her granddaughter and the rest of her adult children came in the following morning. Again, tears, overhearing her granddaughter telling her she had good marks in school. The loving words of one son asking his mother if she wanted to go out for one more cigarette - which told me, perhaps, what she was dying from. But I cried once more, pretty inconsolable in Daughter's arms when she arrived. She cried too.
Kitty corner all night was a man raving in dementia. Begging for his mother, then for a nurse, then for his mother. Attendants trying to soothe him, always kind, always calling him mister. It was disturbing how loud he was. Not much sleep.
Next to me, in the morning, a team consulted with the man in the bed next to me, I had a glimpse of him and he looked familiar, a man I might have seen on TV or a film, perhaps. The team were telling him that his liver, kidneys and other organs showed masses, they needed to get into his bowels now and see where else it had spread. He was fighting it, and repeated over and over, "are you sure? are you sure?" Later, I presumed it was his wife who flew by the bottom of my bed and landed at the bottom of his. All the curtains were pulled but sometimes they were dragged open accidentally to give me a glimpse of the real world. I am blessed with good hearing and a voracious curiosity, so could hear their conversation. He eventually asked her "Are you still going to leave me?" And she responded, coldly "Does this change things?" "You'd leave me to die alone?" "How long do you have?" "Maybe three months." "Would I have to take care of you?" "We had thirty years together, what's three months? For God's sake, Rita!" "I'll have to think about it." And with that, she upped and left.
At that moment, another team of medics dropped by me. The chief, who turned out to be a prof at the university, internal medicine, asked me if I minded she had some students in tow I was quite thrilled to see her seven students were all male with her in charge. Quite a reversal of roles. They answered all my questions and she was cautious when she said, if you are still doing well, we will release you later on tomorrow pending the readings and your vitals.
Later a trainee doctor came by and I asked her a ton of extra questions as to what exactly happened to me. She had the time to sit down and explained exactly what had happened. The norovirus had invaded my stomach and my bowls causing constant nausea, diarrhea, eventually dehydrating the body, releasing enzymes in an effort to keep the kidneys going which were shutting down and then in turn shutting down the heart and the oxygen levels. My inherent kidney disease accelerated all of this plus my aging body which had no resistance to infection.
My terminal brother, who was also in a hospital in Cork, was communicating through much of all this through WhatsApp we were so worried about each other. Our last communication was when I said to him :"We're a right pair of langers* aren't we, lying about in our beds, being waited on hand and foot." And he cracked up. I loved cracking him up through our times of misery. "A right pair of langers alright," he responded, "you nailed it."
Later the following day Daughter and I left the hospital. Breathing that air outside, looking at the trees in disbelief, watching the birds, I cried again. Knowing how fortunate I was, how free, how privileged. The parking lot was packed. I was aware, as never before, of how much pain and sorrow awaited all those car drivers and passengers in the hospital behind me. And yet, here was I, leaving the experiences I will never forget.
One of the lucky ones. Dodging death. In awe of the heroes and heroines in the emergency rooms, saving lives, comforting the dying, healing the wounds, finding spaces for the homeless, the doomed and demented, cheering each other on through the countless tragedies. Overhearing the last moments of so many. The real champions of our world in the real Olympics are our health care workers. I'd hang a gold medal on every single one of them any day of the week.
*langers: Cork slang. langer (plural langers) (slang, Ireland, derogatory) Fool; idiot; annoying or contemptible person, langers can also mean drunk.
Here's a Cork song about langers. Some of it is in Irish, in case you're confused.
I play it for my dear brother who died a few short days after I left the hospital while he remained.
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.
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.
