Sometimes Our Hearts Break A Little.

I glanced out my window the other night. I was struck by this oul fellah struggling along on his cane to the requisite 25 feet from our building. Snow was coming down fast, the plows had been around three times already.

He balanced himself carefully on the stick and lit up. Rules are no smoking in the building or within 25 feet of it. The rule is taken seriously. Even when you're dying of lung cancer.

As he is.

As a recovered nicotine addict (2 packs a day when it was allowed everywhere even on planes and post partum in the maternity wing - yeah, I know, appalling breathing smoke on our newborns, you would be dumbfounded if you saw a photo of back then, I do have one somewhere) I sympathize with him. We attribute my late brother's death to tobacco, he had quit for years and then went back for about 10 years which, I believe, nailed him to the cross of cancer.

All 6 of us siblings were smokers and quit along the way. My own withdrawal (no medical support back then, 38 years ago) was so terrible I knew I could never smoke again as I would never quit again.

This poor fellah tried to quit. I just know he did. All smokers do whether they say so or not. And now, in his late sixties he's dying one of the worst kind of deaths. Fighting for breath, plugging in tanks, yearning for the one thing that would bring him a comfort he defines.

Yeah. I'm so sad for him. 

PS I can't post this on local social media as many would know him.

Blog Buddies

 I've been fortunate in the friendships I have formed over the many years I've been blogging. A few I have met in the flesh and interestingly the friendships are just as solid and connected when that happens. A few stayed with me in my last home. I held wee dinners for some there and the conversations never ran out.

Many have died too. Which took the heart right out of me.

Marcia was a gifted woman, a teacher, a writer, with a tremendous wit. We had personal correspondence and Facebook chivvying and then 9 years ago she reconnected with a man who used to work with her years before. He had lost his wife. And the rest is history. He became the love of her life and they travelled the world together.

She didn't maintain her blog, unfortunately, life was too full I imagine, and there were his and her grandchildren to entertain and visit all over the country.

On Friday, she died. The Big C took her too. 

She was a vibrant soul, one I will always remember.

Marcia: a kindred spirit indeed. You will be missed.

Condolences

It's a very rough day for me when three condolence cards have to be written and mailed. I'm not a believer in platitudes and pre-printed sympathy cards. I like to do a little eulogy of my particular memories of the deceased to the grieving loved ones. I'm in complete isolation apart from the two in my bubble. Not that I could attend funerals or wakes anyway as such gatherings are disallowed in the Time of the Plague.

The first was to a dear friend of  over forty years duration whose mother had died just shy of her hundredth birthday. A difficult one to write as she and her mother were not deeply connected. My friend is very honourable and was incredibly dutiful to her mother in her last residence in a home for retired military. I liked her mum, British to the backbone, sharp-tongued and judgy, careless with money. And quite selfish. As someone else's mum can be to our great amusement, but not our own. Heaven forbid. She never took the time to get to know her numerous grandchildren and great-grandchilden. So I wrote about the great old Irish expression when the last parent dies :"Now the roof is off your life," which has great depth if you ponder on  it.

The second was to a friend of some fifteen years whose daughter died when an ambulance was delayed. She had a problem with her leg (blood clot? - it would be intrusive to ask). She was in her early forties and leaves three children, the youngest is ten. This couple lost their eldest a few years back, he was a non-verbal autistic and died from a seizure. I can't imagine their grief. She was his favourite child, full of vim and vigor and they would run together and raise funds for autism. I've written about the death of one's child a few times. It is unspeakable.

The third was particularly hard as I wrote about this multi-talented man here.  I can't re-read it without bursting into tears. We spent more time with him this past summer and cooked for him and his partner in our rental up in the Great Northern Peninsula. He knew his gig was up for a while and opted for death with dignity. Effing cancer. Effing cancer. So I wrote to his partner citing his wonderful attributes and that magical night we spent when he played for us. 

And it was the last time.

A Hard Call

Leo at work, way back.

There were several messages from his family. 

Leo is in hospital, he'd going into palliative care today, please call him, he's talking about you and loves you and wants to hear your voice.

Leo worked for me for many, many years when I had the house around the bay.

I wrote about him a few times.

You can read the pieces here

So I braced myself and after many attempts reached him.

And he sounded frightened and sad and mixed up. But knew me right away. He knew I would call, he told his siblings. 

He doesn't know he's dying. The lad (as we call the Big C in Ireland) is everywhere. His whole body. He knows he'll be in hospital until after Christmas. He says I've never been sick a day in my life. I never take an aspirin even. But you said the smoking would get me. Has it got me?

Remember Leo, I say, how you did such a fine job on my wood? How you took care of my wood stove? How you made me turkey soup? Remember how you took care of Ansa when I was away? Remember how we played cards? 

We were very good to each other, Leo. You were a very good friend and worker.

When I get out of here we'll see each other, won't we?

Of course, I say.

For there is nothing left to say.

I wrote this many years ago.

For Leo and all the Leos of the World

Sometimes my heart breaks, just a little bit.
And I don’t know why that is or where that comes from.
I see him mowing and chopping and planting
And stacking and reaping, picking up sticks from my lawn
Gathering the golden brown leaves of the tired summer trees
Making straight lines along the wondrous green of the grass
Like himself, for he walks so straight, like a military man.
He makes me giggle sometimes over silly stuff.
He gathers up things from the shore that I might like.
Old keys, glass bottles, multi-coloured feathers, odd bits of driftwood,
And presents them to me like the priceless gifts that they are.
He’s very clear and direct. He knows his likes and dislikes.
And announces them without apology or humility.
He knows he had a bad accident when just a lad.
That affected his brain forever and ever.
A wondrous twelve year old in the body of a fifty-eight year old.
He tells me he likes me very much
And that he loves working for me
As I treat him fair and don’t torment him like others do.
He treats my welfare like his own, fixing things,
Working things out patiently as I watch, learning his patience.
I treat his welfare like my own, feeling his hurts,
Watching out for others’ thoughtless cruelties.

I can't stop crying.

Rose Gardens

OK. Stand up those amongst us who were promised one?

Not me.

Certainly not me.

And not those I care about, for sure.

Such sad news today. From my former life in Ontario: One old friend died on the weekend, he visited me here in Newfoundland a few years back. Another old friend was taken to hospital by ambulance in the last few days and she is riddled with The Lad*. She was terrified of doctors and now it's all too late, it seems. Another is in palliative/hospice care with a few days left.

I write all this down so I can look at the reality of it. My back (due to that awful fall I had) is acting up and causing me some grief and I could list a few other "what-ails-me"s for you but I won't as it all seems trivial and there's nothing more boring than a blow-by-blow of someone's health challenges.

Especially when those she cares about are in various stages of terminal illness and she's not.

But then again, we're all terminal. Savour the days, my friends. We never know when our numbers are called.

*Anyone ever heard this terminology used for cancer? We used it in Ireland back in the day. Maybe still, who knows?

Conversation

My friend is home.

First telephone conversation with me after all she's been through:

"I'm only on the phone with you because you're so worried. I'm not supposed to be on the phone at all. You're the first phone-call. Now. Relax. I am perfect."

"But the surgery? The recovery? The prognosis?"

"Listen to me, I am perfect. My doctors say that I am in such great physical shape I can have the chemotherapy at home and have six weeks of radiation in the hospital in conjunction."

"I can't believe how you're sounding."

Laughter.

"I'm eating like a pig again, all lovely foods, I'm being spoiled I tell you. They all run out of the house and get exactly what I want. Like a 5 star hotel."

"You had me in bits - and now listen to you."

"Listen: I went all through this before with the breast cancer and I had so many other stresses in my life, remember the trouble I had with Daughter at the same time?"

"Yes, you got through that and no flies on you."

"And right, this time is perfect. I am older and no worries and this is an absolute doddle compared with then."

"Well, not a doddle....."

"It's a perfect doddle. So stop all the fuss. I am perfect."

Yes, ma'am.

The Continuing Unravelling of the Tapestry

I don't have a picture of her. She was beautiful though. That kind of sexy beauty that can make other women hate you. For the men loved her. I'd yet to meet one in our circle who wasn't reduced to a stuttering mumble when she was around. For if she walked into a room, the rest of us females would be wallpaper. Instantly. It was the voice. The tight jeans. The heels. The way she walked. The way she spoke. The way she laughed, loud, deep-throated, seductive. Did I mention she was blonde? Yeah, that too. With dazzling eyes. Downright gorgeous.

She was caustic. She suffered fools really badly indeed. Did I mention she was funny? She was hysterically funny. And bright. She had her troubles, don't we all. She and I bonded over our estranged daughters. She had one too. Heads together, we commiserated, yanked out some private memories of holding their little baby selves and never quite understanding the pain that would be inflicted in later years.

I think the most attractive side of her was her complete unawareness of how gorgeous she was. Truly. And she liked her women friends.

"How do you do it?" I said to her once when there was a crowd of us around. The men, as usual, hanging off her every word. Her witty, sharp, biting words.

"Do what?" she said, astonished, "Do what? Speak up, do what?"

Captivate, I wanted to say. But didn't. She wouldn't know what I was talking about.

"Laugh for me," she whispered to another dear friend a few days ago, "I can't laugh anymore."

Rest easy, dearest Donna. Your three years of dreadful suffering are over now.

And you were still angry as you left us all here today.

I wouldn't have expected anything less of you.

Acceptance is for sissies.

Blog Jam

Spring arrives on the Avalon Peninsula

Do you ever wonder why the clergy of the RC still go around in dresses whenever they get the chance? I suppose I don't care enough to do research on this but, seriously, how can anyone take them seriously in their outrageous getups with eyeboggling headgear (Hello Ascot! Envious yet?) as they blather on and on about poverty?
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It was one of those moments at cards the other night. A regular player had a stroke and had returned after several months' absence. In fine fettle, I should add. He looked a bit gaunt but otherwise cheerful. I asked him how he was doing - "Oh I've had full recovery from the stroke,"he said, "But this week they told me I had cancer." I sympathized, appalled, said something about dreadful luck. For what does one say?

Halfway through our games, the facilitator came over with an envelope and handed it to him. "There's a $100 for you from the takings tonight. For the cancer." A few years ago I would have internally laughed a bit. Quaint country ways and all that. How cute these natives are, etc. But not anymore. I wanted to cry. I was so touched by the dignity with which he took it, as he bowed in gratitude to all of us, and tucked it away. Surely his burden is easier knowing we cared enough to give him a little pocket money for the bleak days ahead?
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I run up against myself sometimes. I was out and about the other day in a fairly untrammeled area, rough cliff edge, rocks, forging my way through primitive terrain. As I stood atop a low cliff with the dog barging ahead, I thought: if I jump from here elderbones might snap and no one would find me for weeks. I envisioned the funeral scene full of "silly woman, she leaped from the cliff and splatted herself on the rocks below." I turned and walked away. This is the first time this has happened. I've always jumped. Another concession.
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Don't you just love it when someone gets in your car (your gas, your insurance, your maintenance, your monthly payment) as happened to me today and then immediately complained it needed a good wash? I had a marvellous comeback though and I'll share it. "Yes," I said, "I know that. Would you like to pay for one for me?"