On Aging - Episode 3

 THE HEAD

Eyes

After a procedure which shocked me (I wasn’t allowed anaesthesia) I lost much of the sight in my right eye. Several consultations resulted in none of the experts recommending any kind of surgery or laser, as the bit that had migrated to behind my eye was microscopic.I am awaiting cataract surgery, which may – just may – remove this bit. But my sight in my left eye will improve, which has the worst cataract. I am coming up on 8 months waiting for this cataract surgery. And I am sure all the pre-op measurements are now out of date.

Sigh.

Ears

I had a bad infection many years ago, which resulted in being slightly deaf in one of my ears after I was immune to the antibiotic I was prescribed. I was surprised at the effect it had on my singing. Prior to then, I was a semi-trained singer but I found that I couldn’t determine my tonal register anymore. It was a shock at the time as I was conducting a group of singers in a musical I was directing. There is a slight loss now in old age, and I find I switch on closed captioning on films and series and am seriously annoyed when CC is not available.

Brain

Having witnessed several dear friends come down with dementia, it’s a concern for all of us oldies. But if we have it, we will not be aware of it, which is what I have observed. It’s when other family members take over your personal management. One I have witnessed closely and am upset that her family couldn’t care less about her. Or so it appears. She has fallen several times, set fire to her kitchen, forgets her keys, glasses, phone, etc. And her short-term memory is now completely gone except for the recollection of olden days. My own observation on these unfortunates has been that none of them were readers.

Research – I just checked - shows:

Research indicates that people who regularly read, write, and engage in lifelong learning have nearly a 40% lower risk of developing Alzheimer's disease and dementia compared to those who do not. [1]

40% is quite massive. So note to you oldies out there: read. At least for pleasure.

Interestingly, when I asked my friends in early dementia if they read, the answer was “I can’t concentrate”. So that lack of concentration could also be linked.

Crafting, painting, photography, also slows the progress of this awful disease.

The Nun’s Study has been groundbreaking into what was discovered about Alzheimer’s. I recommend it.

As I maintain, adapting is the key to accepting the limitations of old age. I recently had a bad fall, saw the stars, did not have my cell phone on me, panicked. But I did some breathing exercises and told myself to relax. I knew where the phone was and it was going to be painful and slow but I could reach it and with a large utensil could hook it and call the building manager. It took a while, with many breaks, but all is well. He and his wife came and got me on my feet and checked my eyes, etc., for concussion or broken limbs but all was well. It took me days to recover as I was sore and bruised but it was a great lesson on not panicking but thinking slowly and carefully about a solution to my dilemma.

Now my family are talking about a Garmin watch to replace my Fitbit as it will detect a fall and call my emergency contacts automatically.

Adapt. And feel free to share your experiences.

Whatcha been up to b'y?

 Well, not much, as a matter of fact.

Some of you may know my overall health was deteriorating slowly but surely. I didn't know what was going on. Now I have the diagnosis. I've had all these symptoms for what seems like months.

From the Mayo Clinic.

Hyponatremia signs and symptoms may include:

• Nausea and vomiting.
• Headache.
• Confusion.
• Loss of energy, drowsiness and fatigue.
• Restlessness and irritability.
• Muscle weakness, spasms or cramps.
• Seizures.
• Coma.

The condition is extremely low sodium for those interested. A very dangerous condition. I've had lab work today and yesterday. And more on Monday. A slight betterment today. I'll be seeing doctor on Tuesday for moving forward (it could be my drugs needing adjustment, it could be the tons of water I drink because of my kidney disease). She will consult with my other specialists.

Needless to mention, she warned me to call an ambulance if another bad bout of any symptom is evident.

None of us ever want the ambulance and emergency rooms. I wrote about my last experience here.

Still, it could be worse. 

I thought all of the above was curtains for me.

I'm truly grateful and amazed that I'm still this side of the daisies.

On a lighter note, this is close to where I live here in St. John's.

The village of Quidi Vidi *  is within the city of St. John's. Breathtaking, beautiful and still an active fishing village.

Photo at sunset by Ray Mackey. A friend and superb photographer.

*Pronounced Kiddy Viddy but some old timers call it Kida Vida, which I love.

Emergency Landing Part 3 - Final

See Part 1 here

See Part 2 here

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.

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.

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.

Carrying The Memories

 

My parents on their wedding day, 80 years ago. September 9th, 1942

As we age, memories are often in solitude. Those that share them are gone, or as the eldest of six, I carry some of the better memories of my parents alone as all their siblings and friends have passed on and my siblings knew different parents once we moved to the city and five more children entered the picture. My mother died in her fifties, having been sick for five years with her youngest only just turned fourteen.

I first knew my parents as a young couple and I was the only child for well over three years. I do have an astonishing memory, both in detail, location and events. And I often recall whole conversations. They were avid cyclists and my dad had built a special seat for me on the crossbar of his bike. And I remember the picnics and excursions so very well and going fast down hills with dad making fierce noises. Their joy was to make me laugh and I delighted in their antics.

They also were part of a choral society and often held rehearsals in our flat we had in a small town in East Cork. I would hear them at night singing wonderful songs of old as they both had fine voices.

They were both avid readers and instilled in me a life long love of books.

The years were post war(called The Emergency in neutral Ireland) and rationing of just about everything was the norm.

Relatives would drop in regularly, my mother’s parents and three of her sisters and two of my father’s sisters who lived in the town and they loved to show me off in the various homes they would drop in on. That was done then. No calling ahead, everyone just dropped in in that phone-less era. And everyone always had treats for visitors, hard as they were to come by in the post war years.

Dad was very well known as he was the town clerk then and we couldn’t walk down the street without someone greeting him and arranging to go to various football and hurling matches on the weekend.

I continue to be astonished at the complex music they would sing together, sometimes just for me, sometimes when a crowd was in and music was the accompaniment to the evening’s socialization.

And I can recall the lyrics and melodies of their repertoire so easily and hear their voices as if it was yesterday and not 75 years ago.

Here's one they would sing together:

My father was a great fan of Richard Tauber who sings it here.

What's Next USA?

I was flabbergasted to see many of my USian female friends post the above as their profile picture on Facebook today.

The comments were chilling. Many considering sterilizing procedures, their husbands considering vasectomies. Others stockpiling birth control methods. Others putting out words for friends who need abortions. Canada is taking in droves of them at the moment and offering services free of charge.

And then I thought, of course. The Handmaid's Tale, long predicted by Margaret Atwood (a Canadian) has arrived and this is how it arrives.

It's 2022, I keep reminding myself and rights are being removed in the country to the south of us by a positively evil misogynistic Supreme Court who are planning to take away the rights of gays next and have gleefully announced it.

All this trailing back to the rapist and racist they put in power in 2016. One who promised he would take his revenge on every woman who rejected him. A psychopath, fraud, grifter and grafter - who will never be charged for all the criminal acts he performed before, during and after his election. His (paid?) fall guys will take it all on the chin for him. Because that's how a mafia works.

Meanwhile, this is all a great distraction for a country burning  up or flooding catastrophically while racist cops stop and sometimes kill  those who drive or walk while black, and AK47 wielding 18 year olds kill random children in schools as the cops cower outside, afraid. And enshrined by the NRA is the right to bear such weapons, concealed or not. And Monkey Pox declared a national health emergency.  And in the midst of this, the speaker of their house marches off and pokes the beast that is China.

All this while climate change is the only item that should be on the agenda of the USA - the worst polluters on the planet.

/end rant 

And a PS to the Etc

 Dear Joared and DKZ

Your blogs kick me out after I comment which is very frustrating. Can't figure out why this is so. Can you figure it out? Other blogs do not do this, much to my relief as I could become quite paranoid.

I've been tossing books lately with a DNF* note in my book journal. I resent the time I spend on them before this act as I could have been reading a good book. Know what I mean?

I'm into fiction in a big way. I like the escapism provided by a good author. Good in my estimation, maybe not in yours.

I persist sometimes when the books are both gifts and best sellers as these last two were.

But finally I just threw in the towel on both and picked up my emergency Michael Connolly who never lets me down when Bosch is involved. And PS I can't abide the actor portraying him in the Bosch series on Prime.

I will update my 2021 Books Read Page soonest as I have enjoyed some smashing reads this year.

And I will mention now, albeit with connection to reading, that my right eye, one day after the hospital procedures has gone semi-blind. A grey fog has descended. What next, I think, sitting on my pity pot. I have an appointment with my eye guy first thing Tuesday and we'll take it from there. 

But at least the left eye is behaving itself. And there have been no alarming calls after two biopsies on last Tuesday.

And, I always think, and I pass this on, who would trade places with me right now? So many worse off, so many in desperation and pain. So many, and I know one dear one, who are facing their own mortality.

*Did Not Finish.

Bravery

We're all so terribly brave, aren't we?

Like we have no idea where we're all going and we march on. Or stumble. Or fumble. There is no light at the end of this particular tunnel. At least not yet. And I hope fervently that we will not repeat The Great Flu of 1918 where millions upon millions died and it appears that many do not learn from the protocols they put in place even then, over 100 years ago. Contagion is contagion is contagion.

The toll on fire and emergency services on the western seaboard of the US to counteract this cataclysmic burning must take a huge toll along with the risk of Covid to all concerned. Bravery indeed.


I'm avoiding the US news as if it were another form of plague on the landscape but sometimes it is unavoidable. A horror of a genocide with nearly 250,000 citizens now dead. My friends who live there and also hold Canadian citizenship have made arrangements to move back to Canada in November. Constant sunshine for them has a high price. And then the fires. Flames and pestilence at the same time. It crushes the brain. This was yesterday's Covid statistics for the top countries cases on the planet. With the US staggeringly ahead.

Here we are catching (in isolation) each case as it lands and thus preventing community spread. The 4 Atlantic provinces (New Brunswick, Nova Scotia, Prince Edward Island, Newfoundland & Labrador) are in the same bubble, with provincial border checks for those coming in from outside these provinces.

St. Pierre and Miquelon, tiny islands off the coast of Newfoundland which is French territory, is not faring so well. 11 cases in their tiny population of 6,000.

The rest of Canada isn't faring so well at the moment.

We're all tapping into our depleting stockpiles of bravery these days. Even if it's just shutting our eyes and going wah-wah and not contemplating a future that has no shape whatsoever.

Life Management

It's tricky this business of life management once old age, pain, lack of energy, unpredictable moods plus this pandemic come into the picture.

I sometimes scream inwardly: take me now.

I did this at the car dealership yesterday, waiting for an emergency job on my car to be over with. Nothing to do with the staff who were incredibly helpful in a terribly busy day. But walking back and forth between the distant waiting room and the technician to review and approve the work with no seating where he was, was a crisis of endurance for me even though George, my cane, was there to lean on. I literally felt ill. It was a nerve wracking day with a short spurt at the beach to calm my nerves when Daughter picked me up between dental appointments (crown work). I hate being seen like this. Needy. In pain. Breathing all out of alignment.

I was exhausted. I am exhausted a lot. Everything seems like another hill to climb if I don't manage me and my energies well. Sometimes there is nothing left over.

Daughter organized this quiet day for my birthday last weekend, she sees and senses, as no one else, the limits of my endurance. I can pretend at times when with others (oh the effort!) that life is hunky dory, but the strain of this catches up with me and flings me to the metaphorical ground and I have to isolate. I hate being seen when I feel defeated by everything and everyone.

And it's not just the physical stuff that drains me. It's the mental and emotional as well. Emails, texting, visiting, phone-calls, social expectations. Very few understand this and I am grateful to those who do. Sometimes I have nothing left for a few days and need to recuperate.

All these feelings are exacerbated by the pandemic of course. And I am very aware of that.

Meanwhile, I sat among some en-plein-air artists on the beach yesterday and did nothing, said nothing, just watched the artists and the baby ducks and the water. And emptied my mind for an hour shoving the enormous burden of all that ailed and troubled me aside.

Screaming Into the Void

I'm going to call her Tess, not her real name.

She drinks too much. She's old. She's a very pretty, feminine, soft looking and sounding woman but very conniving.

If she runs out of booze she will find some simple unquestioning neighbour to take her to emergency to get her pills until her next pension cheque. She's running out of obliging neighbours. Her daughters have her number and refuse to engage with her when she gets telephonitis late at night and harangues them on their failures.

I wouldn't want to be inside her head when she wakes up of a morning for this is how she immediately goes on Facebook with many expletives:

Tess inhales her morning swallow
Sorts out the thrum of her inside hollow.
She hits the keys, all caps and spleen
And shouts the world to smithereens.

And this is the kicker - I so admire the restraint of the responses:

Have a good day Tess! Heart emoticon
How's your garden coming, Tess? Flower emoticon
Enjoy your day! smiley face emoticon.

It brightens my morning, it's hard to explain. She says terrible things, sitting firmly on her pity pot with a long list of those she hates or have offended her or died on her.

But the responses never vary, all kind and normal sounding in the face of such abuse. That's what makes my day.

Human nature is magnificent.

What did you do in Snowmageddon, Mummy?

Well, our State of Emergency still exists, limiting purchases and trips to grocery stores, pharmacies, etc. But the peaceful silence of no traffic continues. Military helicopters overhead sort out areas to still be shovelled. And so much snow. So very much.

I admired my plant which bloomed in spite of the snow, taking my breath away. considering it was one of those plants I wanted to throw out as being gawky and, well, ugly, it must have sensed it so threw out masses of blooms. 9 at last count.

This is the side doorway going into our building. Bear in mind this is a sheltered doorway.

So I designed and started knitting a "Storm Shawl" after 2 frustrated rip-outs I was pleased with this one. It is a variegated yarn and goes by the name of Violet. It will be more in the nature of a scarf-shawl, drapey and matchey to the winter goose-down long jacket which daughter gifted me with. It's a lovet green and I've always loved those greens with any shade of purple.

I also am nearly finished my annual read of A Moveable Feast. Don't ask me of my fascination with this book, I find it hard to justify. It just captures so well a Paris of Joyce and Fitgerald and Stein et al. And no, I'm not a fan of Hemingway - though I did call one of my characters by that name in one of my novels. I guess his youth, innocence and kindness shines through before he gets snared by fame and booze and depression.

And then there was the car moving. Car was dug out and moved to a clean spot and then after waiting for the plow to dig out the spot it was taken from and moving it back in again. Musical Cars in other words. My kingdom for indoor parking which I had at my house.

This picture was taken through a screen but I rather like the effect. You can see the height of the snowbanks around the visitor parking lot.

I had 3 coffee occasions here at the apartment. I was glad it was clean. Catching me when all tidy and presentable is rare. So I felt a huge achievement and even offered bon-bons on a small wee serving thingie. Along with my marvelous coffee. Always freshly ground dark roast beans - in case you're ever in the area and love good coffee drop in. Take me as you find me.

A friend dropped by with an unexpected dinner last night. Moose stew with carrots, brussels and gravy and divine potatoes. Enough for 2 meals so I'll be well fed tonight too.

So that's it for now.

Waiting for the SOE to be lifted.

Hurricanes and Blizzards

It's been dubbed #snowmageddon2020 and fact is I have never experienced a worse winter storm.

This was announced yesterday at 11.00 am.:

As of 11am, the Mayor has declared a state of emergency. All businesses are ordered to close and all vehicles are ordered off the road except emergency vehicles. Please return home until the order is lifted. #nlwx #nltraffic

The city has never been closed down before. We are tough out here on the Edge.

A state of emergency was enforced in St. John's. All vehicles and humans off the roads. The winds roared, the snow flew horizontally, the biggest fear was the power blowing out. It didn't. thankfully.

here is a sample from downtown where many reporters holed up in a hotel. No one could get to their homes outside of the city.


Our local CBC radio station died with no power and the batteries and/or generators weren't working either. The staff were trapped inside of the building overnight sleeping on the floors and wonder of wonders, hooking into CBC Halifax, Nova Scotia, to keep us company for the entire time. It was extremely comforting hearing stories from call-ins. Farmers and stable owners, sleeping in their barns keeping the animals calm. Many opening their doors briefly to catch the awful sound of the peak 167km/hour winds. Windows completely snowed over. Just now the sun came out after over 24 hours of non-stop intensity and partially melted two of my panes:

the plows were taken off the roads due to the danger of being unable to see the road edges or heaven forbid, near the open ocean.

The historic Battery area was evacuated as there was an avalanche which fell into the backs of the houses shown here. No human injuries thank goodness.

And this final story:

Not the baby - but this woman should be premier of this province. She gets things done!

PS, we're still on emergency status here but there is snowboarding on the streets (we're very hilly, a la San Francisco) but we have bright sun.

How innocent the world looks after a storm!!

Inside of Me

Inside of me there's mixed feelings.

This constant tiredness I have, so limiting, so crushing. Raising the old voices: You're lazy, you're good for nothing. Why are you pretending? You can't be this tired. Nobody can be this exhausted.

Inside of me I think, as I park beneath an ice-covered sign, and get George, my trusty companion cane from his back seat, why am I here again, at my nephrologist's, going over the readings: the stalled (I hope) kidney deterioration, the never really controlled blood pressure. He will be dismissive and win the latest award for complete lack of bedside manner.

Inside of me perks up when his nurse talks about my media appearances how all of them are quite impressed at what I have accomplished even if it's only awareness of the crisis of senior poverty.

Inside of me cringes, I've gained five pounds. Not surprised. I am far too good to myself as my people have it.

Inside of me, I'm pleased he meets my eyes many times and apologizes for having to take a cellphone emergency call from the dialysis unit.

He goes over my latest results on his screen and stabs at my blood readings.

You are severely anaemic! he says, did you know about this? Are you exhausted all the time?

Inside of me I flutter with mixed emotions: well that explains it, oh that's a relief. I'm not a lazy arse after all.

This is serious, he continues, and may involve some kind of bleeding. I'm sending you for some tests.

Inside of me I think: Add this to the Test Pile. I'm on this medical testing treadmill now. An old woman who talks incessantly about the stream of specialists and tests cluttering her daytimer and grimly condemning the wallpaper in God's waiting rooms.

Inside of me I yell at my inside classroom: Which one of you is misbehaving? Is it you liver? I haven't heard from you in a while. Not you bowels, you've always behaved yourself. Sort of, as you can be quite secretive and rebellious. You've let down many of my friends. Skin? No cuts or bruises. Good job there, skin. Heart, you keep booming late at night and missing those beats, and that congestive nonsense has got to stop - that's another test coming up. A Holter test to catch you in the act, so to speak.

Inside of me I think: Is all this necessary? Should I just cruise on, oblivious, reading and knitting and tired and wonky on the pins. Does health stress, tests, consults, exams and all the rest of it contribute to a far earlier demise?

PS
And oh yeah:
This is our current weather status here. Worst winter ever. I offer it to my Australian readers, it might just cool you down, if only for a minute, looking at this.

Things I Don't Miss

Many talk of aging as something to be feared, the many losses: the loss of vitality. health, the so-called good old days, etc., but seriously, us oldies need to count all the things we don't miss, shall we?

(1)Menstruation, I menstruated for 40 years.

(2)Fear of pregnancy. My last scare? I was 52, thinking I was way beyond it. See 1.

(3)Hangovers.

(4)Getting up early, going to work and pretending I didn't have a hangover. See 3.

(5)Television

(6)Landlines

(7)Stilettos - seriously, what were we thinking?

(8)Make up - nothing like painting your face before throwing yourself out the door. Not.

(9)Hairdo maintenance - the cost alone, knowing presentability for the male gaze meant my employment or not.

(10)Performing femininity see 7,8,9

(11)A household to run plus two jobs to keep it all together. Single mom. 2 kids.

(12)Dating - see 10.

(13)Being always afraid of men when I was out alone running or coming home on a quiet street or late at night. And even of the male cops patrolling - with cause. Now I feel safe for the first time in a secure building with a well-lit parking lot, a resident administrator and emergency buttons.

(14)Being always broke, money never quite stretching to needs, never mind wants.

(15)Stress about all of the above.

I'm sure there are loads more.

I'd love to hear yours.

Rising Up

Thanks for all the comments on my last post. My realtor had called on me after the turnarounds of potential clients. I should mention my realtor's wife is dying of cancer and my concern was more for him than for the unimportance of my house when real-life horrors visit. They had thought she could abandon her chemo (6 years of it) as the quality of her life had deteriorated so badly but she had been rushed to emergency after a week. She is stabilized now and had insisted he leave her bedside and visit me.

We were both in agreement that we deal with the Cathedral head on in any publicity and also that I write an essay on what the house means to me and my story while I lived here. All that I had accomplished and fostered and enjoyed and improved upon and preserved.

Meanwhile I had spoken at length to a dear and wise and old friend in Ontario. He is one of these steady people, hand firm on the tiller of life, no room for the wild and crazy and unpredictables. I value his take on life, very different to my own and over the years we have just enjoyed each other's differences and valued each other's advice.

So he said why don't you crunch through the numbers and see what is the very minimum you would take for the house to keep you floating financially until you, well, snuff, and then if you get anything above that it will be a bonus. So I took the time to do this.

I felt so much better after the meeting with my realtor and my long conversation with R.

It is rare you meet a realtor who sings from the same page and I feel so fortunate with C.

So he had a call yesterday from a young couple and he mentioned the Cathedral and they were untroubled and enthused about the B&B and the cabin and all the positives so they're visiting tomorrow afternoon.

Fingers crossed but my thinking has shifted after the initial shock and horror. So yeah, onward and upward.

But my knees have taken a beating, I can tell ya.

Know Thyself

I'm buggering off for a while. I need to regroup. I found myself a small farm way off somewhere in the middle of absolutely nowhere and booked in for a week. A small farm? Well, a change from the constant seascapes which are stunning, but I felt change, even in surroundings, needed to happen.

I thought of lurking here with the car hidden away and curtains drawn but at my age that could be misconstrued quite badly and white coated "helpers" might not be far away. I'm packing my unfinished manuscripts, some reading, some knitting, my journal. I didn't even check to see if there was internet as I don't care.

On the one day off I had in a MONTH (truly) a dear friend barged in and said it was an emergency and could I divest myself of my pyjamas and dress up a bit and go across the bay with him to sign off on some really important documents for the lawyers, it would only take a few hours.

And something snapped in me. I felt I had only one remaining nerve ending in my head and he had crunched it. Nothing to do with him, I still love him dearly but when your calendar has been crawling with crap for 4 weeks straight and there's not even a day you can call your own in your favourite pyjamas the precipice yawns.

And the grief. Too much of it. And the health, still shaky. And families out here on the Edge, they are all so tight and supportive of each other, never seen the like, adds to the sense of tribal isolation at times. And becomes unreasonably magnified

I may not do well on my own, driving over 600k to the farmhouse (and back, I trust) but I'm ready for different surroundings and being alone with my writing. And reintroducing myself to me. Being alone with words. Being alone to write my inner outwards. There hasn't been time to reflect in yonks.

I need that.

So desperately.

Life in my Village - a snapshot.

I never need a tracking device because people find me. All.The.Time.

Case in point was today where I was conducting a writers' workshop. In the middle of it, Roger, our old postmaster (he had a rather stupid tussle with a Big Gun at the main post office in town and lost the service) called me out of it with one of those secret agent beckoning fingers along with a shhh on the lips. As he is also the honorary fire chief, I thought it to be an emergency of some kind.

"Drove all the way up here, couldn't find your car anywhere near your house (story of my life out here) and then I had to hunt you down," sez he, "I had a courier delivery for you, huge box - come down and get it, I can't lift it."

Ah yes, when a snowstorm hits, I order groceries by mail, free delivery over $50. Great service.

Assuring him, yes, I'd be down later not now, I resume the class.

On wrapping up the class an hour later, and locking up the building, I notice a jeep with one of our elders in it, obviously waiting for me.

"Ah yes," sez Mr. Francis through his lowered window, "Finally! I've been waiting for over half an hour. I had to track you down!"

"What?" sez I, "Another delivery?"

He looks at me baffled. "Ah no, no, girl,(it's always lovely to be called a girl when you're an elder yourself and he or she is 16 years older) I've been worried about the ice dams on your house, I took the liberty of checking the outside and I'd sleep easier if you could have an engineer look at it, to make sure there's no structural damage after the melt, know what I mean?"

It has taken me quite a while to get used to these invasions at all times, no matter where I am. Coming from cities (Cork, Toronto)it's all part of my adjustment to rural living. Everyone knows where you are and what boxes lie in wait for you and what's happened to your house, your family or your dog.

I wouldn't go back for anything.

Norah

This story was inspired by the photo above taken by my friend Joe Healy.

[As a follow-up to yesterday's post and requested by you faithfuls via emails and comments, here is the short listed story. Thank you kindly and feel free to critique.]

Strange how the simple regimentation of childhood fell into place once again in the declining years, the seeming spontaneity of middle life vanishing almost imperceptibly. Each day blended seamlessly into the next. Every morning at eight she had her simple breakfast of tea, toast and marmalade while reading the headlines of the Irish Examiner which seemed to slavishly follow the unwritten rule of 'if it bleeds it leads'. Accidents, drug lord battles, a drowning in Crosshaven. The bowl of mixed fruits in the middle of the table brought the only spot of colour into the kitchen, a counterpoint to the murky grey day nudging at the window. She rinsed out her dishes.

November is a wicked month, she reflected, looking out. Now who'd said that?

Ginger wheezed at her feet. A most unattractive fellow, all the colours of the dog world on him none of which were even remotely appealing. A mottled thinning wiry tufty fur: grey, dirty sand, streaky black topped by his white whiskers in a downward swoop giving him a constantly mournful expression. Fifteen. A great age for a dog but it was far too challenging to calculate it in human years like some did. Multiply a dog's age by seven? Maybe six? Or something far more complicated. She couldn't remember. And she a maths teacher back in the day.

Ginger was a witness to the last breath of her married life. A couple of years before he died, Hugh had found Ginger on St. Patrick's Street huddled up against a rubbish bin. A wee puppy. Rain slick and softly whining. He'd brought him home wrapped in his winter scarf and wanted to call him Pana after the street. Ah now, he'd said, don't be so hard Norah, a dog will get us out of the house more. And on the third ah now she'd relented. What harm? But she stood her ground on calling him Pana. Ginger, she'd said. And that was that.

And he'd stayed runty small and Hugh, God bless him, ignored the laughter-laden jibes, the 'sure what kind of rodent-rat-squirrel is it at all?' remarks that were tossed casually at his six foot self and his ugly little dog by passersby on Pana. Ginger. How euphemistic a name was that, you'd have to hunt to find the small bit of ginger fur on his belly.
Hugh had died right there on the kitchen floor while he was bent over topping up the dog dish. Ginger had a voracious appetite. They had laughed about it. Taking a peculiar pride in his enormous consumption. Hugh would joke about the subsequent output, he'd put all the Irish wolfhounds out there to shame would our boy!

Ginger whined and licked Hugh's face as he lay there, dog food scattered around him, while she dialled emergency services, stuttering into the phone, her words panicked and incomplete. For they both knew, she and Ginger, that Hugh lay forever still beneath the death that had silenced him.

Lisa and Jeff and the grandchildren came down for a week but that was all a blur. A disturbance really. Lisa had left home many years before and Hugh and herself had always visited them up in Dublin as there wasn't room in their small house in Cork for the swarm of them all. Five grandchildren including one set of twins, all within five years. All very loud.

After her cancer and hysterectomy and some very careful consideration, she and Hugh had adopted Lisa. They'd hoped for a quiet girl. And Lisa, as if she knew what was required of her, was one of those self-entertaining babies fascinated with her own fingers and toes, overjoyed with the mobile they hung over her cot, rapturous at being taken outdoors into the sunshine and best of all she slept through the night. She was barely an intrusion on their reading and listening to classical music, was entranced by their singing rehearsals for the Cork Baroque recitals and gurgled as they hosted their turn at bridge nights. Pretty too. And bright. They took a modest pride in her accomplishments, her scholarships. And then she'd met Jeff and all these children started arriving. Quickly. Unseemly they'd thought but had agreed it was truly none of their business. Three days in Dublin every Christmas, they decided, followed by one long weekend in the summer. That would keep their grand-parenting end of things up. And, of course, remembering all the birthdays and the anniversaries and putting aside modest educational funds. There, that would be their duty done without the noise of the rambunctious four boys and their even louder sister offending their delicate sensibilities.

She'd embraced the internet some years before after a few night classes. A vast encyclopedia of untapped knowledge, she'd said to Lisa, excited for the first time since Hugh had died. She missed Hugh's stimulating conversation. The vast world wide web compensated for this in a small way.

A month ago, she'd looked up the symptoms for depression. Old Doctor Harmon hadn't picked up on what was really going on with her. By now he was just seeing her and a few more of the stalwarts as he called them - patients that had been with him for the fifty years since he qualified. So he listened carefully as she read off her symptoms from a slip of paper and then handed her a small pack of anti-depressants from his samples. He wagged his finger at her in that way of his that she was used to by now but that Lisa had so much trouble with when she was a teenager.

Now Norah, he'd said, you can only take these with a bit of food, and just one three times a day mind! She'd nodded, repeating what he said as that had always pleased him.

And the three prescription renewals were no trouble either. He'd asked to see her again after the third one. She made sure she pasted a smile on her face as she walked into the surgery and remembered to keep it there even though her face ached as she left with the new prescription. Feeling marvellous, she'd assured Gerry Harmon, like a new woman!

She'd seen her mother going down the road she was headed. Second childhood they called it then. But at least children could recognize their own families. Her mother hadn't known any of them during the eight years before she died, even their simple brother Bertie who had lived with her all his life. A mother to nine strangers.

On researching Alzheimer’s on the web, she found that there were ten early warning symptoms. Not that she could remember all of them now.

She went into the hall and put on her blue quilted coat, forcing her mind back to the symptoms. Oh yes, one had to do with driving, another with forgetting to pay the bills. She'd always liked driving out to the country, especially Kinsale, usually with friends, most of them now gone or in care homes. Lovely spots for lunch there. But the confusion on the roundabout, and those coloured lights, what were they again? – traffic lights that was it - and deliberately avoiding the motorways and then getting on to them accidentally. This was all alarming enough for her to hide away the car keys in a lucid moment a few months ago and then forget where they were. Good thing too.

Ginger was sitting in front of her, staring at his leash hanging on its hook. She certainly never saw the need nor had the desire to talk to Ginger as Hugh had done. They existed within each others' lives without the clutter of language. Ginger knew the times of his twice daily feedings and his walk or reliefs, and would leave his basket by the kitchen stove and show up by the dish or the coat-rack or the backdoor without prompting and at the right times for these functions. He made no unusual demands on her nor she on him. It was a highly satisfactory arrangement.

She snapped the leash onto his collar and put on her blue hat and her red mohair scarf and her winter gloves and took her cane out of the hall stand. Ready steady go.
Not for her the stroll on Pana of Hugh's days but the scantily peopled North Mall with its nice flat footpath around the corner from the house. There were no twists and turns on their promenade and they both knew the way.

As she walked, she found herself pondering yet again on that Ten Point List. Something about forgetting to groom, using poor judgement. She'd made careful notes. Stuck them around the place. Especially about bath times and washing her clothes in the machine. One day, she'd found herself washing sheets in the bath like her grandmother would in the old copper tub at the farm. At times, alarmed, she'd had to decipher what the notes meant as once it took her many hours to figure out the word shampoo as she'd thought it had something to do with Ginger's doggy business.

Lisa hardly telephoned anymore which was all well and good. They now exchanged emails. Lisa sent current photos of her family on Sunday nights from her Iphone. Dinners, graduations, Halloween, birthdays, sports, performances. She would respond cheerfully, exclaiming over the children, all adults now, some married themselves. Unknown beings to her. She assumed their communal loudness had decreased in volume. Or maybe not, as on line she had kept herself up to date on heavy metal music and that rap nonsense that so polluted the airwaves on the radio.

Before she realized it, Ginger had turned around and they were headed back down to the corner of Marlborough Place. Close to sixty years at the one address though for the life of her she couldn't recall the number of her house if she was asked even though she'd silently repeat it to herself when she saw it on her own gate.

Mornings were the best. Afternoons were more of a challenge especially with the sun going down, for her agitation increased and then her ability to read even her own written directions to herself failed. She had let go of her beloved books, how long ago now, a year? Still aware enough then to find herself re-reading chapter one of each well thumbed tome over and over again trying to set the characters in her mind. And failing.

She carefully hung up the walking paraphernalia on the hall stand, placing Ginger's leash on its special hook and stared at it. She'd never been a sentimental woman. There was room for very little sentiment in the house she grew up in, and Hugh, bless him, had provided what sentiment there was in this house.

She took the four bottles of pills out of the kitchen cupboard and ground down two of the pills with her mortar and pestle and mixed the powder into some fresh mince meat. Ginger wasn't used to treats and devoured the snack quickly. And then she waited. It didn't take long. Wordlessly, she laid him in his bed beside the stove.

She put the remainder of the pills into the pestle and ground these. She poured some cornflakes in a bowl and sprinkled the powder all over it and poured milk on top and set it aside carefully and then went into the parlour to the computer in the corner and opened her email. She reviewed the instructions for 'delay delivery of email' and set the time for eight p.m. that evening. Then she painstakingly typed from notes she had prepared over the last few days.

Dear Lisa,
By the time you get this, I will have passed on to be with your daddy. I sense the onset of my own Alzheimer’s in more ways than I can tell you and I do not want yourself or Jeff to be burdened with my ever worsening condition. I've left all in order for you in your father's small safe. I'd like to be buried with him in St. Finbarr's.
You've been a joy and a source of pride to me Lisa and always respectful of my need for privacy and quiet. I am so very grateful that I can take care of this one small task left to me without bothering you. If you would, please have Ginger's ashes scattered on the grave. Your daddy did love him so. Goodbye. I've had a very good life.
Love, Mother.