Goosebumps

So I was at the car dealership this Monday past. It necessitated a long wait of 6 hours. In walking days I'd go off for a walk or run, there are some interesting shops around and a giant mall across the street and a beautiful lake with boardwalk nearby. Or if I had anywhere to go without spending 6 hours in the one spot, I would have taken one of their numerous shuttles all over the city.

So there I was, ensconced one might say. Or incarcerated as another might. I never mind as I come equipped with both book and device but the knitting was too enormous to drag, I'm in the final stages of a vast shawl.

So I read and try and tune out the endless large screen TV which broadcasts non-stop sports to the slack-jawed men in the front row. I wouldn't dare touch that channel and click it to Discovery (would you?). The coffee is good, there is fresh popcorn and a few boxes of Timbits.

A woman a few rows up gets up to look at a notice board on the wall. My heart stops. She looks just like my Helen who died in December 2014. I feel tears bounce into my eyes and a golfball hit my throat, the loss can be so keen at times. She was closer than a sister, there was nothing we wouldn't tell each other. I so miss that and Stranger Woman brings the loss into such sharp focus.

I pretend to read as she sits down again, now in the row in front of me but to the side. Her hair, her profile, her slender attractive body, even her eyes with that half-moon shape, so unusual (I'm so glad one of Helen's granddaughters inherited those extraordinary eyes).

As if she senses I'm looking at her, she turns and I smile at her, urging myself not to go weird, not to say anything about Helen.

We chat, we're the same age, we uncover life stories, children. Daisy lost her husband 22 years before but as he was an only child, she stepped up to the plate and took care of his mother who died at 94 this past December. She admitted the sacrifice, but had created a separate apartment for her mother-in-law (referred to as Missus) and had a helper come in once a day to do what was necessary in personal care. But Missus insisted that it was only Daisy who could cook for her. It tied her down terribly. I mentioned my favourite Aunt Daisy to her, who was the only other Daisy I'd known personally. We talked of our daughters and their opportunities and moved on to our singular granddaughters. Daisy'd been an entrepreneur up north but moved to the Avalon when her children needed more educational opportunities. She was as fascinated with my journey as I was with hers. We were together about 90 minutes.

Now here's the zinger.

She got up with many goodbyes and desires to see me again some time just as they were paging her one more time.

Her last name was Cassidy*.

As was Helen's.

*changed at last minute for protection of her privacy as a quick FB search found her so very easily.

Purge

I never tire of the sunsets here

I've started the purge. Not that there's much enough. Sentimental stuff hauled all the way here from Toronto. Letters, photos, cards. And the journals I need to burn. Tripe as my father would have called such "rubbish". He burned and dumped all his own stuff about 6 months before he died. "The Evidence" as I like to mentally call it. Cartons of papers and gawd knows what else.

I found lovely photos of my Helen. Cards from Missing Daughter loving me forever. Forever is always negotiable, isn't it. At the time we mean it. Can never imagine forever being over and done with. I philosophize as I work my way through stuff. A lot of thank you cards extolling my kindness, etc. Many from people whose names do not stir any remembrance at all. Weird that. Many items from people long dead. I am being ruthless. I don't need these memento mori anymore in my life. We change. We evolve. We devolve. We move on.

I had to make two hard decisions in the week. One was not to attend Grandgirl's Convocation in Ontario. She was limited to inviting three people only. Her father, her mother and I were her choices. The health thing. I am bockety, unsteady on the pins. I thought about this. Being a constant worry to my loved ones. Because worry they would. And distract. There is endless walking and grounds and halls and parking lots. I'm good for about three minutes and then kazoom. And a fresh worry, legitimate, deep vein thrombosis on the flight. I shouldn't say worry as I sound a mite obsessed. I'm not. At all. This was a carefully thought through decision with no regrets. I'll see the pictures and the fact she included me in her three beloveds meant the world to me.

I'm putting a small stayover bag for my apartment together. I'm quite excited about this. And then I walk across to my iceberg in this sparkling shine of a day and I feel the tears. Leaving here, leaving this magical place where I finally found myself. I still have a busy final tourist season happening ahead of me.

That's all good. I'm going out with a bang.

I keep reminding myself: This is all so good. So very good.

Forget-Me-Nots

I get lonely for Helen. I re-read some of the thousands of emails we exchanged over twenty years. News. Challenges. Grief. Stories. Support. Love. Solidarity.

She wrote about a mutual school friend who stayed behind to chat with her after a book club meet. Una was seven months pregnant forty years ago when she was summoned from Dublin to Cork by her family as her mother was terminally ill and wanted to die at home in the pre-hospice era. A few days after Una's arrival she woke up in the middle of the night with terrible pains that she thought might be labour. She lay there in terror.

Terror?

The only phone in the house was downstairs in the hall and no one in the house she was reared in ever disturbed her father, a light sleeper, in the middle of the night. Ever. The punishment for one of her brothers who had the temerity to do so resulted in injuries that kept him out of school for over a week.

Una wept as she told Helen how she cried and moaned into her pillow all night, her body writhing in agony. In the morning she waited for her father to leave for work before she got out of bed. The pains had now stopped and she was relieved but she felt nauseous. Once the doctor arrived to administer morphine to her mother, she mentioned the pains of the night before and he evaluated the situation. He immediately summoned an ambulance.

The baby was born dead a few hours later.

Una said to Helen it was the first time she'd ever talked about all of it.

Helen wrote to me: "I'm only telling you because you understand that kind of terror."

Sadly, I do.

Downhill to the Barriers

My friend goes downhill rapidly. We talk. She wants me to come. So we can hold hands for a while. All expenses paid (she can afford it).

I didn't sleep last night. Tossing and turning. "I have to." "I can't." Nothing was clear. There are too many commitments here. Not least of which is to elder dog, Ansa, who is getting frailer by the day. The walk tonight was pitifully slow. She's gone a bit barky also because she's deaf and also "sees" danger in the shadows of trees. She will go down protecting me. I can't pass her over for care to anyone. For one, she can't jump into the car anymore plus she's too heavy to lift. And she's a real care now.

Next, I have a performance - advertised on teevee yet - this Saturday, sold out. Like, I don't show for this?

Then I have two separate PGs coming to stay next week.

I could go on, there's loads more but I'm boring myself to bits as it is. Someone reminded me of how sick I got the last time I was in Toronto and I positively dread the polluted air there. I have weak lungs (double pneumonia and pleurisy as a 9 year old)and last time was so bad I had to leave earlier than expected.

And guilt, we haven't talked guilt yet. I'd love to see her and there is such urgency to it as she tells me she's terrified her brain won't be there by the weekend even. I cry a lot of useless tears.

But, I can't surmount all these obstacles to get to her. And I'm old. Did I mention that? And, um, tired and not overly well myself. And still reeling from Helen's death. And Laura's death.

Apologies to faithful readers: I'll get around to reading your blogs one of these days. Promise.

Just Breathe

I am reminded of how fragile we all are. Regularly it seems.

I'm having some medical workups done at the moment, the usual (I would think). I avoid doctors. But I recognise also that for some it is inevitable. And I need some evaluation as my stress level is far too high right now. So tests. And tests.

I was the one who insisted my BFF Helen demand answers last August when I was in Dublin. She'd been feeling "weird" for a while. You complete a marathon in May and sit under a patio heater in June and feel full of brain sludge the following morning which won't leave and then get prescribed anti-depressants until you can no longer articulate what's wrong with you and your stash of books goes unread and you can't eat. And that story resonates with many. Symptoms missed or misconstrued and women? Anti-depressants! I believe most of the world is on anti-depressants. They are supposed to be a short term solution while therapy sorts one out permanently. Meanwhile, my glorious life-long friend died excruciatingly of a brain tumour in December.

Big Pharma makes of it a racket. And the effects are audible and visible. More brain sludged innocents meandering around. A sedated population is malleable, yeah? I'd say many of my intimates are on such meds. Some tell me, some I perceive as being not quite there at times.

I was suicidal at one low point in my life. And I was prescribed anti-ds while I underwent therapy. A good therapist is essential. Mine sorted me out, I couldn't believe all the repressed stuff that kept pouring out. This was after I sobered up and let go of my 40+ a day smoking habit. The alcohol and nicotine had kept everything nicely tamped down. I was a raging lunatic for a while. Couldn't believe all the repressed emotions. Particularly around this and this

But like they say, the brilliant they, you never quite leave the room(s) you slept in as a child. Profound when you think about it.

So yeah, I remind myself to breathe, especially when those frayed old scenes start haunting me.

And you know? When I wrote those long ago blog-posts about my own childhood, my volume of emails from you guys out there went through the roof. It's good to know I'm not alone.

30 Days - Day 19

Before I start my day I lie in bed in the morning and do a mental survey. In spite of myself, my BFF Helen, who passed away in the past few months, springs to mind. I miss her more than words can say. Actually, truth be known, I can't find the words, the pain is so bad. I ask for her advice on challenging familial situations, like I always did. As she did me. But the answers don't come anymore. We were very good at "Remember when that happened and you did ......" or "you were such a star when you represented Ireland at Bridge....". Various validations of each other's worth. Self-validation is never enough, in spite of the gurus. Unless you're delusional.

My soul-friends are thin on the ground now. Many deaths. Others living far away. And here? I'm only known for the past 10 years basically. No historical setting for me. Just that I'm from magical Ireland and thus I'm viewed as if fairy dust was sprinkled all over me. No one wants to hear of the Ireland that betrayed me and mine in so many ways I can't even count them. How could I leave such a Utopia, they cry, baffled.

My lived experience, my truth, my very authenticity to use the fad word, is denied. Over and over again.

And there's something awfully lonely about that.

Grief

I remember on one of my many trips to Dublin we were reading side by side on her patio, birdsong trilling around us, the scent from the overhead baskets of tomatoes and strawberries perfuming the sun warmed air.

"You know," she said, "You're the only one in the world I can do this with. Isn't it perfect?"

Perfect. Yes.

There are multiple aspects to grief, thousands of manifestations. An enormous sense of never being the same. Ever again. And that's just one.

In spite of myself I go to the labelled email folder last night. Helen. Thousands of emails. It's like a compulsive first bite of something decadent, sinful and addictive.

And I realize some things that weren't obvious to me before.

She played her buttons close to her vest. She didn't let too many people in. Maybe it was the long history we had. Nothing could sever the trust, the implicit faith in that shoulder always being there. That acceptance. The sheer unconditionality of it. I really don't feel that way about anyone else. I always think I will be rejected, abandoned, condemned and shunned once I show you the inner me. It's happened far too many times before. It's my default setting. Therapy hasn't helped. It's like a permanent internal condition akin to an irremovable birthmark. Part of my psyche. And we knew these things about each other. In particularly bad patches we would sign off: "Remember I love you."

And we meant it. All warts exposed, all insecurities, all struggles. It didn't matter.

We'd speculate how we could do better, help each other climb over the stiles of our challenges and pain.

We'd talk each other through depression and bafflement over loved ones' behaviours.

And a little nugget:

A Canadian friend emailed me yesterday and said:

"Remember that day in Ballydehob and my nails were all a mess and Helen went off immediately and bought me stuff to deal with them."

I'd forgotten.

She'd only known my friend for a couple of days.

But her caring expanded to friends of friends of friends.

I miss her so.

Eggs

It is in noticing the small things and being cheered, even slightly, by them that we give ourselves a bit of a gee-up and then other gee-ups start to pile up quite nicely.

The husband and adult children of my darling friend were overjoyed when I created a closed group, members only, for my friend Helen. I called it "Helen's Circle" and I posted some of my pictures and then one of her sons posted a baby picture of her and I found our Confirmation picture and put that up. And we cry a bit but the joy is there too when we look at her and the portrait of her and the World's Most Impossible Dog (she was a dog rescuer and worked tirelessly for the Dublin SPCA). And this dog? I don't think any dog was ever more despised. It bit, it barked, it was completely and totally unlovable and this opinion was shared by all her dog-loving family and friends including me. The dog, Robyn, laughed all through her obedience classes and then proceeded to bite her husband every time she saw him and after that snack would bite the hand that fed her (mine, a few times).

So those eggs? Ramana had posted about the wee things in life and I thought to keep my eyes open for them. I got the ceramic eggholder in a thrift shop for a whole dollar but it gives me unremitting joy when I put my hardboiled eggs in it. And the eggs are happy eggs from my friend who names her chickens and gives them the run of the place. These eggs are art.

And my office missed me when I was away. They bought me an espresso maker, one of those old-fashioned stove-top ones. I do whine about not having strong coffee. They fixed me. Sweet, yeah?

And I get a message to come for dinner from dear friends for Sunday evening. Always beautiful company and beautiful, thoughtful food.

And I start a project tomorrow that will enhance my community in a small way I hope.

And some lovely phone messages that I finally played yesterday.

So I'm counting my eggs.

They are many and they're all delicious.