Tuesday Tendrils

An old piece of my writing in a journal:

"My life is but one wild brief dance in the ballroom of time."

I was wondering a couple of days ago (not sadly) when was the last time someone called me "darling" and came to the conclusion it was when an aunt, who lived to a great age up to a few years ago, used it as we had tea in front of her fire and she gave me gentle words of wisdom always interspersed with the word "darling". I use it myself, of course, to family members, to cherished friends. It is an important assuring word and we need to use it more to those who are dear to us. " My dear" or"Dearie" doesn't quite cut it, or "honey and "love"for that matter, I find those words quite dismissive and meaningless.

I am not having a good day health-wise, seems to be some bodily reactions going on but nevertheless I persist as best I can and showered and washed my hair and moaned to myself. And then Joanna (my cleaning lady) arrived as I was cancelling my plans for the morning with friends.

And the loveliest thing. I was sitting in my office chair letting my hair dry. I have a lot of hair and it is now long (no hair cutting/styling money pit anymore) and she began to stroke it and run her fingers through it and hum a bit and said:

"You know the last time I did this was when my daughter was about 12 and she let me, and it is one of the most beautiful things to do, isn't it? Run your fingers through long hair, your hair is so beautiful."

She made my sad, sick and sorry day.

Emerging into Easter

I think we all need this. To be under the weather with all that entails, low energy, hacking, spewing, wondering where the hell so much moisture comes from, swigging cough medicine, Kleenex boxes the main decor in every room and avoiding all human contact. Many books, bits of knitting, Netflix, piles of unwashed dishes, a table so disorganized as to constitute a safety hazard.

And then today. It's like a cocoon has gently split and I emerge and put on some music and take a shower and change the sheets and catch up on a bit of knitting and open my windows and realize after a few hours that hey, I haven't coughed once.

And life looks sunny once more and if I could find some human company, I won't quite seek it mind you, but hey if I ran across it I might actually socialize. But meanwhile it's a walk by the lake and a drool at the dog park.

And my favourite Easter hymn to soothe you. I would sing this back in the day in a choir in my home city.

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.

And on the 8th Day...

This is a photo that Daughter took up at the Tigeen the other day, the bay reflected on the French doors. I love it.

This is the 8th day of a cold I suspected was sourced somewhere in Ontario and gifted to me by Daughter who returned from there.

I was doing fine with it, relieved it hadn't turned into a bronchial nightmare like times past. I had poor lungs as a child, double pneumonia and pleurisy by the age of 10 and heat treatments in the hospital for about a year afterwards. I can still smell that machine, odd that, and I can't find any information on it on a Google search. It was a night out for my mother and me. Every Wednesday night. And we would walk from the hospital to a distant bus-stop afterwards as the fare was cheaper. Today, I can't imagine my father coping alone with the children at home, the youngest about a year old.

It's funny how one can think of something far off in the past and it opens up a floodgate of memories. My mother would always buy me a chocolate bar afterwards - I would take forever to choose it in the newsagent's across from the hospital - for being a "good girl" and lying so still on my stomach under the lamps. I imagine my lungs were being dried. I must have been a wheezy child but I have no recollection of that.

And here I am today, 8 days into this nasty bug and feeling worse than the last 7 days. I slept most of the day, coughed and hacked so much I got a rare headache and yes, I'm cranky. I have too much to do to be this sidetracked by my body.

What was that again? Oh yeah, it's telling me to slow down.

Aye, aye, ma'am.

Blog Jam

There is so much I want to do right now but I am completely engulfed in the work that pays my bills. Nearly.

I think a combination of age and a desire to be doing OTHER STUFF is the major burden I'm working under. I tire easily and lengthily. I neglect self-care. My writing life is shoved to the side. I rarely get out and take art photos. I want to experiment with some photographic software. I briefly jot down some knitting designs. Oh to execute!

I was sending off - by mail, how quaint - one of my cards to a friend who has been diagnosed with a mass in her lung. She quit smoking too late. And get this - she was an emergency room nurse. I've known her an awfully long time. She was married lots before she outed herself, having surprised herself immensely by falling in love with a woman late in life. She had great movie and Scrabble parties. And you'd think that would be all there is to her, right? Well, no.

You see about twenty years ago she went off to Africa for two years. Her mission? Both to prevent and heal clitorectomies. How many of us can say that we made one small change in the world that would go on and on and on? Well, she did.

She did.

And do you know what she said to me, among lots of other positive stuff today on the phone?

"I'm ready to go if that is my next step. I've had a bloody marvellous life".

I felt immensely cheered after the phonecall. I was expecting tears and grief for I love this woman.

I looked around the scads of files, the mountains of paperwork.

I thought: one file at a time, duckie, one file at a time.

And be glad of it.

Blog Jam

Yeah, June 1st and I have the fire going. Grateful for this. Why? I can't stomach the humid solid heat of other places I've lived.

Day 13 of ear infection. Battled by two antibiotics and ear drops now and only a teensy improvement to hearing and pain. Back to the doc on Monday if no change.

Day 3 of stomach flu, not as bad as yesterday but I am self-confined to barracks.

Being alone gives me time to reflect and create. I need a lot of alone time. I designed a baby afghan in my beloved aran knitting for a child arriving in August. I outlined a new play.

Mantras are helpful in reprogramming the brain and distancing from hurtful behaviours of others. I no longer take on the rejection and spite of those who profess to love me. It is their issue and not mine and I will not make it mine.

"My reaction to others is entirely controlled by me."

Fall back mantra:

"I am far too old for this shyte."

The older I get the more I realize that I have to make time for play, running (OK, loping) on the beach, collecting little treasures as my forty-mumble daughter does, making ridiculous scrapbooks, playing hide and seek with the dog, wearing a bright red floaty shirt just because, trying new recipes, playing music far too loudly.

And I will reflect daily on the line of the old song:

"And always remember the longer you live, the sooner you'll bloody well die."

Make each moment count, my friends!

Out of Sorts

Did you ever feel like you are standing some distance from yourself, wondering why you don't feel like yourself? No? Well, that's me at the moment.

I don't feel well, I don't feel deathly ill, but somewhere in between. Coughing, difficulty breathing, leg pains, thigh pains. "Off": that's me. The older I get the more the city air (a loose term for oxygen, I know)affects me. I tend to shallow breathe. It might only be me but I feel it is toxic. It reminds me when I was down in Mexico City and my brother told me an environmental engineer with a fresh contract in his hand for a project, had moved his wife and family down there and three days later they all took the first plane out. He'd done some testing. And fled.

Does anyone test the air in Toronto? I know anyone who lands in St. John's to visit me remark about the air immediately they arrive as they suck in huge lungfuls of it.

I was feeling really sick last night and trying to sleep and a party next door breached many decibel levels. I'd forgotten that. Even over and above the traffic and sirens and airplanes overhead, how very noisy next door parties can be. Could be I'm a fully fledged geezer now.

I was going to stay on for another week or so, there were some events I wanted to attend but my mind is made up today. I am heading back out to Newfoundland at the beginning of this week.

I just can't take it anymore.

Blog Jam

I was sick as a dog overnight. I didn't sleep a wink but spent most of it in the small room. Violently non stop ill. I had to cancel long anticipated lunch guests for today who are returning to the mainland tomorrow.
I'm still queasy. Whether this is a bug or a reaction to some food or elder body internal collapse is up for conjecture.
I was indoors all day. And it happened to be a gorgeous, breathtaking bite-the-blue day. A denim day. I took a picture from inside my prison (see above), testing my brand new zoom lens. Gawd I love my camera and its wee bits.
I entered another competition with a short story (a 600 word limit - you try it!)I've been playing with for about two years. Finally nailed it. It cheered me up with all the internal thunder and lightening I was suffering.
I wasn't worth anything at all today.
Isn't the news both depressing and heartening at the same time?
The world is doing somersaults. And so few of our fearless leaders are 'getting it'. But of course they don't have to. Being obscenely wealthy and never having to worry about jobs or enough oil or safety or food or heat.
The real revolution is over. The greatest transfer of wealth in history from the poor to the rich has taken place. Us peons all over the world are beginning to fight over the last few scraps.
Get planting.

Streaks of gold on a dreary day

You need to know: the drear is all me. I have been diagnosed with chronic bronchitis. I had struggled with breathing, coughing incessantly and feeling completely discombobulated in the past week and finally went to the place of last resort - for me, the doctor's, yesterday. I should clarify: I haven't smoked in over 20 years.

She said to me: you have the lungs of a 2 pack-a-day woman at the moment. Is this karma, I ask her. No, she said, but a chronic infection built up over a series of bad colds that you neglected?

I'm not the type to run to the doctor with colds, I would feel whiney and whingey and downright hypochondriacky. I say this to her. More fool you, was the crisp response, now look at you!

So I'm on a course of medication and cancelled a lot of appointments to get some rest (Why do I think bed rest is for sissies? Why?)

Then I get all chuffed up to find my short story of a week ago is up at The Elder Story Telling Place

This plus my piece on the innocence of girl children being stolen being up at Shakesville a week ago has cheered me up immeasurably.