Category Archives: aging

Well pressed

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I have not been in this writing space for a while, and I’m always amused by the random things I see on social media that bring me back to this place of comfort. I saw a post on Facebook asking if ironing was still a thing, and I was immediately transported back to a time in my life when the iron and ironing board were a prominent fixture on Sunday mornings.

In September of 1998, I moved out of a familiar home, and a familiar town in Ontario, to move to Halifax, Nova Scotia and live with my best friend. I needed a change of scenery, but leaving behind my comfortable town and all the familiarity it afforded me was daunting. With the help of my parents, we stuffed a U-haul trailer full of my belongings and traveled the over 1,800 kilometers to the east coast of Canada.

The bustling city of Halifax was charming, very much like the small town I had just left, and it immediately made me feel at home. I got a job at a local bakery and was thrilled I could walk the two kilometers to work when the weather cooperated. Living in this utopia was the change I had needed.

Every Sunday morning, my friend Sandra would bring a pile of laundry into the living room, and iron the crap out of every piece of clothing she owned while watching CBS Sunday morning. It became a tradition that I grew to love, and to soon take full advantage of. While she focused on the television screen and absent-mindedly ironed her clothes, I would sneak my wrinkled wardrobe into the pile and watch as she meticulously ironed my clothes, not noticing they did not belong to her. After the third week, I knew she was aware of my devious plan, but the morning ritual continued and she happily ironed my clothes without a care in the world.

After spending a wonderful year in Halifax, I moved back to Ontario in September of 1999. We remained as close as we had always been, but in 2003, through a series of bizarre circumstances, my dear friend Sandra would be afflicted with necrotizing fasciitis (the flesh-eating disease), and I would never see her again.

Memories give us permission to access our past, to relive the moments that made us smile, even when something as simple as a question on social media gives us a full pass to those memories. I will always cherish those Sunday mornings, sipping my coffee, and smelling the overwhelming scent of freshly pressed cotton. I still miss her insane laugh (that almost made it onto a movie laugh track), and I love the fact that social media can bring a distant memory stampeding into the forefront of my brain. May Sandra forever rest in peace, and continue to wear the iconic crinkled skirts that disobeyed every law of her love of ironing!

It’s okay

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I know myself. I know I will feel this global crisis at a molecular level because that’s how I feel everything. I’ve been called an empath but, regardless of labels, I can only say I suffer from the human condition very deeply. I am a minuscule fragment of the blanket that covers us all and that blanket seems to be unraveling when it should be binding itself tighter than ever.

Over the last week, I have done my best to follow the guidelines of social distancing and self-isolation. Sadly, the one thing I did not do was to ignore social media. Although there are so many positive posts and people sending uplifting messages of hope, there are countless people who Just. Don’t. Get it. This is MY forum and, for those who DO get it, I want to tell you it’s okay.

It’s okay to feel overwhelmed. The world is closing down around us and the sudden onset of panic is inevitable. Those who embrace the steps we need to take to flatten the curve will welcome the closure of all non-essential services. Those who don’t grasp the significance of those steps will continue to spew nonsense and put the rest of us in jeopardy.

It’s okay to feel emotional. I went for a forty-minute walk today, with musical theatre tunes blaring in my ears (thank you, Collabro), and I cried for the duration of my walk. I cried for those who have already succumbed to Covid-19. I cried for those who will still fall victim to this new pandemic. And I cried for the people who think those of us who are taking this so seriously are misinformed.

It’s okay to be scared. I’m petrified. I’m not so scared about the disease itself, but I’m truly frightened for the result that will come because of the ones who choose to believe that their actions will not have a harmful effect on others. They will. Your inability to see the larger picture is utterly disheartening and inevitably harmful.

It’s okay to be mad at people who just don’t get it. Not everyone thinks the same way but, as my mother used to say, we need to take the higher road. For all of you who choose to think this is nothing, think again. Communities, cities and provinces are shutting down to thwart the spread of this disease. Put yourself aside and think of the bigger picture. You could prevent dozens of people getting sick by staying home. By simply not going out in public and potentially spreading this virus, you can prevent the influx of people gathering in our hospital waiting rooms and reducing the number of fatalities by lessening the amount of human contact. Sure, you think you may not be infected but what if you are asymptomatic and spreading the virus without even knowing.

It’s okay to be silly. I’ve put my Christmas lights back on. It may be a ridiculous gesture but, to me, it’s a symbol of happiness. This small, albeit frivolous act gives me a ray of hope that everything, one day, will really be okay.

My first encounter with anxiety

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This post is raw, for me, and somewhat poignant, but writing is my catharsis and words are my crutches when I feel crippled.

I have many friends who deal with anxiety on a daily basis but, although I send messages of encouragement and love, I have never had any real idea of what they go through being trapped as a passenger on a debilitating emotional roller coaster. Recently, that changed.

I am a woman of a certain age. This is a time in my life when everything I once put faith in, in terms of knowing myself and my moods, flies out the window. I can honestly say, over the last two months I have had to look in the mirror several times to make sure the reflection I saw was mine. I wouldn’t call it an out of body experience but there have certainly been occasions when I was so far from being myself, it scared me. I’ve had moments I didn’t want to leave my house. I’ve had times when simply doing the dishes seemed like such an arduous task I let them sit for a few days until I could collect enough of myself to get the job done. I can’t describe the panic any other way than to say I was the polar opposite of who I have been my entire life. Last weekend, it took every ounce of strength I had to get out of my fleece onesie and conduct myself like I have done every day of my life.

My first reaction was to not talk about it, to internalize the feelings that I felt were too awkward to discuss, and weather the storm by myself. I eventually shared my feelings with my family but it almost felt like I was making a mountain out of a molehill. To those who have never had to deal with anxiety, that molehill very quickly became Mount Everest and I still felt like I was facing that daunting slope on my own.

Anxiety gripped me with such a force that it shook me more than anything else I have faced in my past, and I have faced innumerable challenges in my fifty years on this earth. I felt out of control, a victim to some foreign emotion I have never had to confront and I was unprepared for this new enemy.

Round one has come to its conclusion and, thankfully, I feel like myself again. But I know this is not a one-off and I am dreading the next time my hormones cast me into a churning sea that threatens to pull me under its encumbering tide. The only positive thing I take from this experience is that I know there are people who will listen, people who may not completely understand but are willing to just hear my words and offer a shoulder to lean on. Unless they truly understand anxiety, they will never know exactly how I feel, but they continue to be a ray of hope for me.

Trust in your family and friends. They have your back even if they can’t put themselves in your shoes. I offer my ears and my shoulders to those who face this demon on a daily basis. I have only glimpsed what you see so much more frequently than I have seen and I can offer nothing more than my embrace and my ability to listen. Only now do I have a tiny window to be able to see into a world you face each day and I applaud you for your courage to tackle each day with a renewed strength.

 

 

 

 

 

A Journey To The Past

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If loving musical theatre has taught me anything, it is to pay attention to the lines of iconic songs that truly bury themselves deep into our hearts without really knowing they have woven their way into our reality.

Yesterday was the day I refer to as my bridge day. March 8th is the day between the anniversary of losing my mom six years ago on March 7th and losing my dad fourteen years ago on March 9th. It is the day I inhale deep breaths after setting aside hours to remember all of the wonderful things about my mom before I do the same thing for my dad the next day. They are never far from my heart but these days, in particular, I set aside time to go through old photos and really bring them back to my “now”.

We were a very close family and the memories of being kids at the cottage are always the first flashbacks to fight their way to the surface above my tears. That place on the lake was the focal point of our childhood. It was the place we spent hours dreaming of who we would be, the place we learned to swim, to fish and to sail. And it was the place we spent many days having cookouts at the point of land between our family cottages. It was that point of land we chose to spread some of our parents ashes yesterday.

As a young girl, I spent many contemplative moments on that rock, never realizing what a special place that point would become to me as an adult. Standing on the frozen lake and looking back at the property that cradles so many wonderful recollections of family occasions sent me on a journey to my past and I could not imagine a better place to leave behind a small bit of two of the most important people who made those memories possible.

Life really is a journey. Much of it we spend looking forward to the things we want to achieve for ourselves and our future. But every so often, we need to take the moments to enjoy that journey to our past, to the people and to the places that have shaped our lives and brought us to where we are now.

 

 

 

 

 

Memories

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Our lives consist of many moving parts. New experiences pummel our daily lives but nothing can keep us attached to our true selves as much as our memories. As I write this post, I am eating a piece of rye toast for dinner, one that has been crusted with a few pieces of processed cheese toasted on top of that rye bread in a toaster oven. This is not a meal I make on a regular basis but one that takes me back to a place that makes me happy.

I love to look back on the stages of my life that have had a significant impact on me, to reflect on the moments that have helped shape the person I am today. Those snippets of my past that have woven their way into the blanket of my reality are the threads of my true soul. Each chapter of my life has helped to create a strong connection from the person I was to the person I have become.

To ignore my past would be a great injustice to the person I am now. Every phase of my life, every triumph, every failure, has brought me to my here and now. I could not express my sentiments about grief and pain if I had not felt those feelings with every fiber of my being. And I could not expound on my successes if I devalued my achievements in any way. Every bit of my past has brought me to where I am now and, although I think about how things could have been different, I would not change a single thing.

I am who I am because of my past. Good or bad, I am where I need to be. I have learned many lessons from my achievements as well as my deficiencies. I have become well-versed on striving for success but I am able to accept the worst if it presents itself. And I have become extremely proficient at quickly moving on to Plan B at a moment’s notice.

These memories, these blueprints of my original design, have sculpted the mold for the formidable structure I am today. And while many of my tender memories lay exposed in the foundation of my life, I protect the bricks of that foundation with the impassioned determination to defend the sanctity of my history while I am embroiled in my current reality.

My past is a rudimentary sketch of who I am now. It is the mere stick figure of the three-dimensional character I am able to call me.  And today, my memories are as much a part of me as the things that happen in my day-to-day reality and I hope that will never change.

Memories are the things that shape us and give us an anchor in the churning sea of our existence. I just hope we can all have faith in that anchor to hold us in the present but never forget the past.

 

 

 

My house is a very, very, very fine house

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Crosby, Stills and Nash permeate my brain as I write this post. In April of this year, I will have lived in my little house for twenty years. Twenty years. The walls surrounding the six-hundred square feet I call home have protected me from the elements, shrouded me from the realities I wanted to avoid and comforted me in my greatest moments of sadness.

These walls have listened to me converse with the numerous characters I have created in my stories, they have reaped the benefits of my good times and they have absorbed the many tears I have cried while facing the catastrophic losses in my life, and there have been several since I have been a resident here.

I dealt with the loss of my grandmother in this house. I came home and sobbed for the loss of my best college friend in this house. I spent many sleepless nights in this house after the loss of my father. I awoke in this house to the early morning phone call that my mother had passed. I conquered my divorce in this house. And most recently, I came home to this empty house after saying goodbye to my dog, who was my child and who lived here with me for twelve and a half years.

These walls are not just walls, they are my asylum. This home is my retreat, my security. There have been many moments when I thought my home wasn’t enough but, when I consider everything it has given to me during the past two decades, I know this home is everything I needed it to be. It will never make the cover of any magazine but it covers me in ways I could never have imagined. It will never be featured in Architectural Digest, but the bones of its structure, to me, are more formidable and more hospitable than any million dollar mansion ever could be. This is my protection. This is my refuge. This is my home.

 

 

Losing the biggest part of my heart

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On Friday afternoon, I had to say goodbye to this beautiful soul. She was my child, my best friend and the greatest listener I have ever known. I had the extreme honor of having her in my life for twelve and a half years and I am gutted knowing I will not be able to come home to her smiling face ever again.

It was a peaceful transition and the vet was wonderful as he explained what would happen. With my brother by my side, I petted her and told her how much I loved her as she lowered her head onto my arm and just went to sleep.

I know I did the right thing, for her, but I want her back so much it physically hurts. Every time I get up from the couch, I still look down to make sure I’m not going to step on her because she was never far from my side. When I look at the door to my bedroom, I expect to see her looking out from her second favorite spot behind the door since she always had to know where I was. And, for the first time in over a decade, I have gone to the bathroom without her lying outside the door, and I hate it.

When you lose a pet, people respond with empathy and sadness for your loss but the inevitable question always presents itself in the conversation that soon follows, “are you going to get another one?” I know the intention of the question comes from a good place but I don’t recall anyone asking so soon after my father or my mother died when I was going to get another one. She wasn’t just a dog, she was my family and to think of moving on from her so quickly is unimaginable. 

One day, my heart will heal enough to make room for another dog but it won’t be any time soon. She was special. She was smart, she was sweet and she was beautiful. And she was the biggest part of my heart. 

Oh, baby girl, I miss you so much.

New year, new decade, new mindset

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It is the first day of a new year, a new decade, and I have made no resolutions. However, I have resolved to do a few things that are very important to me. A resolution is a decision to do or to not do something. Resolve is a firm determination to do something and I stand strongly in the resolve camp.

I go into this new year with a great deal of hope and while my bleeding heart would love to see the world embrace a new decade of kindness and acceptance, the journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step. Those steps need to begin in many places and go in a multitude of directions and I can only hope the ripple effect of kindness is sent far and wide.

My biggest objective is more focused on the path I would like to follow throughout this new decade. I have resolved to accomplish the things I have talked about but, perhaps, never truly believed could happen. Now, more than ever, I have the steely determination to see things through and to make things happen in my life. There will be no waiting for luck or timing, I am going to make my own luck. I am going to take the bull of life by the horns and stare it down until it realizes my potential.

There are a few facets of my life where this new determination could become a very welcome guest. I don’t have a bucket list. I feel my life is very full with the people and things I have in it and I have no desire to throw myself out of a perfectly good airplane. I am simply driven to succeed, to take my passions and harvest every leaf of hope that grows on their vines.

This is much more than a new year or even a new decade. This is a new mindset.

The Art Of Reading Through Tears

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I knew it was a risk. I had been told about a book called The Art Of Racing In The Rain and had all but ignored it…until now. I began reading this book in the waiting room of my Honda dealership while passing time during an oil change and brake pad replacement. It was a fitting scene.

The book is narrated from the perspective of a dog who belongs to a race car driver. Although I am not a race car driver (perhaps only in my mind), the irony of sitting in a car dealership while beginning this book was not lost on me. I devoured the first half of the book in two hours while waiting for my car to be serviced. I sat in a small, sparsely furnished area with three very large men and openly wept while devouring every chapter I could of this novel.

There is an underlying joke between my friend and I that we would be gold medal winners if the Olympics ever created a competition for crying. Sitting in the waiting room of that car dealership while reading this book was certainly my qualifying round. Initially I did my best to conceal my tears, but these three men were on to me from the appearance of the first glistening tear that tracked its way down my cheek and they made every effort to not make eye contact from that moment forward.

I have a dog who recently turned twelve and has health issues, and the narrative in this book hit very close to home. Every well-paced paragraph reminded me that I may be mere moments away from having to realize every truth written in this book about an aging pet. It was eviscerating, but strangely comforting.

This book gave me a gift. I now know that I will have the strength to make that tough decision because it is what is best for her, not for me. Her comfort and her dignity come before my need for having more time with her. And as I cry writing the end of this post, I know it will be one of the most difficult decisions I will ever have to make, but one that has to be made….for her.

 

How do you say goodbye to someone who is dying?

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As someone who loves words and has no trouble putting my thoughts into sentences, I am at a loss for what to say. If you read this post a couple of weeks ago, you will know I received the difficult news that a group of ladies who annually visited the lodge will visit no more. In three short months, one has progressed rapidly into Alzheimer’s disease and the other was diagnosed with terminal liver cancer and is being cared for in her home to make her as comfortable as possible in the last few weeks of her life.

How do I say goodbye? I know, in essence, what I want to say but the words won’t come, perhaps because saying goodbye sounds so final. She is not gone, but saying goodbye makes it feel like I have accepted her fate and I have not yet come to terms with her diagnosis and quick deterioration.

I want to tell her how unfair it is she didn’t have a chance to fight, because I know she would have fought like a warrior, but I know she already knows that. The words I send to her will be words of appreciation for the short time I was able to spend getting to know her. My words to her will be warm and heartfelt. But the time I spend writing them will be heart-wrenching and leave me feeling slightly eviscerated.

I didn’t know her for very long but her absence will be felt on May 28th when the room they shared at the lodge remains empty. I will miss you, Barb, and I hope we see each other again on the other side.