Lost in Winter

Out my kitchen window a lazy brown leaf floated by, left behind by its cohorts, lost in the wrong season. It was a slow motion flight from the tree with occasional happy little flutters when caught on a small updraft. Like a sun-sleepy butterfly, it drifted casually across the entire expanse of the snow-covered back yard until it finally came to rest in a nearby copse, settling with the company it sought.

I heard sad news yesterday that threw me back several decades. A woman who influenced my life greatly had died, belated news of this event finally reaching me. Rosalind W. Addison would have been 88 this year. A long, productive life had come to an end. She had been teacher, vice principal and headmistress at my all-girls' high school in Vancouver for most of her career, retiring long after I left. She was a formidable character, greatly feared, loved and respected; a woman of great fairness whom I came to appreciate the further away I got from that whole mildly traumatic time of my life. An old fashioned feminist who believed that women could achieve anything they wanted, though I'm certain she would have bristled at the label.

A small facebook tribute I paid elicited a response from a classmate. She reminded me that in 2013 we will be celebrating our fortieth class reunion and plans are already being whispered. I have never been able to attend past events - have never really missed them - but suddenly I wanted to go.

Excitement thrilled. I phoned the one friend from that phase of my life with whom I have stayed in touch over the years and who still lives out west. Three hours of conversation ensued, a small part of which was spent planning for this fantasy trip next year.

As I thought about the many people I could visit in Vancouver, I realized they all represent my early formative life, my springtime: childhood, high school, family and family friends, even university, all leading right up to the time I met and married Michael, embarking on my adult life.

My mind has been spinning with strategies for how to manage Michael's care for the week I'd like to be away. Of course I would fly, though I might need some serious pharmaceutical assistance for traveling by air on my own. I could not indulge in a slower means of transportation without robbing myself of valuable visiting time. Michael would have to go into a care facility for the time I'm away; I'm fairly certain not one single person would be willing to take on that task here at home. Would I put him in early, vainly hoping he might adjust while I'm still here to help out? Or would the swift bandaid-removal approach be best with no lead time? I have a full year to agonize about that, ample time to talk myself out of the entire project.

As I furiously researched hypothetical flights and accommodations, I realized that I'm seeing this as an endpoint to my current situation, and the joy I felt shamed me. But then perhaps that is a good strategy to give me the endurance I will need for the coming year; if I pretend that March 2013 is the end of my responsibilities, that I won't let myself think about life beyond that point, then maybe I can inject enough enthusiasm for the job to make it tolerable. I know in my heart I would probably return to a very seriously traumatized husband who would require an even greater effort to reset his equilibrium, but for now, I want this more than anything; I might be willing to risk it. I feel as though I am being given what could be the last opportunity to reconnect with all these people, to reset to my youth for just a few days.

Perhaps there is still some time to play, is what that happy little leaf seemed to sing. Vancouver, March 2013? Just maybe.

*Painting by Willard Metcalf - Winter's Festival, 1913

Room with a View (or at least a crystal ball) - apologies to E.M. Forster

I stepped outside this morning to retrieve the daily newspaper from the box at the end of our driveway. Sometimes, on days without respite and therefore no opportunity for a walk with the dogs, this is my only foray outdoors, especially if the weather is lousy and Michael is particularly immobile, unable to even poke his head outside. On those days I hunker down and watch movies, knit, and nap between the various household tasks that must be done everyday, boring things like meals, dishes, laundry and, of course, whatever Michael's many needs might be beyond those basic domestic tasks. On those days sometimes the only utterance from Michael is to mimic the yawns, whines and other chirps emanating from the two dogs.

This Sunday morning feels like it could morph into one of those sluggish days. The sky has an ominous hue of dark grey to the west, the wind is murmuring, hinting at pent up rage, and the air feels oddly heavy and summery despite the cooler temperature, almost as if a thunderstorm looms. It is an appropriate measure of my mood, that I could have a meltdown but I'm just too tired to do so, preferring the prospect of wrapping myself up and retreating from the world, if only I could step away from the essential tasks at hand.

Michael's 87-year-old mom went home yesterday. I bowed out of that task, insisting to her that other family members accompany her home, fill her fridge and make sure she was comfortably settled. She phoned as usual this morning to report her immense relief. She sounded happy. Fingers crossed. But I could feel my energy suddenly draining out of me, perhaps from my own relief of being able to stand down for a while. It has been an intensive three months, culminating in sleeplessness and high emotions this week as we all faced this next step of her life - her desire to resume "normal" activities.  All have agreed to step back and let things unfold, however that may be. More fervent crossing of fingers.

That aside, though murmuring like the wind in the background, I can take stock of my reserves. If only I could see into the future and know how much more energy I need for this job. Not that I want it to be over - though I have to confess there are days when I wish it were so - but it would be nice to have a crystal ball to plan and prepare for what I can only imagine will be a difficult time ahead. Will I be able to see this through to the ideal end of Michael spending his final days or years comfortably at home? Will I have to muster up the strength and courage to hand him over to others to care for him? That is a prospect I dread, especially as I have had the opportunity to watch a cousin attend to her frail, anxious husband in the same retirement home where Norma convalesced. This woman, who makes daily visits and stays overnight on weekends, looks worn out, stressed out. The placement of loved ones into institutional care doesn't necessarily lessen the load, I've learned. And it can most certainly add to the guilt that all caregivers seem to carry.

Obviously, I cannot map out the future. Can anyone? I have a few big hints how this story will end but I can't cheat and flip to the last page, something I admit to doing when I read a book where it becomes too difficult to go forward without assurances of the end results. I just have to continue to plod through what is becoming a story of epic length and hope that the stormy plot twists aren't too dark and ominous.

Midsummer Madness

Bold steps were taken this weekend.  Bold steps out the door and down the highway.

The approach of summer had had me worried before the season even got going.  Dread of long, quiet, hot days imprisoned at home stuck in my heart.

Michael's condition has me more alert than usual these days.  There have been some dramatic plunges and peaks in his blood pressure, making me wonder how on earth he functions even the little bit he does. I have no real reason to suspect there is anything wrong, anything more serious than the usual, that is. Just misplaced worry and anxiety perhaps, leaving me feeling mildly manic.

So this week I got tired of my nurse's vigil. When a discussion with the In-laws arose about how to celebrate Michael's mom's 87th birthday, my usual tendency to take a cautious and isolationist approach by offering to have a quiet tea here took a back seat, and I decided I wanted a fast drive, somewhere, anywhere, instead. Michael's brother lives on the other side of town, a 45 minute drive away if the traffic is good. But a pool party was on offer and for once I agreed.  What the heck. Even if the worst thing happened, how much worse could it be away from home and in another province?

Caution was thrown carefully to the wind: wheel chair was stuffed into our tiny car; bathing suits and towels were packed (ensuring that a floatation device existed at our destination so my husband wouldn't drown), drugs for twenty-four hours (you never know), a bottle of water, extra diapers, change of clothes and bandaids.  Sound familiar to any of you who have traveled with children? With all that taken care of I was ready for a wild and wacky time.

Our arrival at the pool party (which was a very small gathering of family) was spectacular, one of Michael's best. He lurched his way down a narrow path to the back of the house, falling hard on the stone and ripping open his knees. Nothing unusual in that. The path ended at a gate that opened to the beautiful patio and pool in the back. Michael negotiated the gate well enough and I gave a premature sigh of relief, thinking we were home-free for this stage at least. With a chair in his sights, he lunged toward it but fell into the small glass-topped table around which everyone had gathered. Sangria-filled glasses flew free and smashed onto the patio with the table wobbling precariously, threatening to tip over. Chairs collapsed as Michael fell to the ground, spreading his blood liberally around.  Shocked faces from family members who never see these displays. I set to work bandaging knees and mopping up blood, quietly satisfied that they were getting a look at how life really is.

We never made it into the pool. Too much effort. Michael's meds ran out quickly so he sat rigidly and silently in a chair, blank-faced and withdrawn. I swilled what I thought was alcohol-free Sangria only to find my head spinning after a sip or two, my first taste of alcohol in a very long time.  I discovered that alcohol makes me very chatty, even tiny amounts, and inhibitions drop away. I do not drink for religious reasons but I suggest that those of you who do should take an extended booze holiday sometime just so you can relive that heady first sip feeling as soon as you resume. I immediately switched to soft drinks, needing to keep all my wits about me.

The rest of the day was incident-free. Feeling emboldened by the relative success of the outing (nobody died), I thought about the possibility of a day-trip to Montreal, a mere 200 kilometres from here. Michael would have no more to do than the previous day: sit in the car there and back, get into his daughter's second storey apartment and stay put till it's time to go home.  No discussion about this embryonic plan with Michael.  I know too well how that works; he'd work himself up into a frenzy and disappointment would prevail.  No, I've learned my lesson. When feasible, last minute attacks are the best. So this morning, while he munched on his cereal, I quietly packed the same bag I had the day before, only this time with enough drugs for a week (you never know) and without swim suits. As his head started it's morning dip into his cereal bowl, signalling the time for a nap, I issued the orders: bathroom, shoes, cane, car. In minutes we were on the road, the hosting daughter hastily informed (she and I had sketched out tentative plans in secret the day before).

I love road trips. I have a healthy collection of music on my ipod which immediately got jacked up. Once the open highway was reached, I let her rip. Now, keep in mind I own a small, rather spineless little Hyundai Accent but I am a master of fantasy. Shades on, music blasting, countryside zipping by.The world was my oyster, as they say, whatever the heck that means.

Michael sat in dazed, slightly panicked silence.  I had anticipated he would sleep all the way but nary a nod either direction. I ignored what looked suspiciously like white knuckles gripping the door. I wasn't driving THAT fast.

Soon it was time for medication: skillful uncapping of the pill bottle while clutching the water bottle between my thighs, one hand on the steering wheel. The madness of Mick Jagger's "Midnight Rambler" pulsed through the car. Drugs successfully administered. There's probably a law against such practices; at least, there should be.

The journey was mercifully uneventful . On arrival in Montreal, there was a moment of panic as I settled him onto our daughter's bed for a snooze but I assured him he would be fine soon.  If not, there was an entire arsenal of drugs at hand if necessary.  The big guns, however, were not needed.

We arrived home eight glorious hours later. What a great weekend.  Michael collapsed in an exhausted heap back on the couch and snored through a replay of the Women's FIFA final game (Oops, I forgot to tell him he'd miss that). It might take all week for him to recover. His breathing on our return home was disturbing but I dismissed my worry. Whatever happens, it was worth it.