My name is Lisa...and I am a political junkie. Actually, I'm a third generation political junkie...and with imminent elections in Canada and the United States, I am a happy political junkie.
From the time I was a child, I followed politics. I am an only child, and if I wanted to have anything to say over dinner, I had to. Our family talked politics, local, provincial, federal and international, over dinner. I once won a trivia contest at Wilder Penfield Elementary School in Dollard des Ormeaux because I was the only one in the school who could successfully identify a picture of Mayor Jean Drapeau... (and I was probably only in grade 3 at the time...) once a geek...
My parents followed politics closely, although they were not active in a party. My father was a Liberal. His family was Liberal. His family continues to vote Liberal. It didn't matter who was the leader of the party, or who the local representative was. The Cheeseman family vote Liberal.
My mother tended to vote Liberal as well, but was more concerned with who was leading the party and who the local candidate was. Her father always advised her to "vote for the man rather than the party" and she tended to follow that. My mother is passionate about caring for the poor, the homeless and the hungry. No matter how little she had, she always found some money to give to others. As she's aged, she's become far more concerned with which party will best take care of the least in society. She is on a fixed income and has little, and is still passionate about people who have even less than she has. It's a lesson I learned at home and one that I practice and continue to teach my daughter.
I'm an enigma. As my family will gleefully remind me from time to time, I was a card carrying member of the Conservative party for years, and there are pictures of me, dressed head to toe in Larry Grossman garb at a leadership convention circa 1984. One of my most treasured possessions is an autograph from Joe Clark. I joined the Conservative party because of Joe Clark-I was always to the left of centre in my thinking and Joe appealed to my teenaged idealism. I was in tears the night his government was defeated, and wrote a very impassioned, full of idealism letter of support to him. I was 17 and really upset that I couldn't vote. I still have the letter I received in response. My grade 12 history teacher, Tom DelaFreniere, fanned the spark of interest into a flame by engaging in a spirited debate about issues during the election that followed and demanded that we debate intelligently, and not just "I like the party". He expected us to defend our position...and was not smug the morning after the election returned the Liberals to power. I went on to complete 2 degrees in Political Science. My specialty and passion has always been Canadian politics, and since I grew up in Quebec during the 1970s, I spent a great deal of time trying to understand why the Quebecois feel as they do. I don't think I completely understand, but at least I've made the effort to see another point of view.
I actively worked in both Larry Grossman leadership campaigns, canvassed for candidates until my feet fell off...and then received a hard lesson in political party reality. It was 1985, and I had passed up an opportunity to be a delegate from the Kitchener riding to the second Ontario Conservative leadership convention (which Grossman eventually won) because I had been promised a delegate position because I'd worked on staff for the Grossman campaign (sometimes going 24 hours at the headquarters-Larry Grossman's father was an insomniac, and it was not uncommon for him to arrive in the wee small hours of the morning with food for those of us silly enough to be there over night. Computer technology was in its infancy...we did a lot of things manually...and I became very good at running the autopen and signing Larry's name to the letters...) On the night of the speeches, I was eager to hear them in person, and my section head kept stalling, saying we'd all go together...I finally got fed up and headed down there alone, and walked up to delegate registration, only to find out that they had nothing for me...I had moved to Toronto by then, and I was three-quarters of the way out the door, heading for home when I was stopped by one of the senior team, who explained that there had been some "confusion" about me...and there was no delegate for me, but they hadn't wanted to "upset" me by telling me ahead of time. Yeah, cause it was much less upsetting to be turned away at the door...I cut my ties with the party not long after...literally. I cut up my membership cards, I cut up my PC Canada Fund card...and I haven't voted Conservative since.
I share my mother's passion about the poor, the homeless, the marginalized, the hungry and the less fortunate. I have added a concern for the environment, and our family does our best to mitigate our impact on the environment. I believe that we all have a personal responsibility to take care of each other, and that the people we elect as representatives and lawmakers have a higher responsibility. I will never be an economist. People matter to me far more than the bottom line or the boardroom profit margins. I was always the one who asked how a policy decision would impact the employees...I don't do "mean". I understand that tough decisions need to be made in business, and in politics, but I have never been able to make those decisions without agonizing about the impact on the people behind the decision. I will vote for the party that I think can balance the concerns of the bottom line with the concerns for the people impacted BY the bottom line.
I confess that I have been far more interested in the politics south of the border than our current federal election. With the exception of the Green Party, the differences among the mainstream parties are not that significant. In the United States, however, the McCain/Palin and Obama/Biden tickets are worlds apart. The president of the United States has a worldwide impact and with the current economic crisis needs a firm and prudent steward. How I feel about US politics is a blog in itself...but suffice to say that McCain, and especially Palin scare me witless. It's unfortunate that Ms. Palin will become the anti-poster child for women in politics. There are so many better choices for VP than the gun-toting, g-dropping Governor from Alaska. If I were voting...I'd vote Democrat.
I will be glued to the television on Tuesday night...and I will be talking back and forth with my mother all evening. We will similarly be glued to the television on November 4. After 10 years of marriage, my husband has come over ot the dark side (we have cookies...) and has joined the political junkie side of the family. If he's stuck watching the debates and the returns, he might as well join in the conversation as well! Meet the Press is our Sunday morning with coffee ritual, although we miss Tim Russert. I'd love to see what he would do with Sarah Palin...
It's an important time in our history and that of our neighbours to the south. I will always exercise my right to vote because I don't believe you have a right to bitch if you haven't been part of the process! Whatever your opinion, whatever your inclination...exercise your right to vote...be a part of the decision-making.
Thursday, October 9, 2008
Friday, September 26, 2008
Channelling Helen Reddy
"If I have to, I can do anything. I am strong. I am invincible. I am Woman." From the song, "I am Woman" lyrics by Helen Reddy, released in 1972.
This song was released when I was 9 years old. I always liked the song, but I don't think I had a real appreciation of the meaning of the lyrics until recently. The last couple of weeks, I've been singing the song out loud to motivate myself. You see, for the last few weeks, I've been in home reno hell in preparation for a visit from my cousins on October 7th.
My husband is a procrastinator. He has big plans...lots of them...they are still plans. Any home reno project we've undertaken has happened because I start them. I changed our master bedroom by reaching about his head one morning and starting to peel the wallpaper off the walls. We painted the living room when I started pulling the furniture into the middle of the floor, spreading newspaper and then carrying the all-ready purchased paint from the basement. When I get the project in motion, he pitches in full force.
We had been talking about replacing the wallpaper in the hallways and stairwells for 10 years. It was old. It was formal. It was falling off the wall on the landing. We had a couple of challenges. The landing is 1.5 stories, and I'm afraid of heights. We also didn't have a ladder tall enough to reach the ceiling. More daunting, the people who had the house before us were wallpaper morons. They didn't prep the walls properly, they lapped the wallpaper from one room UNDER the wallpaper to another and since we'd already stripped a number of the rooms ,we knew what we were in for. We were cowards...but now we were cowards with a deadline because I wanted it fixed before my cousins come. There's nothing like out of town guests to motivate home reno projects.
Our daughter had already pulled bits off the wall. On a rainy day when I was at a loss about how to entertain our fractious and bored 3 year old, I decided it was time. I got my wall patch thingie, told Vampira we were going to make a big mess...and started to pull the wallpaper off the walls. I pulled the wallpaper off as far as I could, and then let Vampira do the bottom part. She had a ball and we got quite a bit done. We were taking a break mid-afternoon when I heard the front door open and my husband calling "hello" and then there was dead silence...I had forgotten it was his split shift. Vampira and I stripped all of the wallpaper that we could reach, and then we let my husband and father in law do the top bits. A couple of days later, I armed Vampira with a spray bottle full of fabric softener and water and we attacked the backing. (it really works! We've tried everything in this house to get the wallpaper off without destroying the walls and this concoction does the best job.) She sprayed the low bits and I worked on the high bits and we stripped the walls and then turned it over to the men for the unreachable places.
That same weekend, I headed upstairs with a prybar, a garbage bag and my wall patch thingie. My husband followed me, a nervous and quizzical expression on his face. When I started attacking the floor in the bathroom, all his questions were answered. We had butt ugly peel and stick tile that was not sticking anymore. We'd bought a replacement; I was replacing it. When I discovered that my husband and father in law had peeled and stuck over an existing floor, the job doubled in size, and the first chorus of Helen Reddy sprang to my lips. As I pulled at the floor, I kept singing "I am strong. I am invincible. I am woman." My husband pitched in and we got the old floors up in record time. Later, my daughter sat on my lap peeling the backing off the new floor as my father in law measured and laid it. After all, floor tile are much bigger than stickers and easier to pull off.
When my husband went back to work, I was left with the task of continuing to patch the walls. The men had done quite a bit, but there was a great deal more to do. I couldn't get to the good stuff until the patching and sanding was done...and time was ticking. I swallowed my fear and climbed the newly purchased ladder, patcher thingie and bucket of patch in hand. I did all but the last foot nearest the ceiling because I simply could not climb another rung up the ladder, and, as some people had pointed out, climbing a ladder that high with only Vampira in the house was not the safest thing I've done in my life. I also sprained my foot 15 feet up in the air and had to gingerly ease my way back down. The patching got done around Vampira, but it got done.
I'm now into priming the walls, and I've been humming Helen again. My daughter now goes to pre-school two mornings a week, and I paint like a madwoman while she's there. My foot still hurts, so I've been staying lower down the ladder, but the ceilings haven't lowered. I was a fan of McGyver, and the edging at the ceiling had to be done. I taped a paintbrush to a stick, climbed a little way up the ladder, put the roller on a long pole and primed the wall from Hades.
I can't do the paint colour with a paint brush on a stick, so my husband will have to run the paint gauntlet at the ceiling. I can do the rest.
Moms find out fast that our job doesn't end if we're sick or tired. I've taken Vampira to the park when I had bronchitis so severe I could barely walk. I've been stripping wallpaper and priming walls around my daughter. I know how to work with her. I've got some medical things going on right now that might mean a hysterectomy down the road. Right now, I'm anemic. I'm tired...really tired but I keep going. (a healthy dose of stubborn doesn't hurt!) I have to keep going or things don't get done.
So I finally understand all the words to Helen Reddy's song. "I am strong. I am invincible. I am Woman." I will make it happen. It's what women do.
This song was released when I was 9 years old. I always liked the song, but I don't think I had a real appreciation of the meaning of the lyrics until recently. The last couple of weeks, I've been singing the song out loud to motivate myself. You see, for the last few weeks, I've been in home reno hell in preparation for a visit from my cousins on October 7th.
My husband is a procrastinator. He has big plans...lots of them...they are still plans. Any home reno project we've undertaken has happened because I start them. I changed our master bedroom by reaching about his head one morning and starting to peel the wallpaper off the walls. We painted the living room when I started pulling the furniture into the middle of the floor, spreading newspaper and then carrying the all-ready purchased paint from the basement. When I get the project in motion, he pitches in full force.
We had been talking about replacing the wallpaper in the hallways and stairwells for 10 years. It was old. It was formal. It was falling off the wall on the landing. We had a couple of challenges. The landing is 1.5 stories, and I'm afraid of heights. We also didn't have a ladder tall enough to reach the ceiling. More daunting, the people who had the house before us were wallpaper morons. They didn't prep the walls properly, they lapped the wallpaper from one room UNDER the wallpaper to another and since we'd already stripped a number of the rooms ,we knew what we were in for. We were cowards...but now we were cowards with a deadline because I wanted it fixed before my cousins come. There's nothing like out of town guests to motivate home reno projects.
Our daughter had already pulled bits off the wall. On a rainy day when I was at a loss about how to entertain our fractious and bored 3 year old, I decided it was time. I got my wall patch thingie, told Vampira we were going to make a big mess...and started to pull the wallpaper off the walls. I pulled the wallpaper off as far as I could, and then let Vampira do the bottom part. She had a ball and we got quite a bit done. We were taking a break mid-afternoon when I heard the front door open and my husband calling "hello" and then there was dead silence...I had forgotten it was his split shift. Vampira and I stripped all of the wallpaper that we could reach, and then we let my husband and father in law do the top bits. A couple of days later, I armed Vampira with a spray bottle full of fabric softener and water and we attacked the backing. (it really works! We've tried everything in this house to get the wallpaper off without destroying the walls and this concoction does the best job.) She sprayed the low bits and I worked on the high bits and we stripped the walls and then turned it over to the men for the unreachable places.
That same weekend, I headed upstairs with a prybar, a garbage bag and my wall patch thingie. My husband followed me, a nervous and quizzical expression on his face. When I started attacking the floor in the bathroom, all his questions were answered. We had butt ugly peel and stick tile that was not sticking anymore. We'd bought a replacement; I was replacing it. When I discovered that my husband and father in law had peeled and stuck over an existing floor, the job doubled in size, and the first chorus of Helen Reddy sprang to my lips. As I pulled at the floor, I kept singing "I am strong. I am invincible. I am woman." My husband pitched in and we got the old floors up in record time. Later, my daughter sat on my lap peeling the backing off the new floor as my father in law measured and laid it. After all, floor tile are much bigger than stickers and easier to pull off.
When my husband went back to work, I was left with the task of continuing to patch the walls. The men had done quite a bit, but there was a great deal more to do. I couldn't get to the good stuff until the patching and sanding was done...and time was ticking. I swallowed my fear and climbed the newly purchased ladder, patcher thingie and bucket of patch in hand. I did all but the last foot nearest the ceiling because I simply could not climb another rung up the ladder, and, as some people had pointed out, climbing a ladder that high with only Vampira in the house was not the safest thing I've done in my life. I also sprained my foot 15 feet up in the air and had to gingerly ease my way back down. The patching got done around Vampira, but it got done.
I'm now into priming the walls, and I've been humming Helen again. My daughter now goes to pre-school two mornings a week, and I paint like a madwoman while she's there. My foot still hurts, so I've been staying lower down the ladder, but the ceilings haven't lowered. I was a fan of McGyver, and the edging at the ceiling had to be done. I taped a paintbrush to a stick, climbed a little way up the ladder, put the roller on a long pole and primed the wall from Hades.
I can't do the paint colour with a paint brush on a stick, so my husband will have to run the paint gauntlet at the ceiling. I can do the rest.
Moms find out fast that our job doesn't end if we're sick or tired. I've taken Vampira to the park when I had bronchitis so severe I could barely walk. I've been stripping wallpaper and priming walls around my daughter. I know how to work with her. I've got some medical things going on right now that might mean a hysterectomy down the road. Right now, I'm anemic. I'm tired...really tired but I keep going. (a healthy dose of stubborn doesn't hurt!) I have to keep going or things don't get done.
So I finally understand all the words to Helen Reddy's song. "I am strong. I am invincible. I am Woman." I will make it happen. It's what women do.
Friday, September 12, 2008
Guest blogging about breast cancer.
I was guest blogging about the Pink Ribbon Sorority.
Check it out
Check it out
Thursday, September 11, 2008
I remember...
September 11th will be my generation's John F. Kennedy assassination, or V-day or John Lennon's Assassination or Elvis dying. We all remember where we were when the planes hit the twin towers.
I was on the phone with my mother while I was at work. She is a senior citizen and lives alone and I had made it a habit to check in with her every morning. She is the one that told me about the first plane...and was on the phone with me when the second plane hit. I have no idea what the rest of the conversation that day was.
I worked in an insurance company that had recently installed large televisions that ran Report on Business Television...except that day, when every eye of the world was turned to New York City. A large gathering of employees stood in shock in front of the television, some of us standing, some of us sitting. We joined the worldwide vigil, joined the worldwide grief as the towers collapsed, and joined the worldwide vigil for survivors. I would watch for awhile, then walk back to my desk, only to be drawn back to the television again. I was a compliance consultant, and somehow, legislation just didn't matter that day. Unfortunately, one of the senior managers happened to walk by both times I was transfixed in horror, in almost exactly the same spot. She didn't know that I had only recently returned and assumed that I was "wasting my day" in front of the television. As far as she was concerned, it should be business as usual. My husband, who worked in the same company, worked his whole day. There was nothing "usual" about that day, and I was incapable of usual work. It became one of the last nails in my professional coffin...
I have always been very empathetic, and I've never understood mean. I was overwhelmed by the feelings of fear and terror that must have covered the innocents on the planes. I was dumbfounded by a hatred so powerful that the lives of other human beings became meaningless. And I was paralyzed with the "mean" that it would take to kill thousands of innocent people. I couldn't understand how anyone could do something so horrible. I was numb, I was devastated and I was emotionally incapacitated.
I remember the frantic attempts of one of my coworkers to reach her son, who was in New York on business. Cell phone reception was nil. She finally reached her daughter in law, who had just received word that her son was safe. My relief was as great as hers, but it magnified what was going on in thousands of homes all over the world.
Over the next few days, I kept vigil with the world as the search for survivors continued. I felt guilty when I finally turned off the television and watched an animal show with horses and agility dogs competing at the same time. I had to smile at the dogs, and then felt like I was turning my back on the victims because I had turned the channel. I had chosen to watch something else and I felt like a traitor to the vigil.I have a picture of the World Trade Centre from a trip to New York City in 1984. The first thing I did when I got home the night of the tragedy was go looking for the picture...I needed to ground myself in reality in a surreal day.
Years pass. The memorials are less, although I suspect the 10th anniversary will be different. The site has changed from Ground Zero to a construction zone as the towers are rebuilt. I don't agree with re-building on the site of so many deaths, but I've always believed in ghosts and I have always been very sensitive to the spatial energy around us. I don't want to visit the place of so much fear, sadness and pain.
I still don't understand the motivation. I don't judge it, because I don't know enough about the underlying fundamentalist thought to fairly assess it. Fundamentalist anyone make me nervous, whether it is political, religious, sexual or even food. I tend to be fairly accepting and moderate, but I also think that "agree to disagree" is a good philosophy. I don't think that anyone has the right to force his/her opinions down anyone else's throat. I don't think that all followers of Islam were responsible for September 11 anymore than I, as a Roman Catholic am responsible for the Crusades, or I, with Irish in my blood, am responsible for the Troubles. Individuals chose to act and the whole should not be held accountable for the actions of the few.
So on this September 11, I pause to remember and to offer a prayer for anyone touched by the day the Towers came down. I remember...
I was on the phone with my mother while I was at work. She is a senior citizen and lives alone and I had made it a habit to check in with her every morning. She is the one that told me about the first plane...and was on the phone with me when the second plane hit. I have no idea what the rest of the conversation that day was.
I worked in an insurance company that had recently installed large televisions that ran Report on Business Television...except that day, when every eye of the world was turned to New York City. A large gathering of employees stood in shock in front of the television, some of us standing, some of us sitting. We joined the worldwide vigil, joined the worldwide grief as the towers collapsed, and joined the worldwide vigil for survivors. I would watch for awhile, then walk back to my desk, only to be drawn back to the television again. I was a compliance consultant, and somehow, legislation just didn't matter that day. Unfortunately, one of the senior managers happened to walk by both times I was transfixed in horror, in almost exactly the same spot. She didn't know that I had only recently returned and assumed that I was "wasting my day" in front of the television. As far as she was concerned, it should be business as usual. My husband, who worked in the same company, worked his whole day. There was nothing "usual" about that day, and I was incapable of usual work. It became one of the last nails in my professional coffin...
I have always been very empathetic, and I've never understood mean. I was overwhelmed by the feelings of fear and terror that must have covered the innocents on the planes. I was dumbfounded by a hatred so powerful that the lives of other human beings became meaningless. And I was paralyzed with the "mean" that it would take to kill thousands of innocent people. I couldn't understand how anyone could do something so horrible. I was numb, I was devastated and I was emotionally incapacitated.
I remember the frantic attempts of one of my coworkers to reach her son, who was in New York on business. Cell phone reception was nil. She finally reached her daughter in law, who had just received word that her son was safe. My relief was as great as hers, but it magnified what was going on in thousands of homes all over the world.
Over the next few days, I kept vigil with the world as the search for survivors continued. I felt guilty when I finally turned off the television and watched an animal show with horses and agility dogs competing at the same time. I had to smile at the dogs, and then felt like I was turning my back on the victims because I had turned the channel. I had chosen to watch something else and I felt like a traitor to the vigil.I have a picture of the World Trade Centre from a trip to New York City in 1984. The first thing I did when I got home the night of the tragedy was go looking for the picture...I needed to ground myself in reality in a surreal day.
Years pass. The memorials are less, although I suspect the 10th anniversary will be different. The site has changed from Ground Zero to a construction zone as the towers are rebuilt. I don't agree with re-building on the site of so many deaths, but I've always believed in ghosts and I have always been very sensitive to the spatial energy around us. I don't want to visit the place of so much fear, sadness and pain.
I still don't understand the motivation. I don't judge it, because I don't know enough about the underlying fundamentalist thought to fairly assess it. Fundamentalist anyone make me nervous, whether it is political, religious, sexual or even food. I tend to be fairly accepting and moderate, but I also think that "agree to disagree" is a good philosophy. I don't think that anyone has the right to force his/her opinions down anyone else's throat. I don't think that all followers of Islam were responsible for September 11 anymore than I, as a Roman Catholic am responsible for the Crusades, or I, with Irish in my blood, am responsible for the Troubles. Individuals chose to act and the whole should not be held accountable for the actions of the few.
So on this September 11, I pause to remember and to offer a prayer for anyone touched by the day the Towers came down. I remember...
Wednesday, August 27, 2008
Biting my tongue. In honour of Andrea Blasman
Andrea Blasman
Sometimes it's all I can do to bite my tongue. A couple of nights ago, we were at the Dairy Queen and I noticed a beautiful young girl waiting in line. She was blonde and leggy and strikingly beautiful. Many heads turned as she left with her friends.
I happened to glance outside in time to see her pull a package of cigarettes out of her purse and light up. My opinion of her changed in a heartbeat. It was all I could do to stop myself from running outside and pulling the cigarette out of her mouth. I am passionately anti-smoking. Why? Let me tell you about my friend Andrea.
Andrea was a funny, feisty, talented woman. She had a smile that would light up a room, she was a loyal friend, an amazing mother, a beautiful singer, a talented actor and a dedicated worker. Andrea collected friends like some people collect shoes. She gravitated to the talented and her mix of friends made for lively get-togethers. She was the first one to cheer anyone on, and I don't think she realized how talented she was, she was so busy applauding everyone else's accomplishments.
Andrea was the mother of 4 kids and loved to share their accomplishments with anyone who would listen. She was their biggest fan, their staunchest supporter and their loudest cheerleader in whatever they chose to do.
Three years ago, Andrea was diagnosed with lung cancer. She had started smoking at age 12, but had stopped 12 years prior to her diagnosis. Her husband continued to smoke, even when she was on palliative care and oxygen. Her family and her sister continued to smoke as well.
Andrea fought cancer her way. Upon being diagnosed with cancer, her "theatre friends" rallied around her to have a party that would send her off to treatment with positive love and energy encircling her. Although she was not supposed to, Andrea was quaffing wine at the party, and she quipped that she planned to "drown the tumour", making her body an inhospitable place for it to remain.
She lost ground very quickly. Feisty and determined to the end, she planned her own funeral, and included instructions to her friends to wear bright colours in her honour. She chose her own music and asked some of our friends to sing for her. Included in the funeral was a video from a dream vacation to Hawaii that the family had taken after she had finished Chemo, before they found out that the cancer had spread and was now terminal. Most of it was Andrea's kids, but the last line of it reduced all of us to tears. Andrea always ended phone calls, and often, e-mails with "I love you." The last words of the video were "I love you. bye." in Andrea's voice. In typical Andrea fashion, she had found a way to say goodbye to all of us.
We lost Andrea in 2006. I miss her everyday. I keep tabs on her kids through Facebook, but from a distance. I didn't know them that well, and didn't want to intrude.
When I see young people (or anyone for that matter) smoking, I want to run up and tell them about my friend Andrea. I want to tell them about her smile, her spirit, her courage. I want to tell them about her pride in her kids, her love of dragonflies, music and cats, and I want to tell them about how she looked when I saw her last, bald, jaundiced and shrunken--so changed that I didn't recognize her at first... until she smiled.
Is a cigarette worth your life? Is a cigarette worth your mother's life, your friend's life, your child's life? Is a cigarette worth everything that you could lose?
Let me tell you about my friend.
Me, Akasha and Michele serenading Andrea before she started Chemo, Sept. 2005. She died in May 2006.
Sometimes it's all I can do to bite my tongue. A couple of nights ago, we were at the Dairy Queen and I noticed a beautiful young girl waiting in line. She was blonde and leggy and strikingly beautiful. Many heads turned as she left with her friends.
I happened to glance outside in time to see her pull a package of cigarettes out of her purse and light up. My opinion of her changed in a heartbeat. It was all I could do to stop myself from running outside and pulling the cigarette out of her mouth. I am passionately anti-smoking. Why? Let me tell you about my friend Andrea.
Andrea was a funny, feisty, talented woman. She had a smile that would light up a room, she was a loyal friend, an amazing mother, a beautiful singer, a talented actor and a dedicated worker. Andrea collected friends like some people collect shoes. She gravitated to the talented and her mix of friends made for lively get-togethers. She was the first one to cheer anyone on, and I don't think she realized how talented she was, she was so busy applauding everyone else's accomplishments.
Andrea was the mother of 4 kids and loved to share their accomplishments with anyone who would listen. She was their biggest fan, their staunchest supporter and their loudest cheerleader in whatever they chose to do.
Three years ago, Andrea was diagnosed with lung cancer. She had started smoking at age 12, but had stopped 12 years prior to her diagnosis. Her husband continued to smoke, even when she was on palliative care and oxygen. Her family and her sister continued to smoke as well.
Andrea fought cancer her way. Upon being diagnosed with cancer, her "theatre friends" rallied around her to have a party that would send her off to treatment with positive love and energy encircling her. Although she was not supposed to, Andrea was quaffing wine at the party, and she quipped that she planned to "drown the tumour", making her body an inhospitable place for it to remain.
She lost ground very quickly. Feisty and determined to the end, she planned her own funeral, and included instructions to her friends to wear bright colours in her honour. She chose her own music and asked some of our friends to sing for her. Included in the funeral was a video from a dream vacation to Hawaii that the family had taken after she had finished Chemo, before they found out that the cancer had spread and was now terminal. Most of it was Andrea's kids, but the last line of it reduced all of us to tears. Andrea always ended phone calls, and often, e-mails with "I love you." The last words of the video were "I love you. bye." in Andrea's voice. In typical Andrea fashion, she had found a way to say goodbye to all of us.
We lost Andrea in 2006. I miss her everyday. I keep tabs on her kids through Facebook, but from a distance. I didn't know them that well, and didn't want to intrude.
When I see young people (or anyone for that matter) smoking, I want to run up and tell them about my friend Andrea. I want to tell them about her smile, her spirit, her courage. I want to tell them about her pride in her kids, her love of dragonflies, music and cats, and I want to tell them about how she looked when I saw her last, bald, jaundiced and shrunken--so changed that I didn't recognize her at first... until she smiled.
Is a cigarette worth your life? Is a cigarette worth your mother's life, your friend's life, your child's life? Is a cigarette worth everything that you could lose?
Let me tell you about my friend.
Me, Akasha and Michele serenading Andrea before she started Chemo, Sept. 2005. She died in May 2006.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
Confessions of an Olympics Junkie
My name is Lisa, and I am an Olympics junkie...For the next 2 weeks, I will waste an inordinate amount of time watching all sorts of sports I couldn't care less about the rest of the time. Although I prefer the wild and wacky winter Olympic sports (I mean seriously, what kind of alcohol was involved when the person who invented Luge or Skeleton thought it would be a good idea to put an oversized ice skate on their butt?) I will dutifully watch the summer Olympics just because, well, it's the Olympics...
Maybe it stems from living in Montreal when the 1976 Olympics were held. Nadia Comaneci became my hero. I've actually been to an Olympic event-our friend of the family got tickets to one of the track and field events and we sat in La Stade Olympique (which, from certain angles looks like an upright vaccuum cleaner...) in the chilly morning and watched people run around the track. I also vaguely remember being at an Olympic pre-qualifying event for men's gymnastics with the Allison cousins. I thought I was seeing the women, so I was disappointed and bored...but it was the Olympics.
I certainly don't watch the Olympics because I have any sort of Olympic athleticism...just the opposite. I suck at sports. All sports. I was good at soccer baseball when I was a kid because I could run like the wind until puberty hit. I danced competition level ballroom dancing for several years (and yeah, it IS a sport-try dancing 3 hours of quickstep and jive and then tell me it isn't) and that's probably the closest I've come. In the olden days, when there was still a Canada Fitness Award, I would get Gold every year. I couldn't do the flexed arm hang to save my life, but I was really good at speed situps, the 50 yard dash, and whatever that thing was called where you ran between lines and put blocks down. I'm so NOT an athlete. Don't believe me...let's do a run down-winter and summer.
Baseball: I could hit and I could run. The one season I was on a ball team, I was put in "deep roving right field" and the short stop and 2nd base players covered right field because I couldn't catch...and if I did manage to get the ball in the glove, I couldn't throw it where it needed to be. Alas, my baseball career (Or I should say, softball) ended when I lost a pop fly in the sun...and found it when it bounced off my face at warm-up before a game. I had to play the game anyway or we would have forfeited. So broken nose and all, I played. It was actually the best game I ever played; I hit something like 5 home runs because I was terrified of getting hit in the face again.
Swimming: I took swimming lessons, and was on the swim team at the community pool. I've never learned how to do the butterfly, because I couldn't do a dolphin kick to save my life. I looked more like a hippo in a death roll. It wasn't pretty. The one swim meet I entered, I was on the 2nd team of our squad's relay, and I was supposed to swim the first leg. We were kids, and the coach forget to "coach" us, and the 4 of us didn't make it onto the blocks in time for the start...we were still warming up when the gun sounded. So much for swimming. A guy that I went to Wilder Penfield Elementary School with, David Churchill, made it to the Canadian Olympic Team in 1984. That's as close as I'll get.
Figure Skating: Like every Canadian little girl, I took figure skating lessons. I managed to master the bunny hop and shoot the duck. My favorite part of skating lessons was the hotdog and hot chocolate that my mom bought me after. I hated being cold, and I've never learned how to skate backwards properly or non-ankle skate. Scratch that one.
Cross Country Skiing: I grew up in Quebec...of COURSE I cross country skied. My aunt and uncle had a farm with acres and acres of fields. My mom and aunt could watch us from the warmth of the kitchen window and keep an eye on us for miles. I like it, but never excelled at it...perhaps because the skis we used at the farm were actually downhill skis with cross country bindings. Still, it's the one sport I always enjoyed and plan to inflict...er introduce to my husband and daughter this year. Even a klutz can cross country ski. I'm living proof.
Track and Field: Before puberty hit I could run like a deer. I held the school record in the 50 yard dash. I remember being absolutely flabbergasted because my grade 7 class at Queen of Angels Academy voted ME the sports rep for our class, because I held THAT school's record first year. I also clearly remember trying to resign from the position because the class sports events were held at lunch hour...and so was choir practice, and I was watching out the window at my class play basketball...while I sang. Alas, between grade 7 and grade 8 hormones kicked in, I gained huge boobs and 20 pounds over the course of a summer...and never ran fast again. I never had stamina, but I was good at sprints.
Hockey: Well, okay, for me it was ringette. Girls didn't play hockey. Girls played ringette, a really stupid game with a rubber ring and broom sticks. Let me tell you, boys and girls, that ring hurt when it hit you because the stupid thing was frozen. Now, I've already mentioned that I ankle skate and I can't skate backwards...so I'm playing ringette? I couldn't make heads or tails of the rules, so I was never sure which set of blue lines I wasn't supposed to cross so I mainly skated in between them...when I skated a shift...which wasn't very often. I did manage to get my stick on the ring once...I couldn't do anything with it but I did manage to touch the ring once...that was a good minute.
Tennis: I learned to play tennis on the road. I was pretty good at street tennis...and then some dumbass went and put a net in the middle of the court. Tennis is my husband's passion, and he's very good. I try to play tennis with him once in awhile, but he just stands at centre court whacking the ball back at me as I run all over the court. If I manage to actually get the ball back over the net (and stay in our court...I don't normally like to be confined by one court...and heaven help the people on other courts if we have to share...because I really suck) he doesn't have to work too hard. I can't serve overhand...I still do the bounce the ball on the ground and whack. I'm not much of an opponent. I've got no backhand so I try to run past and use the forehand. Maybe our daughter will be better.
Gymnastics: I took gymnastics. I'm afraid of heights, so the balance beam wasn't good for me even though I had good balance. I bruise easily and I have crappy tendons and have sprained or otherwise done damage to every joint in my body. I have no upper body strength, and never ever managed to do a kip unto the low bar, forget the high bar (did I mention I'm afraid of heights...) I could run, so I might have been pretty good at vault...except I had plantars warts all over the bottom of my right foot (and I mean ALL OVER-they had to be surgically removed) so running barefoot was excruciating. I have absolutely no flexibility so that ruled out floor. Okay, let's be honest. I sucked.
Cycling: I haven't ridden a bike since we left Montreal in 1977. Now, if the bike is not positioned in front of a television at the gym, I'm not putting my butt on it. 'nuff said about that.
Downhill skiing: I grew up in Quebec and went on the obligatory school ski trip. I'm afraid of heights and wouldn't set butt on the chair lift. It took me all week to master the t-bar...and never did learn the snowplow. I gave up downhill skiing for the sake of my fellow human beings.
Diving: I was afraid of heights, and I wore a nose plug. They wouldn't let me wear the nose plug...so I couldn't figure out how to do the right form with arms overhead...and still plug my nose because I never learned how to breath properly. I had to be dropped off the higher springboard by the diving coach because I got to the top, got to the end of the board, looked down and was paralyzed with fear. I couldn't jump and I couldn't walk back off the board and down the ladder because I was terrified. It wasn't pretty.
Synchronized swimming: I could wear my noseplug...I could skull. I have no flexibility...wounded hippo in death roll.
Volleyball: I'm short and klutzy. End of story. Ditto for basketball.
I could keep going, but I think I've had enough fun revisiting my childhood angst and failures. I appreciate the courage and tenacity that elite athletes must have. For the next two weeks I will cheer any and all Canadian athletes on. My eyes will well along with them when the flag is raised and the anthem plays. When the games come to Vancouver for 2010, I'll burst with pride and we're still trying to figure out a way to go out to see some of it in person. Until then, I'll watch all of the amazing athletes. Whether they medal or not, they are all heros in my books. And for the Olympians like Ian Millar who has been to every games since the 1970s, for Kyle Shewfelt who broke both his legs 1o months ago and still turned in a kickass performance today at the Olympics, and to every athlete from whatever country who is or has been an Olympic athlete, I stand and give you all a standing ovation.
But I still gotta say...GO CANADA GO!
Oh Canada, our home and native land...
And if you want to read a really inspiring story, check out Kyle Shewfelt's blog. http://www.kyleshewfelt.blogspot.com/
Maybe it stems from living in Montreal when the 1976 Olympics were held. Nadia Comaneci became my hero. I've actually been to an Olympic event-our friend of the family got tickets to one of the track and field events and we sat in La Stade Olympique (which, from certain angles looks like an upright vaccuum cleaner...) in the chilly morning and watched people run around the track. I also vaguely remember being at an Olympic pre-qualifying event for men's gymnastics with the Allison cousins. I thought I was seeing the women, so I was disappointed and bored...but it was the Olympics.
I certainly don't watch the Olympics because I have any sort of Olympic athleticism...just the opposite. I suck at sports. All sports. I was good at soccer baseball when I was a kid because I could run like the wind until puberty hit. I danced competition level ballroom dancing for several years (and yeah, it IS a sport-try dancing 3 hours of quickstep and jive and then tell me it isn't) and that's probably the closest I've come. In the olden days, when there was still a Canada Fitness Award, I would get Gold every year. I couldn't do the flexed arm hang to save my life, but I was really good at speed situps, the 50 yard dash, and whatever that thing was called where you ran between lines and put blocks down. I'm so NOT an athlete. Don't believe me...let's do a run down-winter and summer.
Baseball: I could hit and I could run. The one season I was on a ball team, I was put in "deep roving right field" and the short stop and 2nd base players covered right field because I couldn't catch...and if I did manage to get the ball in the glove, I couldn't throw it where it needed to be. Alas, my baseball career (Or I should say, softball) ended when I lost a pop fly in the sun...and found it when it bounced off my face at warm-up before a game. I had to play the game anyway or we would have forfeited. So broken nose and all, I played. It was actually the best game I ever played; I hit something like 5 home runs because I was terrified of getting hit in the face again.
Swimming: I took swimming lessons, and was on the swim team at the community pool. I've never learned how to do the butterfly, because I couldn't do a dolphin kick to save my life. I looked more like a hippo in a death roll. It wasn't pretty. The one swim meet I entered, I was on the 2nd team of our squad's relay, and I was supposed to swim the first leg. We were kids, and the coach forget to "coach" us, and the 4 of us didn't make it onto the blocks in time for the start...we were still warming up when the gun sounded. So much for swimming. A guy that I went to Wilder Penfield Elementary School with, David Churchill, made it to the Canadian Olympic Team in 1984. That's as close as I'll get.
Figure Skating: Like every Canadian little girl, I took figure skating lessons. I managed to master the bunny hop and shoot the duck. My favorite part of skating lessons was the hotdog and hot chocolate that my mom bought me after. I hated being cold, and I've never learned how to skate backwards properly or non-ankle skate. Scratch that one.
Cross Country Skiing: I grew up in Quebec...of COURSE I cross country skied. My aunt and uncle had a farm with acres and acres of fields. My mom and aunt could watch us from the warmth of the kitchen window and keep an eye on us for miles. I like it, but never excelled at it...perhaps because the skis we used at the farm were actually downhill skis with cross country bindings. Still, it's the one sport I always enjoyed and plan to inflict...er introduce to my husband and daughter this year. Even a klutz can cross country ski. I'm living proof.
Track and Field: Before puberty hit I could run like a deer. I held the school record in the 50 yard dash. I remember being absolutely flabbergasted because my grade 7 class at Queen of Angels Academy voted ME the sports rep for our class, because I held THAT school's record first year. I also clearly remember trying to resign from the position because the class sports events were held at lunch hour...and so was choir practice, and I was watching out the window at my class play basketball...while I sang. Alas, between grade 7 and grade 8 hormones kicked in, I gained huge boobs and 20 pounds over the course of a summer...and never ran fast again. I never had stamina, but I was good at sprints.
Hockey: Well, okay, for me it was ringette. Girls didn't play hockey. Girls played ringette, a really stupid game with a rubber ring and broom sticks. Let me tell you, boys and girls, that ring hurt when it hit you because the stupid thing was frozen. Now, I've already mentioned that I ankle skate and I can't skate backwards...so I'm playing ringette? I couldn't make heads or tails of the rules, so I was never sure which set of blue lines I wasn't supposed to cross so I mainly skated in between them...when I skated a shift...which wasn't very often. I did manage to get my stick on the ring once...I couldn't do anything with it but I did manage to touch the ring once...that was a good minute.
Tennis: I learned to play tennis on the road. I was pretty good at street tennis...and then some dumbass went and put a net in the middle of the court. Tennis is my husband's passion, and he's very good. I try to play tennis with him once in awhile, but he just stands at centre court whacking the ball back at me as I run all over the court. If I manage to actually get the ball back over the net (and stay in our court...I don't normally like to be confined by one court...and heaven help the people on other courts if we have to share...because I really suck) he doesn't have to work too hard. I can't serve overhand...I still do the bounce the ball on the ground and whack. I'm not much of an opponent. I've got no backhand so I try to run past and use the forehand. Maybe our daughter will be better.
Gymnastics: I took gymnastics. I'm afraid of heights, so the balance beam wasn't good for me even though I had good balance. I bruise easily and I have crappy tendons and have sprained or otherwise done damage to every joint in my body. I have no upper body strength, and never ever managed to do a kip unto the low bar, forget the high bar (did I mention I'm afraid of heights...) I could run, so I might have been pretty good at vault...except I had plantars warts all over the bottom of my right foot (and I mean ALL OVER-they had to be surgically removed) so running barefoot was excruciating. I have absolutely no flexibility so that ruled out floor. Okay, let's be honest. I sucked.
Cycling: I haven't ridden a bike since we left Montreal in 1977. Now, if the bike is not positioned in front of a television at the gym, I'm not putting my butt on it. 'nuff said about that.
Downhill skiing: I grew up in Quebec and went on the obligatory school ski trip. I'm afraid of heights and wouldn't set butt on the chair lift. It took me all week to master the t-bar...and never did learn the snowplow. I gave up downhill skiing for the sake of my fellow human beings.
Diving: I was afraid of heights, and I wore a nose plug. They wouldn't let me wear the nose plug...so I couldn't figure out how to do the right form with arms overhead...and still plug my nose because I never learned how to breath properly. I had to be dropped off the higher springboard by the diving coach because I got to the top, got to the end of the board, looked down and was paralyzed with fear. I couldn't jump and I couldn't walk back off the board and down the ladder because I was terrified. It wasn't pretty.
Synchronized swimming: I could wear my noseplug...I could skull. I have no flexibility...wounded hippo in death roll.
Volleyball: I'm short and klutzy. End of story. Ditto for basketball.
I could keep going, but I think I've had enough fun revisiting my childhood angst and failures. I appreciate the courage and tenacity that elite athletes must have. For the next two weeks I will cheer any and all Canadian athletes on. My eyes will well along with them when the flag is raised and the anthem plays. When the games come to Vancouver for 2010, I'll burst with pride and we're still trying to figure out a way to go out to see some of it in person. Until then, I'll watch all of the amazing athletes. Whether they medal or not, they are all heros in my books. And for the Olympians like Ian Millar who has been to every games since the 1970s, for Kyle Shewfelt who broke both his legs 1o months ago and still turned in a kickass performance today at the Olympics, and to every athlete from whatever country who is or has been an Olympic athlete, I stand and give you all a standing ovation.
But I still gotta say...GO CANADA GO!
Oh Canada, our home and native land...
And if you want to read a really inspiring story, check out Kyle Shewfelt's blog. http://www.kyleshewfelt.blogspot.com/
Saturday, August 2, 2008
Guest Blogging
Hi all
I'm guest blogging today at sahmanswers.com, a website by and for stay at home moms.
Check out my rumination on whether or not I'm a bad mom for mourning the end of summer playgroup!
Lisa
http://www.sahmanswers.com/news.php?readmore=86
I'm guest blogging today at sahmanswers.com, a website by and for stay at home moms.
Check out my rumination on whether or not I'm a bad mom for mourning the end of summer playgroup!
Lisa
http://www.sahmanswers.com/news.php?readmore=86
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