I lost my cousin this week. My brother of my heart, who had his mother's gentle spirit and his father's giving nature. He died too young of liver failure due to Hepatitis C, that he didn't even know he had until January, and then kept it from the family. Last Friday at this time, we were waiting for him to receive a new liver. In the time it took for the liver to arrive at the hospital, his condition deteriorated. We lost him on Monday.
I don't normally share my poetry. I need to this time, and I apologize for the rough edges. It's from the heart rather than the head.
I loved you Murray. You've left a huge gaping hole in our family and in my heart. Be at peace, my brother of the heart.
For Murray
I want to write of my grief, pour out my heart
But the words won’t come.
I want to tell of your gentleness, love and care
But the words won’t come.
I want to lash out in anger, find someone to blame
But I can barely mention your name
And the tears flow from my heart again and again
But the words won’t come.
Why is some others' grief so different from mine?
Why when our lives were so entwined?
How is the hole in my heart not the same
For the brother of my heart that you became?
I’d ask if I could
But the words won’t come.
Cousin in fact, brother in heart
I’d sing your praises-but where to start-
Your smile, your laugh, the love in my heart?
But the words won’t come.
The Christmas letter, your voice on a call
The hole in my life I can’t fill at all.
But who will listen or comprehend.
That the words won’t come?
Alone, bereft, my brother in heart
I loved you, I’ll miss you. Be at peace.
I’d talk to others, to try to explain
But the words won’t come.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Friday, July 23, 2010
The Little Things
Sometimes, the little things that people do have a huge impact on the lives of people around them.
My father-in-law and mother-in-law had been planning a return trip to the Maritimes to re-visit all of the places my mother-in-law liked best from last year's trip before the cancer robs them of the time for special memories. High on that list was a visit to Rita McNeil's tea room. (For those of you who don't know, Rita McNeil is a Canadian singer who is often ridiculed because she is a large woman.) They had scheduled their trip to coincide with Ms. McNeil's presence at the tea room. The whole trip had to be cancelled at the last minute, because my mother-in-law is simply not well enough to make the trip. My mother-in-law was disappointed to miss the tea room again and knows there won't be another chance. (It wasn't open when they were there last year).
My husband's cousin is a dog breeder, and my in-laws own three of her champion line Boston Terriers. They take turns dog sitting, although when the dogs come to Camp MacColl, I think they get the better end of the deal. One of Judy's dogs has been in residence with my in-laws, and Judy came to pick him up yesterday. She came bearing a very large, festive basket...from Rita McNeil's tea room. She had phoned down and explained about my mother-in-law's health, and her disappointment at missing her chance to visit the tea room. Ms. McNeil's son took the phone call, and arranged the basket, which included 2 kinds of tea, some of the oat cakes that the tea room is famous for, and a bone china cup and saucer.
Nestled in the middle of the basket, though, was the best present that my mother-in-law could ever receive. You see, Ms. McNeil raised a good boy, and he took the time to ask Rita McNeil to put a little note in the basket for my mother-in-law, and Ms. McNeil did. It was a personal note, hand written and clearly not a form letter. It was short and cheery, and has sent my mother-in-law over the moon with delight. She plans to have it framed.
It probably took 10 minutes of Ms. McNeil's time to jot the note and pop it in the basket. That 10 minutes of time will provide hours and hours of joy for my mother-in-law at a time when joy will be at a premium as her health deteriorates. I don't think I've ever heard my mother-in-law so bubbly and delighted as she was with that small note.
People in the public eye are constantly under a microscope. Their appearance, their weight and their every action is scrutinized, criticized, ridiculed and held up for inspection. The price of fame is a loss of privacy. I worked for many years in Customs at Pearson Airport, and with exceptions I could count on 1 hand, the famous people I encountered were genuine, considerate of their fans, polite and patient. Sure they all had off days, and who isn't grumpy after a delayed flight or a lost suitcase? Time and again, I would see them stand for long periods of time signing autographs, posing for pictures and treating their fans with respect and courtesy, which often wasn't returned. They didn't expect special treatment, and it was often the people around them who were rude to the fans.
Joke if you must about Rita McNeil. Her small act of kindness made the life of a terminal cancer patient bright, light and happy. The little things really do make a difference.
My father-in-law and mother-in-law had been planning a return trip to the Maritimes to re-visit all of the places my mother-in-law liked best from last year's trip before the cancer robs them of the time for special memories. High on that list was a visit to Rita McNeil's tea room. (For those of you who don't know, Rita McNeil is a Canadian singer who is often ridiculed because she is a large woman.) They had scheduled their trip to coincide with Ms. McNeil's presence at the tea room. The whole trip had to be cancelled at the last minute, because my mother-in-law is simply not well enough to make the trip. My mother-in-law was disappointed to miss the tea room again and knows there won't be another chance. (It wasn't open when they were there last year).
My husband's cousin is a dog breeder, and my in-laws own three of her champion line Boston Terriers. They take turns dog sitting, although when the dogs come to Camp MacColl, I think they get the better end of the deal. One of Judy's dogs has been in residence with my in-laws, and Judy came to pick him up yesterday. She came bearing a very large, festive basket...from Rita McNeil's tea room. She had phoned down and explained about my mother-in-law's health, and her disappointment at missing her chance to visit the tea room. Ms. McNeil's son took the phone call, and arranged the basket, which included 2 kinds of tea, some of the oat cakes that the tea room is famous for, and a bone china cup and saucer.
Nestled in the middle of the basket, though, was the best present that my mother-in-law could ever receive. You see, Ms. McNeil raised a good boy, and he took the time to ask Rita McNeil to put a little note in the basket for my mother-in-law, and Ms. McNeil did. It was a personal note, hand written and clearly not a form letter. It was short and cheery, and has sent my mother-in-law over the moon with delight. She plans to have it framed.
It probably took 10 minutes of Ms. McNeil's time to jot the note and pop it in the basket. That 10 minutes of time will provide hours and hours of joy for my mother-in-law at a time when joy will be at a premium as her health deteriorates. I don't think I've ever heard my mother-in-law so bubbly and delighted as she was with that small note.
People in the public eye are constantly under a microscope. Their appearance, their weight and their every action is scrutinized, criticized, ridiculed and held up for inspection. The price of fame is a loss of privacy. I worked for many years in Customs at Pearson Airport, and with exceptions I could count on 1 hand, the famous people I encountered were genuine, considerate of their fans, polite and patient. Sure they all had off days, and who isn't grumpy after a delayed flight or a lost suitcase? Time and again, I would see them stand for long periods of time signing autographs, posing for pictures and treating their fans with respect and courtesy, which often wasn't returned. They didn't expect special treatment, and it was often the people around them who were rude to the fans.
Joke if you must about Rita McNeil. Her small act of kindness made the life of a terminal cancer patient bright, light and happy. The little things really do make a difference.
Friday, July 16, 2010
Letters I would never send...
Mommy Maria's blog inspired this post. It's been THAT kind of a week here, so I think I'll do some "letters I would never send" compositions of my own. Make sure you read Maria's. I dare you not to nod and laugh out loud...
Dear small child: You've learned to whistle! Good for you. I'm proud of you, and how hard you're practicing to perfect it. Now STOP DOING IT every waking moment.
Dear family: Stop waiting for the dish fairy to magically transport the dishes to the kitchen. Pick them up and put them in the sink already.
Dear tween boys in the park: So you know the F-bomb. Good for you. It is not necessary to use it as a noun, verb, adjective and adverb in the same sentence. I would prefer that my child does not pick up that particular language skill quite yet.You are not going to shock me with your language: I worked in Customs.
Dear graffiti artists: Painting the only play structure for the little kids with obscenities and pictures of the one finger salute, breasts and penises only shows that you are not as cool as you think you are. And there are generally two testicles or 5 fingers, just sayin...
Dear city workers: clean the damn play structure already. It's covered in obscenities and graphic pictures.
Dear Ellen Degeneres: Come to K-W for Oktoberfest already. I'm tired of the campaign.
Dear Richelle Mead: thank you for Dimitri. Now hurry up and write the next installment!
Dear women's plus size clothing designers: Not all of the female population are comfortable with their bra straps showing. Not all of the female population want the girls showing in their entirety. Some of us have a modicum of modesty left. I don't WANT to wear a camisole under a sundress...it's HOT. Cut it higher and make the straps thicker. Seriously.
Dear women's clothing designers: We are not all twigs. We are not all 20. And can you get together and agree on consistent size measurements please. I don't have time to try on the same dress in 3 sizes to find out which size 16 yours is...
Dear husband: fanning the covers after a dinner featuring beer and sauerkraut does not "share the wealth." It annoys the wife.
Dear husband: I am reading my book. It is a funny book and it's making me laugh. Do not ask me what I'm reading. You can read it when I'm finished, but right now, I'm in the zone. shush.
Dear woman in the supermarket pawing through the cherries to get the best ones: Knock it off. I don't want your pawed through cherries. Just pick up the little bag like the rest of us and move along. And don't even think about stopping at the grapes to do the same thing.
Dear sample lady: You should perhaps mention the fact that there is freaking peanut butter in the ice cream before you hand it out. I just don't like the taste, but do you realize you could kill someone? sheesh. blech, plooey, blech.
Dear woman in the checkout line: Yes, I get it. You're in a hurry. That's why you're in the self checkout, 8 items or less line. So am I . And I'm ahead of you so stop huffing and puffing, this house won't blow down.
Dear people in restrooms, small child at home: flush the damn toilet already. If it takes 2 flushes, flush it again. jeez.
Dear telemarketers: off my planet.
Dear BP: how could you NOT have a shut-off valve on the damn oil well? What did you THINK would happen? And yeah, there are some of us in the world who care about pelicans, turtles and crawfish fishermen.
There, I feel better now...
Dear small child: You've learned to whistle! Good for you. I'm proud of you, and how hard you're practicing to perfect it. Now STOP DOING IT every waking moment.
Dear family: Stop waiting for the dish fairy to magically transport the dishes to the kitchen. Pick them up and put them in the sink already.
Dear tween boys in the park: So you know the F-bomb. Good for you. It is not necessary to use it as a noun, verb, adjective and adverb in the same sentence. I would prefer that my child does not pick up that particular language skill quite yet.You are not going to shock me with your language: I worked in Customs.
Dear graffiti artists: Painting the only play structure for the little kids with obscenities and pictures of the one finger salute, breasts and penises only shows that you are not as cool as you think you are. And there are generally two testicles or 5 fingers, just sayin...
Dear city workers: clean the damn play structure already. It's covered in obscenities and graphic pictures.
Dear Ellen Degeneres: Come to K-W for Oktoberfest already. I'm tired of the campaign.
Dear Richelle Mead: thank you for Dimitri. Now hurry up and write the next installment!
Dear women's plus size clothing designers: Not all of the female population are comfortable with their bra straps showing. Not all of the female population want the girls showing in their entirety. Some of us have a modicum of modesty left. I don't WANT to wear a camisole under a sundress...it's HOT. Cut it higher and make the straps thicker. Seriously.
Dear women's clothing designers: We are not all twigs. We are not all 20. And can you get together and agree on consistent size measurements please. I don't have time to try on the same dress in 3 sizes to find out which size 16 yours is...
Dear husband: fanning the covers after a dinner featuring beer and sauerkraut does not "share the wealth." It annoys the wife.
Dear husband: I am reading my book. It is a funny book and it's making me laugh. Do not ask me what I'm reading. You can read it when I'm finished, but right now, I'm in the zone. shush.
Dear woman in the supermarket pawing through the cherries to get the best ones: Knock it off. I don't want your pawed through cherries. Just pick up the little bag like the rest of us and move along. And don't even think about stopping at the grapes to do the same thing.
Dear sample lady: You should perhaps mention the fact that there is freaking peanut butter in the ice cream before you hand it out. I just don't like the taste, but do you realize you could kill someone? sheesh. blech, plooey, blech.
Dear woman in the checkout line: Yes, I get it. You're in a hurry. That's why you're in the self checkout, 8 items or less line. So am I . And I'm ahead of you so stop huffing and puffing, this house won't blow down.
Dear people in restrooms, small child at home: flush the damn toilet already. If it takes 2 flushes, flush it again. jeez.
Dear telemarketers: off my planet.
Dear BP: how could you NOT have a shut-off valve on the damn oil well? What did you THINK would happen? And yeah, there are some of us in the world who care about pelicans, turtles and crawfish fishermen.
There, I feel better now...
Tuesday, July 13, 2010
Choices
Life is about choices. Some of them are forced upon us by circumstance. Some of them are made impulsively, some willfully. And sometimes, there is no win to the choices we make.
This is Max. He's been a part of our lives for 11-12 years. He's a loving, loyal friendly little cat with a purr like a tractor, and is always in the room with his people. If some of us are upstairs and some of us are down, he would wait in the middle. Since our daughter arrived, he's guarded her fiercely, and would spend many hours hanging out in the rocking chair in her room while she napped in her crib. He was patient with her chubby fingers, and would just wait for me to extricate him from her toddler grasp. Never once did he snarl, claw or snap at her. He curls up on her bed at night and tries to help her go to sleep. Sometimes even he gives up when she's carrying on and comes back downstairs with us, but most of the time, he waits until she's asleep.
Max has a past. We don't know all the details, but he has a bump on his nose and when we first adopted him, if you moved your hand to quickly, he would flatten and cringe. He was also terrified of being hungry. He's gotten over those fears over the years, but he still reacts to any changes in the house. His way of comforting himself is to pee on things. He peed on a lot of things.
Over the years, we've replaced carpets, briefcases, sports bags, backpacks, shoes, clothing...At first, he would pee on anything plastic that was left on the floor. He peed in a friend's car seat when she brought her newborn baby over to visit and I forgot and left it on the floor in the hall. He peed on my best friend's suitcase, camera bag and toiletry bag. He peed on toys in Laura's room, on papers in the basement and seems to have a particular hate for junk mail. Over the years, we've warned guests to leave suitcases in the bathroom with the door closed, or to drape them with things that smelled like us so that Max didn't take matters into his own hands.
He's been checked by a vet. We're using low ash food for crystals. I've had an animal communicator in. I've had an animal behaviourist in. I've used Rescue Remedy, I've used specially blended herbal drops. I just about set fire to the house with Feliway diffusers. I've used $18 a bag litter that lasts 2 weeks...when the stress level goes up, so does the level of cat urine.
He's squatted in front of me and peed on the carpet when the litter was clean. He's left a 6 inch puddle of pee beside my chair. He's peed on more floormats than I can count. He has a hate for cases of water, bags of salt for the water softener and Christmas gift bags. When we were toilet-training our daughter, they were both peeing on the floor.
And then Max started peeing on furniture. First, he jumped on a small end table my mother-in-law gave my husband and peed all over my paperwork on it. Then he jumped on the coffee table in the basement (another gift to my husband from his mom) and peed on the papers on it. Then he peed on the cushions of the deacon's bench on the landing. And a few days ago, he peed in a little wicker chair, ruining the cushions and my daughter's backpack, and a bag that had all of her homework for the year in it. I can sew new cushions, but the trend is alarming. Floors are one thing; furniture is another.
My husband is already stressed trying to work full time and deal with his mom's health. His dad has some health issues too. He'd run out of patience with Max 5 years ago and tolerated him, barely. Peeing on furniture ended his tolerance.
I run like a madwoman to the basement multiple times a day to scoop the litter as soon as anything shows up in the box. I live in terror that he will peed in my antique upholstered chair-the one we spent $1000 on last year to have re-upholstered (after Max decided it was the best scratching post in the house) and then slipcovered to protect it from kitty claws. I have nightmares about the leather furniture. We'll both be on the curb if Max ever peed in the Lazyboy.
We've had a lot of stress in the family lately, and as my mother-in-law's health deteriorates the stress will only get worse. I work from home, I take care of our 5 year old daughter full time, I take care of my 83 year old mother, who is still pretty self sufficient, but doesn't drive anymore. I am checking in with my in-laws on a daily basis, and I have responsibilities to my church, my friends and my extended family. Most of the stress in my life is out of my control. I'm trying to lessen the impact of stress that is in my control. I can't do this anymore.
I feel like I've failed Max, although I'm out of options. I can't stand the stress or fear of him destroying furniture. Replacing backpacks is one thing; Upholstered furniture, or god forbid, beds, is another. We've tried everything. I'm not going to surrender him to a shelter. He's been through that once, and I'm sure it was for this reason. He's too old for someone to adopt him. So I made the only decision left and called the vet.
I've been trying to prepare our daughter. Max is her best buddy and this is going to devastate her. I've been warning her that Max is sick and I have to take him to his doctor. We've had a couple of deaths in the family/friends circle lately, so she knows that sometimes people don't get better, and they become angels. While not theologically correct, it makes sense to a five year old. Still, this is going to be really hard on her, and a prelude of things to come when the cancer wins down the road.
I believe that animals have souls. Now I know that it's not in the doctrine of the Catholic faith, so don't report me to the Pope. But God made animals, and God gave them the ability to love, and it's beyond my realm of comprehension that He didn't give them a soul, maybe not in the same vein as a human soul, but a spirit nonetheless. (I also believe that all living things have spirits).If that makes me a flake, I can own that.
So Daddy, later today, a dear little black cat will arrive in heaven. He's a good boy, loving, loyal and protective. Could you keep an eye out for him? Aunt Catherine, you always liked Max, so can you help him find his way? And Max, thank you for your loyalty, your companionship, your trust and your faith that we would take care of you. I love you very much, and I hope that you find peace now. I hate making this decision and I hope you'll understand and forgive me. I'll miss you my dear little panther cat.
Just don't pee on the angels' wings or in God's chair, okay?
Friday, July 2, 2010
Things you do when you're a mom
The things you do when you're a mom. It always surprises me, the lengths that I'm willing to go to to amuse and teach my daughter.
- I am terrified of heights. I'm talking panic attack, fetal position moaning and rocking, stepping down off a chair is high enough fear of heights. Last year, my daughter, who is fearless, except for flies, wanted to go on the big ferris wheel at the CNE. I mean, the BIG one that takes you up 2 stories and then leaves you there while the other cars empty. She really wanted to sit beside mommy. I went but I insisted she sit beside daddy instead. As we reached the top of the ascent, the wind picked up and the cart started rocking. My daughter thought this was fun, and started rocking it MORE. My husband took one look at my ashen face, my white knuckle grip on the backpack and my clenched jaw to keep the primal scream inside and told our daughter to stop rocking the cart. I made it to the bottom. The next time, I watched the backpacks, on terra firma. I may have wimped out, but I don't think it's a good lesson for my daughter to see her mother curled in a ball sobbing hysterically.
- I am a second generation thunderstorm coward. My earliest memories of thunderstorms involved being dragged to the basement in the middle of the night by my terrified mother. My mother, who at 83, still goes and sits in the stairwell of her apartment building in the middle of the night to hide from the storms. She and my father lived in Kansas when they were first married, and the tornado terror never left her. When our daughter arrived, I was bound and determined not to create a similar terror in my daughter, just because her mom is. I told my husband from the start that if she woke in the night with thunderstorms, he needed to go to her because I didn't want to share my terror with her. So far, so good.
- I hate fireworks. I hate the noise. The smoke triggers an asthma attack. I love to look at them, provided I am far enough away to not hear the noise or smell the smoke. However, our local university does a really good job of Canada Day, including a pretty impressive fireworks display. Our daughter loves fireworks. She was old enough to go this year so we took her. She sat beside me, snug in her sleeping bag and yelled KABOOM at the top of her lungs every time the fireworks exploded in the sky. Then she laughed and said "that was a big one, mommy." Maybe all I was missing was yelling KABOOM! I still don't like them, but I don't like them less than before.
- I failed on the bees. My daughter is a terrified of them as I am. Oh well, can't win them all.
Tuesday, June 29, 2010
Family
When you're an only child, especially when you have older parents, extended family and friends take on special importance. When you're an only girl child with older parents, that importance triples as you and your parents age.
I come from a massive family, both maternal and paternal sides. I have 21 first cousins on mom's side and 9 on dad's, (plus another family that are cousins' cousins and just like family). Factor in my cousin's kids, and you get the picture... Geography meant that I was closer to mom's side growing up than dad's. Of the 21, I am closest to the Allison boys. My mother and their mother were sisters, 13 months apart in age and closer than close. If we weren't at their house, they were at ours. All holidays, first communions, first brownie and boy scout...we spent it together. They were more like my brothers than my cousins, and we continue to be close. They lost both parents at a young age, and my mom has been their 2nd mom for years, and is grandma to their children. She's the only grandma their children know on that side of the family.
It's an odd business sometimes. I don't know what it's like to have real siblings, but I sure know what it's like to love someone like siblings. I remember feeling horribly hurt one time when one of the Allison boys was staying with us for a family wedding. His other brothers were all staying at a nearby hotel, but because he had a small child, he and his family opted to stay with us instead. One night, the rest of the family were convening for dinner, and my cousin staying with us was feeling put out and hurt, and blurted out something to the effect that he just wanted to have dinner with his brothers, his blood family. Since "real" family is a bit of a touchy subject when you're adopted, I suppose I reacted a bit more strongly than was appropriate, but I was still hurt. I forget that we don't share DNA, and sometimes, I forget that we don't share parents either.We've shared so many life experiences that I forget sometimes that we're not siblings. We certainly fight like it.
We've just had news that one of the 4 Allisons has a life threatening health problem. It's come out of the blue, and my mom and I are having a hard time processing it. On top of my mother-in-law's cancer diagnosis, it's been a bit too much to handle and to cope with.
You see, it's Murray. Of the four, Murray is the most like his mother. He has her gentle and kind nature, her patience and her ability to give you his undivided attention and make you feel like the most important person in the world. Murray is 7-8 years older than I am, but was infinitely patient with his pesky girl cousin who trailed after him wherever he went. Murray was my first dance partner, teaching me dance steps and dancing with me when I was just a little kid stumbling over my feet. Imagine how I felt, this teenage boy dancing with me. The last thing Murray tells you before he hangs up a phone call is "I love you."
Life circumstances sent Murray out to Field,BC when I was still a child. From then on, I kept up an annual Christmas letter that outlined everything that was going on in the family. I don't know if he read them or not, but I wanted him to be up on the family news. His wife, Cathy, told me he looked for those letters every year. When I finally met Cathy for the first time, she said she felt like she knew me from my letters. I knew that she had made Murray happy and I loved her because of it.
Murray and Cathy have had a rough go because their son has an aggressive form of MS. Allie went from a hockey playing, soccer kicking, planning a career in sports management, to a man who cannot get out of bed somedays because his leg won't work-literally. And now, Murray has a serious illness. The how and the why don't matter. The what now does, and it's serious.
Death is no stranger to my life, and I always knew that I would lose my "big brothers" at some point. I wasn't ready for it to be this soon.
I was already feeling pretty raw and stretched with my mother-in-law's cancer. We have ugly days looming on the horizon, and I simply don't want our family to have to go through what we will have to go through in the days, weeks and months ahead. I try hard not to let my husband see me cry for my mother-in-law. It upsets him, it upsets our daughter, and I need to be strong to support the rest of the family. My daughter was pretty upset the first time she saw her daddy cry. It won't be the last time, and I have to support both of them.
My strength has left me with this news about Murray. He's "only my cousin", except no one told my heart that. He's been my surrogate big brother all of my life. We might have seen each other only a handful of times over the years but the heart doesn't recognize time or distance...only love.If it was humanly possible, and I needed him, he'd be on the next plane.
This wonderful country of ours can be a detriment when someone you love and you want to help and support is miles and hours by plane away. Instead of being able to stop by with food, or a visit, or a hug, I have to be content with a phone call or a blog post.
Murray taught me how to overcome personal adversity. Murray taught me that kindness and gentleness are not weak, but rather, strong traits to have. Murray taught me that there is no distance when it comes to loving your family. Murray taught me that dancing with a child is one of the best gifts you can give to that child. Murray taught me that even the bleakest situations can be overcome. And Murray taught me that you don't have to be "blood" to love someone like a brother.
I love you, Murray and I pray that all will be well.
Love
Eese.
I come from a massive family, both maternal and paternal sides. I have 21 first cousins on mom's side and 9 on dad's, (plus another family that are cousins' cousins and just like family). Factor in my cousin's kids, and you get the picture... Geography meant that I was closer to mom's side growing up than dad's. Of the 21, I am closest to the Allison boys. My mother and their mother were sisters, 13 months apart in age and closer than close. If we weren't at their house, they were at ours. All holidays, first communions, first brownie and boy scout...we spent it together. They were more like my brothers than my cousins, and we continue to be close. They lost both parents at a young age, and my mom has been their 2nd mom for years, and is grandma to their children. She's the only grandma their children know on that side of the family.
It's an odd business sometimes. I don't know what it's like to have real siblings, but I sure know what it's like to love someone like siblings. I remember feeling horribly hurt one time when one of the Allison boys was staying with us for a family wedding. His other brothers were all staying at a nearby hotel, but because he had a small child, he and his family opted to stay with us instead. One night, the rest of the family were convening for dinner, and my cousin staying with us was feeling put out and hurt, and blurted out something to the effect that he just wanted to have dinner with his brothers, his blood family. Since "real" family is a bit of a touchy subject when you're adopted, I suppose I reacted a bit more strongly than was appropriate, but I was still hurt. I forget that we don't share DNA, and sometimes, I forget that we don't share parents either.We've shared so many life experiences that I forget sometimes that we're not siblings. We certainly fight like it.
We've just had news that one of the 4 Allisons has a life threatening health problem. It's come out of the blue, and my mom and I are having a hard time processing it. On top of my mother-in-law's cancer diagnosis, it's been a bit too much to handle and to cope with.
You see, it's Murray. Of the four, Murray is the most like his mother. He has her gentle and kind nature, her patience and her ability to give you his undivided attention and make you feel like the most important person in the world. Murray is 7-8 years older than I am, but was infinitely patient with his pesky girl cousin who trailed after him wherever he went. Murray was my first dance partner, teaching me dance steps and dancing with me when I was just a little kid stumbling over my feet. Imagine how I felt, this teenage boy dancing with me. The last thing Murray tells you before he hangs up a phone call is "I love you."
Life circumstances sent Murray out to Field,BC when I was still a child. From then on, I kept up an annual Christmas letter that outlined everything that was going on in the family. I don't know if he read them or not, but I wanted him to be up on the family news. His wife, Cathy, told me he looked for those letters every year. When I finally met Cathy for the first time, she said she felt like she knew me from my letters. I knew that she had made Murray happy and I loved her because of it.
Murray and Cathy have had a rough go because their son has an aggressive form of MS. Allie went from a hockey playing, soccer kicking, planning a career in sports management, to a man who cannot get out of bed somedays because his leg won't work-literally. And now, Murray has a serious illness. The how and the why don't matter. The what now does, and it's serious.
Death is no stranger to my life, and I always knew that I would lose my "big brothers" at some point. I wasn't ready for it to be this soon.
I was already feeling pretty raw and stretched with my mother-in-law's cancer. We have ugly days looming on the horizon, and I simply don't want our family to have to go through what we will have to go through in the days, weeks and months ahead. I try hard not to let my husband see me cry for my mother-in-law. It upsets him, it upsets our daughter, and I need to be strong to support the rest of the family. My daughter was pretty upset the first time she saw her daddy cry. It won't be the last time, and I have to support both of them.
My strength has left me with this news about Murray. He's "only my cousin", except no one told my heart that. He's been my surrogate big brother all of my life. We might have seen each other only a handful of times over the years but the heart doesn't recognize time or distance...only love.If it was humanly possible, and I needed him, he'd be on the next plane.
This wonderful country of ours can be a detriment when someone you love and you want to help and support is miles and hours by plane away. Instead of being able to stop by with food, or a visit, or a hug, I have to be content with a phone call or a blog post.
Murray taught me how to overcome personal adversity. Murray taught me that kindness and gentleness are not weak, but rather, strong traits to have. Murray taught me that there is no distance when it comes to loving your family. Murray taught me that dancing with a child is one of the best gifts you can give to that child. Murray taught me that even the bleakest situations can be overcome. And Murray taught me that you don't have to be "blood" to love someone like a brother.
I love you, Murray and I pray that all will be well.
Love
Eese.
Thursday, June 17, 2010
Pay the Writer
Jean Mills, my friend and colleague in the Professional Writers Association of Canada, is inspiring this post. She is an award winning writer-a real award winning writer, with a plaque and award money and everything. She is also a multi-published essayist for the Globe and Mail. But no longer. The Globe and Mail stopped paying for the Facts and Arguments essays, but they still take all the rights and use them however they choose. Here's Jean's take on it.
I wrote for nothing when I was starting out. It was a good way to build clips quickly. Then, I wrote for the equivalent of nothing because at the time, it was steady money and no one else was publishing me. Writing has an element of ego to it, and we are so darn happy to see our name in print that we sometimes take inadequate money because of it. There's nothing quite like a grown woman doing a happy dance on the driveway the first time your article makes the cover of a mainstream publication. I am ashamed to admit that I would write an average of 1500-2000 words a week for a column that was labour intensive, and received the princely sum of $50. Yep, $75 with pictures. Do the math...The local police departments loved me because I was writing about the criminal activity that doesn't always make headlines-the speeders, the drunks and the people who really should not be let out alone-you know, the ones that think it's okay to break windows or spray paint buildings. (although I had to laugh out loud at the Halloween prankster who wrapped a food inspection car in food wrap...come on, now that's clever.) When the publisher stopped paying me, and I finally had to resort to a collections agency to get the money I was owed, all of my pieces were pulled from the site, so I can't even show you what I did for that paltry sum.
Our local chapter of the Professional Writers Association of Canada was contacted the other day to provide some writing for a local business. The job description sounded interesting and promising-consumer information pieces on products, which would involve research, interviews etc-a mini-white paper for consumers rather than business to business. It sounded interesting until you checked the pay rate $5 an article. Turning on my computer costs me more than that.
So here's some things that you might not know about magazine writing:
Writing is a profession. Those of us who call ourselves "professionals" take pride in our work, take care in our research and work hard to craft an informative and clear piece. And yet, we are expected to be happy with "exposure." I somehow doubt that the publishing executives are doing their jobs for "exposure". I doubt that the lawyers who are doing their job by crafting the rights-grabbing contracts (and no, they are not the enemy) are completing their work for the rate of pay that writers are expected to accept. Hell, I bet the cleaning staff make more than some of the writers. It's not that hard to fathom: without the writers, there is no publication.
It shouldn't be up to the writers to fight this fight alone. If you like a well crafted magazine article tell the publisher to pay the writers. If you enjoy carefully thought out, logically presented and well executed opinion pieces, tell the publisher to pay the writer. If you like humourous pieces that make you nod along in agreement and spit coffee in amusement, tell the publisher to pay the writer. It should not be this difficult for a writer to be paid a decent wage. Pay the writer.
I wrote for nothing when I was starting out. It was a good way to build clips quickly. Then, I wrote for the equivalent of nothing because at the time, it was steady money and no one else was publishing me. Writing has an element of ego to it, and we are so darn happy to see our name in print that we sometimes take inadequate money because of it. There's nothing quite like a grown woman doing a happy dance on the driveway the first time your article makes the cover of a mainstream publication. I am ashamed to admit that I would write an average of 1500-2000 words a week for a column that was labour intensive, and received the princely sum of $50. Yep, $75 with pictures. Do the math...The local police departments loved me because I was writing about the criminal activity that doesn't always make headlines-the speeders, the drunks and the people who really should not be let out alone-you know, the ones that think it's okay to break windows or spray paint buildings. (although I had to laugh out loud at the Halloween prankster who wrapped a food inspection car in food wrap...come on, now that's clever.) When the publisher stopped paying me, and I finally had to resort to a collections agency to get the money I was owed, all of my pieces were pulled from the site, so I can't even show you what I did for that paltry sum.
Our local chapter of the Professional Writers Association of Canada was contacted the other day to provide some writing for a local business. The job description sounded interesting and promising-consumer information pieces on products, which would involve research, interviews etc-a mini-white paper for consumers rather than business to business. It sounded interesting until you checked the pay rate $5 an article. Turning on my computer costs me more than that.
So here's some things that you might not know about magazine writing:
- The average mainstream publication in Canada-the ones that are in your local supermarket and that you recognize immediately, pay about $1 a word for feature articles. So a 1500 word article will earn the writer $1500. Sounds good, doesn't it. I've earned it. I like it. BUT-a writer is not paid for the time it takes to research the topic, the telephone charges to interview the experts or any of the other "production" costs in crafting the article. We are only paid for the finished product.
- Trade magazines pay considerably less than $1 a word.
- $1 has been the standard rate in Canada for 15-20 years.
- The average article takes at least 10 hours to craft, including research time, interviews, drafts, and revisions. Complex articles can take significantly more time than that.
- Rights are a hot button topic with writers. In simple terms, rights are what a publisher can do with the article after they have paid the writer for it. Until recently, that meant that they got the right to publish it first in North America. After that, if they wanted to post it on a website, or in an anthology, or translate it into another language and print it again, or turn it into a chapter in a book, they had to pay the writer more money. That changed with the explosion of the internet. Now, more and more publishers want to use the article any way they want to...but they only want to pay the writer once. Did I mention that rates haven't changed in 15-20 years? Rights are how writers earn additional money. We always have more research and interview material than will fit in the article. Re-purposing an article from a different angle is stock and trade for writers. Now, however, a publisher wants "all rights" which limits what a writer can do with the article. Used to be, writers were willing to give up some rights in exchange for more money. Not anymore. (and I won't get into a very detailed discussion here. If you want to learn more, go to Badwritingcontracts.ca. )
- Article factories like Suite101 and Demand Studios and a bunch of other ones are further undermining the business of writing. They pay pennies, and people write for them. A quick scan on Elance or a number of other freelance writing sites show people who are unwilling to pay industry rates for quality work. Writers should be happy with the "exposure". The editor for Facts and Arguments at the Globe and Mail rationalized the decision to stop paying writers because of the "national exposure" they get from being in the Globe. (and she said it to a roomful of writers) Exposure doesn't pay my bills.
- In contrast, corporate writing pays $50 an hour at the absolute minimum. We can charge upwards of $125 a page for web copy, and if you write white papers, according to "that white paper guy" Gordon Graham, you can craft one with 3-4 interviews, 10 hours of work and earn around $5K, with 50% paid up front. I made thousands of dollars in about 4 months working on brochures, member information and the like for a medical association that was launching. Oh, and corporate writing pays you for the time to create the thing, not just the finished product. When we quote a project rate, we factor in the time it will take to create it, the interviews, the meetings, the telephone calls and the thought process.
Writing is a profession. Those of us who call ourselves "professionals" take pride in our work, take care in our research and work hard to craft an informative and clear piece. And yet, we are expected to be happy with "exposure." I somehow doubt that the publishing executives are doing their jobs for "exposure". I doubt that the lawyers who are doing their job by crafting the rights-grabbing contracts (and no, they are not the enemy) are completing their work for the rate of pay that writers are expected to accept. Hell, I bet the cleaning staff make more than some of the writers. It's not that hard to fathom: without the writers, there is no publication.
It shouldn't be up to the writers to fight this fight alone. If you like a well crafted magazine article tell the publisher to pay the writers. If you enjoy carefully thought out, logically presented and well executed opinion pieces, tell the publisher to pay the writer. If you like humourous pieces that make you nod along in agreement and spit coffee in amusement, tell the publisher to pay the writer. It should not be this difficult for a writer to be paid a decent wage. Pay the writer.
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