This blog is inspired by, and a tribute to a police officer I chatted with today. There is an officer at the same physio therapy clinic that I attend, and I happened to hear him telling another patient about how he was injured. He had been on a routine traffic stop in the middle of the night, when he was hit by another car. I can't remember all the details, but I believe he broke both legs and a bunch of other things. Countless surgeries and physio later, he remains on the police force, although his days in a cruiser are over.
He happened to end up on the bed beside me today, and my daughter, who had been checking out the clinic's Christmas tree, kept arriving with music notes, treble clefs and other booty that I was concerned she was pulling off the tinsel rather than "finding on the floor" as she claimed. Taking full advantage of a situation, I pointed to the officer and told my daughter that "the gentleman beside us is a police officer, and you will be in trouble if you are taking the tinsel." The physio assistant commented that I was putting the officer on the spot, and I maintained that I was simply taking advantage of a teaching opportunity.
My daughter settled in a corner to colour and the officer asked me how I knew he was a police officer. He was polite but was wary and had an edge in his voice. He was probably going through the perp file in his brain trying to place me. I told him that I had heard him relating how he'd been injured, and then I said the magic words. "I have a lot of respect for you guys." I then explained that I'd been a former customs officer and commented that you have to have done that line of work to really appreciate how hard it is.
We then chatted about shift work, the loony tunes who come out at full moon and spending DRs in court, only to have the accused change their plea to guilty on day 2 of the voir dire. He commented that everyone thinks firefighters are great, and rightly so, but no one ever wants to see a police officer. My comment: "until you need one. Like any professions, the 5% that are rotten ruin things for the 95% who are stellar."
My friend's father was a police officer in Vancouver-original drug squad, original dog squad, original high school liaison. Worked his way up to commissioner. I was taught to respect police officers, and they were someone to go to for help. I've never been on the other side of the law, except for the occasional traffic ticket, so I've never feared the police. I understand what he was saying, though.
I wrote a weekly crime column when I was first freelancing. I wrote about the speeders, the drunks and the just plain stupid criminals. I got to know some of the officers on the Guelph Police Service and the Wellington OPP. I shook my head at the people who should have been charged with being an idiot, and the hours that were spent on routine patrol in the middle of the night to keep the rest of us safe. Because I've worked in law enforcement in Customs, I've always been fairly pro-cop. What that means as well, is that I have zero tolerance for the bad eggs that make the good ones look bad by association.
The next time you are stopped by a RIDE program, instead of cursing the police officers standing out in the cold freezing to protect us from the idiots who still think it's fine to drink and drive, why not say a prayer for the protection of the officers, and thank them for keeping us safe.(We lost a family friend to a drunk driver when I was kid. She was in a Pinto, and was hit from behind. yep, the Pinto lived up to its reputation. Drunk driver walked away without a scratch. Karen was killed instantly.) I will never forget the face of the police officer the night I rolled up to the RIDE check and thanked him for keeping us safe. He was so used to abuse that he had no idea what to say in response.The astonished smile was worth it to me.
The officer that inspired this blog is going back to active duty. He'll be manning the front desk to free other officers to go out on patrol.A routine police stop changed his life forever but in true police fashion, he's manning up and dealing with it. I've seem his grimace in pain at physio, and I've seen the scars on his legs from surgeries. I've never heard him complain and he tells his story in a matter-of-fact way. I doubt his family was that matter-of-fact when the accident happened. I wonder if the driver who hit him was.
So here's my shout-out to the police, fire and paramedics who keep us safe. They aren't paid enough to be hit, kicked, punched or puked on in the line of duty. They aren't paid enough to enter burning buildings or to have to tell someone that their loved one has passed away. They aren't paid enough to lug overweight people down icy steps, or 3 story walk-ups. They certainly aren't paid enough to deal with drunks, druggies, kiddy diddlers, wife abusers, con artists who prey on seniors and the other scum of the earth that routinely cross paths with the law. And yet, they do it day after day, night after night, week after week, month after month, year after year. They have to deal with trauma and the very worst of human nature, often at the eventual expense of their own health, sleep and mental state. I remember talking with a police officer in Toronto who had to investigate a child abduction and murder. His child at home was the same age as the victim and he started checking on her multiple times a night He was haunted by the little child who had been brutalized and murdered. I doubt his story is unique.
Thank you to the police officers, the firefighters, the paramedics and other first responders, the ER nurses and doctors, the crisis workers, the family and children's services workers and everyone else who work in the tough professions that keep us safe.Thanks for your dedication, your protection and your help when we need it. I wish you peace. I wish you safety. May God bless and protect you.
Friday, December 3, 2010
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Time
Time has taken on new significance to me the last couple of weeks. My mother-in-law died of cancer on November 16. It had been a sad and speedy journey from diagnosis at the beginning of May. It's given me a new appreciation for time.
Time can fly or stand still. Time can be a gift or a burden. Time can give or take. Time can speed or creep.
Every parent on the first day of school, while wiping a tear wonders how the blanket clad bundle of baby became the backpack toting child heading off to the world of education. It happens in the blink of an eye.
Anyone waiting for a bus or a train knows the value of a minute, especially when you are standing on the platform watching the back of the vehicle pull away.
My father died in his sleep. I talked to him the night before he died. Thankfully, the last words I said to him were "I love you daddy, I'll talk to you later." Time ran out before I could talk to him about the contents of his red box of pictures, or his war memories, or his childhood. When my mother-in-law was diagnosed with metastatic cancer at the beginning of May, I told my husband that time was gift. He had a finite amount of it, so be where he needed to be, say what he needed to say.
At first, he continued as normal. It's easy to pretend normal when you avoid. His mother's health deteriorated alarmingly the last couple of months, and he started spending a great deal of time with her. He took advantage of the gift of time.
Our phone rang at 3:30am on November 16. A phone call in the middle of the night is never a good news call. My father-in-law was on the phone advising my husband to come to the hospice. My husband was on his way by 4am. I was cleaning the living room at 4:15am because sleep was no longer a possibility. We had decided beforehand that while our 5 year old daughter could visit grandma as much as she wanted to, that we would spare her witnessing the actual transition from living to death. That was a bit more reality than a 5 year old needed to deal with, and I wanted her to remember her grandma as the tea party in the special room grandma.
My mother in law passed away at 3pm on November 16. This date had special significance for our family because of the date it wasn't. You see, dates and events were very important to my mother-in-law. She sent cards for birthdays, anniversaries, Easter, St Patrick's Day, Halloween, Mothers' Day, Fathers' Day and she kept a master list on the closet door in her room. My father in law's birthday was November 15, and we think that she waited until after his birthday to cross over. She had the force of will to do it and it would have mattered to her that his birthday remained only his birthday.
When my husband called to tell me the news of her passing, my daughter and I headed out to the hospice to participate in the candle procession. The hospice believed in sending people away the same way they arrived, via the front door. The hospice staff treated death with the same love and dignity that they treated life. A person who was in the final stages of living had a heart placed on their door, which was replaced with a butterfly when they passed away. The family was allowed the privacy and comfort of a solarium which was off the main area of the building, filled with comfortable chairs and surrounded by windows that looked out on woods and bird feeders, and a pet turkey that roamed around the grounds. The body was draped in a handmade quilt, and the family escorted the person to the hearse with a candle that was then placed in the lobby for 24 hours to honour the person's memory. My daughter had a chance to say goodbye to grandma, and her only questions were how grandma would know how to put her angel wings on, and how she would get to heaven if she didn't have her wings. I told her God carried her to heaven, and another angel helped her with her wings. It may not be theologically correct, but it worked to comfort a 5 year old.
Cancer has robbed me of 2 acquaintances and my mother-in-law this year. Hepatitis C has robbed me of my brother of my heart. All this loss has taught me that time is a gift with an expiry date. Sometimes, you don't get another chance to tell someone you love them. Sometimes you don't get another chance to say I'm sorry, or I love you. My house may look like a bomb went off in it but helping my daughter with homework, or watching a movie with her (which has led to interesting discussions about heaven, hell, angels, Santa and teaching a cat a trick) is more important to me than the dust bunnies currently mounting an offensive in the bedroom. My mother and daughter have a finite amount of time together, and although I cringe sometimes, and grandma's house is a "no-free" zone, the time they spend together is more important than ice cream and cookies before bed.
Time can fly. Time can stop. Time can give a gift or take it away. Sometimes now is all there is.
Rest in peace, Mary. I promise I'll take care of your boys. I love you.
Time can fly or stand still. Time can be a gift or a burden. Time can give or take. Time can speed or creep.
Every parent on the first day of school, while wiping a tear wonders how the blanket clad bundle of baby became the backpack toting child heading off to the world of education. It happens in the blink of an eye.
Anyone waiting for a bus or a train knows the value of a minute, especially when you are standing on the platform watching the back of the vehicle pull away.
My father died in his sleep. I talked to him the night before he died. Thankfully, the last words I said to him were "I love you daddy, I'll talk to you later." Time ran out before I could talk to him about the contents of his red box of pictures, or his war memories, or his childhood. When my mother-in-law was diagnosed with metastatic cancer at the beginning of May, I told my husband that time was gift. He had a finite amount of it, so be where he needed to be, say what he needed to say.
At first, he continued as normal. It's easy to pretend normal when you avoid. His mother's health deteriorated alarmingly the last couple of months, and he started spending a great deal of time with her. He took advantage of the gift of time.
Our phone rang at 3:30am on November 16. A phone call in the middle of the night is never a good news call. My father-in-law was on the phone advising my husband to come to the hospice. My husband was on his way by 4am. I was cleaning the living room at 4:15am because sleep was no longer a possibility. We had decided beforehand that while our 5 year old daughter could visit grandma as much as she wanted to, that we would spare her witnessing the actual transition from living to death. That was a bit more reality than a 5 year old needed to deal with, and I wanted her to remember her grandma as the tea party in the special room grandma.
My mother in law passed away at 3pm on November 16. This date had special significance for our family because of the date it wasn't. You see, dates and events were very important to my mother-in-law. She sent cards for birthdays, anniversaries, Easter, St Patrick's Day, Halloween, Mothers' Day, Fathers' Day and she kept a master list on the closet door in her room. My father in law's birthday was November 15, and we think that she waited until after his birthday to cross over. She had the force of will to do it and it would have mattered to her that his birthday remained only his birthday.
When my husband called to tell me the news of her passing, my daughter and I headed out to the hospice to participate in the candle procession. The hospice believed in sending people away the same way they arrived, via the front door. The hospice staff treated death with the same love and dignity that they treated life. A person who was in the final stages of living had a heart placed on their door, which was replaced with a butterfly when they passed away. The family was allowed the privacy and comfort of a solarium which was off the main area of the building, filled with comfortable chairs and surrounded by windows that looked out on woods and bird feeders, and a pet turkey that roamed around the grounds. The body was draped in a handmade quilt, and the family escorted the person to the hearse with a candle that was then placed in the lobby for 24 hours to honour the person's memory. My daughter had a chance to say goodbye to grandma, and her only questions were how grandma would know how to put her angel wings on, and how she would get to heaven if she didn't have her wings. I told her God carried her to heaven, and another angel helped her with her wings. It may not be theologically correct, but it worked to comfort a 5 year old.
Cancer has robbed me of 2 acquaintances and my mother-in-law this year. Hepatitis C has robbed me of my brother of my heart. All this loss has taught me that time is a gift with an expiry date. Sometimes, you don't get another chance to tell someone you love them. Sometimes you don't get another chance to say I'm sorry, or I love you. My house may look like a bomb went off in it but helping my daughter with homework, or watching a movie with her (which has led to interesting discussions about heaven, hell, angels, Santa and teaching a cat a trick) is more important to me than the dust bunnies currently mounting an offensive in the bedroom. My mother and daughter have a finite amount of time together, and although I cringe sometimes, and grandma's house is a "no-free" zone, the time they spend together is more important than ice cream and cookies before bed.
Time can fly. Time can stop. Time can give a gift or take it away. Sometimes now is all there is.
Rest in peace, Mary. I promise I'll take care of your boys. I love you.
Tuesday, November 2, 2010
Should, Must and Losing Yourself
I was a little shocked to find out that my last post was the end of August. I'd like to say that it was due to having lots of work, but really, I lost my Muse. I've been buried in the "shoulds" "musts" and "need to" and I've lost myself in the process.
Like any woman who has both young children and elderly parents, I've been doing a lot of juggling. My mother, who just turned 84, is healthy and lives on her own. She doesn't drive anymore so trips to the library, the bank, for haircuts and other errands get coordinated into my day. My daughter is only in school two days one week and three days the next, so I try to get my errands done on the school days. Days spent on errands are days not spent on job writing.
My mother in law is fighting an inevitable battle with metastatic cancer. It's robbed her of mobility, appetite, breath and dignity. For a woman as private as my mother in law, having a stranger help to bathe her has been very difficult for her. I'm trying to support my husband, my brother in law and my father in law, while gently preparing my daughter about the reality that sometimes sick people don't get better. I put my own sadness on the backburner, because I need to be strong for my family. I cry in private, or in a safe place like church, where it somehow seems okay to cry. It's a good thing I'm a funeral cantor: nobody thinks it odd to see someone crying at a funeral, and I cry when I see other people crying.
And then there was my cousin Murray. We found out in June that he was in total liver failure. He died August 23. Although I e-mailed him, I chickened out and couldn't pick up the phone to call him after I found out about his health situation. Murray was a kind, gentle soul and I'd made him cry before when we talked about his son, Allie. I knew I couldn't be strong talking to Murray when I was so devastated about the news, so I took the coward's way out and e-mailed him instead. Now I'll never hear his gravelly voice saying "I love you" again. He's left a pretty big hole in our lives. We didn't see each other very often because of life circumstance, but I knew that if I ever really needed him, he'd be on the next plane. He was a brother of my heart and I miss him, even though we didn't talk often, I knew I could. I miss that.
And although it was for the best, I miss my little black cat, Max. He was my constant companion during the day, always needing to be where I was. To this day, when I pull out a kitchen chair, I have expect to find a little black face popping out from under the tablecloth to inquire why I'm moving his bed. He was only a cat, but he was a good, loving cat and a good companion.
I'm mired in "musts" today. I must follow up on delinquent payments. I must come up with some story ideas so that I can earn money. I must revamp my website, I must find my brave and get better at self marketing so that I can build my business. I must read last week's submission for the critique group, even though it's ridiculously long. I must find the perfect cake to bake for what will probably be my mother in law's last birthday on Sunday and I must bake it on Friday because I'm away all day Saturday at a conference. I must book haircuts for my mom and daughter. I must figure out dinner. I must go to the memorial mass at church tonight for all the people whose funerals I sang at this year. I must wash the dishes, help my daughter with homework, figure out an approach that works in dealing with a teacher that we're having concerns with (and kindergarten is too young for this crap) and I must feed the 19 year old tabby who is yowling in the kitchen.
And then there are the "shoulds": I should revise my YA novel, taking into account feedback I've received. I should figure out an outline for the non-fiction book, and see where the gaps are. I should do NaNoWriMo because that seems to be the only way I get fiction writing done. I should work on a picture book text for the critique group. I should finish flipping my winter and summer clothes. I should lie down and get some rest so that I can shake this infection that is lingering on and on. I should do some knitting and finish the horse sweater while it still fits my daughter. I should put on a load of laundry, clean a floor of the house, work in the garden, go for a walk with my daughter on a cold but clear fall day even though my hip has been locking badly and it will hurt.
And I can't seem to do any of these. My emotional well is empty and I'm wondering why I ever thought I could successfully work from home. All the old doubt demons are muttering around me, making me question my abilities and my professional self worth. I'm juggling like crazy, but still dropping balls.
Somehow, I need to find my Muse again. I need to do something that is only for me, that will nourish and sustain my being in the hard days ahead. I need to be a little selfish and steal some me time. I've forgotten to take care of me in the midst of all the musts and shoulds. But first, I need to make a pot of tea and do some homework with my little girl.
Like any woman who has both young children and elderly parents, I've been doing a lot of juggling. My mother, who just turned 84, is healthy and lives on her own. She doesn't drive anymore so trips to the library, the bank, for haircuts and other errands get coordinated into my day. My daughter is only in school two days one week and three days the next, so I try to get my errands done on the school days. Days spent on errands are days not spent on job writing.
My mother in law is fighting an inevitable battle with metastatic cancer. It's robbed her of mobility, appetite, breath and dignity. For a woman as private as my mother in law, having a stranger help to bathe her has been very difficult for her. I'm trying to support my husband, my brother in law and my father in law, while gently preparing my daughter about the reality that sometimes sick people don't get better. I put my own sadness on the backburner, because I need to be strong for my family. I cry in private, or in a safe place like church, where it somehow seems okay to cry. It's a good thing I'm a funeral cantor: nobody thinks it odd to see someone crying at a funeral, and I cry when I see other people crying.
And then there was my cousin Murray. We found out in June that he was in total liver failure. He died August 23. Although I e-mailed him, I chickened out and couldn't pick up the phone to call him after I found out about his health situation. Murray was a kind, gentle soul and I'd made him cry before when we talked about his son, Allie. I knew I couldn't be strong talking to Murray when I was so devastated about the news, so I took the coward's way out and e-mailed him instead. Now I'll never hear his gravelly voice saying "I love you" again. He's left a pretty big hole in our lives. We didn't see each other very often because of life circumstance, but I knew that if I ever really needed him, he'd be on the next plane. He was a brother of my heart and I miss him, even though we didn't talk often, I knew I could. I miss that.
And although it was for the best, I miss my little black cat, Max. He was my constant companion during the day, always needing to be where I was. To this day, when I pull out a kitchen chair, I have expect to find a little black face popping out from under the tablecloth to inquire why I'm moving his bed. He was only a cat, but he was a good, loving cat and a good companion.
I'm mired in "musts" today. I must follow up on delinquent payments. I must come up with some story ideas so that I can earn money. I must revamp my website, I must find my brave and get better at self marketing so that I can build my business. I must read last week's submission for the critique group, even though it's ridiculously long. I must find the perfect cake to bake for what will probably be my mother in law's last birthday on Sunday and I must bake it on Friday because I'm away all day Saturday at a conference. I must book haircuts for my mom and daughter. I must figure out dinner. I must go to the memorial mass at church tonight for all the people whose funerals I sang at this year. I must wash the dishes, help my daughter with homework, figure out an approach that works in dealing with a teacher that we're having concerns with (and kindergarten is too young for this crap) and I must feed the 19 year old tabby who is yowling in the kitchen.
And then there are the "shoulds": I should revise my YA novel, taking into account feedback I've received. I should figure out an outline for the non-fiction book, and see where the gaps are. I should do NaNoWriMo because that seems to be the only way I get fiction writing done. I should work on a picture book text for the critique group. I should finish flipping my winter and summer clothes. I should lie down and get some rest so that I can shake this infection that is lingering on and on. I should do some knitting and finish the horse sweater while it still fits my daughter. I should put on a load of laundry, clean a floor of the house, work in the garden, go for a walk with my daughter on a cold but clear fall day even though my hip has been locking badly and it will hurt.
And I can't seem to do any of these. My emotional well is empty and I'm wondering why I ever thought I could successfully work from home. All the old doubt demons are muttering around me, making me question my abilities and my professional self worth. I'm juggling like crazy, but still dropping balls.
Somehow, I need to find my Muse again. I need to do something that is only for me, that will nourish and sustain my being in the hard days ahead. I need to be a little selfish and steal some me time. I've forgotten to take care of me in the midst of all the musts and shoulds. But first, I need to make a pot of tea and do some homework with my little girl.
Friday, August 27, 2010
For Murray
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.
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, 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?
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