Tues., Nov.9,2004

... are the times like last night, when i was awakened by this ungodly retching coming from the bathroom, right next to my bedroom. lord, you'd think emil's lungs were coming up; if the entire house didn't hear it and awaken, i would be surprised.

i made sure he wasn't spewing blood or spiking a temperature. he was okay but in mid-bloort, so back to bed i went and left him to finish up. okay, i giggled some because it sounded so over-the-top and reminded me of my dad in his drinking days. that was at 3:30.

although emil cleaned up after himself, he didn't do a very good job of it. the sight caused me to gag too, so i had to leave it as it was and get out of the bathroom, hoping i could handle it better in the morning. talk about your useless procrastination. violent pukage was repeated at 4:40, and again at 5:30 and at 9 when i made him drink half a glass of gingerale. he had asked for a pail to keep by his bed, and that was fortunate because he didn't make it out of his room that last two times. poor little jigger.

gord had no problems dealing with this kind of stuff, and would just do it without a second thought. he could clean up barf like a trooper. too bad he won't be here till tomorrow evening.

Monday, Nov. 8, 2004
7:52 p.m.

Last night there was a television program about a businessman from Stettler, Alberta, who went down to Florida to participate in a firewalking workshop and learn to teach others how to do it. He was very enthusiastic and quite likeable and of course I wanted to see him succeed. And he did. I imagine half the good folks around Stettler think he’s a nutbar, but hey, a nutbar who can walk on fire is not someone to sneeze at.

In the course of the show there were several statements that jumped out at me. One was the comment that we work through fear by looking squarely at it, then put it in a box and set it aside so we can GO FOR what it is we want rather than allowing our fear to stop us from trying.

I have been thinking about this today, for two reasons.

One, Dad told me the other day that he isn’t hopeful that Mom will outlive her doctor’s prediction; he’s seen three friends diagnosed with kidney cancer and they died right on schedule. Dad believes things are only going to get worse from here on in.

I didn’t argue with him, because he may very well be right. He doesn’t want to be. I can’t accept the belief that Mom’s going to die soon and there’s not a damn thing to be done about it. It was a rough night after that little exchange; I was feeling a lot of anger about what Mom is going through, and intense sorrow. These emotions aren’t always on the surface these days, and that conversation must have stirred them up again.

How can I cope with this right now? In view of the TV show, I’m thinking it might be worth trying to put my fears and worries into a little mental box, set them aside, and GO FOR IT — put all my energy into believing that if anyone can have a remission, Mom can. It doesn’t mean I am in denial about what she is facing here. If I was in denial, I'd still be back on the farm in Saskatchewan. No; it just means I am putting my focus and attention on what I want, instead of what I don’t want. I doubt that adopting such an attitude is going to make any of it harder on me if the worst does happen. There is no such thing as being prepared for the death and dying of one’s mother, anyway. A huge chunk of my heart is coming out when she goes, whether I am expecting her death or not.

Two, my discomfort about making that tape Mom asked for. Karen presented me with an opportunity — someone she works for, whom I actually read tarot cards for recently, whose husband has a recording setup of some kind, knows a piano student, and so on and so forth. They would be willing to help me do this, Karen said, and I groaned. Shit. So hey, what is my big problem? What am I so afraid of? That my mother will have this tape of me warbling away and make everyone who comes to her house listen to it? Heh, yep, that’s just like her. But that's the least of my concerns. So anyway, I need to have a closer look at this fear, set it aside along with my dislike of my voice, and GO FOR IT — Mom likes the voice, that’s what matters here; I don’t have to listen to it. I may be embarrassed as hell both while singing and afterward if I hear the tape, but Mom will be happy. That’s what I need to focus on; it's the least I can do. It’s a real hurdle for me, too. I like to think I can get over myself long enough to do something nice for someone else, especially Mom, especially now, but I’m not so sure.

Thurs, Nov.4, 2004
12:34 p.m.

Spent yesterday with Mom while Dad took advantage of my presence to go golfing with a friend. The family photo above, which hangs upon the wall outside Mom's bedroom, was taken 15 years ago at Grandma and Grandpa's 50th (or something like that) wedding anniversary.

That little jigger standing on his mother's lap is Emil.

Mom is still nauseated quite a bit and having considerable discomfort in the abdominal area, so I worked her hands and feet again and did what little I could do to help. I put some food into her hands at lunchtime, folded her clean laundry and put it away, warmed up some lemon juice and water for her to drink. She laid on her new twin bed and I laid on Dad’s and we watched Judge Judy and Coronation Street together. We chatted, but often she wanted to try to sleep or was attempting unsuccessfully to handle the pain. I felt pretty helpless.

“I thought you were going to be a big baby -- remember when you told me that? -- when you weren’t feeling well. But you aren’t, at all.”

“Oh yes I am,” she said. “I hate myself.”

“You are not,” I insisted. “Obviously you haven’t looked after a sick man -- then you’d hear whining. You’re handling yourself like a queen, considering what you’re dealing with here. Now I would be a whiny baby, if it was me.”

***

10:35 p.m.

The posting of my dream the other night prompted some welcome analysis from my friend Diana.

"Your baby/uncle dream is a 'state-of-the-union' address of sorts. You are nurturing someone near to the next life and you're doing it far from home. The baby represents your current care-taking relationship with your mom, the uncle the next life, and being on a highway is away from home. You're caught up in the day-to-day details of that nurturing (the diaper) and your much-loved uncle is standing by, waiting."

Okay Diana, howzabout this one? Last night I dreamed that Scott was Jim Carrey, that I would probably have to attend some Hollywood award functions with him and didn't have any fancy gowns, and that I was living with a multi-millionaire so money need not be a worry.

Scott is, by the way, busy packing up his truck so he can hit the highway early tomorrow morning. If all goes well, he should arrive here some time next week.

"With my luck," I said to him on the phone last night, "as soon as you arrive, that's when I will finally relax and release my pent-up tension in half-a-dozen cold sores."

"Oh joy," sighed the poor man. "Something to look forward to."

***

Tomorrow is Everett's 12th birthday. I am letting him take the day off from school, and Karen is delivering an aquarium full of fish for him, but wants it to be a surprise, so I have to get him out of here in the morning.

Tues., Nov.2, 2004
8:59 a.m.

I am reading Gerald Durrell’s book, My Family and Other Animals, set on the Greek island of Corfu. Such a way he has of describing the antics of small beasts and insects, of displaying his appreciation of them, that suddenly I understand their fascination to some people. As a boy he saw them as distinct characters in the carnival of outdoor life, and was their faithful observer.

His descriptions of the members of his family and their domestic interactions are equally charming. I’ve considered typing out an excerpt, and one day I might, but right now I’m too lazy. I’ve yet to eat and dress, and then will probably go over to Mom and Dad’s for the rest of the morning.

We had a generous dump of snow yesterday, but it was melted by three. I stayed indoors and wondered if the driveway would be slippery, and how the van will manage the steep inclines on slippery days this winter. Before we left for the bus stop today, I got out the boys’ winter coats and my gloves. I didn’t need the gloves though; Everett had started the van and it was already toasty by the time I got out there. Emil wakes me around eight now, and I start my coffee and throw my jacket over my pyjamas and head straight out the door to chauffeur them. It’s the life o’ Reilly, I tell you, with them so independent in the mornings.

I had lain there in my warm bed, thinking about the dream I’d woken from. In the dream I’d left my infant in a roadside picnic area for travellers, and gone running across the highway, distressed for his safety, to reach him. He was still in his carseat in my vehicle, warm and sweaty from the heat of the day, but my Uncle Bob was sitting in the front seat with him. I changed the baby’s poopy diaper and Uncle Bob told me to deposit the diaper in a garbage can down the road somewhere, not leave it at the picnic grounds, because it was going to get ripe. Then he was gone.

Uncle Bob, Grandma’s brother, has been dead for about 20 years. He was a small man and had a distinct limp; one leg was shorter than the other because of polio as a child, and he wore a brace and one shoe with an extra-high heel. He played a wide variety of old-time tunes on his guitar and his fiddle and was well known around my home town area as an entertainer at all the local functions. He had a raspy voice, rather unique, but his efforts were appreciated anyway. It was his fiddle that I took a lesson on after he’d died, making Mom roll on the floor laughing as I made my first attempts to play Red River Valley.

Scott has experienced some peculiar happenings back at the farmhouse. At five in the morning he awoke and saw a circular glow near the woodstove, where there was no fire left. He got up and went toward the light and it moved toward the stack of wood, then disappeared. He thought he must have imagined it or perhaps a vehicle had gone by out on the road so quietly that he didn’t hear it, and somehow its headlights had shone into the window.

He distinctly remembers setting the Bic lighter on top of the stereo speaker closest to the woodstove. He went out to the shop to spend several hours working on a vanity counter for his 95-year-old grandmother. When he came back to the house around 11 a.m., the door was locked. He was sure he hadn’t locked it and that no one had been there (he can always tell, as he notices any new tire tracks on the driveway; a girl would never get away with having clandestine suitors who drive over to see her). When he went to start a fire in the woodstove, the lighter was nowhere to be found, though he looked everywhere.

“Maybe it was Herb,” I said. His buddy Herb passed away last month.

“Yeah, maybe he was playing a prank on me,” Scott surmised.

“He did like a good joke, didn’t he?”

“Yep.”

Sunday, Oct. 31, 2004
11:10 p.m.

Ah ... home again and the house is quiet, with all the little monsters sound asleep.

We spent the day at home. Mom and Dad weren't able to come for brunch, as Mom needed to stay in bed all day. So I invited my upstairs neighbour down for coffee. She came with her two three-year-olds and we had a very nice visit for several hours. She gave me my first Spanish lesson just before leaving.

"Te invito a tomar un cafe."
Loosely translated: Come for coffee.

Then I phoned Mom and Dad's. Should I come? Because I had told Mom we probably would, but if she was nauseated and trying to sleep, perhaps we shouldn't disturb her. That's probably right, he said. Well phone if you need me, said I.

Then I made a batch of granola while singing my lineup of songs (oh the variety! they become fun once one has sung them enough to not have to think too much, and I almost got through The Prayer without being a wuss, but not quite), cooked up some fancy rice with mushrooms and almonds, and put together a Tunisian eggplant casserole. I was about to serve supper when my sister Karen called from Mom and Dad's.

"Mom wants to know if you're coming. She is hoping you'll give her a treatment."

So I turned off the stove, loaded the boys into the van, and went to the other end of the city, stopping at McDonald's drive-thru on the way.

Mom had been waiting for me all day.

"I guess you two will have to talk directly to each other from now on," Dad said. They were both cranky; she from physical discomfort, he from fatigue and, probably, worry.

Karen took Everett to her neighbourhood and spent an hour or more walking around to the houses with him so he could fill his pillowcase with Halloween treats. My kids have aunts who are really really good to them. His other option would have been to go with me and Joan, whose two-year-old (seen above) would have tuckered out before they'd gone a block, or to wait for me and have to put up with me whining about being cold and wanting to go inside within the first half hour.

Before we left our place, I'd dumped peanut-butter cups and smarties boxes into a plastic container and added that to the neighbours' handouts, since they were staying home.

Emil, at 16, insists he is too old to go trick or treating. But he got a haul anyway. Dad had a bag of goodies for each of them, and Karen gave them stuff, and then when we got home Everett spread his bounty over the kitchen table and filled a bread bag with miniature chocolate bars and such for Emil. I made sure to remark upon Emil's good fortune in having such a generous brother, and they were both well satisfied.

It was a short visit we had with Mom, as after I'd massaged her legs and feet, then stimulated the healing points for her kidney, liver (oh lordy, these particular spots on her feet are ridiculously tender), and intestines, she wanted to rest. She took two morphine tablets and had to wait for them to begin to work. Emil came into the bedroom and sat in a chair at the foot of her bed, chatted with her for a few minutes, and then we left to pick up Everett.

That was my day. Of course, I did talk to my farmbeau several times on the phone. It sounds like he may be here within the next two weeks. I will not hold my breath just yet, but will keep my fingers crossed.

I won 10 bucks on my Super-7 lottery ticket; yep, it's been a pretty good day.

And now ... bedtime.

12:45 p.m.

The other night I was invited to my sister Joan's to do mini tarot readings for her friends, who have a Splurge* party once a month or so. Joan had spent the day decorating the house for Halloween and making theme treats. There was the pumpkin-top ginger cake, seen above. There was the spider cheeseball --

and the delicious peanut-butter-cookie "fingers" which I kept calling "toes" --

 

Joan put a lot of time and effort into this and pulled it off beautifully, right down to the spiderwebs we found in the food! I brought home samples of the above three delicacies for the boys.

***

My days have been full, as usual. Went to see Mom yesterday morning. She was in bed waiting for me, wanted me to rub her legs and work her feet. I couldn't stay long, as I was due to meet some new friends for lunch. The lunch was a pleasure, with women who like to laugh. Can't ask for more than that. The food was good too, and since I hadn't had time for breakfast I wolfed down my favourite restaurant fare -- Eggs Benedict.

Dad just phoned, asking if I'd make some return-address labels for him. Mom's been in bed all morning, as the 12-hour morphine is making her nauseated. I invited them for brunch tomorrow and he said he will try to drag her out. I will be making Curried Eggs, which I hope they will like as much as I do.

It's afternoon and here I sit in my dark blue housecoat patterned with suns, stars and moons. I like it so much I don't want to take it off. We have had a lovely lazy morning and now it is time to get a move on and go out for some fresh air.

I have taken a page out of Joan's book and starting collecting toonies (these are our two-toned two-dollar coins, you yankee doodles; our one-dollar coins are called loonies and have a loon on one side of them) because they add up like the dickens. Every time I dig into the change section of my wallet there are a couple of them to throw into the jar tucked among my socks, panties and bras. It's only been a couple weeks and already I bet there are 50 bucks in there.

Have I mentioned how much I am enjoying having both Joan and Karen so close by, and Mom and Dad too?

*Splurge --each woman throws in a predetermined amount of cash and then there is a draw. The winner takes home about $200, is supposed to spend the money on decadent luxuries for herself, and has the next party at her home.

Thursday, Oct. 28
8:57 a.m.

It looks like the neighbours across the street are having a pool put in on the other side of their house. I called this contraption a "crane" but Scott said it is probably a cement pumper, and I believe him because there was a cement truck there at the same time. Whatever it is, it's been noisy the past two mornings.

Every time I step through the door at 8:25 to drive the boys to the bus, the moist sweet air is as soft as a caress and I breathe it in as deeply as I can.

Yesterday was a wasted day, if there is such a thing. I awoke with the Neck Thing and was too fuzzy-headed to accomplish more than doing the dishes while I practised my songs. I have tried to sing through The Prayer, thinking that with a few efforts I would manage it without emotion, but no ... it has set off the waterworks all but once.

As a matter of fact, when Mom and I came to it the other day as we sang together, I pushed ahead as usual, and within the first three or four phrases Mom said "Oh ... that is not a good song for you right now. Turn it off."

I am taking the cassette and the songs again this morning and will give her a Vita Flex treatment and hope we can sing again before I run out to meet some new friends -- internet acquaintances -- for lunch.

One of the songs we sing is Someone to Watch Over Me,, and Mom stopped singing. Afterward I asked her why, and she said "You have such a beautiful voice, I just wanted to listen to you."

"If I do," I told her, "and thank you, you know who I got it from, don't you?" I love Mom's voice, it is so sweet and rich.

I, on the other hand, sound "exactly like Renee Zellwegger when she sings that Funny Hunny of Mine on the Chicago soundtrack." That surprised me, as I think of my voice as being a little bit deeper than that. But, as our music instructor said last night and he knows what he's talking about, "You never hear your own voice as others hear it." That's good, because I hear every crack and warble as I sing, these days, and it's good to think that maybe others wouldn't.

Just before I left, Mom said "You know what I would like, is if you would ask your instructor to play for you and you'd do a whole tape of yourself singing. I would love to have something like that."

"As if!" I said. "I wouldn't have the balls to do that!"

I hate to not do what she asked; it's a small thing and I should do it. But I just don't think I've got the chops. And I'm too much of a perfectionist. If I can't sing every song perfectly, I sure as hell don't want it on tape.

Tsk. I know I should try to do it, even if it is a terrible embarrassment for me... and it would be ... it's a small thing in the big picture.

I didn't join a Closet and Shower Singers class for nothing ... I'd be more comfortable behind the closed door of a closet than anywhere else.

It might mean a lot to her. But I just don't think I can make myself do it.

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Tuesday, Oct.26, 2004
8:40 a.m.

Still in my pyjamas, just back from dropping Emil and Everett off at their bus stop.

Mom's been having pain in the kidney for several days, and it's barely being handled by Tylenol and morphine. So this morning -- as soon as I finish my coffee, get dressed and eat some toast -- I am taking my sheet music and cassette tape and going over to sing with her. She needs to have some fun. She loves to sing and as long as we don't have an audience I'll be able to enjoy it too.

I noticed a grand piano (can you see it?) in the window of the upper floor of the house next door. Where oh where is the neighbour who plays that thing? I will be watching for him or her and scooting over to introduce myself at the earliest opportunity. Whoever it is, they are serious about their piano, as the place appears to be rented out (there is a For Sale sign out front, and the house was empty when I first moved in, I think) and you don't haul something like that around for the hell of it.

Karen's part-time job is as companion to a sweet, quiet, elderly lady in a wheelchair. On Friday the boys had the day off school, so we joined Karen and Muriel at the local theatre and saw Shark Tales in the afternoon.

***

I was driving home through the downtown the other day when I spotted a van advertising delivery of organic produce. Woo hoo! I've put in my order and will get it next Wednesday and every week thereafter.

Isn't my life exciting? Actually it isn't and that's fine with me right now.

The Ugly Sisters went out for supper on Friday to an Italian restaurant and wine bar. The draw was a jazz singer, who is also one of the restaurant owners. Twice she pulled waiters from the floor to come up and sing with her, and twice there was an obvious difference between their abilities and hers. They could carry a tune (okay, one of them could) and had pleasant voices, but hers was ... well, she made it seem so effortless and easy, and Perfect, while theirs did not compare. I am not sure why that is, whether it's training or natural ability that makes one person's voice stand out and those of others pale.

Humbling, is that.

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Friday, Oct. 22
11:16 a.m.

A group of five women stood in a semicircle facing the man playing the piano. We'd done some vocal technique warmups and sung a couple familiar tunes and a "new" song -- Put on a Happy Face -- and I'd joked that it would be wonderful torture to use on Everett when he has a pout on. Then we launched into another "new" one, called The Prayer.

I had been at Joan's the other day when she had Oprah on TV, and had listened to Celine Dion sing it and been totally unmoved. But last night, my imagination played a trick on me. The song became my prayer for Mom and myself: that she be safe and I be strong and able to let go, that wisdom and faith be there for both of us.

As we sang the words through for the first time, tears sprang to my eyes. I told myself to smarten up, and attempted to think about something else. It didn't work. As we discussed high notes (for we are a group of altos with some concern about our lack of high-end range), my lips squeezed together. I could feel my face clouding up, beginning to crumble. It was no use.

With a mumbled "I'll be right back," I made my exit as quickly as I could and walked outside, where I shed the tears and, with great difficulty, composed myself to reenter the room. Everyone kindly did not stare at me, or ask me if I was all right, but carried on as usual for the few more minutes until the class ended and we all left. I cried all the way home, and spent the rest of the evening somewhat shaken.

The Prayer
- by Carole Bayer Sager and David Foster

I pray you'll be my eyes
And watch her e'er she goes
And teach her to be wise
Help me to let go
Every mother's prayer
Every child knows
Lead her to a place
Guide her with your grace
To a place where she'll be safe

I pray she finds your light
And holds it in her heart
As darkness falls each night
Remind her where you are
Every mother's prayer
Every child knows
Need to find a place
Guide her to a place
Give her faith so she'll be safe

Lead her to a place
Guide her with your grace
To a place where she'll be safe

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Wednesday, Oct. 20, 2004
10:59 p.m.

"Mom! It's a giant spider!"

That was Everett, already freaked out.

It was big, too, bigger than any others that have turned up in this place yet. Usually I put a glass over them, slide a flat piece of cardboard underneath, carry them outside and release them. This one, though, was on the brick behind the woodstove; not a flat enough surface to close it into the glass should it try to escape. I might break its leg while doing it, even.

I can't crush them. It's not that I'm so kind or merciful, it's that the thought of their squished bodies grosses me out. It literally sends tremors along my spine. I can't bring myself to do it.

Scott phoned, and I told him my sad tale of woe as Everett squealed in the background.

"Suck it up with the vacuum cleaner," he suggested. I sent Everett to bring the central vac hose, but he was too afraid to approach the spider, which was as large, legs included, as the palm of my hand. It was up to me to be the heroine.

I plugged in the vacuum hose and stretched it out, reaching far above my head, so that the suction opening was next to the creature. The hose did not suck the spider up. I had the weebie-jeebies, and could not bring myself to be more aggressive. The thing was large enough to jump the 14 inches between itself and my hand on the hose, and that thought terrified me.

I whined like a little girlie and wished Scott was a few hundred miles closer than Saskatchewan at the other end of the phone line. I begged. Couldn't he hop into his truck and drive through two provinces to be here in 20 minutes and save us? Surely I could not leave this leggy beast free in the house all night, but I wasn't able to vanquish it like an adult should, either. Sheesh. I was a massive, hulking enemy compared to this insect, and I was afraid of it. How silly is that.

There was no choice. I was reduced to calling my upstairs neighbour on the phone. His wife answered.

"I hope you weren't in bed," I said. "Andries isn't afraid of spiders, is he?"

"No," she answered, sounding a little worried herself. "Do you need him to come down and kill one?"

"Yes, please."

"I'll tell him now."

And so it was that Andries came though the connecting door of our adjoining suites, carrying a golf club. "Is it a three-iron job?" he asked, laughing.

He had a bit of a challenge, killing it. It fought back, I swear. But in the end, Andries won.

I still feel bad about having the spider killed, but ... it was too large; I couldn't convince myself to relax and forget about it. Poor thing, it was in the wrong place at the wrong time.

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