Word by Word
July-December 2008
Wednesday, July 9, 2008
noon
Here it is summer, and I'm contemplating autumn/winter end-of-life stuff around my father. He is in the process of dying. I'm not sure I've thought about it that way before, but it is a process, and difficult to be alongside of, participant to a degree, but definitely sidelined. Not that I'd like it to be my process just yet.
From a book I've been reading (How We Die) there are certainly a lot of ways to die, and everyone does it in their own way. I can vouch for this, as I seem to be adding up a fair list of relatives who have died, and they haven't gone about it in the same way. We all do die eventually though, and so being close to someone else, as in all things, teaches me something about how I might want to approach this business when my turn comes. Gracious is one word I hope will apply.
For now, we three kids are doing our best to support our Dad in this business, and come to terms with it, each in our own way. It's a guessing game, what he needs, because he doesn't actually say, except when in the hospital he said he'd like there to be a cliff handy. Now he just stays in bed, and I'm not sure he's that sick that he couldn't be up in a chair, out on the deck, or visiting with his kids and grandkids. Depression (that inadequate word) has got him in its clutches, major black dog, and if it lifts, I hope he has the strength to get up again for awhile. But I try to be a realist (cynic? skeptic?) as I've known the guy for a pretty long while now, and I'm not hopeful.
Any day/week/month/another year. We don't know. But palliative is what everyone calls the care he's getting, and who wouldn't be depressed with that kind of news.
Saturday, August 9, 2008
5 pm
The process continues. My dad fell two nights ago, when he was alone, and wasn't able to get himself back up off the floor. He couldn't remember any of our phone numbers (and I guess didn't think he was having an emergency, or maybe he forgot the number for 911 as well), so he spent the night on the floor. The home care person arrived, and got a key from a neighbour, then called my sister who came and helped her get him up and into bed. Later that day my sister caught his head when he fell again, after eating his dinner. Today he is very subdued, and sleeping a lot. Lots of bruises.
I suggested he use the walker, and he fell silent, his response to stupid inane comments from his daughter. Am I frustrated?
We three 'children' will have a conference on Monday, after his next visit from a nurse, as to how we go about looking after someone who is not safe on his own, but doesn't want anyone to stay with him.
I hope I remember all this when I'm at my own endpoint, and so don't have my kids knocking their heads against the wall of my, oh, personality I guess.
It's cloudy and rained this morning. Looks like it may rain again. Brings me down. Must be the weather.
I'll try and get back in here more often. Once a month doesn't seem to be enough.
Monday, August 11, 2008
10:30 am
I spent yesterday with friends and my partner at a blues festival, and found myself cranky and irritated by just about everything. Sometimes I wish I could be more of a joiner, so that when a performer calls out from the stage, everyone wave their hands, everyone dance, I could feel it, but no. I'll wave and dance when I feel like it. You can't make me. And no, I don't feel the love, just because you tell me. So I guess I'm not a joiner. But my crankiness was misplaced of course. I've a family tendency to free-floating anxiety, and sure enough, there's stuff to be anxious about. I was feeling guilty too, because one of my kids asked me to pick her up at the airport, and I said, no, take a cab (which is perfectly reasonable, you don't have to tell me) because I was spending a day at a festival. Imagine. I suppose the good thing about this is that I didn't change my plans.
The sun shines again, which seems to alleviate my mood somewhat. We'll see how it holds out. I'm on shift with my dad today, saw him early this morning, and will head back to keep him company and to get him dinner this afternoon. Tonight the confab with my sibs, and then we'll see how things go.
This all reminds me of when my first child was born, and I didn't have a clue (forget instinct, you have to be shown how to breastfeed). As soon as I would figure out what was going on with my baby, she'd change. Well, I guess it really is the reverse process my dad is working himself through, toward dying. At least there's good company along for this. Hope he agrees; he's been inclined to avoid us most of our lives.
In self-defence, I've made an appointment with my psychiatrist. Haven't felt a need for awhile, but really, I need somewhere to vent. This is probably the most inappropriate place for me to do it, and though he listens, poor partner.
Monday, August 18, 2008
5:30 pm
It's a week since my sibs and I talked together about our Dad. We all share frustrations, which get in the way of just letting him be. It's hard to leave someone alone who is so greatly ill, but at the same time, he has always preferred to be alone, and we all gave ourselves a shake, and promised to try and relax, not feel guilty, and give him his wish, while doing what we can to ensure he's okay. This week I said to him, that he can have plenty of extra homecare, and he said "I don't want more care, I want less." He's not going to get his wish, as things will progress, but I am going to try valiantly to back off. Easier said than done.
I'm trying to sort other stuff. Working on things I have some control over? I'm feeling that urge to clear out stuff again. Stuff. I can't get as much crammed into this place as I used to get into my house, but the feeling is the same when I run out of places to put things. Too much stuff, and I start to feel weighted down. Paper as usual is the biggest problem. Books, magazines, statements, newspapers, notes to self, journals, journals, journals. Unfinished novels and poems. Man, what a clutter.
I've got my work cut out for me. So today I went up the Grouse Grind. Ahhh. Cool breeze in the woods, and I clocked 1:08. Not bad for an old babe.
Friday, August 29, 2008
8 pm
I'm not sure very much has happened in the last while, but my emotions have sure shot all over the place. Lots of talking here and there, online and off, with brother, sister, partner, friend, psychiatrist. Ah, yes, psychiatrist. Nothing like a neutral party to go and rant at, er I mean consult with.
My dad continues abed, but he's cheerful about it. Won't talk about stuff that's not positive though. Leaves that to us, amongst ourselves. He is straying ever so slightly farther from his bed, which is nice to see, though it's not much to get excited about. He spends about 23 hours a day in bed...
We got internet installed in his house this week (that was my task, as the family techie). My sister was given a computer, so I entertained myself setting it up; the computer is mostly so she can get work done there, and keeps us close to email, an addiction that doesn't go away. But having internet is a bonus for me too, because I can always take my laptop over there. The connection is a concession by our dad for we three who spend so much time there. And much as the old man has said he had no use for the internet, he does ask about google all the time.
But this weekend I am off duty, and am taking myself and my partner out of here. Whoo hoo. Don't worry, there's someone to feed the cat.
Wednesday, October 8, 2008
6 pm
The last few months have required a lot of mental adjustments: first, getting used to the idea that my father is going to die, his disease is terminal; second, that there's nothing I can do about that; third, working out what kind of relationship you can have with a very difficult man, one who prefers his own company to all others, but now needs all kinds of help; fourth, maybe figuring out why have a relationship; fifth, making extra room for him, because there is a relationship, wonky as it is; and finally sixth, continuing to live my own life, rather than putting it on hold while he is dying, because it could be a long time yet; he's actually doing pretty well these days, having gotten over the initial shock. But, I imagine trying to live with the more concrete knowledge that you are going to die this year (or maybe next) rather than the foggy idea we all carry around that it'll be some day, a long loooong time from now, and I become more patient with the poor guy. Remember that this isn't about me (though it is). Stories inside stories.
So I went to Ottawa this past weekend to visit one of my kids. Murphy's law would put a sore in my throat on the airplane going there, so I wasn't a bundle of fun. I had this sore throat a couple weeks ago, and thought I'd shaken it off, but no, guess it was latent. It's behaving like a cold now, but I don't seem to be too bad.
But we did have a nice companionable visit through the weekend, poking around the market, and sampling some restaurant fare (we found one place down the block that had just the best salad). On Monday I lounged about while she was at work, and then towards the end of the day went to see her office, admire her life post-student. One more dinner together, then yesterday I flew home.
The weekend before I was collecting a prize for a short story I wrote and entered in this year's Literary Writes contest of the Federation of BC Writers. Third prize (and I admit to thinking, what? not first! but on the podium is better than off, eh?). The event was Word on the Street in Vancouver, and I got to read my story to a very small crowd in the Authors tent, half of whom were friends I had told ahead of time. But that's fine, as for me the whole point was to get something published (and get paid for it). And my story will be published in WordWorks magazine which is sent out to members of the Fed, but also to libraries, and I don't know who else (yes, yes, the magazine I do production for, but honestly, the judging was blind, no bribes were paid) . I expect issues are also available from the Fed, on request, and of course I'll have a few. This is a first for me though, in one sense. This will be the first bit of writing published that has garnered a cash value. (As a prize, too, I won't need to declare it as income, though I suppose if I could declare it as writer-income, then I could write off the cost of a lot of books...) It's also the first thing published that I can claim was picked solely on its merits. That feels good.
But these days I'm watching my investments tank, and most of the writing I've been doing is around cover letters for my resume. I need a job; the retirement was a bit too soon, as it turns out.
Friday, November 7, 2008
10 a m
I spent a good part of yesterday writing. It felt good. I was editing some scenes from my novel, so I could read them at the Writers Festival's Volunteer party. I also spent a fair bit of time reading out loud, to myself, to see how it sounded, and I was pleased. I had a five minute time slot, which I stuck to, even though as I get into it, I want to read more. (But, leave them asking for more, is a good principle, or give them a break, in case I'm deluded...)
Actually, it wasn't that hard to leave some stuff behind, because I wasn't sure it fit into the piece I had decided to read, brilliant as I thought the wording was. Working on the story rekindled it in my mind, and I started to see events stretching out before and after what I was working on. It's funny (but I'm not laughing really) how long it's been since I've felt the impulse to work on this story, but I'm glad to say that when I opened up a file, it seemed just as fresh to me. Part of this was the impetus of a deadline; I wanted to read something at the open mike, and as nothing's finished (except for my story that has now been published in the current issue of WordWorks, whoo hoo!) I had to do some work.
I was aware that I was editing too soon. What I read probably won't go into my story the way it stands now, because the story is still pretty much in (unfinished) first draft condition, and I could feel blanks opening up even in the three pages I was reading. But it worked as a scene, so I was happy with it, and I think it'll work as a chapter when it's all in. Even came up with a good chapter title. I'm also getting better at reading. I took my time, paused for people to laugh (I love that people laugh where I intend it to be funny) and generally had a good time. That yikes-I'm-nervous-quaver is not so noticeable in my voice even to me. If I'm going to read again, I've got to have something to read, don't I? So, back to work, eh?
I come back to this sort of resolve regularly. Get distracted by life, start to panic about money (with good enough reason these days) but forget that there is this supreme pleasure in crafting with words, and I need to factor that into any other facing of reality. A reading gets me to confirm that I'm not wasting my time. Or maybe it confirms that I have been wasting my time by not writing. There's a thought.
Wednesday, December 17, 2008
'Tis the season, isn't it? Hectic but snowy and surprisingly beautiful.
We got home from Martinique in the early hours of Sunday, after a delay because YVR wasn't prepared for snow. Imagine being in and out of airplanes for 24 hours, and then, when sitting in sight of the gate, being told that it'd be a while. It took an hour. Then another hour to get our bags. Then there was the taxi issue. Ah, well, at least we were home.
There are degrees though of misery, and our airplane woes are minor. Three people I know of died while we were away (not my father, though he is visibly more frail). My partner's aunt (80s) died a couple of days before we came home; expected, but that never lessens the sadness. Plum Wenda lost her brother Ken (50s). (Brother Kens are hard to hang onto it seems; I lost mine many years ago.) And my son told me an old school friend (20s) had died, of heart failure. Wild.
Life is either short or long, I guess that's the message. Be careful of your short or long and precious life.
Which takes me back to Martinique, and my impressions. Life in the Caribbean Sea is varied. The islands share European colony/slave trade histories, but from my very brief visits in three of the countries (a few years ago in the Bahamas, and this trip an overnighter in Barbados, a former British colony, and of course Martinique) I see differences. The culture carried by language is huge. English and French, big difference. Martinique is still part of France. It felt the most un-Caribbean of the three places. The population is 95% black, but colour aside, the place felt very French. Stuff in the stores was all from France. Except for sugar and rum (same things, right?) I'm not sure that a lot gets produced there. But come to think of it, the airport in Barbados only had British newspapers, except for one local. I think of BC as having a short history, but it has a more ancient feel, because of the existence of indigenous people. I don't know that there are any left in the Caribbean. It's all transplanted culture.
Now a case could be made that spending time at Club Med gives no proper reflection of a place, and that is true, just as you can't tell a place by what goes on at summer camp, but we did venture out into Fort de France one day, and into the little town of Sainte Anne, down the road a bit from the resort, and it didn't feel Caribbean somehow. (What do I know, I don't speak the language.) The resort was mostly filled with people from France, which makes sense. Not a lot of English spoken, so not a lot of socializing possible -- very few of the family I was there with spoke French either, though some understood it at least. I am really sorry, too late, that I didn't apply myself all those years ago when I was trapped in a classroom. It's comprehension that is the problem though. In Fort de France, we wandered into a museum, and I found I could get the gist of what I was reading beside the exhibits. But anyone talking to me, hopeless.
So that just left the beach and the toasty sea. And the stack of novels I brought. And kayaking. And snorkeling. And the buffet, and the help-yourself whenever bar. I'm not complaining. It was good.
January - June 2008 entries
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