Weekend Glimmers

Moments in the day that caught my eye. The things that made me stop for a moment, pause, reflect, made me smile. Some of the photographs appear more like art in their depth and the colour. I like that effect. After all, photography is an art.

From the first coffee of the morning as I stood in the garden, casting my own shadow, and listened to the birds.

To a walk in the local park, looking at the spring blooms poking their heads out, up towards the sun.

To the beach, to walk along the sand, listening to the susurration of the waves. Watching a swan swim silently and regally through Lake Ontario (I think of that as Swan Lake), not a care in the world. Even watching a seagull, who tried to appear nonchalant, but perhaps wondering if there was a crust of bread or a french fry in my pocket.

This is me. Making moments into memories.

Eye Spy

Order and routine provide an organized balance in my life that keeps me on an even keel, although there are times when I welcome a little spontaneity. When it comes to appointments however, a spontaneous rescheduling, especially one where I only receive a voicemail message to “inform me” that this is taking place, and not a person-to-person telephone call that allows me to interact and say “actually, that doesn’t work for me” isn’t one of those times. That being the case, when it happens I “go along, to get along” not because I’m a passive personality, but because it makes life easier.  That was me this week. A stressful doctor’s appointment that I’d been thinking about for weeks on Tuesday and a rescheduled retina clinic appointment from the previous Friday moved to Wednesday. In retrospect I might have been better to ask the clinic for a new date. I’ll know better another time. Learning from my mistakes.

I like the retina doctor – young, funny, easy going. I don’t love the injections he often has to do in my eye because of spontaneous (there’s that word again) leaking behind the retina (like a tap that needs a new washer). The first time he explained the procedure I was reluctant but knew it needed to be done so I resigned myself. No waiting – he did it right then and there. Surprisingly it’s not painful – the numbing drops help a great deal. Quite often afterwards there is “bruising” and the white of the eye is beet red, as if I’ve gone a round or two in a boxing ring, but the bruising fades. Eventually.

The worst part of these appointments is reading the eye chart. Put puffs of air into my eyes. Check. Add drops to dilate the pupils? We’re good. Push my chin into the “cup” and press my forehead against the bar and take a scan of my eye? Uncomfortable but doable. Poke a needle into my eye? Easy. Read that eye chart as the print gets smaller? I freeze.  It’s like taking a test I’m sure I’m going to fail. I feel performance pressure. And I’m doing it with my glasses ON, not off.

On a good day I can do this with no difficulty though towards the end it’s a crap shoot of guesswork - “it might be c, but it could be o.” I might just laugh and say “pass”. Yesterday the pressure of sitting in that chair, stressing myself over a few rows of letters becoming ever increasingly smaller, I wanted to get up out of the chair and leave. I felt myself becoming smaller with each attempt. I was sitting with a different young woman to the one who usually conducts this part of the appointment. She was polite but a bit condescending when after assessing one eye I told her I’d rather not do this today. She kept insisting, as if I were a toddler, trying to encourage me to take just one more bite of liver or brussels sprouts – “can you just try one, maybe the first letter or the one at the end?” That made me feel even smaller. My final, unfortunately emphatic response, just like a toddler, was a firm “no.”

It was at that moment that I realized how incredibly overwhelmed I was. The level of stress that I’d held in for weeks had run its course and the lowering of it left me feeling vulnerable and on edge. I apologized to that young woman for being difficult and unyielding, but it was my final answer, and I saw no need to put myself through further stress with the eye test.

“You may not control all the events that happen to you, but you can decide not to be reduced by them.” ~ Maya Angelou

There is a time to be compliant and I’m good with that. I tell technicians, nurses, doctors that if they need to move me or put me in a specific position they have my permission because it makes it easier for both of us. I don’t always look forward to the tests I need or what they involve but the necessity overrules any reluctance. It’s the small details, the simple things, like an eye test that can reduce me to a petulant outburst or tears. Or even saying “no, I don’t want to.” It’s a way to take control of a situation when I’ve felt things slipping out of my hands that might be bigger than I’m able to manage.

On a positive note, it turned out that I didn’t need an injection this time and I’m “free” for two months. I can laugh about this today, but I have an optometrist appointment next week. Another chance to get it right (or wrong), another tussle with an eye chart, this time without the benefit of my glasses. I’ll leave the toddler at home for this one.

Modest? Moi?

There I was early Tuesday morning, perched on the examination room bed, legs dangling, feet not touching the floor, wrapped in the blue hospital gown I’d donned after being instructed by the nurse, “everything off from the waist up, and tie at the front.” Duties completed, she wandered off out of the room after that brief exchange, leaving the door wide open and me questioning under my breath “is this some new protocol leaving the door open?” I didn’t even bother to close it and managed to perform the necessary act with a shrug of the shoulders.

Enter the world of the hospital breast clinic and a woman – me – who has spent too many years on one of those beds, wearing one of those gowns, with a variety of doctors and technicians doing what they do, cold hands (always cold hands!) pushing and prodding. My modesty left the building in May 2005. I became oblivious to prying eyes after too many appointments to count where the first line from every nurse was “everything off from the waist up.” I’ve also lost count of the number of times I didn’t even bother doing up the ties on the gown provided. Yesterday was no exception, though a vestige of remembered modesty did have me holding the gown together until the doctor arrived. Afterall the door was still wide open and there were people walking the halls.

Meeting a doctor for the first time I find it hard to just sit there and let them do all the talking. It’s my appointment so full participation is, as far as I’m concerned, my time to shine with all that I know, think I or know, don’t know at all and want to know. At the same time, it is an opportunity for me to assess who this person is, do I feel comfortable in their care and will I have the confidence in their ability to not only “know their stuff” but to see me not simply as a patient but as a person. It’s part of deciding if we are a going to be a good fit.

The young woman who walked into that examination room and greeted me yesterday would at a guess have been a university student when I entered the world of breast cancer 21 years ago. She might have been deciding if medicine was truly the course that was right for her only a few years into her studies.

I arrived at this appointment with an open mind and came prepared with dates, information and questions. I had already completed the intake form – to the best of my ability – some of the questions had me digging into the archives – the exact date of my lumpectomy? June 2005 but the exact date? Not to worry said my new doctor – it will be in the files. True. Everything on that questionnaire would be found in my files but I suppose it gave me something to do while I had been waiting for her arrival.

We chatted while the doctor conducted her physical exam – she asking me questions as well as me asking questions of her and I knew I was in good hands – literally and figuratively.

Upon completion I heard the words I had anticipated and expected to hear – “This is not a recurrence of breast cancer, and it is not a new cancer. It is an infection that has left some lingering fluid.” Two follow up diagnostics will be scheduled to confirm her diagnosis.

As the doctor was writing up her notes before the conclusion of our appointment, I mentioned to her that during the few weeks I’d been waiting for this appointment date, I enrolled in Google University and conducted my own research. When she laughed aloud I knew that this was someone if I should have further contact with that I would be able to trust with my life. She listened to my self-diagnosis of a fat necrosis*, rolled her chair over to where I was still perched on that bed and showed me the findings she had printed out from the ultrasound I’d had in early March that read “inflammation due most likely to fat necrosis.”

My self-satisfied yelp of “I was right!” had me confidently proclaiming, with laughter, “I think I just graduated with my University of Google degree in medicine.” With a wink and a smile, the doctor complimented me on knowing my own body and being proactive with the questions I ask.

That comment was ringing in my head as I almost floated with relief down the hallway to the hospital exit.

I don’t always have the right diagnosis when I search for symptoms. I have no medical qualifications. What I do have is common sense, an awareness of when something doesn’t look the way it should, or something feels new or unusual. I never meet with a doctor that I don’t have questions, and I don’t trust myself to remember all the things I want to know or the things I need to mention. I will write down symptoms and changes. I write down my questions, and I don’t leave an appointment until I have answers, sometimes even asking the doctor to write down specific words I might forget upon leaving the appointment. I might not always like the answers but I’m going to ask the questions.

The interaction at that appointment lasted approximately 10 minutes but in that brief time I was able to assess the doctor’s bedside manner, her thoroughness, her confident ability to assess and diagnose, and her ability to laugh. Most importantly she took the time to listen to me, she looked me in the eye, and she saw me as a person, not just a woman sitting on a bed, holding a blue gown clutched together with one hand.

(*Fat necrosis in this case caused by surgeries to the breast, plus radiation treatment. Damaged tissue that due to trauma had become inflamed and an infection presented.)

Waiting

I have never been a fan of Tom Petty’s music, not for any specific reason. That’s not true - it is his voice. I’m particular (some would say fussy, annoyingly so – and they do say) about voices. Bob Dylan springs to mind at once. Neil Young. Carly Simon. Stevie Nicks. Robert Plant. Tom Petty. And while I might not have an ear tuned to their frequency, I won’t deny that some of these artists are poets and their song lyrics are often deeply meaningful.

Take for instance “The Waiting” by Tom Petty. These last few days the chorus of that song has been running through my brain like a viral ear worm. I never really listen to this song because as soon as it is next in the queue on the car radio, I switch to another channel. Despite my pushing it away, over the years, that specific chorus has infiltrated my listening ears.

“The waiting is the hardest part

Every day you see one more card

You take it on faith, you take it to the heart

The waiting is the hardest part” ~ Tom Petty

I wondered what he was thinking when he wrote that song. I know what it means to me today, and for the last few weeks. What it has often represented to me at times of needing to wait for something. Not a gift or a birthday or a celebratory holiday – the waiting for news, good or bad. The waiting to find out “what next”.

I’m off tomorrow to have a mammogram – the second in almost three months. The first was fine, no evidence of disease. And then in late February something changed. It was an infection that was treated, however, my doctor, thorough as she is (and I’m grateful for that) wanted to know “why” this happened. As did I. An ultrasound showed inflammation that was considered “undetermined” and a recommendation for a mammogram for further information. I have no problem with that – I would rather know exactly what is happening.

I’m sanguine about all this. Or trying to be. I want answers and if there is further testing to be done after this mammogram, so be it. I’ve been down this road before although after twenty years, the terrain has changed and there have been a great many improvements and advancements. That’s good news. I hold on to that.

I’m an optimist and I always look for the silver lining. I am also a realist. I put my trust in professionals and experts, and I tackle obstacles head on.

But it’s the damn waiting. Waiting for tests. Waiting for results. Waiting to know if this is a situation of waiting for the other shoe to drop. The waiting to get on with the other things in my life that are “waiting” for me to deal with. That feeling of being stopped in your tracks. A reminder that you cannot pass “go”. The longest red light as you wait for it to turn green.

I’ve filled the time (almost 4 weeks) with other thoughts and other activities. Keeping my mind occupied with laughter and happy moments. I’ve been seeking glimmers of joy and sharing those moments with others. I’ve continued with my regular routines and taken moments to do something spontaneous to be “in the moment”. Other things have been set aside until I know what comes next.

Waiting IS the hardest part of this. I’m taking it on faith that whatever card is played to me tomorrow morning I will at least have peace of mind because the wait is over.

Showing Up

Yesterday as I was having my morning coffee I thought about the things that you don’t see coming. It might be unpleasant or unhappy news, conversely it could be something exciting or pleasant. And then shortly afterwards I received a telephone call that I didn’t see coming.

The call was a reminder of an upcoming medical appointment – that was something I could foresee. It was the added wording of the message that threw me for a loop. Language that anyone who has had cancer doesn’t want to hear. Language that anyone going through the labyrinth of medical appointments, hospitals, tests and terminology doesn’t want to hear. At the mention that after this procedure and that exam “there would be no biopsy done that day.” I froze. I’d had no idea that a biopsy was even being considered at this stage. Was this helpful voice on the other end of the phone just outlining the usual procedure that would be followed? We chatted a little more and while the woman might have thought she’d put my mind at ease, I expect she disconnected wondering if she had compounded the thoughts that had already been swirling within me for the past month. The following few hours were spent running every possibility through my mind. If a biopsy should be thought necessary for further clarification I absolutely want to have that done. There is no question about that. I just hadn’t given it due consideration.

What that phone conversation did was remove the comforting bubble wrap I’d swaddled myself in – the self-protection that allowed me to believe that whatever it is my body is doing that it ought not to be doing and certainly doing without my permission though with my participation. It forced me to seriously address the fact that this is something more serious than I had hoped.

I have no way of knowing what is happening until I see a specialist who can read diagnostics and decide what has caused this latest anomaly. No amount of worry, stress or overthinking - no matter how natural response that is - will change or affect the outcome.

I read this meme on Instagram last night and saved it so I would remember the wisdom.

That overthinking, over analyzing, that worry serves only one purpose – it steals peace of mind. It allows no room for joy, or laughter. It takes up precious time that could be spent with loved ones or pursuing hobbies that offer pleasurable moments. It replaces gratitude with fear and anger.

As I went out this morning to mail parcels for Easter to loved ones far away, I saw a robin sitting on the car. It then flew to the iron shepherds crook that sits in the garden, the one that holds a very old, weathered birdhouse. Every spring I watch a chickadee family assume residence and I wonder if this robin has decided it’s the ideal spot to raise a new family. The house is small and the hole is tiny.  Ideal for a chickadee. A robin not so much. As I watch, I think to myself “you’ll never fit in there.” And yet. Do I know for a fact that this is not possible?

As I’m writing this, the robin is still flying about, pensively watching every time it lands – on the roof of the car, up in the tree under which sits that birdhouse. Back to the top of that shepherds crook as if staking a claim to tenancy. It isn’t overthinking the probability of making it work. It isn’t second guessing the decision it seems to have made. There is no time, there is “now” and getting a nest ready for nature to take its course.

Robins build their nests outdoors. They are “not cavity nesters” according to Emily Hannemann of the Birds and Blooms website which leads me to wonder why this bird has spent so much time hanging about this birdhouse and in fact, this house today.

Thehumblehare.co.uk had this to say:

For many of us, the robin has come to represent a spiritual connection with loved ones who have passed away. It’s a common belief that a robin appearing nearby may be a sign that a departed soul is watching over you. This sentiment is captured in the popular saying, “When robins appear, loved ones are near.”

That robin has certainly caught my attention. No matter what the next few weeks or months hold, I’ll face it one step at a time and take my cues from that robin whether it’s building a future or its presence is a reminder that though I can’t see it, I still have that bubble wrap around me. I can let go of whatever is out of my control. And I’ll still show up. Every day in every way. There’s comfort in that.

When The Ancestors Speak

22nd of March. I wandered around for about an hour yesterday with the date running through my mind, trying to figure out why it felt so significant and then it came to me like a download from stored knowledge. It is the anniversary of my maternal grandmother’s death. A woman I did not know who died 3 years before I was born, but someone whose spirit has guided me and has often given me a little shove to keep moving.

As the historian of my branch of the family and one of two genealogists in the clan, I know more about this woman from photographs and my ancestral research than I would have known had she and I spent time together. But those are just facts. I have no way of knowing what she thought about her childhood in Scotland, about her mother, her siblings, her life. I don’t know what my grandmother’s voice was like, or if her Aberdeenshire accent faded with the greatest part of her life spent in Canada. I don’t know how she took her tea or what scent she might have worn. I know she was a basic cook having heard my mother often complain about how bland and unappetizing meals at their table were. I’d laugh when she’d say that because my mother was no culinary expert herself, but to her credit she never served us boiled marrow or overcooked celery, two of my grandmother’s specialties. I know certain Gaelic words and expressions she would use because my mother used them and I in turn use them as well. Superstitions? I know them all by heart.

My grandmother passed away in her early sixties from metastasized breast cancer to the liver. That was part of the family lore my sister and I knew and felt deeply.

When diagnosed with my own breast cancer and asked the question – “is there a history of breast cancer in the family?” I was told by all the doctors who were part of my team that my maternal grandmother was not a direct enough link to connect this as “family history.”  There is no way to know if my mother or my sister would have developed the disease as both died at early ages. I was then and am still convinced that there is a connection.

There was a point during my treatment when I was tired. Weary. Exhausted. Physically, the toll of chemotherapy and radiation is wearing. Weeks and weeks of hospital visits, first for surgeries, then being poked, prodded and examined. Bloodwork every time you have chemo to be sure your white cell count is high enough (I was blessed to pass “go” each treatment). The hours of sitting in the chair while the toxic cocktail of hope drips into the veins, too tired to read because of the Benadryl you are given to prevent any allergic reaction. The brief session of laying on that “table” being “zapped” with radiation and the damage to the skin. Thirty times for that. Then there is the emotional toll. That was ongoing, long after treatment ended. All this weighing on you, body, and soul, while trying to remain upbeat, chatty, and positive because other people are depending on you. While you are relying on yourself – your inner strength and resolve and the courage to keep going. I never wanted to give up or cry out, “I can’t do this, this is too much,” but there came a time when I reached my lowest moment.

That night I had a dream. My grandmother had a message for me. In the dream, I was on my stomach, on the floor – symbolizing that exhaustion. It was an old, time worn wooden plank floor in a cabin. I knew that old cabin – it was one that my grandparents owned when they had cabins/cottages that they rented out to summer vacationers in the Haliburton area of Ontario. I spent a few summers there with my grandfather when I was a child before he sold the property.

There was a hole in the floor with jagged edges of splintered wood as if a boulder had crashed through, or a sledgehammer had pushed through from below. My grandmother was standing just underneath that hole and behind her were my mother and my sister. Not a word was spoken by these three women. Suddenly, my grandmother grabbed me and began to pull me down through that hole. I could feel her cold hands and the vicelike grip she had on my ankles. Panic set in and I struggled to break free. It was a test of our strength and our wills. Just before waking I shouted at my grandmother - “you have them, but you’re not getting me, not yet. I’m not ready.” The hands released and I sat bolt upright in a cold sweat. The message? Give in or keep going. The choice was mine.

I thought about that dream again last night – a 20-year-old dream being revisited on the anniversary of my grandmother’s death. A download I needed to be reminded of as I’m waiting to find out what comes next in my most recent health journey. When the ancestors speak – even though there are no words - they are sending a message worth listening to. I cannot predict what my body is doing right now and I will not know anything more until I have facts. But I know this. I’m still here, still strong, and still ready to keep going. I thanked my grandmother for the reminder.

The Ritual of Tea

A kitchen table and sitting always in the centre, a hot pad, ready and waiting for the teapot that had just been filled to take it’s rightful place, a tea cozy to be wrapped around it to keep the heat within. That cozy might be lovingly hand knit or it might be quilted. Quite often, if quilted it was first placed upon the head of whichever child (or adult in some cases) was given the cozy to place around the pot, as a moment of laughter while pretending to be the Pope.

That scene played out on a regular basis like a ritual as I grew up. It happened in our kitchen, our neighbours’ kitchens and in the kitchens of my step-grandmother, every aunt and great aunt. It didn’t happen at “teatime” specifically, it happened whenever someone just happened to pop ‘round for a chat or a natter and perhaps a bit of gossip to be dished over.  It was the scheduled visit to an older relative. There was never any question asked, “would you like a cup of tea?” – it was a given. Upon arrival, the kettle was filled, the gas lit and the tea ready to be added to the warmed pot.

 In my world it was rare to have loose tea, but older relatives preferred it. There was one great aunt who would read the leaves left in someone’s cup if they asked her nicely. I was too young to have my tea leaves read but hoped that one day, the magic would be offered to me if I asked. Alas the opportunity never presented itself. I’m still waiting. It was always tea bags that went into the pot in my home – Red Rose was the favoured brand, and my mother collected the little figurines that came with the tea as a promotional item. As children, my sister and I would pull them out of the drawer they were kept in and play imaginary games. Years later my own children would do the same when visiting their Nana and the figurines (animals and nursery rhyme characters) now sit in a drawer in my own home. Today is the first time I’ve pulled them out and really looked at them. But I digress. This is about tea, not collectibles.

I sipped my first cup of milky tea at age 2 while visiting older relatives. I don’t recall that, but photographs captured the moment. As I was growing up, I realized what valuable information could be learned as a young child with big ears, sitting quietly when being invited to sit at that table with more milk than tea in a cup. It was the initiation into the rite of drinking tea.

Sipping tea wasn’t just for a chin wag or family time sitting around the table. It was some magic elixir served at times of distress or worry. A problem presented and the first act was someone saying “we need a cup of tea.” I’m not sure that the tea itself held the solution to the problem, but it offered comfort and respite and those moments to gather oneself, to pour out not just a hot beverage but the worry or grief or in some cases shocking news.

“Making tea is a ritual that stops the world from falling in on you.” – Jonathan Stroud

Perhaps as Jonathan Stroud says, it is the ritual, the doing something so basic and every day as preparing tea, going through those motions that help to stabilize emotions and upsets. It is the hands held around a warm cup that soothes and comforts like a much needed hug. Or maybe it’s being with a trusted family member or friend who will let you sit quietly until you are ready to talk.

The tea and the drinking of it won’t solve the problem but it offers a moment or two to just “be” and not think, not worry, not have to have a ready answer.

I drink less tea these days and more coffee. But if I have a problem or a worry or a stress, it’s tea I’ll brew, not coffee. There are no longer any older relatives with whom I can sit at a table over a cozied teapot and ask for advice or answers. My friends are scattered and not living close enough to just pop ‘round for a cuppa. But I’ll still turn to tea.  Old habits? A fondly remembered past? Or maybe, just maybe there is something in tea that really does offer the promise of being able to solve everything.

The Wisdom of Logic

Here’s a bold statement: I am not a doctor. However, like countless other people, I often play one on my computer, and why wouldn’t I when there is so much information available at my fingertips. Let’s be honest, there is too much information to sift through, getting lost in illnesses and diseases that may or may not be what is happening that sent me off on a quest to “know” why my body is behaving in the way that it is.

When I was first diagnosed with breast cancer nearly 21 years ago, the first thing my surgeon said to me was “please, do us both a favour and stay off the internet.” I smiled sheepishly because we both knew I’d already been down that rabbit hole and read all of the direst outcomes, working myself into unnecessary additional stress. I was reading less about treatments and side effects than I was about my particular staging outcomes and percentages and all the other statistics that were keeping me up at night. My brain had gone into overdrive trying to find data and information that would give me the most hope.

I’ve found myself these last few weeks wearing my invisible white lab coat, fingers tired from scrolling around the internet looking for the information to figure out what my body is trying to tell me. I’ve already seen the doctor. I’ve had one test that recommended another mammogram which I’m having in a few weeks, even though I’d just had one in January that came back “clear, no evidence of disease”. And once again the brain goes into overdrive. What is this? It looks like one thing but could be another. Days later I started another search, looking at images and trying to decipher if this or that might be at play.

This morning I shared a story of a 3-year-old who without giving something much thought, took an action that made sense to him. The logic of a 3-year-old who hasn’t the experience to know if what he did would work or not. That child didn’t need to “think” it through.  He didn’t spend time overthinking his plan. He wanted something to happen, and he just “did” what made sense to him. Not only did the story make me laugh, it also made me think.

I’ve spent weeks overthinking something that may turn out to be quite simple. It may also turn out to be quite serious. Like Schrodinger’s cat it could be one or the other and until there are more tests and a definitive answer I won’t know.

Logic, which I’ve been reminded of a number of times today, tells me that my first reaction to this situation – I had a fever, chills and aches, then a swelling and inflammation – was to say, “oh I have an infection.” But within minutes I remembered “I’ve had cancer” and the brain goes where it has been before and I began a frantic search of specific types of breast cancer.

image found on Instagram

Not wasting any time, I did the sensible thing - I saw my doctor who prescribed antibiotics and further testing to be sure what we could rule out and not rule out (and I liked that she said “we”, making me part of this process and not just a bystander which many physicians have a habit of doing). The antibiotics have worked but not completely so further investigation is still called for.

Last night I started thinking about this again (hard not to). I took a step back, out of my own way and looked at this logically. I reminded myself that my first thought had been practical and straightforward. It was the reaction that was most obvious, grounded in common sense.  It was the overthinking and allowing myself to be led into the mire of medical information that I am not qualified to interpret that had me questioning myself and filling my head with doubt.

Here’s what I know today. I will get through the next few weeks by keeping myself busy with other things and I have promised myself that I’ll stay away from internet searching. I’ll have the required test that will hopefully provide answers. That’s practical and logical.

Logic tells me that I will be given news by my doctor (a real, qualified physician). Logic also tells me that whatever that news is will be dealt with expediently.

And most importantly, no more overthinking. I will continue to recall the lesson that 3-year-old taught me – just take a step back and let it go.

Solitude

When the world becomes too heavy and the load cannot be carried one step further, unplugging from the noise and chaos is the logical move to make. More than logical, it is the most sensible decision.

This morning over my coffee I was, as I always do, thinking about the day ahead. What needed my attention, what could wait and what could I do for myself that would bring me pleasure or just some moments of respite to sit in contemplation.

Contemplation in solitude. Those moments where you can tune out the news, all of which is dire, all the time. I scroll around on the internet and specifically on social media looking for humour and lightness, for messages that inspire me or make me think about something I may have only given a passing glance. Sadly, there is not as much as I would like, but that doesn’t mean I stop looking.

Our souls can only hold so much. If we are empaths who care about the world, care about others and yes, even ourselves, though all too often we put ourselves as I just did to the end of that list of caring and empathy, we can reach a burnout phase and our souls cry out for comfort, for solace and yes, for solitude.

Solitude is not loneliness. It is time taken, that unplugging from the clamour, in order to reflect, to create, to re-evaluate priorities. It is the opportunity to renew the sense of self, our personal relationships and relationships with others within the wider community.

When I need that solitude I’m drawn to water – a walk by a lake or a river. Sometimes it is enough to just stand there and listen to the sound water makes, and watch the movement of the waves or the rushing water in a river. It can be fast or slow moving – but there is life to it that requires nothing but observation and as I stand there I can feel my body relax into that movement. My shoulders drop, my jaw relaxes and my breathing becomes calmer, slower. I find myself smiling and feeling at peace.

If I’m not in nature, music and art bring me joy. Allowing myself to become lost in colour and composition, in the beat of a song, or listening to the lyrics that hold particular meaning. I buy myself a small bouquet of flowers every week or every other week as needed. They need nothing of me but water. I lose track of how often I’ll gaze at a vase of flowers. I know they are there and I spend a great deal of time photographing them so that I can enjoy the pleasure they’ve given me, even after they are spent. And then there is laughter. Never overlook the emotional healing power of laughter.

There are times when we feel the pull to retreat from the every day responsibilities and the world that keeps spinning, often in ways that feel out of control. We do so in order to remember who we are, what we are here to do, and that our time here is finite, encouraging us to focus on the things we value and hold dear – relationships over material things, living with gratitude for what we have and perhaps being grateful for what we do not have. A reminder that we benefit when we are living our lives with intention.

What might your life look like as you comfort your soul in a contemplation of solitude?

What’s In Your Cup?

I have always been a glass half full person. Even at the darkest, most difficult moments in my life, I’ve looked at the situation from the depths of despair, but I don’t loiter there. It’s foreign territory for me to hang about in sadness or worry. Like most everyone else, I do feel sad at times, and I do my share of worrying but I’m not wired to remain in that state. Eternal optimist? I suppose that applies, more than that I need to believe, and I do believe, that there is “more” and there is “something else” waiting to be discovered beyond an unexpected or unprovoked challenge.

I’ve raised two young men. One has more of my approach to life – that he can do hard things and even when hard things happen to him, and they have, after a pause and consideration, he redirects and begins marching forward. The other is a little more glass half empty in his approach to life, and while he’s faced setbacks and disappointments, he gets to a new place in his world, though not in a straight line. He moves sideways and chooses a rockier path to reach his next destination, as if he needs to view life from a higher vista in order to assess the situation clearly.

This past week this glass half full and the glass half empty were met with two different health challenges. Half full said “oh look the sun came out today.” Half empty said “it was cloudy almost all day.” Half full said “whatever this is I’m dealing with I’ll just get on with it.” Half empty said “I won’t be able to do the things I want to for a few weeks and so what’s left for me to do in the meantime?”

Half full went into mother mode and rhymed off all the things half empty had to look forward to – all the things that he could do while he waits for time to pass. Half full listed all the ways, given her own health at the moment, to put life into perspective and half empty listened, as he always does, and we finished our chat with him saying “yeah, I guess you’re right.”

And that brought me up short, because your perspective on life isn’t about being right or wrong, it’s about how you view the world around you. I thought about all the times I’ve showered rainbows and sunshine when someone is being glass half empty and that while I get annoyed and frustrated when someone is down in their cups and wanting to stay there, that same person must be equally annoyed and frustrated with my sparklers and glitter bombing approach and wish I would just leave them to it.

As much as I wish other people could see the positive and find the bit of hope, the tiny fragment of light when things look their bleakest, it isn’t for me to force that viewpoint. But seriously, what doesn’t look better with a bit of glitter and sparkle? Half empty would tell me that was great, but I was going to be the one to clean that up, not them.

I’m not going to stop seeing the world as filled with possibility. My life has had its flaws, and it is often imperfect, but I continue to appreciate the scars and cracks because they mean I’ve experienced life’s hard moments and I’m still here to be grateful for the gifts those challenges have given me. I’m not going to stop sharing those moments with others because somewhere there just might be a person who sees the world as a half empty glass, and they might realize they can add more to that cup to fill it with joy and wonder and gratitude.

An empty cup, one that has been spilled from giving too much is a different matter. That cup can with time and care be refilled, but no cup should ever be left to drain dry. That is a much harder position to be in and those with sensitive souls often find they are parched and in need of replenishment.

Here is my little nugget of wisdom for today – we have a cup. For that we can be grateful. It’s what we do with the cup that matters in how we navigate our way through life. It isn’t right. It isn’t wrong. Just be sure not to let that cup crack and run dry. If it should, and you find it hard to refill it yourself – allow someone you trust to lead you to the well.

(apologies to those who also read my articles on Substack. At the moment I continue to cross post until these two platforms can be sorted into one, or a different format.)

Lasting Legacy

The thought had been percolating at the back of my mind for some time I’d say but there I was in the very early morning, before the birds were up, posting on my (former) threads account “I’m thinking about getting a tattoo” – as if anyone in the social media universe was going to care one way or the other. It just seemed like something to say – perhaps to hold myself accountable for my “maybe I will maybe I won’t” decision.

On the whole I am not a tattoo person and have never sat myself down and said “you need to get one of those.” Inking the body is an art form – a way to express a sense of self. I don’t judge others for having them – unless they are my sons in which case I was very judgmental when they showed me their first (yes, first) tattoos. I believe my response was “I didn’t make you that way.” They of course see their bodies as blank canvases to be treated as they wish. And they’re right. I gave them the canvas, they are the ones who decide if the canvas will remain blank or be adorned and give their stamp of whatever they wish to say, whatever impression they wish to create.

Up until that early morning thought bubble over my head, I hadn’t given much consideration to the stance I had taken on body art. I didn’t care for it for myself, but “why” was the nagging question. As with many of the things I’ve liked or disliked, it was an idea seeded and grown in my box of “yes or no” - because my mother had told me tattoos were unflattering. I believe it was issued more of a warning than a position – “don’t you dare ever do” - you can fill in the blank of the things I was never to do. An ankle bracelet was one such “never”. I didn’t need to ask why that was a never because as the warning was issued, the fact that it was “unsavory” and of “poor taste” was mentioned. It showed me that wearing one of those bracelets was “the tell” about what kind of woman would do so. I remain unclear as to who nominated my mother as the arbiter of good taste.

I laughed about the ankle bracelet with a friend once and she encouraged me (dared me really) to get one and wear it. I was an adult with children by this time, not a teenager ready to defy and rebel against my mother’s dictates. My friend helped me choose one and I put it on at once after we left the store. Did I look over my shoulder? Even though my mother had passed away many years before, I still felt her disapproving eyes boring into the back of my head. Some of those seeds have very deep roots.

An ankle bracelet can be taken off, it can be relegated to a box never to be worn again, as happened with the one I bought. I never felt comfortable with it, because it just wasn’t my style. I didn’t embrace the look. A tattoo on the other hand is permanent and something you need to live with, to be comfortable with. You can’t change your mind and relegate it to a box. An ankle bracelet is a whim. A tattoo is a commitment.

When I told my younger son that I was giving this some thought he was at first shocked and we shared some laughter over me finally letting go of old beliefs. He walked me through how and where and who might do this for me, and did I know what I wanted. And there has been the roadblock. I have no clear idea what I want. I know more about what I don’t want than what I would be happy looking at every day for the rest of whatever life I have left.

I’ve played with temporary tattoos to see if it’s something that I truly believe I want. I’ve flipped between wanting something deeply meaningful, something fun and frivolous or something that will make a statement. I’ve seen making this commitment as a legacy of what my life has been about.

Here is what I know today. I do not want a tattoo, and I won’t be getting a tattoo. The idea was fun and it was something I seriously considered. It’s something I won’t regret not doing and it’s not an idea I’ll need to revisit.

At this moment I’m facing a health uncertainty that I won’t know any more about until the end of March, beginning of April. So legacy is very much on my mind.

I’ve been thinking about the things I’ve done with my life, the places I’ve been, the experiences I’ve had, the people I’ve known, the relationships I’ve nurtured, the ones I’ve lost, the ones that might yet develop. I think of the lessons I’ve learned, the ones I’ve shared, the ones I’ve taught my children. I’ve been thinking about the lessons and experiences that still await me. I’ve been thinking about how I treat people in the same way I wish to be treated. I’ve thought about the impression I leave with others by the way I’ve lived my life – through the up times and through the times of adversity and uncertainty.

Legacy is created by what you do with your life, not how you present the outer self. It is the inner qualities of what makes you “who” you are. That is the message I want to leave, and I don’t need it stamped upon my skin. It is stamped upon my heart, in my soul, in my spirit and I hope imprinted in the hearts and the minds of those I’ve loved and those who have loved me. My legacy won’t be an image or words on my skin. It will be talked about, written about and lived through the eyes of others.

(this article also appears on my Substack)

Trust

Trust is defined by the Merriam-Webster dictionary as assured reliance on the character, ability, strength, or truth of someone or something.

Is it something we grant to someone else? Is it innate? Do we learn who and what we can trust – including ourselves?

I’ve been in deep contemplation about trust over the last week. When I deviate from what I trust to be true and start to overthink, doubt creeps in and that can wreak havoc on a sense of self.

Before and after my parents’ divorce, trust was always at the front of my mind. Could I trust what I was seeing and hearing with my own eyes and ears, even when one or the other adult tried to tell me that I was wrong, or I had imagined what I had seen? Their need to have me doubt myself led to many confrontations and a need to prove that I knew the truth, that I could trust my instincts and my ability to read the room.

Not long after they divorced I read an article about an experiment to bolster trust. It’s a common practice. You stand with someone right behind you. You lean back and fall into that person – either their rigid body or their arms. My mother was less than keen. My sister wary but I was insistent that the three of us needed to do this. It was important for the three of us as a unit to show solidarity and that we could rely on one another in times of difficulty or crisis.

My mother’s trust had been badly broken, and I knew this would be a difficult but important exercise for her to undertake. My sister had issues with our mother that I wasn’t fully apprised of at the time but was aware they existed. I knew I needed to be able to trust both. As this had been my suggestion I went first. I knew my sister would catch me. And she did. Sadly, I was a little less certain of my mother, the one that I should have without a second thought believed would catch me. But she did. I caught each of them and neither wavered in letting go to me. As I expected, my sister hesitated in allowing herself to believe our mother would catch her and mother’s instinct being what it is, she caught her. There was no hesitation with me – my sister almost flipped herself backwards at me. We had always been a tight twosome, a team that united in a shared support system of love and protection. That exercise was the birth of me using the expression “I’ve got you.”

I am once again at a crossroads in my life, needing to put my trust in people I do not know intimately, who are not part of my inner circle. They are professionals, others who are experts in their fields and those with knowledge that I do not have. It’s a point where I need to trust myself – my instincts and to be able to put my faith in those individuals. Not blindly, but with hope and with faith.

You can’t see trust. You can feel it, sense it and believe it, that unseen unknown. I’m carrying it with me these days like a talisman. Trusting others and more importantly, trusting myself.

Robin’s Egg Blue

I’m not very good at waiting. The need to know, the drive to gather information and have a plan, and get it executed is something I struggle with.

Cancer tries the patience of everyone and any delay or wait – be that around diagnosis or getting treatment started can feel endlessly excruciating. I find myself back in the waiting chair, where just months ago I thought I had cleanly escaped the threat of cancer for at least another year. Two months later I’m back at the crossroads of “what is this?” and “what will happen if it’s cancer?”

Having danced with cancer once you know that you are never free from the shadow of it hanging over your head. It hovers in the background of your life. The further you move away from it the easier it is to turn your thoughts away from the threat but you always know it’s like an old coat that no longer fits – it hangs at the back the closet ready for you when it decides it’s time to be brought back out.

Last Wednesday I began to feel unwell – shakes, chills, fever, headache – all the signs of a flu. Thursday morning, still feeling unwell, as I was getting dressed I noticed unusual redness on the breast where I’d had cancer just shy of 21 years ago. My immediate reaction was that the redness and swelling was infection, explaining the symptoms I’d been experiencing the last twelve hours or so. And then of course the brain goes to where it always does once you’ve worn that “small c” – could this be a return of the cancer?

Breast cancer has many faces, many types. They do not all present with a lump. Inflammatory Breast Cancer is one that does not hide like the others can with lumps you cannot see, might not be able to feel and many are only detected by mammogram or ultrasound. Inflammatory Breast Cancer announces itself, quickly, suddenly and aggressively. Whatever was happening with my body, it needed to be seen by a professional as soon as possible.

A 10 day course of antibiotic was begun on Thursday to rule out (or in) infection. But no stone left unturned, an ultrasound was decided upon (by my physician and myself) to see what was happening under the skin.

There has been improvement – the antibiotics seem to be doing what they are meant to – redness fading, swelling gone and yet that’s not a definitive answer because if this is infection – where has it come from and if something like an abscess it will need to be drained. An ultrasound yesterday showed some unexplained inflammation and now we move to the next stage, a repeat of the mammogram I had two months ago that showed nothing untoward. And I wait. Earliest appointment for that is the end of the month.

I won’t sugarcoat this and say I’m sanguine about it. There is still uncertainty and a mild level of fear due to the unknown. The what if. The what next. It is easy to get ahead of yourself when you want answers and a plan. But it gets you nowhere but stress, anxiety and headaches.

I learned so much about cancer when we first took to the dance floor. I learned about how to cope and to get through each day until the next step, the next test, the next diagnostic discovery. You write down dates and you hold them up as beacons to wellness, recovery and hope.

I live with hope, always. I find ways to keep busy. The day before my surgery to remove the lump in my breast (it was not inflammatory breast cancer, that one was hiding inside a duct) I decided I would paint my bedroom. I chose a shade of robin’s egg blue. A colour of hope and joy. I knew that when I was at home recovering I would want to gaze at something soft and serene. With thoughts of renewal and joy. Of hope and possibility. I spent the day exhausting myself completing that project not worrying about being tired because I knew I’d spend much of the next day sleeping during and after surgery. It was such a treat to recover in that room surrounded by a hopeful aura, and it went a long way to my emotional recovery as well.

I haven’t decided that anything needs painting at the moment, but I am keeping busy and occupied and doing whatever I can to be living “outside of my head” where nothing good can happen when you twist yourself in knots of worry and doubt.

I’ve done this dance before. It’s a tango with a partner that will step on your toes and bend you backwards in violent dips. It likes to lead. Should this infection turn out to be more serious and take me back to that dance floor?  I know the choreography and I’m further ahead this time than last. I know what this particular partner is like and will expect it’s moves. I know how to follow but more importantly, I’ve learned that I’m ready to lead.

Complacency Leaves No Room for Gratitude

I shared this on my Substack blog but wanted to share it here as well for those who do not follow me on Substack.


Life all too often carries us forward quickly, at a pace we often find hard to keep up with, but we do. It’s as if we switch into autopilot and the momentum to keep up propels us forward. That often comes with a cost. Stress, anxiety, burnout. The body reaches a point where it says “that’s enough thank you” and gives us signs and indications that it wants rest. It wants to take a breather and find that calmer, more balanced approach to life.

Being on that merry-go-round also brings with it the feeling of seeing the world in blur – we move so quickly that we can’t focus on the things around us. We forget to look, to really see. To pay attention to the people around us, the beauty around us and lighter moments that bring us joy or make us laugh.

Complacency has been taking up space in my life for a few months. I had some good news back in January and allowed myself to believe that life is in balance, that I am invincible and I began to take my health for granted. It’s easily done. Until I was brought up short on Wednesday night and Thursday morning. What I began to think of as something simple has the potential in fact to be something more serious. I’ve entered that waiting room of “what is this”; what might I be facing, what next steps might need to be taken and in general, getting way out over my skis in the realms of “what if”. The thing is, when you have faced serious illness or disease at any point in your life, you know the drill. Your logic says “this is simply x, y or z” but your “knowing I’ve seen the worst” brain at once goes to “what if”.

And I’ve been reminded this afternoon that negative “what if” is a waste of precious time. What if I paid attention to the fact that the sun came out after days of cloud cover? What if I remember the smile on the waitress’s face as we laughed about something on the menu? What if I chose the perfect colour pot for my fake fern? What if I laughed because even a fake fern deserves to look as good as possible? What if I chose the sunniest, brightest bouquet of fresh flowers to put on my desk? What if I remember that one hour overseas telephone conversation with my best friend where we laughed and finished each other’s sentences? What if I just took those moments to be grateful for what I have, what I see and what I feel?

Life is going to unfold the way it will. There are some situations that you might have a hand in creating. There are others that are out of your hands and in those, you find the strength and courage to face them head on. And while there might be a wait for knowing exactly what you’re dealing with, that time can be filled with beauty and laughter and a reminder to not take what you do have for granted.

Hello, My Name Is

Been thinking about playfulness and free time to just return to small joys. This morning, I was pondering improvisation over my coffee. I poured it into a mug that has “tea” printed on the front. It was the first one I grabbed and thought, why not. Made me feel a bit of a rebel to not stay stuck in the rut of routine.

I have periods and moments of that type of frivolous joy, doing things that on the surface seem silly or pointless and yet, underneath that seemingly odd behaviour lies the kinds of things that motivate me.

Many years ago, my mother and a few of her maternal cousins, sitting over a meal and no doubt a few glasses of wine, decided that it was long past time for a family reunion (likely because we’d never had one). These cousins from the Scottish side of the family were all many years older than my mother who was the baby of the family. Each cousin there that night was given the task of informing siblings, children and grandchildren about this momentous occasion. My mother was either given the job of coordinating the entire thing (because she was the youngest) or she volunteered. They even named it after the branches of the family that stood for the four Scottish sisters. That mouthful appeared at the top of the invitations that were printed.  

Family came from places afar – Alberta and Windsor - but most of us lived locally. I knew the senior generation having spent many years going with my mother to bridal showers, weddings, baby showers and funerals. My cousins from Windsor knew no one but our little family. They weren’t the only ones who were unfamiliar with their very large extended family.

To make things easier for all those attending my mother had us all fill out and wear those “Hello My Name Is” badges and we were also to wear another one that signified which of those 4 sisters we were related to.

I decided I’d have a little fun and on my “Hello” badge I printed the name of a well known tv actress.  My sister thought it was hilarious, so she followed suit. Our mother was less than impressed (not unusual) but she was far too busy overseeing all that needed to be done to spend much time worrying or chastising us about it. And then it started. I approached people who read my name tag and then did a double take and laughed. I then introduced myself properly and did this as many times as possible. When my mother saw the laughter and the ease with which people began to mingle and communicate (this before we got into the dancing and the Gay Gordons) she visibly relaxed, shook her head and later took me aside to ask “why?”

It was an ice breaker. Take a room filled with people, most of whom only spent family time with their immediate family or first cousins and watch them all stay together in small groups. No one wants to make that first move or call attention to themselves. Enter me. I don’t mind doing breaking the ice in sometimes subtle ways and in this case it helped to set the mood for the evening to come.

I was less than impressed with myself when at the end of the evening it was decided that the party had been such a success, we would do it again the following year – with me the one nominated to organize it. I improvised that too.

Grace

There is a split second when you know without a shadow of a doubt, that the glass or plate you’re trying to replace in the cupboard just isn’t going to make it. The brain has registered what the hand is unable to maneuver, as if it can see the play by play but you continue to try and make that connection, even as the fingers release and the object makes its downward spiral, fracturing into a mosaic on the floor at your feet.

The first reaction is to freeze so you don’t step in anything whether you have something on your feet or not. Or it might be to release a cascade of muttering and oaths about how you’re responsible for such a mess.  You might do both.  And then very gingerly you begin the task of picking up first those shards that are big enough so you can avoid the sharp edges, then find a broom and a dust pan to sweep up the remains.  A vacuum manages to get the tiniest bits that the eye can’t see and you might even give it a wipe with a wet cloth.

The other night as I was replacing a wine glass in the rack, I could feel it going. I surrendered and waited to hear that definitive crack as it landed in pieces. And then began the cleanup. But first there was a string of negative self-reproach about being careless, about needing to take more care, about being so clumsy and now look at this mess I had to clean up.

As I set about the process of cleaning up, at the point where I was using a wet cloth to wipe that area of the floor where I could see the smallest bits of glass had sprayed, I picked up one of those specs and it embedded itself under the skin on the pad of my finger. I didn’t notice it immediately, it was only later when I was using that finger and I could feel the deep pain of it. I couldn’t see the glass until I put my hand under a lamp and then began the process of working it out.

As I was plying the tweezers I paused for a moment and thought about all those negative accusations I’d spoken to myself and realized that those words, those thoughts had been embedded in my subconscious. All the times as a child that something broke – an accident that happened when I was helping to dry the dishes or I was putting something away but had miscalculated the space and distance and the words that would be uttered to me before being told to “stand still” or “go into the other room” -- I was careless. I was such a klutz. I needed to pay more attention. I had just wasted whatever the object was. Somewhere in the middle of that recitation of my shortcomings, I would be asked if I was hurt. The question was about whether or not I was physically hurt from the broken glass or plate. No one ever questioned or talked about wounds of a different kind.

Those negative, hurtful words we say to ourselves when something goes wrong, be it an accident or a decision that wasn’t in our best interest, they’ve come from someone else. They’ve been spoken to us as if they define us and are often absorbed and embedded where they live and breathe in our subconscious. Just as we use tweezers to remove an unseen spec of glass, we can also pluck those too often remembered negative words out from under our skin as well. We feel a sense of relief when we’ve removed a foreign object from our body. We can feel that same sense of relief when we remove negative self-talk from our minds that has taken up too much space and we’ve carried far too long.

We need to give ourselves grace.

A Fond Remembrance

At a time when I was just on the cusp of being able to get away with the pretense that I still believed a man in a red suit with a white beard was going to land a semi-herd of reindeer on the roof of our house, then slide down a non-existent chimney (we had a faux fireplace with “lumps” of amber glass standing in for the real thing) I had duly written my letter (and one for my younger sister) to the man, asking, because I had been so good, for a doll that was on the oh so popular list of “must have” toys that year.

When the doll was not under the tree on Christmas morning, I was to say the least disappointed. However, I was old enough to know that it was my parents who were responsible for whatever managed to find it’s way to our house with our names on the treasures. My mother, also disappointed at not being able to fulfill that wish, took me aside and quietly, so as not to spoil the magic for my sister, explained what had happened. As occurred in many households and still does to this day, by the time my father had been paid and my mother had saved enough money for the extras for Christmas, she was unable to find the doll at any store she checked. Sold old met her at every stop.  I had a number of other gifts to appreciate and enjoy that morning, and before long that doll was simply a memory.

About a month after Christmas, as we came in from groceries, my mother and our next-door neighbour Mrs. B., who was just going out, were standing on the porch discussing the holidays. My mother was lamenting the inability to find the one gift that I had set my heart on. As they were talking, we noticed one of the girls across the street playing on her lawn with that very doll. An arm had been torn off and as she made her way back indoors, she threw the doll in the snow, discarded and forgotten as if it was no longer of any interest. My instinct was to go over, pick it up and take it to her door. My mother said we would just let it be, but I could see that she was upset. The way of the world she explained. Sometimes people don’t appreciate what they have. I wanted the poor doll to be whole again.  My mother and our neighbour continued to speak in hushed tones, and I left them to it, eyeing that doll face down and cold in the snow.

A few days later my mother asked me if I would go next door as Mrs. B. had asked me to stop in. No idea why but I went in and sat in the living room while we chatted over cookies and hot chocolate about things that an 8-year-old might enjoy. And then this lovely woman handed me a box. Inside that box was “the doll”. She had been given one of these toys as a promotional gift through her office and as her only child at that time was a boy of two, she wanted me, with my mother’s permission, to have the doll.  I was speechless and then tearful and ever so grateful for her generosity and her kindness.  That family moved soon afterwards, and I only saw them once more as happens as circumstances change when we visited their new home a few blocks away.

I haven’t thought of this woman or that doll for years - until this morning when reading the newspaper, I came across her obituary. I learned that she had led a full life, with three children and grandchildren and time spent doing the many things that rounded out her life. I imagined her as a mother and grandmother and her giving nature and once more that eight year old girl said “thank you Mrs. B., I’ve never forgotten how you made me feel.”

Generosity is a gift for the giver and the person who receives, and the obligation I believe, once you have been the beneficiary, is to pay it forward. I wish I had been able to tell Mrs. B. how many times the gift of that doll and her generosity to me has been paid forward.

Maya Angelou said it best:

“I've learned that people will forget what you said, people will forget what you did, but people will never forget how you made them feel.”

Pick A Seat

Awake through the middle of the night, my mind was flipping back and forth as I tried to reach a decision. It wasn’t a decision that needed to be made at that moment but my brain was telling me otherwise.  It came down to “you’re in or you’re out – choose” and of course I didn’t and I’m still wrestling with the decision. And then my brain, at whatever dark hour of the night it was, took me back to being about four years old and how even then I had difficulty making decisions. Wanting to make the “right” one and testing out all the options.

Every August from mid-month to Labour Day, the Canadian National Exhibition runs in Toronto. It was always a treat to spend a day down at “the Ex”. My sister and I would think about and plan for that day from the last day of school where, tucked in with the report card was a free admission ticket.  My mother packed us a lunch and after spending much of the morning wandering through the buildings she liked – Better Living and Horticulture specifically, she would buy a “cone” of Honeydew drink with 3 cups, and we’d find a shady spot to sit. My sister and I, impatient for going on the rides, could barely sit long enough to eat before we were begging to keep moving. We still had the Food Building to do but that came at the end of the day as we were heading back to catch the streetcar home.

The Food Building with all that food to sample (our wise mother feeding us before we went in to not be tempted to ask for everything we saw). Margaret’s Donuts were a favourite, and we would head home with boxes of Dubble Bubble gum and a bag of Neilson chocolate bars. Outside along the midway you’d find yourself asking for candy floss – that delicately spun sugar that came in either pink or blue and stuck to everything because once you tried it with your mouth, it was all over your face and if you had longer hair, it gummed itself in there too.  So, you’d switch to your fingers which as sticky as they became you wiped off on your special dress – because going to the Ex meant getting dressed up in those days. Maybe you had a bag of the Tiny Tom donuts – but here came a decision – did you want plain, icing sugar or cinnamon sugar coating.  Easier to have one or two of each.

We were allowed only so many rides and had to choose wisely as there were so many to choose from, but as a four year old, the year we went without my sister who was too young to attend I had my first real encounter with indecision.

There was a ride that, like a merry-go-round, had a few boats, a few cars, a motorcycle and a bus. I had my eye on the bus. I have no idea why – the mind of a four year old – but that was my goal – to get on that bus. And I did. The problem came when I had to decide which seat to take. I spent that entire ride sitting in every possible seat. I started as the driver. Then I sat on the left side, then switched to the right side and finally sat right at the back. It was like a game of musical chairs with me the only player. When I got off my mother shook her head and asked me what on earth I was doing and why I hadn’t just sat still and enjoyed the ride. I had no answer, but when she pointed out that I’d pretty much missed the joy of the ride I was crushed. Had my inability to pick a seat caused me to miss out on the fun?

The next summer, once again, without my sister, I wanted that ride and to sit in the bus, in one seat. To just enjoy the ride from whatever vantage point I’d chosen. And there I was this time starting at the back, moved from one side to the other and ended up in the driver’s seat. That year it was more about playing beat the clock – I was determined to spend some time in each seat before the ride ended. Once again, my mother just gave me a look of puzzlement. But that time I didn’t feel I’d been cheated because I went in knowing what I was going to do.

The year I was six, we did have my sister with us, but she was at that point not terribly interested in the rides. As I waited my turn to sit myself down on that bus, a boy got in there with me. I was so affronted and forced to sit in only one of the 3 seats remaining. He had taken the driver’s seat, so I sat on the side, looking dejectedly out at my mother as I passed by on the turning wheel.  He stayed in his seat the entire ride. Why not, he was driving.

I never rode that bus again. Not out of disappointment, I had outgrown the ride. Looking back now as the adult I am, I think it was less about not being able to decide about where to sit as it was about having too many choices and about perspective. I could be the driver who was in control or I could be a passenger seeing things from a different angle. If I was at the back of the bus, I could see all around me. If I chose a seat on the left or the right, I would be looking out a window that faced only one way.

Maybe that decision I was trying to make in the darkness of the early hours is about perspective as well. Not about what I might lose as much as what would I have to gain.

No Laughing Matter

I’ve been writing over the last two days using humour. Mostly laughing at myself and situations I’ve found myself in, the lighter moments and foibles of a life. That prompted someone to ask me how I can laugh, how I can find humour in life when the world is in a such a perilous state. How indeed.

I didn’t always know how to use humour and laughter as coping mechanisms. I learned that from going through hard, difficult experiences and realizing that there are things I can control and there are things that are out of my control. I learned to choose what I can control and let go of what I cannot.

I’ve had to give too many eulogies and in crafting the words I needed to say to express sorrow, to express empathy and to remember who the person was that I was honouring, as I’d start making notes of things I wanted to be sure to include, memories that I had shared with that person would rise to the surface. Memories where we laughed uncontrollably, where this unique individual found slap stick and pies in the face uproariously funny or the escapades another would get into with her driving made me realize that these stories made up as much of the personality as the good works they did or the way they made the best ham sandwich. Speaking the stories to those in attendance I could see them relax. Their respectful laughter at these tales, and nods of the heads showed me – we want to feel that release when we are stressed or in the depths of grief. As if we need permission to enjoy those lighter moments at a solemn occasion. Afterwards I’d be met by fellow mourners who told me about funny moments they had shared with the deceased.

The biggest realization arrived for me when I was undergoing two years of treatment for cancer. The entire situation was out of my control. My body had done something I couldn’t see or prepare for. From the moment I had the mammogram that shook my world, I was placed on a conveyor belt of appointments, tests, biopsies, surgeries, chemotherapy, radiation and a “wonder drug” that I give thanks for every day. I put my life in the hands of experienced, educated professionals. I had to trust that they knew exactly what they were doing for me, the hamster on their wheel. But I was not passive. I asked copious questions, I watched and listened and learned. I put my faith in everything I could not see be that angels, or spirits or guides or whatever creator might be watching out over me.

And then, while all of this was taking place, I remembered to get on with living my life. I had two children to walk through all of this and adhering to a schedule that we’d been keeping to before our world tilted was the most important thing that I could do - for them and for myself. I saw them off to school and drove them to their extra-curricular activities. I fed us all, and even when the food tasted of nothing to me – I still made the foods they loved. We took trips, mostly for sports tournaments but we made sure to vacation. My children were old enough to understand the situation and the risks, but they also knew that we could get into arguments, settle a dispute, be held accountable for homework or a missed deadline, and find funny films to watch.

I bought all of us those fake glasses with bushy eyebrows and big noses. On the tough days, and there were some very deeply dark days, we’d throw those on, put on funny voices and the boys would each take a turn wearing my wig. They looked adorable. And they’d be on the floor in hysterics. Laughter releases endorphins – a natural mood elevator. It didn’t make the worry, the sadness or the stress disappear. It gave us all some moments of respite from the unknown that stretched before us.

I made this comment yesterday. We are like sponges. We read, we hear and we absorb the news that happens around us, whether that’s in the media, on social media or from a conversation with a relative or friend who is going through a difficult time in their life. If we have empathy, we absorb it even more deeply. But we reach a saturation point where not one more drop of hard news, of caring, concern or worry can be taken on board. And that’s when the release is important. The ability to find something humorous to laugh about. It’s like wringing out the sponge so that it has the capacity to absorb once more.

Nothing about what is happening in the world right now is funny. It’s sad, dangerous, frightening, enraging and unpredictable. I am in no position to make any change to the outcomes, and I have no control over what has happened or might happen next. I can speak out and empathize.  And I can find ways to alleviate the stress, allowing me to keep my hope and optimism intact.

Daily life carries on even in the most difficult times. Finding balance by being outside in nature, exercising, being creative, and yes, even laughing – any or all of those activities is imperative to weathering any storm.

card given to my son on his last birthday

Intentional Roadblocks

I don’t love visiting the doctor for any reason but follow up appointments are usually just one more thing on the things to do list. And needs must. I’d rather have something checked out rather than sit and worry myself over all the dire diagnoses I’ve scrolled through on the internet.

Last Monday was a “follow up” on my blood pressure and a renewal of the prescription I don’t enjoy taking – but I’m grateful for it, nevertheless. That visit is never something I’m keen to do but my prior blood pressure test was pretty good - a marked improvement so I had especially high hopes as I set off to see my appointment.

Thinking I had plenty of time to make the drive, arrive early and sit quietly before I met “the pump”, I was soon disabused of that notion. Forgetting what midday traffic is like heading into the city I was met with slow traffic as 2 lanes of traffic were narrowed to one (there are 3 lanes but the right lane is designated for buses and bicycles) due to snow melting machines on the road, cleaning up from the recent heavy snowfall we’d endured. Once past that, I thought it would be smooth sailing but not to be. I managed to somehow hit every red light. What started as a slow seethe soon turned to red hot rage as I cursed every traffic light while the car came to a stop. From mild oaths to full profanity, I could feel my blood pressure rising. With every brake, I’d look at the clock on the radio and start a mantra of “I’m going to be late” and sure enough by the time I arrived at the building it was 5 minutes past my appointment.

When I entered the building there was one receptionist instead of the usual three and that one was on the telephone. There was another woman waiting in front of me and one who came in behind me who did me no favours as standing almost on top of me in the crowded space, she kept saying loudly, “I have an appointment and I’m late. Why am I waiting here?” By this point I didn’t need a blood pressure cuff to tell me that reading was going to be off the charts.

Once upstairs at the office, the receptionist there said to me “we’ve been waiting” – yes, I know and said she’d take me straight to the consulting room. Great. I barely had time to take my coat off before the doctor walked in and hooked me up. No chance to catch my breath, no moment to locate something other than a poster for how to cover your mouth if you cough or sneeze to focus on to help me find some moment of Zen – just straight to the let’s cut off the circulation in your arm.

When the doctor sat down and showed me that my blood pressure was elevated – colour me surprised – I asked if the stress I’d been feeling for the last 30 minutes might have contributed to that she replied “well there’s only one way we’ll know that.”  No, she didn’t offer to take it again, she suggested I invest in a home blood pressure machine and see what the readings are for a few weeks and then she’d see me again.

Hypertension has played a starring role on both sides of my family so genetics would indicate that I might be a candidate for that myself.  Knowing this, I thought it might be a good idea to get one just to know where I stand with this issue. Dutifully purchased, the thing has sat on my desk for a week. I look at it and think tomorrow will be a good day to start. Also, the next day and the one after that.  Obviously, I am not really keen to find out what numbers might await me.

I’ve argued with this thing for days. I’ve had a hard time getting the cuff on correctly. How hard is it to wrap something around your arm? Apparently, I need an advanced degree. I give up so easily when it isn’t on “just right” and tell myself the struggle will only affect the reading. I was complaining about this to my oldest friend who has also used one (and told me not to be discouraged because it will never give me the same reading twice - helpful). She assured me that “once you’ve beaten that thing into submission, you’ll see how easy it is.”  I did manage to get it on one afternoon and as the cuff began to close around my upper arm I felt rather pleased with myself until the reading showed my blood pressure at 250 and then began to flash “error” – I should hope so!

I watched videos on how to do this. It looks so easy and I thought a child could probably do this. And off I’d go. To no avail. I knew it was me setting up roadblocks. I have no real desire to do this and any excuse will do. It snowed the other day – that will put my blood pressure up. I have to shovel – that’s definitely not going to help. This particular day ends in a “y”. Any excuse.

Finally, I decided to ask for help. I called a friend who I know has used one of these. He also told me it was a waste of time, although in his case, his doctor said he had high blood pressure and the readings he took at home showed that was not the case. Off I went today to see him, cuff in hand. He agreed it was a bit complicated (so kind of him) – different than the one he had but as I stood there, he wrapped it around my arm to the right tension, and I slowly slipped it off – just as it was. It’s sitting here now, on the desk, beside the machine. Waiting for me tomorrow morning. Wonder what excuse I’ll come up with then? This machine and I are not going to be friends. Passing acquaintances is fine with me.

Moral of this story. Just because you think you should be able to do something, even something simple, doesn’t always mean you can. Asking for help isn’t a sign of weakness, it’s a sign that you can save yourself a great deal of time and stress by meeting the problem head on. Recognizing that you are creating intentional roadblocks is half the battle.