What does life look like in my future?

Do you remember the “Freedom 55” commercials for London Life a few years back? The guy was suddenly able to meet himself in the future. I have been thinking about this spot lately as I am turning 55 this June. Time to make some choices.

(Interesting side note about that commercial: I worked on the London Life account and Freedom 55 didn’t actually exist. It was just a concept title to get people interested. There was no there, there whatsoever.)

Now I am building a new home, that will be the last home I ever live in. Thus, it is imperative that I create a place where I can live happily at 55, 65, 75 and beyond. How do I want to spend my last few years? Will I be healthy and able? Our new home is being built for very active people, with hiking trails, tennis courts and a big gym. Yet we are making it a bungalow because we are going to be too old to go up stairs!

This is a First World problem, no doubt. But it involves making major decisions based on imagining how your life will play out, ten or twenty years from now – choosing, or at least imagining how every aspect of your life will look, well before your are actually living it. And some of these choices are huge. You know the expression “well it’s not cast in stone.” In this case, it actually is. It’s a matter of making choices based on your best guest for the you in the future. (This is exacerbated by the fact that I have no spacial ability whatsoever. The architectural drawings were useless to me. Even when we got underway – does this look like a house to you?) Looking at every aspect of your life, staring from the great broad strokes – where do you want to live? How will you be spending your time? What will matter to you? A good hospital nearby? Friends? Where will your children and potential grandchildren live? This is coupled with the most minute details of your day to day – no moment by moment existence. How will everything in your future you’s life look and function? Where do I want to sit and watch t.v.? Is there enough to light to read with my fading eyesight?

I damn near made a big mistake when picking out the new bathtub. I choose a super deep, high sided tub and pronounced it perfect. My husband, however, pointed out that I will be hoisting my ancient body into that tub when I am a 70 year old. Do I really want to launch myself over four foot hurdles just to get into a wet and slippery danger zone? I was nearly responsible for future me’s broken hip! I had to pick a tub that an old lady could get into. It has a lower spot on the sides so I can step in easily. I almost got the one you sit in and then close the door to fill it up but I am ever the optimist. But I keep forgetting. I keep getting stuck between the people we are today and the people we will be in 10 or 20 years – older, retired, living a life certain to be different in many ways from how we are living now. I am having a hard time imagining it.

A good friend told me the trick to living together happily when your husband retires is very simple. “Don’t make him that first sandwich.” Even if you have to go out and just drive around, make sure you are not home at lunch, otherwise your days will look like that forever.

One thing for sure. I want lots of places to lie down. I think I’ll go have a nap right now.

Lifeboat at 40,000 feet

About 15 years ago we took my husband’s family to Italy for two weeks. We had our three kids, his parents, brother, sister, brother-in-law, and niece and nephew. This was the first time I used the internet to book a vacation and I was terrified at every stop that things would not be what we were expecting. It wasn’t. It was better.

The trip was made much more complicated by the fact that my mother-in-law was extremely ill. In fact, we were unsure as to whether she could join us on this adventure right up until the day we left. She did come, and while I had arranged special transport, wheelchairs and doctors on standby in every city, she did just fine and enjoyed every moment.

My mother-in-law had suggested that in advance of the trip, each of the five kids do a project on a particular place that we would be visiting. Then, the night before, they would do their presentation so we would know what we were going to see. It was awesome.

The first week was hustle and bustle – four days in Rome, one with an Art/History major who took us on a private tour that was incredible. I had been to Rome before but she made it come alive in an interesting and engaging way. The restaurants were all marvelous (why is it that even the snack bar in the train station there is better than most restaurants everywhere else?). After a late dinner, we would walk home through the Campo de’Fiori and stop for a gelato under the stars.

We then travelled south, by luxury private coach, to Sorrento, through the countryside to Pompeii, and then on down to Naples. At Naples we took an overnight ferry to Sicily where we slowed the pace down by staying in the same two villas every night and taking only day trips.

It was March and the ocean was freezing but, being Canadian, our kids went swimming. My husband was accosted by German tourists who, seeing our kids swimming happily, stripped down and entered the icy water. “Verrückte Kanadier!” they screamed. Crazy indeed.

By the way, if you ever travel to Sicily, I can’t recommend highly enough the incredible Sabrina Lo Piano who arranged everything for us – with great skills and charm. http://siciltime.blogspot.ca

Everything on the trip went smoothly, right up until the very end. Our flight from Rome to Toronto was mid-Atlantic when something happened. If you fly often, you are able to determine very quickly when there is a sound that just shouldn’t be. Like when an engine blows up. The loud bang, the shudder and correction of the plane would have been hint enough, but we also had the visual of bits of burning metal going past the windows.

My husband and I looked at each other for a long second, saying nothing and saying it all. Then we gathered up the kids – who had been all hanging out together – and put each child with an adult. “Okay, let’s put our shoes back on and do up our seat belts for a while. Let’s put this pillow on our laps”.

The plane was very calm – some people were praying softly and the flight attendants were walking, albeit at about 60 mph, from place to place securing overhead bins and gathering loose items. The Captain came on and said “Ladies and Gentlemen we’re experiencing a little trouble (!!) with one of our engines so we’re going to have to take her down and have a look.” Of course, this was said with a slow, comforting, Southern drawl – why do all pilots sound like Chuck Yeager?

Now here’s the thing. I turned around to my mother and father-in-law. They were completely calm, and she said to me “Les, don’t worry about us.” For them, as well as us, it was all about keeping the kids safe. I swear to you their demeanor felt like, if we had been on a lifeboat, they would have swum away to give us more space.

As we were still over the ocean, we had to fly without the engine for a couple of hours. We finally put down at an Air Force base in Goose Bay Labrador. We could see the fire trucks and ambulances all along the runway as we landed – safely. Since there was no customs facility on the base, we had a long wait while they figured out what to do with us.

The base had been about to celebrate St. Patrick’s Day with a big party. They, so kindly, turned over to us the space and all the food that they had laid on. They set up banks of telephones so that we could call our worried families. (The incident had made the local news in Toronto so people were concerned).

The airline advised that a new plane would be sent from Toronto, but couldn’t arrive until morning. We made the kids beds on the floor, but I was desperate to find a proper bed from my mother-in-law. The airline people couldn’t let anyone leave the mess hall, as they hadn’t cleared customs. When we spoke to the Warrant Officer he said he would take my in-laws over to the Base Commander’s quarters so they could get a good night’s sleep. When I said the airline people won’t let them leave he asked “Do the airline people have a gun? Because I do.”

A few years later, when the events of September 11th forced dozens of planes to divert to Gander, and Goose Bay, I remembered the incredible kindness and generosity of the people that night and was knew that, however awful the situation, the inherent kindness of these strangers would make a bad situation that much better.

Reflections on my Mom a year later.

I dreamt about my mother last week. It was a year ago that she died, and I guess that experiencing this first anniversary has put her clearly in my mind. Her death seems like it just happened in some ways – and in other ways I feel she has missed so much. Strange that after a year, I still look for the blinking light on the phone beside my bed every single time I wake up.

It was there so often. All through the day, particularly at ‘sundowning’ time – around 6:00 p.m. at night – when the bad behaviour among several patients would escalate. Far worse though, were the episodes at night. I would wake up several times in the night to check the machine and if there was a message it was never good news.

My mother was calling for me. To be more exact, my mother was screaming for me and someone in her care facility was calling me to have me come in and try to calm her. I always could, luckily. The hysterical screaming, paranoid delusions and seething rage would completely overcome her and last until I got there. I would be holding her and telling her “It’s okay, I’m here Mom. You’re safe. I’ve got you.” But the saddest part wasn’t when she was in the middle of these horrible occurrences.

No, the saddest part was when the episode ended. She would suddenly get quiet, and start looking around at her surroundings, and at me. Then she would slump her shoulders and shake her head sadly. She always put her hands on my face and said the exact same thing: “Oh my God Kid – I am so sorry.” It was excruciating. Much harder than her attacks on the staff and other patients. In the aftermath, she was embarrassed and afraid – two things she had spent her whole life overcoming.

She was desperately unhappy and told everyone that would listen that she couldn’t stand to live this way. She could not believe the things she had done – scratched a woman in a wheelchair, thrown dishes at a non-verbal elderly man when he didn’t respond to her, or knocked the computer and everything else off the Manager’s desk. When she physically attacked a young volunteer with Down’s Syndrome, they had to call the police. She would have been devastated if she had believed she had done it. She couldn’t believe it. It was too painful for someone who had lived a life of extraordinary kindness and grace.

I was lucky though, I know. The place where she lived the last part of her life was only 15 minutes away from my home.  It was also top of the line. It cost more than a suite at the Plaza Hotel but that was because it allowed us to still pretend. All of us.

We would pretend that she choose to live there, behind the beautiful doors that were kept locked all the time. We would pretend that she choose to wear the horrible shoes with the velcro closures and the endless array of stretchy polyester clothing that could withstand the constant washing that her sloppiness and incontinence demanded.

We would also pretend to care much more than we did. The staff would feign a sweet attentiveness that I imagined did not exist when I was not in attendance. I would play the dutiful daughter that was never frustrated, or embarrassed, or almost paralyzed by the grief for the loss of the mother that once had been so wonderful.

We would pretend that the end wasn’t a blessing for everyone.

And yet in my dream last week, it wasn’t the mother of the last few years that I was with. Not the shrieking harridan who was hallucinating, nor the terrified, despondent, woman who didn’t want to see her closest friends. The mother in my dreams was the fabulous, funny, unique mother from 10 or 15 years ago. What a pleasure to spend some time with her. I woke up laughing.

If you can’t play it live, I don’t want to hear it.

The Grammy Awards were on last week.  I didn’t watch.  When I was younger, the Grammy Awards were an event not to be missed. I would gather with several like-minded friends and tune in religiously. With no PVR in those days, we would actually wait until the commercials to get a drink or go to the bathroom. My sister would call me to talk about it, but again, only during the commercial breaks.

I was really a fan. It was primarily a chance to see Springsteen. Not even perform, I was excited just to see him sitting in the audience. (“He’s with his mother! Awww….”). There was also performances that would blow you away – Neil Diamond coming out and joining Streisand in singing “You Don’t Bring Me Flowers.” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=wo8dCD-4S08 (you know it was a disc jockey who first put that together). Or Tina Turner walking down a loooong stairway in super high heels and a ridiculously short dress for “What’s Love Got to do with It?” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=pEQVSnzQPXc

The Grammy Awards fell into a lull a few years back – I am guessing it started about the time AutoTune made its debut. I have always felt that a musical act doesn’t really make it for me unless the person can perform it live. And unplugged. The totally synthesized  bands and commercially produced cookie cutter boy bands just didn’t break through into timeless classics. Go figure. The best example of this was, of course, Milli Vanilli in 1990. It’s one thing to lip synch. It’s quite another to not even come close to matching the words on the tape – which, by the way, is not even you singing! http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ILpAJHYwFqQ   they beat Indigo Girls for best new artist. No wonder the audience lost respect and the numbers dwindled lower and lower.

Now, if I watch,  I spend the bulk of the evening asking “Who’s that?” Nothing makes me feel older, or more white, than watching this show. I wasn’t a big rap fan, though I did love their acceptance speeches “and I’d like to thank Jesus for all the success of our big hit
Ho Bring That Thang On Up On Me.”

But something started changing a few years ago. In 2009 When Christina Aguilera did “This is a man’s world” http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3ZltsUE_GhM she stunned the crowd. There is no doubt that this girl can sing. There was a great moment last year when Adele sang Rolling in the Deep – http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZmdcD22VrAU wow.

And this year, there were some incredible performances again. iTunes, downloads, the so called ‘death’ of the music industry. I don’t think so. And with Justin Timberlake bringing out a new album … well all signs for the future look good. Want to know how you can help? Here’s how:

All bets are off….

What do you call that exact instant when all social conventions break down? I’m not even sure there is a word for it. I only know that I find it the most interesting moment in the realm of human experience.

This is the moment when things cross that line and your actions determine your safety. It can happen on a grand scale, the period after the tornado hits and before the Red Cross moves you into the high school gymnasium. It can happen on a small level – when you are in your home and suddenly threatened in some way. Instantly, you experience a hyper-awareness and a consciousness of your actions that you seldom experience.

Movies and t.v are filled with these stories of dramatic occurrences. And I watch every one of them. My husband calls them “baby in the pipe” movies and he’s not far off. I remember nursing my first born and watching with tears streaming down my face as they struggled to save baby Jessica from that pipe in Texas. I also remember nursing my second child, just 20 months later, and watching from my hospital bed the movie of the week based on that story. It was even more dramatic than the real one.

Movies, though, tend to focus on the moments when civilization starts to regroup and go forward. In films about nuclear destruction or alien invasion they pay attention to the forming of provisional governments and committees to get the generators up and running. To me, that isn’t nearly as interesting as the time when everyone is out for themselves and all bets are off. I think it’s just too hard to maintain that level of drama.

Don’t get me wrong – I don’t search these moments out in real life. I’m not looking for the thrills you can find right on the edge. On the contrary, as a mother I spent a great deal of time and effort looking for ways to avoid any kind of situation which is fraught with danger. But when I watch Rescue 911 or E.R. I pay attention.

Of course, the awareness of these dangerous times don’t always occur to everyone in the situation at the exact same time. I was hitchhiking once at 14 with a girlfriend and, alone in the back seat, I found some mind-blowing, violent child pornography in a box on the floor and had to warn my friend without alerting the man that was driving. I was about to open the door to get the attention of other drivers when she asked if we could stop for a hot chocolate and we were able to slip away. She will never know how lucky we were.

I have a friend who had the farmhouse she was living in set afire by a jealous ex-lover. She and her boyfriend were alerted by a teenager driving by and they managed to get upstairs and save her two children with only minor burns and smoke inhalation. The entire house was destroyed. The teenager drove them to the hospital and it was only when she started to talk to the staff there did she realize that she was totally naked. Throughout the drive, rushing into Emergency, she hadn’t even noticed. And when she did notice, she didn’t care.

It’s the not caring that is the really hard part. I attended a seminar on women’s safety given by the Metro Toronto police many years ago when there had been a series of rapes in the area I worked. They were taking place in the morning when women were even less likely to be cautious. So many of the women, particularly older ones, said they would be too embarrassed to cause the kind of fuss, much less attempt the kind of damage, that the officers were suggesting. The cop conducting the course said that was a huge problem – women being reluctant to scream or act out in a dramatic fashion. He said that the first 15 seconds of an attack determine the outcome and if you are reluctant to make a scene, you are that much more vulnerable.

Even more than women, children face a great danger. Taught from infancy to behave, to not cause trouble and obey their elders, they are especially reluctant to scream or damage something. I tried to teach my children to follow their instincts and not be afraid of making a scene. It’s a fine and very difficult line to walk between educating them to the possibility of danger and making them afraid of everything.

When we would watch a violent movie we would constantly see the girl hit her attacker – once – and then run. He would inevitably rise up again and grab her ankle as she ran up the stairs. I know it made people uncomfortable when I would query my adorable six year old daughter as to what the girl did wrong and she would sweetly reply; “hit him AGAIN and keep hitting until you see brains!” Good girl.

I know bad things don’t happen very often. We are blessed to live in a very safe part of a very safe country. But monsters are real. I know because I’ve seen one. That’s why, when we are alone, sometimes we practice screaming out as loud as you can. Because you just never know.

The 10 Things I Hate About Christmas

#1 – The people that are gone. Nothing makes you notice the missing more than the Holiday Season. Sure, other things like weddings are tough, but the wedding is a one time thing (pretty much) and Christmas is a tradition that must radically change to avoid having the glaring empty chair where someone loved once sat.

#2 – There is more need than time or money. People are incredibly generous – I just wish they would spread it around more throughout the year. I have delivered more than 200 presents this year – all of them to people I have never met. And I still feel like it’s nowhere near enough.

#3 – It happens in the winter. What a dumb idea. Let’s see, let’s make an event that needs an excruciating amount of errands and shopping, and combine it with a bucket load of travel, both on our highways and in our skies, and let’s have it when the weather is most likely to be unpleasant or dangerous. What fun!

#4 – People buy me presents. Now I know for most people that is probably a good thing. But I have always found receiving Christmas gifts some sad combination of competitive, threatening and embarrassing. Now my best friends know better than to buy me anything. And if they do, they are not surprised that they are re-gifted or donated, often quite quickly. Gifts that do come, come with a condition; a gift of five festive soaps with the request “please keep at least one.”

#5 – The Food. With the lovely array of baked goods and chocolates exploding at every event  that I am not able to resist, I am at risk of developing scurvy. Combine this with the fact that my usual physical activities are curtailed due to the holidays and I am in grave danger of becoming trapped in my own clothes.

#6 – The Music. The carols started playing before U.S. Thanksgiving this year. Most of them are insipid or cloying. But a few, just a few, break through and move me in spite of myself. Like this one: http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=g608gU3W-54

#7 – The Lights. Driving through our area, I do love to see the houses all lit up with their Christmas finery. Each house has it’s own take on how Christmas lights should look, and each unique endeavour combines with the next to form a glowing tableau. We have a single, Christmas tree lit up outside our barn and every time I come down the driveway my heart swells at the sight of it.

#8 – I hear from people that I haven’t heard from in a long time. No longer sending any cards, the number that I receive dwindles each year but I still revel in each handwritten envelope that appears in my mailbox. Also, through the phone, email or Facebook, people reach out to reconnect, for no other reason than to share good wishes.

#9 – Candlelight A.A. Meetings – combined with a pot luck. Always moving and lovely.

# 10 – Oh hell, I feel all soppy now. I’m going to go make a Peppermint Hot Chocolate, have a sugar cookie and read all the cards I got this year. I’ll put on James Taylor’s Christmas CD and light a fire. What a wonderful time of year!

Merry Christmas Everyone!

Delores

I woke up the same way as most mornings, with my mother coming into the room I shared with my sister and opening the drapes. As the sunlight streamed in, I sat up and rubbed my eyes as my sister buried her head under her pillow for a few more minutes rest.

 

Today though, my mother paused, looking out the window towards the top of our street.  “Come see girls.” she said. “Delores is making her First Communion.”

 

Delores was an Italian girl a year younger than I, though she towered over me and all the other little girls on our street.  She was blessed with physical features that, while in and of themselves weren’t horrible, conspired to give her face a awkward, disjointed appearance.  Operations to correct her crossed eyes had been only partly successful.

 

Her strange looks, coupled with her tremendous size, made her an object of ridicule throughout her childhood.  She was teased mercilessly by most kids, and scorned by the rest.  I, however, had always been forced to play with her.  My mother was far too astute to let the local sport of Delores baiting go on in her presence.  I was the only one who had to invite her to my birthday parties, and even go to play with her at her home.  It did me no harm – in fact, we got along fine, especially when away from the cruelty of others she was able to relax.

 

I joined my mother at the window and saw Delores standing on her front lawn.  Her mother was yelling and gesturing with her hands, trying to get her to smile for her father’s camera.  Delores looked uncomfortable in a massive, dramatic dress with yards and yards of lace and silk.  Her mother was a tiny, birdlike woman who had probably been quite lovely in her youth.  Her distaste for her clumsy, homely daughter was never quite hidden from view.

 

Today, she was trying to transform her into something else by her wardrobe.  It was a completely inappropriate dress – full length, with a long train and veil, covered with lace and beading.  I didn’t know it then but, at age 8, Delores was about to make her First Communion wearing her mother’s wedding gown.  All I knew was that it was the most gorgeous dress I had ever seen.

 

“Ohhh…” I cried, “She looks like a princess!”

 

My mother stared at me a moment and then said;  “You know, she does look like a princess.  Why don’t you go and tell her so?”

 

I looked up the street and saw that they were starting to load things in the car for the drive to the church.  “But they are leaving right now!” I said, “and I have to get dressed.”

 

“No you don’t.’  Said my mother.  “It’s warm outside, you can just run up in your pajamas.”

 

Outside? In my pajamas?  Now this was something exquisitely delicious. I ran as fast as I could across the lawns between our houses, the ground soft under my feet.  The morning dew made my thin pajamas slap against my shins.

 

“Delores!”  I shouted as I got closer, “wait! Wait!”  Panting when I reached them I could finally get the words out.  “Delores – you look like a princess!”

 

Her face brightened up and a peal of laughter rang out.  I am shamed to recall just how rare a sound that was.  Shyly, she showed me all the details of her dress and even twirled around the yard.  Her father took pictures of the two of us together.

 

Her mother clutched at my sleeve “You had better get back home” she hissed at me, “You’re going to catch it if your mother sees you out here in your pajamas!”

 

“No, it’s okay.” I told her.  “My mother sent me.”  She looked up the street and we could see my mother and my sister, now roused from her bed, waving gaily at the front door.

 

“She’s really quite something, your mother.”  Delores’ mother said, “You know that don’t you?”

 

“Sure” I replied.  But I didn’t know it then.  Not really.

 

Years later, in high school, when I learned how important it was to belong, to feel part of, I remembered Delores.  I knew then how nice it was for her to have me in those pictures with her on that special day.  How lovely it was for her to hear me say those kind words to her.  My mother’s inherent kindness knew that it would make a difference to her.

 

But it wasn’t until I was a mother myself that I realized that my mother had done it for Delores’ mother as well.  We live and breathe every care, every pain, every sadness that our children go through.  They say the definition of growing up is giving up all hope of a better childhood.  What do you call it when you realize you were luckier than you ever knew?