X-Files 4 of 4 - Night time spirits come alive

A part of me always knew I would play an integral role in the support for my parents during the last years of their lives. It was logical. I was their only unattached child, and a female to boot. I had no clear/successful career nor dependents. But, in my heart I knew the reason was far deeper than this. 

Perhaps that's why I fled to the west coast in my early twenties. There, free from my past, in my spiritual home, I met myself. I stretched my wings, had my flings, immersed myself in the study of yoga and lived a bohemian artist's life before a coincidental stroke of fate lured me back to Ontario.
(NOTE: I got married within a year of returning to Ontario but all the other conditions mentioned above applied, plus I lived near by.)

I was shocked to find that my years of dedicated yoga practice hadn't prepared me in any way shape or form to handle many of our parents' needs as their health and abilities declined, nor the waves of emotion that swamp a family doing their best to keep afloat. Yoga was my sanctuary, my home and safe place where I licked my wounds, dipped into source and filled myself up, celebrated life and expressed gratitude. But their journey made me confront myself and the question - what is the point of yoga if you can't take it off the mat and into the world. This is the stage of the yoga of the householder - it was bound to catch up with me sooner or later.

My parents' quirky personalities and way of looking at life was deeply challenging and heart warming. Their great sense of humour got us through a lot.

*        *        *

“Dad, don’t try and think so hard. Just go through the motions and I’ll double check it against the instructions on the bottles. You’ve been doing this without thinking for years, your body has a memory. It will know what to do. Arrange the bottles in the way they normally would be and start from there.” Sorting through b.i.d.’s and t.i.d.’s the before, during and after meal notations of prescription lingo on each container, together we walked our way through our task. Unable to offer any assistance, Mom stood aside. I briefly turned to check on her. A cloud passed over her face; helplessness shifting into sorrow. She knew this was yet one more task, falling out of his hands.

A few fact finding trips to his pharmacy and doctor’s office followed. Asking for, or demanding, access to his files didn't achieve the desired outcome. Only when I was reduced to pathetic pleading, were they surrendered to me.
Foolish me, I logically assumed some kind of summary list of all his medications would exist. Instead, my search yielded scraps of photocopies of prescription notes written in the virtually illegible, professional M.D. scrawl. The end result was the master list drawn by my own hand complete with descriptions and illustration, the one that I worked from tonight.

A week’s worth, twelve varieties of life sustaining pills and capsules of every colour and description get sorted into their appropriate compartments - breakfast, noon, dinner, bedtime pills; pills for high blood pressure, high cholesterol, diuretics, heart and thyroid medications, laxatives ... the list seems endless.

“Eighty ... eighty-one …” the rocking has slowed down, his enthusiasm wains. He merely taps of the heel of his hand against the top of the chair now.

“Geeze Edie you’re getting heavy.”

“Well, I weigh the same as when we began,” she comments innocently.

“I know that. I’m the one exerting all the effort. I should be losing weight.” Pausing for a few minutes, he leans over bracing himself with hands on top of his thigh as he catches his breath.

Newly revived, he hits the chair with determination, “O.K., now where were we?”

“You’ve got me.”

“Geezus Christ. I’m counting on you.”

“Then you’re in trouble aren’t you,” she jokes. He looks at her silently grinning, with laughter in his eyes.

I look at my watch. More than five minutes have passed from when they started counting. “118,” I yell.

“What?” he shouts. Then quietly he asks Mom, “who’s that?”

“Nance. Nance is in the kitchen.” she replies.

“Oh, yes I forgot.” he taps his head. “Nanca!?” he exclaims with delight.

“Dad!?” I return in kind. “You’re at 118."
There's a pause.

He hasn't quite heard. “She says 118.” Mom informs him with authority.

“Well, O.K. then.” he slaps the chair again. His strength returned, he resumes the last few victorious pushes as they count together, “118 ... 119 ... 120 ...” adding a push of exclamation on the last number.

“Hallelujah!” he rejoices, throwing his arms up victoriously.

“Amen!” she adds with equal enthusiasm. 

“Now let’s get these other goddam drops in before my goddam arms fall off.”

By the time my mission is accomplished, all has been reduced to silence. I place the plastic medicine bottles back into the box which I return to its hiding place, leaving the docette in full view in its usual location on the counter.

Standing at the foot of the 3 stairs that rise into the family room, I smile as I gaze at the flickering images of my parents bathed in a faded cool blue set against a backdrop of darkness, momentarily resting their eyes. And I marvel at these strange nocturnal creatures who prefer to stay up all night with the owls rather than soar with the eagles in the morning. My eyes grow wide as I realize this is one more confirmation that I am indeed their progeny. Who knew? Who? That nighttime lifts their spirits so and makes them come alive. Two childlike, giggling creatures emerged from the depths of elderly bodies. And I can’t help chuckling. I resolve to return to the nest in the dark of night more often. God knows I need the lift.

I sneak out and in leaving turn on a trail of lights in order to illuminate their 2:30 a.m. bedtime migration.

            *          *          *

“Om ... Om ...” now subdued I turn down the volume on the tape deck and ease up the driveway and down the road as waves of chants carry me home on a freshly rain washed, starry night.

X-Files…part 3 of 4 - Giddy Up

Sweeping me into the room he shines his flashlight on my mother, illuminated by the beams emanating from the T.V., which has been on since T.V. was invented. She’s stretched out on one of the many lazy boys populating theatre number one and I’m forced to do a double take. I don’t think I’ve ever seen her recline on one before. She's a dedicated "sinkie". I even wonder if the woman sleeps, as she eats… standing up.

Mom waves and greets me with a cheery “Hi.” Without more being said, Dad motions me to sit.  Like some kind of anthropologist I've been granted the privilege to observe this, at least to me, bizarre, unknown and never before witnessed, nightly ritual. 

He shines the light on the clock over the stairs, the only way you can see it in this den of a room. Dad, like many of his peers, can no longer read the digital watch he still wears, nor can he hear its alarm buzzing at precisely designated times of the day for purposes long forgotten.

“So I guess we’re ready to do this,” he asks.

“Ready.” She confirms.

Ready, I wonder. I suspend my breath and watch.

Flashlight in one hand; bottle in the other. He's barely able to control the constant shaking of his hands. Yet, miraculously for a brief moment they are steady, just long enough for him to get one exact, gently placed drop to find its mark on Mom’s eye. And then I exhale, relieved for him that he can still do this small task for her.

“So that’s it for the first set of drops.”  Dad explains to me. “Now we have to wait for two minutes before we can put the other batch in.”

I begin to set the alarm on my watch but Dad motions that it isn’t necessary. He perches on the arm of the couch behind her lazy boy and begins to push down on the top of her chair, setting her in motion. Each rock becomes increasingly far ranging. She bravely clutches the arms of her mount to keep from being bucked off.

“One, two, three, ...” they count every push.

“This is how we do it” they say in unison, counting off the seconds since neither of them can see his watch.

“I’m hoping I’ll be able to rock her to sleep.” They both break out into fits of laughter as the rocking and the counting continue.

“Fifteen ... sixteen ...”

Speechless, I leave them to it, laughing and rocking as I go to tend to the medications. I close the kitchen door silently behind me, make my way over to the counter across the room and turn on the little lamp.

“Twenty ... twenty-one ...”

 I clamber up onto the counter to reach into the cupboard, to the back of the top shelf, where the medicine bottles are hidden. As I pull out the stash, I recall the day when such precautions became necessary and this ritual passed on to me. A dreaded sound, the ring of a phone in the early hours of the morning, was my awakening alarm. I stumbled into the den to intercept the call intuiting that I'd hear Dad's voice on the other end.

“Nance, could you come over?”

“Dad is everything O.K.?” suddenly I’m wide awake.

“Yes, but, but I um, can’t remember which medications I have to take.” his words betray astonishment and shame, for he has been responsible for sorting out his medications from the day he took his first insulin injection some 25 years ago.

“You’ve taken your insulin, right?”

“Yes, yes that’s not the problem.”

 I’m relieved that it’s not some kind of blood sugar fog, but puzzled by this new turn of events.

“It’s the damn pills. I have to take so many of them… I just can’t remember.”

I arrive to find him mulling over the unopened pill bottles laying in disarray on this very counter.

“Forty/fifty ... forty-one/forty-four ...”

“Edie, come on now it’s forty-one,” he chuckles. The creaks from the chair having gotten progressively weaker have stopped.

“No, it’s forty-four.”

“You made a mistake back there at forty,” he’s laughing not sure if she’s putting him on or not. “Now lets start again, forty-four.”

“Well then we should start at fifty because we’ve been talking.” She, the voice of reason, states.

“Come on Edie co-operate with me,” he pleads.

They resume, “forty/fifty-three ...”

A silent pause.

God they crack me up! I chuckle and shake my head and can take no more of this petty bickering. “Fifty- three” I yell out.

“What?” Dad shouts back.

“Fifty-three, start at fifty-three.”

“Fifty-three ... fifty-four ...” they’ve been jump-started back on track and the chair’s a rockin’.

And, I had to jump start his memory back then…

X-Files…part 2 of 4

I was raised in the modest 2 story house (where Life at 139 takes place) from the time I was just 3 years  old until I left home, for the final time in '86. Unlike most of my generation, I was a rebound boarder periodically returning to live in my parental home, for a year or so, every now and again.

Yes, I really did this to my poor parents.
 I hope they enjoyed my company as much as I did theirs - not being sarcastic either. 

Mom remained in the home for four more years after our Dad's death. An incident one cold and bitter night in 2006 convinced us that, short of having one of her five children with her 24/7 (which she absolutely did not want) it was no longer safe for her to stay there. But, that is a story for another time.

I should add that, not only was the stairway (mentioned in the story that follows) dark; the stairs leading to the upper floor were slippery as ice. A few non-Thackers who butt-slid from the top of the landing to the bottom of the flight in one fell swoop.…more than once, can attest to that. A bi-weekly ritual of Mom's was to wax the wood floors until they shone with a blinding light. Only when the landing became too crowded with boxes, full of their fledged childrens' items, did the stairway get omitted, yet the treads still retained their smooth, slick surface.

Mom was old school. Rubbing polish into the wood on hands and knees was the way it was done followed by a once or twice over with the floor polisher. When it came time to clear out the family home no fewer than 3 floor polishers were unearthed; all in various stages of disrepair. By the time the first one finally died new flooring material had made such appliances obsolete. Dad, ever the proud hunter/gatherer that he was, scoured the neighbourhoods on dump days for replacements. Most lasted for a few months before kicking off. When he finally gave up the hunt, Mom just dragged the lightest (still about 20 pound) relic back and forth over the dining room floor and hallway.

Back to X-Files part 2 of a 4 part story…

*        *        *

So begrudgingly, twenty bass driven minutes later, and paradoxically calmer I arrive unannounced on a cold and dark night. There I am on Mom and Dad’s doorstep, standing in the rain, waiting for them to respond to the sound of my fist banging on the aluminum base of their screen door. I fear this noise will wake up the neighbours gently tucked into their beds, but not my folks probably dozing in front of the T.V. in “theatre number one” a.k.a. the family room. Except for the blue haze that emanates from the front window it is pitch black inside.

Just last year my husband installed an overhead light above the stair well leading up to the second floor bedrooms. He comes from good lighting stock. His father, also a contractor, instilled in Rod from a tender age, the appreciation of abundant illumination.

“How did you manage to go up the stairs without light all those years?” he asks.

I think, what an odd question. “We counted the stairs and the steps to our beds.” Duh, didn’t everyone. In hearing myself I begin to think, maybe this was a little odd. My mother didn’t like overhead lighting of any kind - though I don’t know why, so all the wiring was capped and tiny bedside table lamps complete with cellophane wrapped shades were placed in the farthest corners of each room. God forbid anything got moved in the space in between the two locations. I think it was her way of forcing us to keep our bedrooms neat - put your things away or else break your necks.

The pride Rod felt in solving what he had deemed the “lighting problem”was obvious as we all stood at the base of the stair watching him demonstrate with a flourish how with the flick of a switch the light fourteen feet above us would be activated. And their reactions! Well, you would have thought he had invented light itself, they were so in awe. Of course we all knew that he would be the only person who would ever use it, but we didn’t tell him this. Didn’t want to spoil his moment.

                 I bang out again our family code  - knock   knock …knock-knock,  knock … knock   knock then shout, “Mom, Dad, it’s me Nance” then peer through the scalloped window, the kind that allows you to see only ghostly images on the brightest of days, and I see a scene straight out of the X-Files. The beam of a flash light jumps and stumbles along the walls of the living room.

“I’m coming, I’m coming. Chris’ sake. Give me a chance will ya. Keep your pants on”  The beam cuts wildly out of control through the darkness. “Shit! Goddam it all to hell. Who put that there?” 

I’m shivering pretty uncontrollably by now as he the clicks and jiggles the handle wrestling  with the door he’s confronted on a daily basis for nearly 50 years. “Jesus Murphy ...” a choppy stream of swear words accompanies his efforts. When he finally succeeds, I’m met with a piercing beam of light aimed straight at my eyeballs. We’re stalemated there for a some seconds, silence coming from his end of the beam as I bob and weave my head out of the line of fire.

“Dad. Hi its me, Nance.” I put my hand in front of my face averting my eyes, but it is no use so I give up, drop my arms down by my sides and just stand there squinting.

With beam still fixed on my face, he peers closer; shivering I wait. “Nance?... it’s you ... Hi. Hi. What are you doing standing out in the rain? You’re drenched. Come in. Come in.” He waves me inside, beam gesturing wildly, creating a strobe effect in my brain.

Once my eyes adjust to the dark I ask, “Dad, why is it so dark in here?”

“It is?”

“Um,” gesturing to the flashlight in his hands, “yeah.” and then to the cloak of darkness around us.

“Oh ... OH” my question goes unanswered as he flicks some switches with slight distraction. And there is light - outside. The light over the front porch and then the lamppost at the end of the walkway now proudly shine. Without asking why I’m on his doorstep at 11:30 at night, it somehow seems perfectly normal to him, he motions me in to the living room after I’ve taken off my jacket and boots with the assistance of his somewhat shaky beam.

“Come on in” he says throwing his arms open with a warm expansiveness. “We’re just about to put your mother’s eye drops in.” With light still in hand he begins to sweep me in the direction of the living room.

I wince at the thought, “Dad, I can’t ...”

He stops in his tracks, “What? You don’t have time to visit your old Dad?”

I heave a sigh, “O.K. but only for a minute. I’ve got to put together your docette.”

“Nance you don’t have to do that.”

“If I don’t, who will?”

He pauses. His arms drop. Deflated he shakes his head, his lips purse and tears threaten as, I realize, inadvertently we’re caught short by the memory of the day the torch of this task passed into my hands.

“Look, Dad,” I say as I place my hand on his arm. “It’s O.K. Let’s go in and see Mom.” We nod in  silent conspiracy to proceed as if this conversation had never taken place…(TO BE CONTINUED)

X-Files…part 1 of 4

Today my world is filled with thoughts of ageing, declining health and dying. Cheery, I know! But, it's odd how the universe arranges things through synchronicity.

BEING MORTAL - Medicine and What Matters in the End, the book by the wonderful medical writer, surgeon and lecturer Atul Gawande (think of a cross between Oliver Sacks and Malcolm Gladwell) stares up at me from my desk. Oddly, the sticker the library slapped on its cover says Health & Fitness. Even they don't know how to categorize a discussion on, what will come to most of us, facing the end of our life.

One of the first posts I read on FB today is from a dreamer friend who shared this THE BIG SLEEP on FB - check it out I'll wait…

And just now, somewhat in denial, I begin to write an e-mail to a 100 year old beloved former client turned friend. My fingers get heavy on the keys as I clear the lump in forming in my throat. She's probably died. The New Year's e-mail that I sent to her had bounced back; address no longer available. Despite her advanced years L was pretty skilled at the computer so…I check the obits and there it is; a loving and brief announcement, date of death Nov 14th.

E-mail to L; delete.

Looking for things to calm the restlessness building up within, I delete old, no longer needed files.
Delete.
Delete.
Delete.
… hoping that this will clear things out of my mind.

Short stories I wrote about my struggles with my parents' ageing and declining health pop up on the screen. I laugh at one titled X-FILES in honour of X-Files' Mulder and Skully's penchant for using flashlights during every investigation. "Turn on the damn lights!" I'd shout at the screen. But, to no avail. My mother like Mulder and Skully wasn't a fan of overhead lighting. We Thackers are all night people. Throughout my life, navigating my way to bed late at light was like being in a training school for the blind.

*    *    *

Perfect. Rod had adjusted the light just right. A crisp beam is cast on my side of the bed leaving him cocooned in darkness so that only soft early stage of sleep snores betray his presence.

Ah ... I softly exhale, gently settling down on the futon having tip toed across the room and slipped out of my jeans, miraculously without disturbing him; he’s such a light sleeper. Mindfully I catch a whiff of peppermint tea wafting into my nostrils as I blow on its steamy surface before a sip passes through barely parted lips. And just as thoughtfully I place it on a ceramic tile on the floor, beside the bed. A barely audible sigh of contentment escapes as I open my paperback Awakening the Buddha Within by Lama Surya Das. I pause to allow a wave of gratitude wash over me for a day full of simple pleasures - car washed, treatments done, dinner shared with Mom and Dad, a beautiful sunny day …

“Shit, shit, shit. Goddamn it all to hell!” I slap my book shut and slam it down onto my thigh.

“What the ...?” Rod torques his upper body in my direction groggily shielding his eyes.

“Ah, damn it! I forgot to fill the fucking docette.”

“Language? Geeze it’s as if you’ve got Tourette’s or something.”

“Sorry. When I get pissed off ...  can’t help myself ... Dad does it too ... low tolerance for frustration ... some kind of conditioned response further habituated by ...”

“Do I really have to hear this now?” he interrupts.

Distractedly I grab my jeans off the floor. “Left it on the friggin’ counter. Must have gotten side tracked. Shit I’ll have to go over and fill it.” 

“Now?” he picks up the digital clock recording the time with blood red numbers and thrusts it into the light. “Nance, it’s 11 o’clock at night for Pete’s sake.”

I step into one pant leg and hop about trying to locate the other, knocking the scalding tea over “shee-ite” issues crisply through my clenched teeth as I lose my balance and my shoulder slams into the wall. “Ah! Goddamn it!”

Rod tisks and then forcefully sighs for my benefit as he disengages himself rolling back over into the darkness.

Mopping the tea up with a t-shirt grabbed from a chair,“If I don’t do it now, knowing my luck, Mom’ll call at some ungodly hour. And now I can’t sleep anyway because I’ll lay awake waiting for it like waiting for the other shoe to drop. Shoes. God damn it where are my shoes?”

“Nance, you’re spinning.”

“I can hear her now.”

“Ahem, ahem.” Rod clears his throat for my benefit.

“Well, you know how she is with the answering machine. Mom can’t even work a toaster oven. Remember last Christmas when we got them that little portable tape deck and she said to Dad, sitting there with the unwrapped package in his lap, ‘I hope it isn’t a micro-wave’?”

“I’ve got to get some sleep. Unlike some people, I have to get up early in the morning.”

“Where are my shoes?” As I crawl on hands and knees upturning everything in my path in search of the elusive quarry an all too familiar telephone call plays over in my head.  “Nance ... are you there? ... I ... ah ... can’t find your father’s medications for the day ... could you? ... um ... come over? ... ah ... well, O.K. ... bye ...” Her voice; shaky, apologetic, helpless.

Augh! God my gut’s turning now just thinking about it. Can’t be woken up like that yet again. It would take me days to stop swearing from the aggravation and guilt.

“Shoes are downstairs by the door." He muffles through the duvet. "In all our fourteen years together we’ve never brought them into the bedroom. Get - a - grip.”

“Oh, damn!” I stand with hands on hips in puzzlement. "Tsk, sigh." I proceed to stomp out of the room, “I’ll just have to grab whatever I can on my way out, I guess.”  

“Please, don’t slam the door.”

It slams shut seemingly of its own accord.

“Oops. Sorry.”

“Whatever,” I barely hear him sigh and mumble. There’s a faint click and the sliver of light escaping from under the door is extinguished behind me. Ahh, I relax, blessed darkness.

I proceed down the stairs barefoot with heavy heels.            

“Shit!” I grab at the railing to keep from breaking my neck as our cat scurries down the stairs. “Max get out of the way!”

            *           *          *

Gotta work the ya ya’s out. “Let’s see.” I say aloud as I rifle through the cassettes strewn beside me on the passenger seat.

Eternal Om - too mellow, Colin James - nah, Enya, Rolling Stones ... the Stones ...

Yup, Stones it is! I pop in the tape and crank up the volume.

“You can’t always get what you wa-a-a-nt. You ...” isn’ t that fuckin’ right! I nod in heartfelt  agreement. 

Flat and off key, I break into song wailing at the top of my lungs, "you just might find you get what you need…" And, in a Jumpin' Jack Flash this Honky Tonk woman and Mick are gunning it down the driveway…(TO BE CONTINUED).

SOCIAL MEDIA BLOW OUT

…I hit the wall last week on social media thanks to a wonderful family gathering with the in-laws.

It's Thanksgiving weekend in Canada and I'm filled with warm, childhood memories of simpler times and Thanksgivings gone by at Mom and Dad's. Mom was not one known for her culinary skills. Her remark, "I'd rather we could take a pill," pretty much summed up her love affair with cooking. But she always rose to the occasion when it came to family celebrations, especially Thanksgiving, after all we had much to be thankful for.

Mom was always the last to come to the table, taking off her apron along the way. Despite her pleadings for us to start without her, we'd wait for her arrival with our plates piled high.

My Dad would ask the obligatory, "Does anyone want to say grace?"…

Giggles. "Grace" said the more irreverent family members.

Without missing a beat he would continue on, "For this, our daily bread, may we truly be thankful."

We'd linger at the table over our dessert of pumpkin pie and whipped cream not wanting to break the spell of calm, contented, satiation and Dad, the old "philosopher" would share what he was thankful for. "We have our health," he would say this even when his own health was failing, "and we have each other. No matter where you are, or what life presents you with, I hope you will always remember these times and be grateful."

I do and I am.

Thank you turkey; thank you "Dad's" dressing

So what does this have to do with my social media "fast"?

During my visit I observed how we, I include myself here, have become obsessed with our devices. In the last post, I wrote that they help me connect with family members and friends who are geographically far away. There is no doubt that, used within reason, they provide the desired link. But, they also take me out of the present moment and away from my own creative devices.

Anxiety ridden, dissatisfaction-fuelled, advertising worms its way insidiously into my life filling me with impossible desires. Petitions, all for very good causes, leave me feeling powerless despite the actions I take in real life to defend the ocean and its inhabitants. Requests for donations at every turn arouse a sense of hopelessness for the earth. If only money talks and has power then we truly are doomed.

Where does the time go while I'm swiping through FB, answering e-mails, texting while "taking time out" to chill and "watch" a program on TV? Spreading myself so thin divides me up into little pieces. I'm scattered, ramped up; wanting.…What?…Anything but what I already have, it seems.

Add that to the chaos that accompanies every family gathering: the unspoken expectations, good intentions, subconscious agendas, spontaneous change-ups, miscommunication, emotional triggers; a cold in incubation, and you get someone "undone" by life. Time to unplug.

A week later, more grounded, calm and creative I ask myself, "Do I want to jump back into the throng?"

May this time with your family find you unplugged, feeling grateful, and filled with memories to warm your heart.

HAPPY THANKSGIVING ALL!

Ho'oponopono Mom

© NANCE THACKER 1990
CLICK ON IMAGE TO ENLARGE

A NEW JOURNEY BECKONS

EDITH "EDIE" THACKER Sept 11, 1920 - June 5, 2011

In FATE AND DESTINY - the 2 agreements of the soul, Michael Meade writes of a Siberian tale of a cosmic, origin tree of life where human souls perch upon its "sky branches" waiting silently and watching like birds until something in the world below intrigues them enough to incarnate, descending and entering into "a womb where life is about to be born." (pg 122)

He then goes on to tell of an old West African story. As the soul begins to enter into earthly life it encounters a spirit (its divine companion) which accompanies the soul on its journey through the realm of incarnate beings and travels with the soul throughout its lifetime journey in the chosen body. The spirit "clarifies the image that first moved the soul and describes the terms through within which this particular life adventure will be shaped." (pg 123) This divine contract allows the soul and spirit to enter into the body and begin life on earth.

On the soul's journey towards the womb it finds itself standing before a radiant tree in the middle of a garden. The soul is instinctively compelled to touch the bark of the magnificent tree. As I understand it, this touch deeply buries the divine companion within the soul and the soul forgets what drew it to incarnate and just what it came into earthly life to accomplish for this Tree of Unity and of Life is also the Tree of Forgetfulness. This act is necessary for human life to begin.

As I dream this myth forward I imagine that as we come to the end of this incarnation our souls find themselves standing once more before the majestic Tree of Life. Once more the soul is compelled to place its hands upon the bark of the trunk but, this time, upon contact the Tree of Unity transforms into the Tree of Remembrance. The bird soul returns to perch upon the sky branches viewing its families and loved ones in the earthly realm and getting glimpses into their celestial home and of the souls who await their return. There they remain engaged in both realms until they are released from contracts with their beloved ones on earth. Upon release, the cords that bind are severed. Only then are they free to fully turn their gaze upon the Tree of Origins where their divine companion waits in full glory to accompany them on their journey home into the oneness from which they came. The body is vacated and the soul's earthly life comes to an end.

To the soul that became my mother in this earthly life I wish you courage on the next stage of your journey. And, should your bird soul once more find itself perching on the sky branches, may it be dazzled by an auspicious re-birth filled with love, compassion and joy.


Information and quotes are from FATE AND DESTINY - the two agreements of the soul by Michael Meade, Greenfire Press, 2010.

I'm not pulling your leg

(cartoon copyright Nance Thacker 1983, all rights reserved)

(to enlarge click on image)

I've been playing around with the yoga ropes which prompted me to post this cartoon. I feel very at home being upside down and maybe this is the reason why...

The family room at 139 was the place where we all hung out. Since there was usually multiple activities going on at once in this room it was also the place where I learned to shut out everything going on around me and concentrate. It was also where I did my yoga practice, but, when I was 12 it was where I practiced gymnastics and where my younger brother, Nor, and I invented leg wrestling.

* * *

It is the much simpler time of my youth. In my memory, two children's figures appear. They are in their parents' family room, in headstand, side by side, facing opposite directions. Each entwines the leg nearest the other's. They pull and tug at the other's leg.

Their mother, watching from the vantage point of her favourite chair, winces in fear of seeing bones broken, and must return her attention to the newspaper in her hands.

"It's good for them," the father says, passing off all thought of possible harm; after all, children are resilient beings. He returns his attention to the TV just out of range of the combatants.

Finally, there is the dull thump of a roll well executed, followed by children's laughs of delight which threaten to topple the victorious figure remaining in headstand. The challenger returns to headstand in a brief, effortless move and the game begins again and again.

* * *

The cartoon and a version of that story were originally published in the Yoga Centre of Victoria Newsletter (I don't have the issue date, but it would have been in 1983) after my participation in a workshop led by Aadil Palkhivala. In the workshop we performed yoga asanas while standing on blocks. Later this evolved into walking a course of blocks set on their sides and ends placed at varying distances and angles, spanning the width of the room. Although this was hard work, devised to explore the nature of balance, it was also fun for the former gymnast in me.

As I wrote further on in the article:

* * *

"This (working on the blocks) sensitized our feet -- the foundation -- revealed our centre to be around the area of the hara (a little lower for women than men) and demanded that we draw attention away from the front brain, bringing it more to the root of balance located between the ears, producing a feeling of calm...Physical balance seems to be situated in, and released, through the core of our being, and true enough, when we are emotionally and mentally balanced, we say we are 'centred'.

As I walked the blocks I felt as a child, and as I watched the others walk I saw the child contained within each. Now, remembering the workshop, I recall the balancing game of leg wrestling invented by my brother Nor and I.

Being mature adults, Nor and I no longer leg wrestle. It is no longer my brother "pulling my leg" to get me off balance, but my approach to life, its circumstances and my own seriousness about myself."

It takes a village

So, maybe you're wondering what happened to Dad after his assessment. Well, pretty much nothing as he passed it within an acceptable range. But more importantly, just the year before when my parents had been together, the social worker deemed them to be a "lovely, little, co-dependent couple." What enabled them to cope was that each compensated for what the other lacked.

Life went on as usual except over time his wallet disappeared with increasing frequency and every once in a while, although he'd driven into town, he'd return home in a cab courtesy of Oakville storeowners who knew who he was and where he lived. And when a bank employee brought it to our attention that he was getting money out of the ATM with the assistance of strangers, Rob began to manage Dad's finances (Rob also became a wallet and car wrangler). Hillary Clinton said it takes a village to raise a child but it became apparent that it also takes one to keep an elder safe.

He lived with Mom in the family home until he died after which time the unwelcome spotlight shifted onto Mom aka "The Recluse"who lived alone in the family home with the assistance of her 5 children until safety issues and falls became an issue. Without the ongoing concern for the well-being of Dad aka "Mr. Social" her difficulties became obvious.

After her first solo geriatric evaluation (which I wrote about in The Sentence) she was diagnosed with Alzheimer's disease and put on a drug to slow the decline of her cognitive function. Over time another was added to the mix and a year later its dosage was increased which sent her over the edge.

She began to experience visual hallucinations, people were present that only she could see. She voiced her distress, "Something is terribly wrong. It seems so real. I don't know what's real anymore. I'm in a fog half the time. This is no way to live." Thankfully when we took her off the drug the hallucinations stopped.

But at the next assessment her score had plummeted and after reviewing the numbers the geriatric specialist talked into her voice recorder, "I recommend Edith continue with Aricept and we re-introduce Ebixa to stall the progression of the disease..."

She hadn't even asked us. "No" I said.

"If we don't do this she'll decline at a more rapid rate. Her numbers are significantly decreased since the last evaluation."

"For what benefit? She felt she was going crazy."

"Then there's nothing more we can do for her."

We decided that this would be her last yearly, unnatural, stress-filled assessment. Personally, I felt relieved but also weighed down with a sense of loss and failure.

We might as well get some enjoyment out of this day, I thought, though I was going through the motions, distracted by the verdict handed down to her of a life sentence of inevitable, horrible, decline. So before heading back to the nursing home we went in to the Tim's in the hospital and got a coffee and some "donies" (as she called Timbits). She did not want to take her coat off so as I placed a napkin in her lap I said, speaking distractedly half to myself, "We'd better use this as you're wearing the coat that Jude got you and if it gets stained she'll kill me." Then I happened to look down at the floor and notice she was wearing her good shoes, the ones Rob had found for her. "God I hope it's not raining when we leave cus the shoes Rob got you will be ruined and he'll kill me." I'd almost forgotten that she was there.

She began to laugh, "Well, you can only die once."

She was present, she remembered what I'd said and made a joke in an effort to cheer me up. There was a glimmer of hope and I laughed with her.

* note: I began this on Sat but finished it Tues May 18th, just don't know how to get it to appear in the right order.

The Sentence

My mother is wheelchair bound, her memory is failing, and although her desire to communicate seems to be increasing her speech is incomprehensible most of the time but her spirit is kind and she is well loved by all who meet her.

The last few days we've had to make a yearly decision regarding the Life Care Directive - basically a guide of protocol for the nursing home to follow should she suddenly be faced with a life threatening event and family members met with staff to review her progress since the last meeting, ask questions and address any concerns we might have.

This has put me in a reflective mode, so here is a piece I wrote some years back about another aspect of my parents' journey through old age.

_____________________________

The Sentence

The white-coated geriatric specialist quickly glances over the completed questionnaire she holds in her hand. The goal of this geriatric assessment is to ascertain the state of my father's memory and judge, ultimately his competency.

She notes that the questions WHAT DAY IS IT? and WHO IS THE PRIME MINISTER? have been correctly answered. The task to reproduce the drawing of a six-sided symbol has been performed reasonably well for an 84-year-old with "intentional" hand tremours. But his response to the request - WRITE A SENTENCE IN THE BLANK SPACE PROVIDED - catches her eye, as he knew it would.

Watching her; his blue eyes twinkle in anticipation. As she reads what he has written the barest hint of a smile momentarily cracks through her cool reserve. He smiles in return; a visual receipt of a delivery completed.

* * *

A year after his death my mother is faced with the same geriatric assessment. She reads the same request and it puzzles her.

WRITE A SENTENCE IN THE BLANK SPACE PROVIDED

She looks at me, pen suspended in space, frozen in the moment, quietly beseeching me.

"Don't look at me," I say. This is her test. I cannot interfere. Her hesitation is damning. "I can't help you. It's up to you." After an unbearable eternity passes (though in reality I know it has only been a few seconds; it is my sorrow that has stretched time) I give in and coax her anyway. "What do you want to write?"

She laughs shaking her head. Stupid assignment; stupid me, is what she's thinking, I suspect. Then she resumes staring blankly at the blank space on the page on the table in front of her as the social worker waits, checks her watch and notes.

"Write a sentence there," I point, I think that's allowed "anything that comes into your head."

Her hand makes tentative circles in the air just above the page, writing imaginary letters of thought. The moment her pen alights on the paper possibilities evaporate. "I don't know what to write." Her laugh betrays embarrassment and performance anxiety.

"You could write that," I suggest encouragingly.

And so, in her beautiful cursive script she writes:

I don't know what to write.

* * *

Today I smile as I recall what he had written, complete with three exclamation marks:

Getting old sucks!!!

the wonders of childhood

(cartoon copyright Nance Thacker 1984/2009)

click on image to enlarge - still can't figure out how to get this bigger - anyone?

I was a weird child.

When did I realize this … I remember a bright sunny day, before I could speak, soaking in the sun and suddenly I arrived. What does this mean? Well it means that I suddenly became aware that “I” am here in this body like – boom – "ta da, I’m here!" And, in that very same instant was the realization that if I had arrived then at some point I would cease to be and that if at some point I could cease to be then where the heck was I when I wasn’t here. Weird.

I remember watching silent movies on the T.V. and being fascinated by the speedy, jerky movements of the people I saw in them. “Wow” I thought to myself “we really walk so much better nowadays!” Weird.

Mom and Dad used to watch THE UNTOUCHABLES a series that, frankly really scared me all those mafia gangsters driving about in their big black cars shooting down people and all. No wonder they did, life must have been awful when it was in black and white; it’s so much nicer now that we live in colour. Weird.

I have a chronic neck problem. I blame it on prayer.

This one:
Now I lay me down to sleep
I pray the Lord my soul to keep
If I should die before I wake
I pray my Lord my soul to take

If I should die!? I’m only a kid for Pete’s sake, old people die in their sleep don’t they, not kids. But if we’re praying to God then I guess it could happen. But how?

The only logical conclusion I could come up with was that someone would stab me in my sleep.

Ah ha! I’ll fool them I thought. I’ll sleep on my stomach. Since the heart is more on the left then when I get stabbed (because it is dark the stabber won’t realize that I’m on my stomach) they’ll probably hit a lung; a lung, not bad since I have 2. Unfortunately you can't sleep on your face so you have to turn your head to one direction. My head turns to the left (keeping an eye on my heart probably); to the right ummm, not so good.

I didn’t read typical, contemporary kids books as a child. I liked factual books on animals and the body. Grimm’s Fairy Tales and the like were the closest I got – the scarier and weirder the better. Oooo, how cool is this I have found this fantastic site with a bazillion of them. Gotta go, got a lot of reading to do.

I’m still a weird kid.

Passenger 1

Hi Faithful Readers,

As I was pondering which topic to blog about I realized that I needed to make my MOM REPORT to my 4 siblings and Jill, Mom's/our amazing caregiver. As I wrote, it became more of a story so I submit a blog version of it here for your enjoyment.

Anyone who has an elderly parent with dementia can relate, I'm sure. So take heart. As Red Green (one of my favourite characters, in one of my favourite Canadian shows of all time) says, "we're all in this together."
____________________________________________________________

Hi All,

Sorry I am very lax in getting visit report out to you.

WARNING: this is a long piece, so get a cup of coffee and relax. There is no vital info in this e-mail message.

I took Mom to hairdressers on Sat.

Her speech was pretty clear for the most part though she goes through periods when she's just nattering away and I just laugh along with her and make listening sounds and she seems O.K. with this. It was pretty obvious when she was trying to get through to me and then we'd work on it together though some sentences and thoughts sprung forth fairly easily.

As we made our way into Oakville, Mom enjoyed listening to my young friend Melissa McClelland in a CBC interview, and laughed readily at the set-up with the telemarketer. My friend Glynnie had called me earlier to let me know that the interview was coming up. So, while I prepared for this little road trip with Mom I enjoyed Melissa’s rendition of one of my favourite songs of hers PASSENGER 24 (Stop reading now. Play the video and see if you, yourself don't just want to jump into the car right now and take off, eh!?). It brings to mind many cross country bus trips of my own in my youth and just makes me want to hit the road, though not particularly with my 88 year old Mom on a journey to the hairdressers, but that’s beside the point.

Mom was good with the transfers from car to wheel chair, to chair, to chair etc. and at Milka's (her hairdresser’s name) even began to initiate it on her own when we told her we were going to move her! She gets stronger each time which is interesting. Milka and the gang there are great with Mom and Mom enjoyed the beauty shop banter, laughing along with all.

But, when we got to the restaurant it began raining. Luckily, Rob was there with umbrella and helped me in with Mom. We all had lunch together. Mom is a little confused re: use of cutlery (I cut it up for her and got rid of the knife), napkins etc. but once she gets in the swing of using fork she is O.K. though you have to watch her with coffee which can end up tettering on the edge of a plate or hovering at precarious angles over her lap.

So, everything was great til we got back to the nursing home and IT WAS RAINING CATS AND DOGS!!!! We sat in the car for a while but it didn't stop so I got out, got her wheelchair out of the back of my car and my umbrella but realized that I couldn't manage the two together enough to be able to keep Mom dry. Put the wheelchair under the awning/entrance and got the receptionist to help. She held 2 umbrellas while I managed Mom’s transfer.

As I was trying to get her attention, Mom kept grabbing an envelope that I was supposed to mail for Rod - she had kept gravitating to it all through the trip home and I kept putting it back in the slot in the dash. By the time I got back to the car to help her out, she had been working on it again and had made a nice little origami piece out of it (luckily not torn as it was a check). So, I finally had to thank her for taking care of it and then toss it underneath the seat.

But the time I got her focused on the task at hand she was a little confused and said that she wasn't supposed to get out of the car (I'd told her that when I left for assistance). As I began to shift her she got all rigormortesy on me and tried to grab everything she could to help stabilize herself. The receptionist, holding the umbrellas, kept saying, "you won't be able to do this (take her out) much more" which, like the rain pissing down my back, was pissing me off. My friends know what happens when I get that way, but be reassured gentle reader, I restrained myself.

Somehow saying "It's O.K. Mom, I've got you. Trust me, trust me" wasn't reassuring enough for her. When I realized that she probably didn't recognize me, soaking and pissed off as I was, I told her “it’s Nance” and focused on her more gently. Once we got laughing at the situation she eased up and it was fine.

As I wheeled her through the halls of the nursing home - Mom regally nodded, waved and said “hello” to all she passed - the sounds of laughter welcomed us along with comments like, "Wow, what happened to you! (I looked like a drowned rat)...Mom looks nice and dry though." That was when Mom jokingly decided she wasn't ready to go into her room and wanted to be wheeled around some more, but fortunately she needed to use the "you know what" so I had an opportunity to make my exit, landing a peck on her cheek and saying good bye, while she was sitting on the can. Life becomes pretty casual when you’re 88.

She had a great time, was none the worse for wear and I left her in good spirits.

And me? I had a good visit to the chiropractor on Monday.

Love and Light,
N

P.S. I'm feeling much better now that I'm all cracked out thanks to Dr. Steve. You'd think I'd been grappling with a sumo wrestler instead of a 90lb, 88 year-old, "frail" (frail my ass) woman by the amount of adjusting he had to do. He also said he could see me later in the week.

THE PORTRAIT

As a kid, when I wasn’t climbing trees, riding my bike or doing some other physical activity, I was drawing. I loved the feel of the pencil in my hand and the glide of the graphite on the empty sheet of white before me. As I worked its graphite into as varied lines or shades of grey as possible my mind became focused, all else slipped away and a doorway into the realm of creation opened into which I would enter and remain for hours on end, oblivious to everything and everyone else around me.

Sometimes it seemed the more activity and noise around me the better and since our small house contained 7 people this was the ideal environment in which to hone my skills. My “studio” was located at the kitchen table or on the family room floor where I sprawled out on the rug with pencils strewn around me providing a live obstacle course for other family members.

Over the years I became skilled at portraiture as meticulous renderings of celebrity photos became replaced with real life observations. And, it was around that time that Dad began requesting a sitting for himself and would sit before me in mock serious poses, sticking his chin out in a regal manner so that the best profile could be captured for all eternity. Well, there was no way that this was going to happen; no way that I could see myself undertaking such a challenge, and a challenge it would be. How would I keep myself from laughing?

The years went by and every once in a while this request would come up and every time resistance to the task arose within me. Until one day, after I’d returned from Victoria with 4 years of cartooning under my belt, Dad animatedly recounted a humourous episode he’d endured while undergoing heart tests. “You should make a cartoon of that, Nanca. Make a cartoon of that and I’ll take it back to the cardiologists.” His enthusiasm was contagious and so, to his delight, the cartoon came about and I think the rendering in the second block does in fact bare a pretty good resemblance of him. I feel that this “portrait” reveals his character, as does BLOW UP YOUR T.V., far better than one static image could convey. The best reward of all - it made him laugh.

Dad, though Scotty’s beamed you aboard the big Enterprise in the sky, here’s to you. Thanks for the memories.

HAPPY FATHER’S DAY!

*(cartoon copyright Nance Thacker 1990)

the deer, the antelope, and me

Wow, a number of my friends have responded to the last blog that I wrote (which you’ll have to read to make any sense of this one). I know you’re looking at the comments section and see the number 0 and think that I’m lying, but this is because they communicate to me by e-mail (you’ll have to take my word for it).

This one from my sister-in-law caught me by surprise:
_________________________________________________________________

I was feeling fairly certain that I had forwarded on that one from my friend Norm who lives in Nova Scotia, but perhaps I'm being delusional, and that's allowed because my sinuses are blocking my brain from having a ..... something or other.....
The concept was (like the game show) that everyone’s answers had to be different, and by golly, they sure have been. Also I believe meant to be close to one word answers, but being the writer, you're given a pass on that one.
And what's with the deer thing??!! Have I missed something since the lasts time we talked?? It's too late to call, and I just read it, so I'm kind of freaked out because you mentioned the cell phone thing. So whazzzzup?
Love Di,
The girl with red snot. ewwww (going to the Dr. tomorrow)
_____________________________________________________________________________

I was touched and somewhat puzzled by her concern over something that I wrote for fun. So, I began to send her a reassuring response and as I did so this question popped into my mind, “what does the tale I wrote about the deer, the antelope and the cel phone feel like?” It FELT exactly like the events of Tues April 28th and before you know it all kinds of “mind stuff” spilled into my awareness. Lo and behold, her momsense was not nonsense after all.

Even as I lived through the events of Tues April 28th I thought to myself how like a dream it all seemed, riddled with frustrating, unexpected, weird events and breakdown in communication. My subconscious mind had created a dream of sorts, related to that day in the form of the metaphorical tale of the deer, the antelope and me and, in so doing, allowed my heart to speak.

In true dreamwork fashion here’s BACKGROUND INFO. about the events that lead up to the creation of “dream”.
- Mon April 27th – We are told Mom may be able to come home tomorrow. (I doubt that this will take place) I plan to pop into the nursing home tomorrow to get some questions answered re: her increased needs and get ideas of how to rearrange her room now that she needs to be in a wheelchair. Coincidently tomorrow is also my last day working at WMA and I will be moving my stuff out then.
- Tues morning April 28th – my brother Rob calls - Mom is going home this morning. (minor annoyance as I will have to be more involved than planned) but this is a good thing for her. He will take her out of the hospital and I will meet them at the nursing home to help her get settled in.
- 10 minutes later my sister’s e-mail indicates that she left my I-pod that I’d lent Mom for the duration of her stay in the top drawer of the hospital side table. Oddly, I have just begun a major sorting out, a regrouping after my failed business venture and I’m reviewing everything that I own – what to keep, what to get rid of so that I can clear old “stuff” out and allow new energy to enter into my life. My I-pod is definitely a keeper. Concerned that Rob won’t check out the top drawer, and with no way to reach him – he has his cel phone turned off in the hospital - I have to go to the hospital to get it. (Major irritation)
- At the hospital I find Rob, being his meticulous self of course, has scoured the place and safely secured my I-pod. I help clear some things out, set out for the nursing home, arranging to meet him and Mom there later on to help get her settled in. He will call me when he is leaving the hospital and I’ll be at the door with wheelchair. (resigned to the situation)
- In midst of meeting with supervisor at nursing home – Rob calls. I don’t have time to finish my conversation nor deal with her room. (annoyed)
- Waiting, waiting, waiting at front door. Receptionist comes over. My sister is on the phone. What? I check to find my cel has been accidentally turned off. (internal Tourettes-like outburst &#&*^%^*^%@+.....!!!!). Rob, with no way to reach me and without the nursing home phone number had called Candy to enlist her help.
- She tells me that Rob’s car has broken down on the way. He has called ambulance to take her the rest of the way. (In comparison my day’s not looking so bad!). Initially they want to take her back to the hospital as they usually don’t get called to shuttle some old lady stranded at the side of the road off to a nursing home. He convinces them of the purity of his intent and they comply.
- Waiting, waiting, waiting... I call to let WMA know that I’ll only be able to be there for my 3:00 apt. This change in plans means I end this association in a stressed and distracted state (major disappointment and sadness on many levels).
- Mom arrives. The paramedics comment on how sweet she is and how my brother seemed “a little stressed (major understatement), especially when they indicated they’d have to return her to the hospital”. She gets wheeled through the dining room on the stretcher to a chorus of “Hi Edith, welcome back” from staff and residents, doling out the “Royal wave” as she passes (this lifts my heart). We put her to bed and she immediately falls into a contented, relieved sleep. Mission accomplished. (sense of satisfaction)
- I make it in time for my 3:00 apt at WMA, dismantle my “office”, pile everything into my car and rush home for a session with a client at my home office. Too busy and emotionally wiped to unload my vehicle I drive around for days with everything from WMA in the back of my car (feeling like a nomad as I reinvent myself, the right place for my work and just what it is eludes me).

_____________________________________________________________________________

MY E-MAIL REPLY

Hi Di,

Don't worry about the deer thing. Creative mind wanderings.

I first answered the question about what wouldn't you want to find on your windshield - something that no one else would think of and one word - deer came up, but then when I came to the question about phrase with home in it "home home on the range..." came into my mind and lo and behold there was a deer reference in the next line and then my mind went on like a Rorschach test so when I spoke about the dead deer I connected to being pissed off that my cel phone was turned off by mistake when I most needed it (Mom's transfer). It has been turned on by mistake and run out of juice without me knowing til I come to use it many times in the past and it would be just as likely to happen in a situation like this.

Wow, now when I write about it I'm thinking it's kind of like a dream that I could have had (had I been sleeping) and a metaphor for how that transfer day went.

*So dream working it, the elements look like this:
Deer = Mom who has experienced a decline; a death of an aspect of herself.
Antelope = Rob, the “sad antelope hanging around” waiting for the tow truck to take away his “dying” car.
playing = their relationship is one full of word play and humour which they both enjoy.
The deer and the antelope play on the range but I have veered off the road and hit them = my day went off track and I became involved
cel phone with dead battery = difficulty in communication and ensuing energy drain that I was experiencing on many levels.

Huh, weird and cool! Thanks for the question. No wonder I felt so good after writing it - it was funny (at least to my mind) and a provided a big release - better than screaming, crying etc.

Needless to say I was really pissed off about the phone and realized that we need to get a new phone. That was before answering the questionnaire!

Hope your snot turns green soon!

Nance
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

*SOME OF THESE ELEMENTS HAVE BEEN ADDED SINCE THE ORIGINAL E-MAIL. I ADDED THEM IN THE BODY OF THE LETTER FOR CLARITY.

There is so much more contained in this “dream” and so many different ways it can be approached but, this gives you an idea of how to begin to listen to and receive messages from the heart and in so doing participate in a healing journey of body/mind and spirit.

into the shadows

As I take my stint on "Mom watch" during this marathon vigil that I share with my brothers and sister, I realize that I'm getting a rare glimpse into the elusive person that is my mother. In those moments suspended between sleep and wakefulness her behaviours and words reveal her driving concerns.

There is always work to be done: laundry to be hung to dry; sheets to be folded once the sun's rays and summer breeze have evaporated every droplet of moisture. She clutches them near to her chest taking in the fresh air scent that permeates their fibres.

On another vigil she scolds my father with a squeeze of my arm as I lay beside her, "You have to have something to eat. You can't go all day without anything to eat. Come on I'll make you some tea." and rubs my arm vigorously, her whole body sighing with a deep, relieved contentment that finally allows her to sleep; secure in his arms.

As her condition improves I sit in a chair out of Mom's view to invisibly observe and keep her safe; a beeper goes off in the Alzheimer lady's cubicle in the other corner of the room. Mom, who has been silently looking through the ceiling, dreaming with eyes open, begins to focus and stir with agitation. I go over to the other woman's bedside and pull the call bell. Mom sees me in the distance. I walk over to her. "I have to answer the phone" she says, struggling to get out of bed.

Our voices fade the bell's irritating cadence into the background and the sound of the nurse coming in, attending to this other patient laying silent in deep sleep oblivious to the activity around her.

"No, it's alright someone got it already."

"Is everyone O.K.?"

"Yes. We are all O.K. and so are you." I gently stroke her shoulder and arm.

"Is Dad sleeping?"

"Yes. He's sleeping." Stroking her slower and lighter; her body eases.

"Who was that on the phone?"

"Jude, she called to say hi and give you her love." Lighter and lighter my voice and strokes.

"Oh." she nods; her face softens.

"It's late and you should go to sleep."

A present and earnest look comes over her face, her eyes become animated as she holds my gaze and in a motherly tone sternly, lovingly asserts "then you should too."

We smile at each other and softly make a pact to do so. Her eyes close and I slip back into the chair in the shadows.

IN. SPAIN.

Well, Mom’s been in the hospital since Sun. She’s 88 years of age and has been diagnosed as having Alzheimer’s for a number of years now; a diagnosis I question, perhaps the term dementia would be more appropriate. But this is a description we “normal” people give to behaviour observed from our own vantage point and points of reference. Even that doesn’t accurately describe the world as she or even we experience it.

The first day in hospital she was very sedate, her body quite still from pain; but during the night it was a different story. Her hands sought out things to grab, usually landing on the IV or catheter tubes or to pull covers and gown off her body. She squirmed around til she was angled at a diagonal on the bed; her legs and feet alternately pushing down it or extending towards the floor, “I just need to get my feet on the ground” she repeated over and over.

I understood. Once, during an extended car trip, experiencing great distress, I said those very words, “Stop. I just need to get my feet on the ground so that I can walk around and feel the earth under my feet, otherwise I feel like I’m getting dizzy and disconnected from everything around me; I might as well be at home watching it on T.V.” I was not surprised when, once she’d maneuvered so that her legs dangled over the side of the bed with her soles hovering over the earth, she became calmer.

I would deflect her arms away from the tubes gently interjecting my hands or arms in the way for her to grasp and move in the air. It seemed to me that her daytime stillness built up such energy in her body that it just needed to move to discharge it while her brain tried to make sense of it all. How often I had experienced physically restless, fitful nights of sleep after 8 hour days of modeling where I’d maintain the same position for hours so that the artists could capture it on the page, canvas or in clay. During some sessions I would “feel” a limb move about in the air or reposition itself only to glance down and see, unbelievably, that it was still in the same position and had been motionless the whole time; only the undisturbed focus of the artists could convince me of that fact.

I later lay beside her that night and I watched her arms flowing movements; reaching to pluck things out of the sky or clear away something blocking her way; folding invisible sheets noticing that, “I think they are dry though maybe they’re still a little damp.”

Both of her arms reach up and she talks of having to get up a staircase that she’s climbing and her legs move up and down in response. And then, after her body has been quiet for a while, and I’ve begun to doze she squeezes my arm “all the neighbours are here, can you see them?” her face brilliantly beautiful, shining in amazement.
“Yes, yes I see them.” they are reflected in her face.
_____________________________________________________________________

It is a few days later. Mom is sitting up in bed after having had a calm and restful night. She is alert and appreciates the beauty of the cut, spring flower arrangement I bring closer to her; flowers sent by her sisters with the note, “with oodles of love”. We even talk a little about Helen and Dot.

Mom’s eldest daughter, my sister, Judi is hiking the Camino in Spain. Jude’s voice was filled with emotion when we finally were able to talk over the phone, I can’t imagine how it would feel to be so far away and unreachable at a time like this. She asks me to relay her love to Mom and this seems like the perfect moment.

“Jude’s walking the Camino,” I say.

Mom seems puzzled; the word Camino probably threw her.

“Jude, Tildy?”

“Yes.” She nods and awaits with great interest the rest the story. Now I can proceed and I do so in a conversational banter.

“Yah, Tildy’s in Spain. She’s hiking, walking a trail called the Camino…”

Mom’s eyes begin to fill with sorrow and her brow furrows. “Oh, that’s so sad. It’s so awful.”

“Awful. No, Mom it’s a good thing.” She looks at me like I’m heartless and I finally twig.

Speaking much more slowly, enunciating as clearly as possible as I hold her gaze, I repeat, “No… Mom… SHE…. IS…. IN… SPAIN… NOT… INSANE… IN… SPAIN.”

Her expression shifts as she takes in what has been said. Then the corners of her eyes begin to crinkle, as do mine, and we break out into hysterical laughter and our hearts become light again.

STAYCATION

O.K., now what I really intended to write about yesterday, before my mind veered off in a totally unexpected direction, was the conversation that transpired after Dr. S asked “How are you doing?”

As always, we begin talking about how life is going because he really is interested.

“Are you going anywhere this summer?” he asks.

I inhale, as one does just before beginning to respond, when he proceeds to answer his own question, “Oh, I guess not after last year's trip.”

I’ve been seeing him so long now that he’s beginning to converse like me.

And, he’s right. Rod and I have been exploring options, even considering renting the cottage that was one leaning fridge, leaky ceiling and broken step up from camping. One of my fav cottage experiences by the way – very Walden Pondish.

“We’ve pretty much decided that we might just stay at home; tell everyone that we’re going away and then not answer the phones. Since we both work out of the house this is a really, really bold step for us. To have our house just as our home for a week, well that could be amazing cuz sometimes it feels like it’s business 24/7 and the only way we can get away from it is to literally get out of the house. So, if we told everyone we knew we were away it wouldn’t be so difficult not to answer the phone.” I replied.

“Oh, a Staycation” he said.

Brilliant! I love this word and was so pleased that another made-up, new word has been added to my favourite word list.

Hmmm… I'm thinking. He’d said the word with such authority. Maybe it really is a word. And, as I was driving today I vaguely recollected catching bits of an episode of Brett Butt’s Corner Gas in which he says he’s going on vacation but stays at home and sends post cards from his “trip”. Sounds like a staycation to me. It’s just too good not to be a word.

And, sure enough I googled and this is what I found for staycation. It is a neologism. Now, I know that you now know what a neologism is cus you just had to click on that one too. But, I just had to write that word cus I love it and I love that there is a word for the process of newly created words that are on the verge of becoming recognized as words by the general populace. It's magical!

The key issue for our particular form of staycation is – can we stay at home and not answer the phone or the door?

This will be easier for me than for Rod. For most of my childhood Mom stayed at home alone with us 5 kids for weeks on end while Dad made his living as a traveling salesman. During these times she didn’t want any of us to answer the door for any reason.

So, it usually went like this - a knock would occur and suddenly the yelling and carrying on of 5 rambunctious kids would stop. We’d drop down to the floor and hide out of sight because the caller would usually peer in the picture window to try to see what had happened. Luckily the drapes, though sheer, did provide cover.

It became a game really, like playing the urban, home version of COMBAT. Some of us would go on a reconnaissance mission bravely crawling on our bellies to peek out and see who was there, despite the shout-whispers coming from Mom (who was hiding behind the louvered kitchen doors),"You kids stay where you are; keep down. Get away from the window." We'd then slither back to her and report on our findings so that she could decide whether to answer or not.

When I thought about it I was a little confused and saddened, after all most of the people we were evading were traveling salesmen out there trying to make a living; someone like my Dad. Were there families dropping down and crawling on their bellies all over Canada when he came to call? I was relieved when I discovered, as I got older, that he called on drugstores, hair salons and beauty schools so this was most unlikely.

So I am highly trained to ignore knocks on doors, doorbells buzzing and phones ringing etc. Hell, I can go on staycation even while you’re standing next to me. Rod, he’s an amateur.

I’ll have to get him into training soon as we plan to go on staycation sometime this summer, but you won’t know we’ve been there til we get back only there’ll be no going and no coming and don’t expect any postcards either.