PUDDLES

There are three things I don’t much like about snow, the way it falls, the length of time it stays, and the way it goes, slowly and sloppily, which is the part we’re in right now. Now don’t think me a complete Scrooge! I am not so far gone that a thick silent blanket of infinite stillness cannot move me on a dark night in November. I am not a person who would or could sit oblivious in the house with construction of a snow fort in progress just outside the window. Without shame I confess to firsthand knowledge of the prickly thrill that assails the person who cracks the thin morning ice cap on a March puddle. But after the crackling comes the puddle, the sinking, soaking sogging of a sock in a shoe on a foot that might have worn a boot just a few days earlier.

Try as I might, I cannot think of a more perplexed and befuddled being than a blind person who unexpectedly encounters the deep section of a puddle. The colder the puddle, the nicer the shoe, the more perplexed and befuddled that person will be. Conditions call for immediate escape. But how?

There are always three choices. You can step backward out of the puddle and try to go around. This requires the constant testing of the edges to determine where the perimeter might lie. After all is said and done, it sometimes impossible to make the adjustments that would continue the journey without re-entering the pond. The pond is always colder the second time. You can step backward out of the puddle and go back where you came from. This necessitates cancelling the journey, an unpopular decision if, for example, you are on your way to a meeting and it’s your turn to bring the doughnuts. Ultimately, and this is the choice I most often opt for, you can plunge ahead, hoping you have already experienced the deepest part and the far side is very near.

It’s a risky business. Experience has repeatedly taught me that puddles, ponds of still water that they are, run deep, deep as your ankle sometimes, deeper at others. And they run cold. Cold water can cause unusual thinking. You start to wonder, for example, how long it took Marilyn Bell to swim across Lake Ontario which, if I recall, was extremely cold, though I do not believe there was any ice floating there when she swam. . And you start thinking about that Dennis Lee poem you used to read to the kids: “I’m sitting in the middle of a rather muddy puddle with my bottom full of bubbles and my rubbers full of mud.”

Your mind’s ear can hear the gurgling. Your mind’s imagination begins to form the story you would tell, how the neighbours rushed out to find you laughing dementedly in the water. And that is when you have to hurry, to surge forward and find the opposite shore as quickly as possible, just in case you cannot resist the urge to sit right down.

HOW WE MAKE HOPE PRACTICAL TO HELP OTHERS: THE 99-SECOND ANSWER

Carrie was overwhelmed by depression. It was as if she was wearing glasses that showed her the world with all the hope and joy filtered out, and you can’t plan the future when you see only that. So she was sent out to take pictures of hope. I wonder what pictures you would take if you were sent on that mission.

Carrie photographed the old bird her father left in her care when he died a few months ago. . She photographed a street lamp shining in the dark. She took pictures of a tree that had once been cut off at the stump, and later struck by lightning, and was still growing. Then she turned and took pictures of her dog, who was watching her take pictures, and hoping she would soon be finished so they could go for a walk.

The exploding international field of hope research is providing my research colleagues and me with a wealth of ideas about how to make hope practical to help people at times when they need it most. We make meaning around acts of hope. We study language to see what we can say to give people hope. We work with symbols, like the hope-opotamus. And sometimes hope is a catalyst for goal setting. But for those of you who aren’t the type to set goals, I want to say that in all the plans and dreams I had for my future, I never once imagined that someday I would be a psychologist with a whole herd of hope-opotamuses.

AN OCCASION TO CELEBRATE

Lunch begins with cucumber and parsley salad with red currant vinaigrette, then continues on to mustard chicken served with a medley of carrots and broccoli complemented by three-layer potatoes. To finish the meal there is chocolate raspberry mousse and coffee. You don’t eat much. Dinner begins when the girl behind the counter asks what you will have, and you say: “Double Cheeseburger Meal with coffee.” You are starving!

At lunch you feature a classic beige jacket with matching flared skirt, complemented with silver accents. Dinner finds you braless, in blue jeans, complemented by a stretchy barn-red shirt and the soft white sweater going to fuzz balls your mom wore in the hospital.

At lunch you make a less-than-two-minute speech to 750 people following a video clip that is all about you. And you hug your friends and your family and a few dozen strangers and thank them for coming. At dinner you sit across from the man who sat beside you at lunch and nobody says much of anything.

Suppose they made a video about your work, and invited a few hundred people, and they let you make your speech before lunch, thereby allowing you to eat without the butterflies or the fear of spilling food on your suit, and you could show up braless, in blue jeans, complemented by the stretchy barn-red shirt and the soft white sweater going to fuzzy balls your mother wore in the hospital. Now that would be an occasion to celebrate!

HOW MY SHOULDER IS DOING: A SUMMARY IN VERSE

The bone has officially mended.

The doctor’s involvement has ended.

The muscles all screech

When I tell them to reach

And the tendons ask not to be bended.

When the physiotherapist stretches

I am one of those miserable wretches

Who strives to be grateful

For things that seem hateful

But mostly complains and kvetches.

THE TIME OF OPPORTUNITY

The warming days and cooling nights of late winter turn the tall soft drifts to icy rock. For most of us it is a time of waiting, a time of transition. For Pirate the dog, it is a time of opportunity. You can climb the icy rock, observe the big wide world from its peak, and then, when no one is looking, you can walk over the fence. Now you are free to embrace an adventure. How long will it be before they notice you are gone? How many back alley treasures can you claim for the chewing?

They will find you soon enough, and when they do, you can waggle your cheerful tail as if to say: “What took you so long?”

THE LITTLE STORY

As an act of hope, David wrote a story to post on the door of his father’s hospital room.  The story began like this.

 

My family wants you to know a little bit about me.  Since I can’t tell you it myself, they are writing this for you to read.

 

In general he was not a man who wrote stories.  But when you can see that things are wrong, and you have taken the logical steps to fix them, and you are seized by an overwhelming sense of helplessness, you do things you might not do at other times. 

 

He hoped that the staff would think of his father as a person, so he began with language his father might have used. 

 

I celebrated my 89 birthday on January 6.  Over my 89 years, I have provided loyal service to my God, my country, my family and my community.

 

He hoped the staff would pay more attention to a man with an interesting life than they were paying to this paralyzed man who could not speak to them. 

 

I was raised in Manitoba and in the Peace River area of Northern Alberta.  I was one of the few boys of my generation who completed high school.  I homesteaded at age 16.  In 1960 at age 43, we moved to Edmonton so that I could follow my life long dream of going to university.  I completed a 4-year Bachelor of Education degree in 3 years.  I was an instructor in Business Education at NAIT for 19 years.  During that time I completed my Bachelor of Science degree in Computing Science and my Master in Education.  I loved to study and read.  After I retired, Iris and I traveled the world.

 

He hoped that a little humour would get their attention and so he wrote: 

 

I am a veteran of World War II – and one of the benefits of the war is that I met and married my wonderful wife of 61 years, Iris.  She is Welsh, and people even thought I had a Welsh accent. 

 

He hoped to shed a little light on some of the things that might be irritating the staff, so he wrote. 

 

Five years ago I had a serious stroke, which meant that I couldn’t speak or walk.  But I could still communicate, play cards, and enjoy life at home.  Last December, my body grew weaker and I was admitted to the hospital.  I moved to Long Term Care in February, but got a chicken pox virus which brought me to this room. I am here by fate.  I never drank, smoked, or swore.  One of the tricks that my body has played on me, is that I say swear words now when I want to be able to tell you my needs. 

 

Finally, he hoped they would realize what a gracious man his father intended to be, so he wrote:

 

If I could, I would thank you for taking care of me!   

 

It was not a perfect story, for it was written in a hurry.  But it seemed important, urgent really, that something be done.  So he printed the little story, jumped into the car, went straight to the hospital and read it to his father. 

 

At another time, his father might have withheld his praise, quibbled over the details, requested time for a thorough review.  But things were not as they had been, and he gave enthusiastic assent on the first reading.  David posted the story in the hallway at the entrance to his father’s room. 

 

I wish I could report that, from this moment forward, the staff flocked to the room, wanting to be with him, jostling each other for opportunities to stand by his bed, the way they might if Wayne Gretzky was admitted to their unit.  .  That story will have to be written as fiction.  What I can report is that some staff read the story, and some of them commented on it when they visited his room. 

 

As an act of hope, the story was a smashing success.  For it transformed helplessness into action.  Today that story is still around, a comforting reminder that his loved-ones made many efforts to speak up on his behalf when he was no longer able to speak up for himself. 

FOR DETECTIVES AND TREASURE HUNTERS

What are the things we can suddenly notice in routines that are so familiar?  We walk along the path in a hot winter’s day when the sun is removing our hats and our mittens.  Over the din of the traffic, and the barking excitement of the scurrying dogs we pause at the sound of dripping water.  A dozen miniature waterfalls have sprung themselves from the clay bank that rises to our right.  Gurgling and bubbling they send out their trickles while we wonder how we can be hearing this sound for the first time on a path we follow every day.

 

Next morning I sit listening absent-mindedly to the story of the loaves and fishes.  Five barley loaves and two fishes are produced and offered up as lunch to a crowd of five thousand.  And there are the old familiar questions.  How did the food stretch to feed so many?  Did people in the crowd get out their lunches and add their contents to the picnic?  Did Jesus do some sort of expanding miracle on the food?  Suddenly there is a detail I have always known, but now notice for the first time.  The crowd numbers five thousand.  Jesus addressed this crowd.  Does anyone ever pause while contemplating the food to wonder how, without a modern public address system, he made himself heard in an outdoor venue?

 

Here we see two consecutive examples of the force that surely propels the efforts of detectives and treasure hunters.  How can we fail to have hope when, in observing something we have observed hundreds, maybe thousands of times, we notice a detail that previously escaped our attention?  In the daily grind of the familiar, possible discoveries abound. 

THE ATHLETE AND THE COUCH POTATO

Pain, if it is not too overwhelming, is something you get used to after a while.  It travels with you, sleeps with you, makes rules about what can and cannot be done.  And then there comes an afternoon when, as you sit at your desk, reviewing the latest professional hope research literature, you are struck by an awareness that something is different.  At first you wonder what has been added, and then you realize that it is not that something has been added, but rather that something has unaccountably gone missing.  The missing thing is pain. 

 

There follows a moment of wonder, and then a moment of celebration, and finally, an appraisal.  For this arm, the one with the pain, is still falling short of her potential.  Not yet reached is the time when she will once again retrieve the second row of water glasses from the third kitchen shelf, or stretch back to fasten a bra hook, or hold the railing while stepping down from the city bus. 

 

So you pause in your reading to stretch, and extend, and hold for twenty seconds six times in each pose, the way the physiotherapist taught you to do.  And you keep this up until the old aching tug has taken up its position once again.   Then you go back to reading research articles from the hope literature.  But a part of you is now wondering if, albeit inadvertently, you might have discovered one internal difference between athletes and couch potatoes.  Could it be that a couch potato will rest until the pain goes away, while an athlete, noticing the absence of pain, will see the untapped potential and jump up to stretch some more?

 

 You want to be the athlete.  It seems the right thing to be.  but honestly, you have to admit that there is definitely a generous portion of  couch potato in you.

 

THE SPRINGY SIDE OF WINTER

If we are still in winter coats, sporting our heavy gloves, toques ever at the ready, shoveling snow every second day, then what choice have we but to take comfort from the knowledge that we are now into the springy side of winter?

 

Nestled in their indoor pots, AT THE WARMEST POINT OF MID-DAY, the begonia bulbs are putting out tentative shoots while Pirate, stretched full length on the sunny hardwood, dreams of the bones and balls buried beneath the front yard drifts.  Halfway out of the valley, on our morning climb to work, a red and yellow sun pops boldly over the horizon, casting long-distance beams on the glass of the downtown high-rises. 

 

“This could be our last cold snap of the winter,” we say encouragingly as we zip the zippers of our warmest boots.  It is, after all, the springy side of winter. 

MAGGIE HODGSON FOR HOPE LADY

Maggie Hodgson definitely gets my vote for The Hope Lady Award.  She talks about aboriginal people in a manner that can only make them proud of themselves, only make them want to be more like the people she has noticed.  Some information from her bio is quoted below.  At the end is the address of the website where you can hear her interview aired Feb. 23 2007 on CBC Radio’s The Current.  You cannot help but believe things could change when you hear her speak. 

 

The Honourable Dr. Maggie Hodgson, Health Services

Maggie Hodgson is the Founder and Executive Director of the Nechi Institute on Alcohol and Drug Education, an adult addictions counselor training and research

centre.  She has worked in the area of addictions for twenty years, and on suicide prevention, sexual abuse, residential schools, family violence, communications,

gambling addictions, Aboriginal inmate aftercare, and mental health.  Dr. Hodgson is responsible for the creation of the Angus Campbell Detoxification

Centre; the Community Action Society that advocates on behalf of welfare recipients; the 1320 Car Club; the Moose Jaw Friendship Centre; and Moose Jaw

Transition House for battered women.  She was the driving force behind the National Addictions Awareness Week, which now boasts 700,000 participants annually;

the First World Addictions Conference in 1992 that drew 3,200 Aboriginal people from around the world.  When Ovid Mercredi went to Davis Inlet during the

1993 crisis, he chose Dr. Hodgson to accompany him due to her expertise. She sits on many boards and committees including:  The Royal Commission on Aboriginal

Issues; the Edmonton Social Planning Council; the Canada Drug Strategy; the Minister of Health’s Committee on Native Suicide; and Corrections Canada’s

Substance Abuse Task Force.  Dr. Hodgson graduated with a Grade 12 education, received an Honourary Doctorate of Laws from the University of Alberta, and

has taken numerous courses over the years to become one of the Aboriginal community’s leading health care workers, trainers, organizers and advocates. 

She is married with three children, and lives in Edmonton.

 

http://www.cbc.ca/thecurrent/2007/200702/20070223.html

THREE REASONS TO CELEBRATE

Reason #1

This is Family Day, invented 17 years ago by Don Getty, an unpopular Alberta Premier who wanted to please us.  And what could have pleased us more than a day off in the long darkness of February, placed smack in the middle between Christmas and Easter?  People said it would ruin the economy.  But the economy appears to be doing just fine.  The air is frosty.  The sun is shining.  

 

Reason #2

Big progress for me!  Standing flat on my feet, heels pressed against the floor, I can retrieve a water glass from the third shelf with my gimpy right arm.  Some have read my accounts of gradual recovery and thought that I was writing about baby steps.  But I thought I was writing about giant steps.  How often in life to we have the privilege of noticing measurable changes almost every day? 

 

Reason #3

Something is changing in Saskatchewan.  Seventeen years after Family day was declared in Alberta, Saskatchewan’s Premier became unpopular and decided to give Saskatchewan a Family Day holiday.  Eight other provinces and three territories are still suffering the long haul between Christmas and Easter, wondering if it is true that all things come to those who are willing to wait.  People are saying this day of leisure could harm Saskatchewan’s economy.  Only time will tell. 

PROBLEMS AND PROGRESS

THIS WEEK!

 

My watch stopped running.

My talking book player stopped playing.

The furnace unilaterally decided to keep the house cool.

The dog’s bowels refused to wait for a good time.

My shoulder declined the instant recovery option.

The front door knob adopted the practice of keeping everyone on the outside.

 

Progress On The Remedies

 

Bought a new watch

Manufacturer replaced the talking book player

Furnace repair man is willing to keep on trying.  Thank goodness for the fire place!

Dog will be taken to see the vet.  So far all messes have been cleaned up before I unwittingly stepped in them.

Physio for the shoulder with pullies and sticks

Front door abandoned.  Using the back door instead. 

There is, after all,  a limit to the number of things that can be addressed in any given week.

 

Every problem requires its own special solution.

YOU CAN'T GO OUT ALONE!

“I will be getting around on my own in just a few days,” I said on the day after my shoulder broke.

 

“Too early to talk about that now,” said David.  “You can’t go out alone.  You can’t even stand up for more than a couple of minutes.”

 

He had a point.  I gave him that.

 

“I’ll soon be going out on my own,” I said when a week had gone by.  T

Here was no particular place I needed to go, but the thought that I could not do it was driving me to Cabin Fever.

 

“You can’t go out alone,” said David.  “What if somebody knocks against your shoulder?  “You won’t be able to stand the pain.”

 

He had a point.  I gave him that and grudgingly took a taxi when I went back to the office.

 

“I’m almost ready to go out on my own,” I said, after I had been back at work for a few days.  Sure it was below minus twenty out there with blowing snow and huge slippery drifts, bracing wind chill on top, conditions that would have sorely tempted me to take a taxi at any other time.  But Cabin Fever goes straight to the brain.

 

“You cannot go out alone,” said David.  “Think how terrible it would be if you fell!  You might be in a cast for weeks.  You might miss your trip to New York!”

 

He had a point.  I gave him that.  But then a temptation was placed in my path.  I was getting my teeth cleaned, and I had not ordered a cab or arranged a ride, not knowing exactly when the job would be finished.  The dental building had an indoor connection to the LRT platform.  The LRT exit was only a block and a half from my office, and I knew the university would have that path cleared and sanded.  I might have run the idea past David, but he simply wasn’t there. 

 

As a compromise to his objections, expressed in absentia, I promised to take no risks.  I walked very slowly.  I stopped at each door, carefully considering which hand to reach out, which hand to put in charge of holding the door.  And then, in a highly commendable display of self-discipline, I walked slowly down the stairs, even though the train was on the platform, even though I could have caught it.  I waved it a cheerful good-bye and stepped carefully on to the platform just as it began to pull away.  While I waited for the next train, I practised the speech I would give to David.  I would be humble, grateful for his loving protection.  I would explain that it is essential to move on, to push yourself, to achieve more than others think you can achieve. 

 

I was on the next train.  I got off at the right spot.  The university had cleared the path.  I walked slowly, slower than you ought to walk when it is minus twenty.  And when I had covered the first block, I became aware that my white cane seemed to be gaining weight.  Compact and light-weight at the journey’s beginning, it now hung heavy in my hand, heavier after each step, pulling hard on an upper arm muscle that had never announced itself on any past journey that I could remember.   

 

So I don’t think I will go out alone for a few more days, and I will grudgingly admit that David was right.  But he was wrong about the reason why I couldn’t.  He isn’t perfect, after all.

THE TUG OF THE AMARYLLIS

Just as there are pansies for those who love the colour purple, and lilacs for those who crave a fragrant experience, so too is there a plant for those impatient souls who must see a change taking place in order to believe that it is happening.  Their plant is the Amaryllis.  There is no turning back once Amaryllis has shown the tip of her stock, declaring her intention to bloom.  Every day the stock is noticeably taller than the day before.  Every day it points its tip toward the light, then gradually switching to vertical then changing the angle if you turn the pot to point the stock away from the light.  Up, up it goes until the magic day when it bursts open to unpack the buds of the glorious red flowers to come.  A short celebration of beauty will command the attention of all who see it.  Then, in a couple of weeks the casual observer will see no noticeable sign that there ever was a flower stock. 

 

A recovering shoulder is a study for us impatient souls who must see a change in order to believe that it is taking place.  One day you can touch the kitchen counter top, then the toaster top, then the coffee maker top, then the plate shelf, then the juice glass shelf.  One day an index finger can trail the edge of the third shelf up, the next it can extend an inch over the surface.  And the arm will turn in the direction in which it is pointed, so it must be pointed in another direction, the hurting direction to turn it there as well. 

 

And you just can’t help but wonder, does the Amaryllis feel the tug when you turn the pot?

 

 

WHAT IS HUMOROUS ABOUT THE HUMERUS?

At first they called it a broken shoulder, an idea that seemed simple enough until people started to raise questions.  And so, even though I generally like things to be simple, I studied a bit of anatomy and began referring to it as a humerus broken at the tuberosity.  That is when the real questions revealed themselves.  For example, what, exactly is humorous about the humerus?  It is only an ordinary bone that connects the elbow to the group of bones that are collectively known as the shoulder.  Nothing funny about that, especially when it breaks.  In my opinion, it ought to be called the upper arm bone.  But then, I missed the meeting where they named the bones, so what right have I to speak up after the work has all been done?

 

And then there is the tuberosity.  What in the world is a tuberosity anyway?  From what I understand, and I use the term ‘understand’ loosely, tuberosity is to tubercles what herd is to cows, and flock is to geese.  Tubercles, it seems, are knobs that attach a small army of shoulder muscles to the humerus.  Maybe they are like the tightening screws on guitar strings, the ones that keep the strings connected to the guitar body.  Anyway, when you gather a few of them together they form a tuberosity. 

 

With anatomy questions jauntily set aside, I made myself available to address issues of daily living.  Like, how will I eat with my right arm in a sling, how will I brush my teeth?  These simple questions seemed to resolve themselves.  Left Hand, known affectionately as Lefty, took her new responsibilities very seriously, making impressive progress at skill development.  So commendable was her devotion that I am rewarding her initiative by letting her eat and brush half the time even though Righty is now able to take on some of these duties.  I even intend to let her do some of the eating and brushing when Righty is able to do it without hurting. 

 

So, as you can see, things are coming along nicely.  But some questions still remain.  One that currently gets a lot of my attention is, when will I be able to walk alone?  It is not that I need Righty to punch out would-be attackers, though I confess that the job would probably fall to her if push came to shove.  But I really do need two hands to walk, one to hold the white cane, and the other to carry things, open doors, and find stair rails.  And these hands have to be somewhat interchangeable, which means that Righty will have to give up some of this hurting every time she is asked to do something. 

 

And there was one last troubling question, though I seem to have that one figured out.  How will I get sympathy now that Righty is out of the sling?  I still need sympathy after all, am likely to need it for a while.  For now, I have discovered a workable answer.  I simply wear a long-sleeved sweater over a short-sleeved sweater.  If I notice I am not getting the sympathy I deserve, I carefully remove the outer sweater to reveal a sight that makes them draw in a quick breath and offer to serve me chocolate or anything else I might want.  When I ask them what they see, they describe the scene as an ugly display of black, blue and yellow with no visible sign of an identifiable elbow.  They understand this to be a barometer to measure pain.  Proof positive that, when it comes to measuring pain, seeing is believing.  

A CELEBRATION OF JANE

When Linda was planning Jane’s surprise birthday party, she saw one major hurdle.  How would she get Jane to come to the party?

 

"That’s simple,” I said without a pause.  "I will ask Jane to drive me to some fictitious event at the place where the party is being held."  And it was that simple.  I asked Jane to drive me to a speaking engagement.  She said she would. 

 

Knowing we are both alone this afternoon, Jane has arrived at my house twenty minutes early.  She has brought us a Tim Horton’s English Toffee coffee to drink while we wait.  She has brought two blouses that will fit me well.  She hardly wears them any more.  Jane and I talk as we kill time in my kitchen.  Over the years we have developed a shared love for lilies in the yard and geraniums nurtured in sunny pots while we wait for spring to come.  She has stood in front of my kitchen sink on hundreds of Sundays, rinsing off greasy pots and scraping away the residue of scalloped potatoes.  When the last pan was scoured she would go quietly outside and smoke with my boys.  I never wanted my boys to smoke, and she would not have wanted that either.  But I was happy that they could smoke with Aunty Jane.  It gave them a chance to have quiet time with her, to be buddies away from the big crowd.  Only good could come from that. 

 

Jane and I both joined the Edey family as young adults.  I was inducted when I married David.  She came in as an informally adopted daughter because she was Linda’s roommate and best friend.  She is one with us, and with her family of origin as well.  She is the eldest among seven siblings in a family that also fostered others while she was growing up.  And later, when the mom in the other half of their duplex died, leaving a husband and baby, Jane and Linda gave their hearts and their resources so that little Nicole could grow up in two attached loving homes with three active parents. 

 

It takes many kinds of people to make the world special.  Some make great discoveries.  Some win Nobel prizes.  Some take on the role of president, or chairman.  Many others live quiet lives, going to work every day, doing more than their share without expecting praise or special recognition.  Jane is one of the quiet ones. 

 

I tell her it is time to leave for my speaking engagement.  She helps me gather my things together.  She locks the door with my key because my arm is sore.  “The parking lot is pretty full,” she says as we approach the hall where her birthday party is being held.   I will let you out at the door and take you in then I will park the car.”  But there is no need for this.  To her surprise, there is a vacant spot right at the door. 

 

I take a deep breath.  We have made it this far.  It seems impossible that she would not know.  A thousand lies have been woven together while Linda summoned Jane’s family from across the country, her workmates, her pool pals.  At least a dozen lies were told so that she might arrive, all dressed up on a Saturday afternoon in this unlikely place at this precise moment.  But Jane is a gracious woman.  If she thought you had a surprise going, she would not ruin it. 

 

We pause in the foyer to hang our coats on the rack.  Behind the closed door, balloons are floating.  People have gathered at circular tables.  Seventy voices are waiting to sing the Happy Birthday song.  Later Jane will say, "When the door opened I was looking toward the back for the place where I could drop out of sight as soon as I got Wendy settled.  Then I saw my brother."  And who could have said it better?  It is a statement of vintage Jane, through and through. 

 

There is a mountain of delicious food, a short tribute given by her brother and a slide show.  There is no speech from Jane.  She just walks around the room, talking to dozens of people who love her.  Finally, she permits others to whisk her away, leaving the clean-up chores for somebody else.  This is a special day, after all. 

WONDERING WHY

What better time can there be to wonder things than in the middle of the night?  The house is relatively quiet, except for the clicking and whir of the fridge, the pop-popbang of the vinyl siding as it adjusts to temperature changes and the little whoops that Pirate makes as he dreams his doggy dreams.  I wonder, for example, why it is that we have our babies at the time in life when we have no aches and pains to keep us awake at night.  Most nights, at this stage in life, a baby crying for a 3:00 feeding would find me wide awake, wondering why it stayed asleep for so long.  No sign of the mumbling,m stumbling half-awake creature who groggily changed their diapers and gave them the breast.  And on those rare nights when Mom was, by some miracle, sleeping through, Dad would surely be alert, despite the fact that he leaves for work in only a few hours.

 

Dad says he knows the answer to this question.  We don’t have the babies at this stage because, due to our indigestion, accompanied by various aches and pains,  we don’t get enough sleep to enable us to be competent parents during the day. 

CHANGES

Impossible feats of yesterday that are possible for me today

 

Typing with two hands

Throwing the dog’s ball with my left hand

Putting my right arm into a sleeve without screaming

Holding a water glass in one hand while adjusting the tap with the other

 

The process of daily living is an intricate ballet where each limb plays a unique role.  How little do we appreciate its complexity!  Observing the return of physical function is like noticing that the birds are returning after a winter’s southern sojourn.  The arrivals on one day, heralded and left unrecorded, will be taken for granted the next day, forgotten in a blur of normal expectation. 

 

Impossible feats of last week that are possible this week

 

Standing upright without nausea

Forgetting to take a painkiller

Sleeping without the sling

Promising to be somewhere and believing that I mean it

 

Bill is officially retired, but he continues to work part time in the plaster room, casting broken bones.  Today he has dropped by unexpectedly to speed my recovery with the delivery of a loaf of freshly baked bread.  How amazing that he should arrive at the exact moment when I am calling a taxi for my maiden voyage to the office!  Taking on the role of taxi driver, he tells me about the people who shrink from the prospect of using the limbs he has repaired.  Perhaps it hurts too much, or maybe they are not troubled by a few dozen commitments that must either be abandoned or rescheduled.  All of it speaks to the value of seeing yourself as part of someone else’s future, to the value of having commitments. 

COMFORT FOOD

Ham and scalloped potatoes, chicken with cranberry glaze, hamburger with tomato and macaroni, gingerbread, brownies—because chocolate makes everything better.  Comfort food brought to the door by friends and relations.  Amazing people!  

 

THANKS!!!

PAIN VS WENDY

One second of lying on the ice after a fall is plenty.  At the 10 second mark the situation has been assessed.  Getting up will require a serious negotiation with Pain.  Pain crushes harder than a dump truck and says, “Stay there forever.” 

 

Wendy says “Over my dead body!”  Then she summons all her living body parts, moans some cryptic directions to David, tells her right shoulder where to go, gathers her skates beneath her, and rises to her feet. 

 

Round 1 goes to Wendy.

 

Pain is a foaming ocean with rising waves that pound and thunder.  Four hours later Wendy says, “I should walk out of this Emergency Ward and go home where I could get a pain killer, put ice on the swelling, make a sling for this shoulder, and lie down.”

 

Pain says, “Stand up and I’ll make you throw up.  Wait here for the doctor, or until Hell freezes as hard as skating ice.”

 

Emergency doc says “Wear this sling, get some ice, be grateful it is such a clean break, have David load you into the car before returning our wheelchair and take as few drugs as possible.”

 

Round 2 goes to Pain.

 

Wendy says, “I will go to work tomorrow.  I’ll give lectures.  I’ll counsel distressed clients.  I will be photographed for glossy publications.  I’ll sing a solo on Sunday.  And I will do it all without those nasty narcotics.”

 

Pain says, “Take the drugs, lie down, cancel everything and shut up.” she rewards all efforts to prove her wrong with outrageous spasms that resemble terrorist attacks, or labour pains.  Wendy breaks all her promises.

 

David gets to work late most days, washes hair, cooks, swabs smelly armpits, visits his mother who is having back surgery, sleeps poorly, entertains Wendy’s visitors and probably wishes he could take drugs. 

 

Round 3 goes to Pain.

 

Wendy goes to the theatre.  Wingfield’s Inferno is on stage.  She made this commitment long before she and Pain locked horns.  Pain joins her at the theatre, then lays her flat the next day. 

 

David does not say he told her so. 

 

Round 4 is a tie.  Wingfield was worth it. 

 

Orthopaedic specialist says Pain is crafting a nefarious plan to freeze shoulder harder than skating ice.  Take drugs!  Throw caution to the wind.  Remove sling.  Drift hand in tiny circles.  Walk fingers up the wall.  Find a hockey player, borrow his stick, and grab it from behind your back.  Could it be that the specialist is on drugs? 

 

David is three hours late for work. 

 

Pain sulks in the muscles.  “I’ll get you tomorrow,” she hisses. 

 

But that is tomorrow.  Today, round 5 goes to Wendy.