The Change of Seasons

Well, autumn is definitely upon us. We've had one of the loveliest Septembers on record, I'm sure, and Environment Canada is telling us we're about to have a lovely October as well.

Nevertheless, the temperature is dropping. And with that change comes a new settling-in of two people who haven't lived together in a winter before - Boyfriend and me.

Boyfriend is a nudist. He likes his boys to swing freely in the (warm) breezes. He has already compromised, though I'm sure his heart is aching, in that we don't yet have curtains up in the living room to block the view of the - ahem - swingset. He's generously given me till Christmas to make a set of curtains, after which he'll pay someone to make the curtains for us. And I figure if I can't make a set of curtains by Christmas, it's time to give the sewing machine away!

But back to my poor, inconvenienced Boyfriend.

Being a nudist, he likes the house warm.

I'm a woman in her fifties. Can you say "hot flash!?"

For two nights running, I've slept beautifully. That's because the temperature has finally dropped down to about 18 at night and I've put the down-filled duvet on the bed. I'm warm and cosy beneath the covers, and the air is cool and soothing around me. All is right with my world.

Trouble is, Boyfriend gets up at five o'clock in the morning. I get up around nine, or ten, or maybe eleven...

He has a deviated septum, and so is sensitive to cold air, and he was completely stuffed up and sneezing and blowing his nose, waiting for me to get up so he could put on the heat, even though it's HIS house.

Can you say, "Awwwww...?"

When I surfaced at nine this morning, Boyfriend had been up, shivering, for four hours. He'd wrapped himself in the quilt that's on the sofa. He'd come in to get his winter housecoat, his slippers, his warm socks. I got up to pee, and quickly realized it was !*$%# freezing in the house, and told him to put the heat up.

I quickly ascertained that he was a block of ice and offered to make him porridge. He looked up at me with the grateful eyes of a child about to cry. Porridge and buttered toast were comfort foods from when he was a wee bairn. I got them in front of him and saw even his hands were clenched with the cold. Poor bunny! Even I, immune as I am to the "suffering" of males, was moved to pity!

So we've now decided that when he gets up he's allowed to put the heat on, and we'll just close off the outlet in the bedroom and see how that works.

I'll keep you posted on the further trials and tribulations of settling in!

The Di'el Didna Want Me

So I'm home from my surgery, basking in the well-wishing of friends and enjoying a break from the routine. I was surprised that a couple of my friends were completely taken by surprise to discover I'd had a partial mastectomy. I thought I'd broadcasted my condition worldwide. Apparently I missed a few.

It happened this way. I promised my Daughter that I'd have a mammogram this year, because I've been successfully avoiding them for four years now. At the time I booked the appointment, I lived in NDG, so I booked at a clinic there. I went, got squished and irradiated, and left, thinking I'd hear from them in two more years.

Instead, I got a phone call from the clinic two days later wanting me to come in for a second mammogram, an enlargement of one area. At that time I was told I had something called "microcalcification clusters," and that these usually turned out to be nothing. So I wasn't worried. This time I was told to wait around for the radiologist to read the mammograms and discuss them with me.

She was very nice. She explained that these things are usually nothing, that in most cases like mine they simply decided to have the patient back every six months to see if the area changed. She said I could see a breast specialist if I was worried, and that in fact there was a new breast specialist at the clinic on the same floor. So I walked over and they gave me an appointment.

I expected that when I saw the specialist I'd be told these things were usually nothing, and to come back in six months for another mammogram.

Instead, the specialist said she was referring me to Hotel-Dieu, where they have a nopnotch breast clinic and state-of-the-art equipment and the best breast diagnosticians in Montreal. I was to take my x-rays and my CD to them and drop them off along with her referral, and they would contact me and tell me whether they wanted me to come in or whether I should turn up in six months for another mammogram.

Of course, that's what I expected, but instead they asked me to come back in for a biopsy and more mammograms.

The biopsy was "interesting:" I had to remain motionless for 45 minutes with my boob hanging through a circular hole in a very uncomfortable platform. The boob was frozen and immobilized in a vise, two sites were biopsied and markers left where the tissue had been sampled. Titanium, and no, it doesn't set off airport alarms.

I was told my specialist would receive the results in two weeks and to make an appointment to see her.

I expected to be told, everything's fine, come back next year.

Instead, she said, "Okay, I'm going to perform an excision." One of the biopsied sites had yielded "atypical" cells. The way I was given to understand it, if a normal cell is white and a cancer cell is black, I was in a 30% grey. It wasn't a lump, just some cells that weren't normal.

So because this was surgery, I had to go for pre-op tests, and that's when I met the pre-op nurse, who used the term "partial mastectomy."

I didn't like the sound of that. "The surgeon called it an excision," I said. She nodded vigorously. Yes, an excision in the breast is called a partial mastectomy.

How about that. I didn't hear much of what the nurse told me after that. My brain was trying to come to grips with that M-word. Adding to my discomfort, she handed me a pamphlet describing exercises I was to perform after my surgery. To minimize the effects of lymphodema.

I stared at the booklet uncomprehendingly. Lymph nodes? They might have to take out lymph nodes? I put all the papers away to look over at home later.

Then I had to meet with an anesthesiologist. I thought, "what a bore." What on earth was that about? Well, it turned out to be about my sleep apnea, the reason I have a V-PAP machine. (That's a machine that keeps your airways open at night using Positive Air Pressure.) The anesthesiologist thought I'd better stay in the hospital overnight and bring my V-PAP with me, because apparently anesthesia can make you stop breathing.

Oh. Okay then. So now, I've gone from "come back in two years for your next mammogram" to staying overnight in a hospital. I was starting to freak out, despite still being assured that these things were usually nothing.

It didn't help when Daughter decided she was going to come stay with me. I figured for sure I was going to die from the anesthesia then. Fortunately she got a gig in Toronto that kept her there during my surgery! I mean, I didn't mind that she wanted to be with me, but, let's face it - I'm not getting any younger. There will no doubt be plenty of opportunities for her to come hold my hand as I'm wheeled into the operating room in years to come. It'll be old hat some day, I'm sure. And no doubt far more serious.

The day finally arrived. It began by a 6:30 a.m. start to drive to Hotel-Dieu again, where, back in the room with the painful bed with the hole for my boob to hang down, a "harpon" was inserted into the site where the atypical cells had been discovered. I called it a harpoon. It was a small wire, but "harpoon" was funnier, since it brought to mind lines about whales. The harpoon was sticking out of my boob and got taped up. Next stop, the Verdun hospital for the surgery.

So I found myself signing in to Day Surgery and being assured that after the surgery had actually happened I'd be transferred to a room. I was asked at least a dozen times if I'd remembered to bring my V-PAP machine with me. Hubby patiently carried my bag from point to point and sat with me while we waited for my surgery time to arrive. Finally the orderly came for me. Hubby leant forward, gave me a kiss and said "Repent - the end is near!" So I entered the operating room laughing my head off. Bless my dear Hubby - he doesn't say much, but when he does, it's hilarious!

Then the head anesthesiologist said this was supposed to be day surgery and he'd send me home afterwards, no need to stay in overnight. O-kayyy, I said. I guess.

My surgeon arrived and checked my films again. Everything was a go, everything was fine. Oh, she wasn't going to be there the day after to release me in person, because she had to stay home and wait for the refrigerator repairman to come. You know - you have to stay home from 8 a.m. till whenever they come, because they can't give you a specific time... It was hard not to laugh. Here we are, mighty surgeon and ordinary plebe, both humbled and brought low before the almighty refrigerator repairman! I told her the anesthesiologist wanted to send me home anyway and she said she'd make sure to write my release in just in case.

And then I was wheeled in and the I.V. put in, and then I was waking up in the recovery room. And then I was wheeled back to the Day Surgery room for further observation, where Hubby was waiting for me.

"I made it!" I said. "Not dead yet!" he answered. A familiar old joke. And the meaning behind the title of this blog, incidentally, for those of you who don't speak Scots! "The Devil didn't want me" is the English translation!

And then began the post-operative dithering about whether I was staying or going home. I was game. Before they'd let me go home though, I had to make to the bathroom under my own steam. Right, I'll try it now, I said, and proceeded to get up.

Then I quickly lay back down and called for the kidney-shaped bucket. Oops. I'd forgotten I get naseous after general anesthesia.

Okay, said the nurse, I think I'm going to give you something for nausea. We've got three protocols for nausea, I'll give you the first one. Okay. It put me back to sleep, of course. But a short time later I was ready to try again. One, two, three, upsie-daisy...

No-go, back to the barf bucket.

Okay, I'll try the second one, said the nurse. And back to sleep I went. And tried again. Again with the same result. And protocol three went the same way.

At this point the nurse wisely decided to try removing the oxygen stream and seeing how I was breathing on my own. Not five minutes later, the alarm went off beside me. My oxygen had dropped lower than 83%, and that's a very bad thing. So she gave me the oxygen again, and we tried a little later to see how my breathing was on my own. Beep beep beep went the alarm.

At which point she said "I'd feel a lot happier if you were to stay in overnight so we could monitor you."

"Well, that was the original plan!" I said.

And in no time I was in my semi-private room, my V-PAP chugging away happily, Hubby gone gratefully home to bed, and me finally allowed to stay in dreamland for 2 hours at a time. Because of course, "monitoring" me meant they had to wake me up every 2 hours to check my vitals. No matter. I made it through the night and got released near noon the next day, and now I'm home recovering.

No pain to speak of - it feels a little itchy, sometimes feels like I have a large splinter. But I've enjoyed a steady stream of visitors, calls, and good wishes on Facebook. Sadly, no chocolates have appeared yet, but today R brought me flowers - yay! And any minute now Daughter is going to arrive from Toronto for a brief visit.

So that's the story of my partial mastectomy. I see the specialist in two weeks, at which time I expect to be told the cells weren't cancerous, and to come back in a year for another mammogram.

And then we'll see!

Carbs!

I made an error in judgement recently. I figured, since I'd lost about 40 lbs., that I could safely indulge in a few desserts. In fact, I was desperate to see if I could stop losing weight, since I didn't know the cause of the weight loss in the first place. Yes, I know, it's illogical.

But the fewer carbs you eat, the less you crave them.

And... once I started eating them again, I started craving them again.

Well, tonight I'm fighting the urge to go pop a few whippets. You know, marshmallow-filled, coated in dark chocolate. Oh, and did I mention, they're raspberry-filled as well? Umm, mmm mmm! Oh, and they are calling my name!

But I'm holding out.

It's autumn. This is the time of year I want to fatten up for winter hibernation. Get nice and plump, so I can crawl into bed till April, warm and cozy under my duvet, and get a really good sleep.

Unfortunately, I don't really hibernate. I am quite capable of gaining weight however, and I'm not actually wanting to put it back on.

It's been a nice ride, these past couple of weeks, snacking on cookies and squares. But I have experienced the lack-of-cravings before, and I'm going for it again.

So, no matter that the whippets are softly crooning "Eat me! Eat me!"

I am determined.

Safe and sound

There is a lovely full moon out tonight. The full moon always puts me in a wistful mood. Familiar and brilliant, she embodies my concept of the Great Goddess that was worshipped at the dawn of humanity, the life-giver, sacred feminine, mysterious.

It's been quite a while since I've thought about my pagan beliefs. This past spring was overshadowed by my coming out of a depression and starting to pack to move in with Boyfriend - a definite new chapter in my life. And then came the Move itself, with unpacking, settling in, a roof to be done, items to be sorted. And enjoying the summer as best we could. Visits back to see Hubby. Now a strike and a medical issue creating busyness.

But tonight I had my bridge ladies over to my new home for the first time. And it felt wonderful. Of course I had to give the grand tour when they arrived. My home is tidy, clean, and comfortable. Boyfriend's natural orderliness is rubbing off on me. It's a home you can relax in.

Hubby's home, on the other hand, is chaotic, noisy and cluttered. Poor Hubby is trying to hold it all together, with precious little help from his two DNA replicants, plus a destructive dog and a (shedding) long-haired cat. Stepdaughter's clothes are knee-deep in her room, and Stepson's clothes occupy four of the nine rooms in the house, plus the stairway. Both of them leave their personal effects wherever they drop. The concept of being considerate to the people they live with has simply not made it to their consciousness.

To be sure, they both help out from time to time, either when yelled at sufficiently or if they want to have people over. But the house usually looks like it could be on "Hoarders."

As Dr. Phil would no doubt say, this situation will continue as long as Hubby allows it to continue. It will stop when he makes it stop, and not a moment before.

When I go visit Hubby I try to help him out a bit. I can empty, load, and run the dishwasher. I can do laundry. I can change the sheets on the bed. I can pick up dog poop. I can brush the cat and give her water.

When I lived with Hubby I was able to keep the chaos mostly at bay. I would get angry much quicker than he did, I would insist that the children be made to pitch in. Apparently when I left everyone breathed one gigantic sigh of relief. There would be no more yelling.

And everything went to pot. Dirt, debris, junk all sifted into each room, basically filling all the available space, filling even the air with confusion.

I still love Hubby very much, and it breaks my heart to see him living in these conditions. And it has cast a shadow over me, over my happiness in my new home. It is hard to be happy when people we love are living in misery.

I had to leave. I was angry all the time, I was fighting a losing battle. I was constantly informed that I wasn't the parent, and every attempt was made to subvert my authority as the homeowner, and Hubby allowed it, didn't back me up, and it drove me away.

And now I have a different life. Still close to Hubby, yes. But my world is orderly, calm, relaxed. There is no fighting, there are no battles. Here there is cooperation and appreciation. Both Boyfriend and I are working together to keep our home serene.

And tonight I was thrilled to walk my bridge friends through my new home and welcome them here, where I live now.

The eldest member of our group is in her eighties - I'm not sure how high, but she's getting up there! She's been a friend of my Grandmother, my Mother and Father, a friend to me, to my Daughter and Stepchildren. She is one of the loveliest people ever to grace this earth. And tonight she said to me, as she was leaving, that it did her heart good to see me settled again in such a lovely home.

And now finally I can be truly thankful that I've been brought, safe and sound, to harbour. It feels now like I have permission to enjoy my life here, in this pleasant and comfortable place.

It feels like home.

A Day on the Picket Line

I'm on strike. So are 1700 others, my co-workers, non-academic staff at a prestigious university. (That's a hint as to which university it is - it likes to proclaim itself the "Harvard of the North.") I just spent my first four-hour shift on the picket line, and boy, do I ever hope this strike is over soon!

Remember, I'm an old lady, and I've been working a desk job for 20 years now! OMG, walking so slowly for such a long stretch of time is painful! I can barely hobble now, I never want to stand up as long as I live, and I have to do it all over again tomorrow. I hurt so much it brought tears to my eyes. I came home, hit the shower, and lay whimpering on the bed, crying out to Boyfriend to make supper for me.

This is way harder than working.

The Wooden Jewel Box

It's been a long time since I treated you to a tale about Hubby and his Offspring. I hope this fills a void!

Hubby is a pack-rat. Like all such afflicted individuals, he justifies his choices vigorously and with great imagination. His home is full of doo-dads and thingamajigs. In the kitchen cupboard that holds drinking glasses, for example, you'll find a stack of plastic beverage containers from the movies - oversized and decorated with the characters and images of the particular movie they saw - when the kids were seven or eight years old!

The "kids" are now both of "major age," as the law states. But the plastic beverage containers can't be thrown out, because the movies were fun.

CDs and DVDs litter the rooms. There is a bookcase in the basement where, years ago, some attempt to put these items into order was made. They were neatly stacked, even sorted, at the time. But the collection outgrew the bookcase, and new CDs and DVDs never made it into such storage. They are in piles everywhere throughout the house now. In drawers, cubbyholes, baskets, piled on dressers or on the kitchen table. Some of them are music, some are movies, but the bulk of the collection is software. Old software, mind you. Stuff from several operating systems ago. You and I would long ago have chucked this stuff into the garbage or recycling bin. But because Hubby works with computers, he has a pathological need to hang on to every single piece of software that has even been invented, claiming he might need it one day.

The thought of telling someone who asks him for outdated software "Sorry, you're out of luck," is something he just can't stomach.

I've often complained over the years that Hubby leaves everything where it drops. He has a kind of physical memory of where he's left things. Putting them away is counter-intuitive for him.

So basically, the house looks like an episode of "Hoarders." And Hubby is quick to justify each and every doodad I point to with "reasons" it can't be thrown out or given away.

His Offspring have inherited his pack-rat tendencies, along with an inability to put things away. It's confusion everywhere. Watch where you step.

So I felt a little guilty when visiting lately, because I still have "stuff" at the house that's taking up storage space. I feel I need to help him somehow. And while Hubby was digging around for something, I spotted a wooded jewel box tucked away under a dresser.

It was mine, and I distinctly remembered throwing it away a couple of years ago.

Sure, it's a nice-looking box, carved all over and with birds carved onto the lid. Yes, it was a gift at one time. Yes, I probably should have at least given it to Village-des-odeurs, (as we are fond of calling it).

But my complaint was that Hubby snuck out to the garbage and hauled it back in and hid it under a dresser. For two years.

Well, I relieved him of it and put it back in the garbage again, over his complaints of "Somebody paid someone a whole 29 cents to carve that!"

But he left it there.

However, the next day, at work, I was informed that Stepdaughter had seen the box, said "This is way too nice to throw out!" and hauled it back in, again.

And the box is currently sitting on the dining room table.

I guess I'm going to have to go get it myself and take it to Village, like I should have done two years ago.

It's Over

A friend of mine, C, tells the story of being prescribed orthopedic shoes. There she was in the store, with the salesman making suggestions to her, looking around in dismay at the ugly selections available. She asked the salesman, "Do you have anything that looks a little nicer?" Whereupon the salesman laid his hand sympathetically on her arm and said, "Madame, it's over for you."

Well, my recent move has made me come to terms with a few things that I've been lugging around with me. More than just through the last three years of moves, lugging with me for the past ten or fifteen years, or even longer.

Those of you who know me well know that I have always had issues with makeup. I don't like how it feels on my face, even the expensive stuff. I never feel that I can get my face totally clean after wearing it, no matter how rigorously I scrub, buff and polish.

I hate the time it takes to put on makeup - even just five minutes annoys the heck out of me.

So I have now, at 54 years of age, officially retired the makeup bag. Let it gather dust and grow mould. I've had it with makeup. This is what I look like - deal with it.

It's over for me.

The next thing to get tossed was hair color. I've dyed my hair every color of the rainbow over the years. Red was my favourite, but red is the color most likely to cause cancer. Even the newfangled dyes that are "organic" leave me cold.

My Grandmother started dyeing my hair when I was eight years old. My natural color is a dark grey. I once had a hairdresser compare my natural color to her color swatches, and she confirmed this. "If your hair was woven into a fabric, it would be a dark grey fabric," she informed me.

Eight years old. Fifty-four years old. Enough is enough. No more hair color for me.

Interestingly enough, the day after the last of my blonde was trimmed off, I went out to a movie with Hubby. I asked for two tickets, and the girl gave me the "Ainés" rate. That's right, I saved five dollars because she thought I was a senior! My Daughter laughed at me and said maybe now I'd rethink putting some color into my hair, but no-go. I've had it with hair color. I've done enough damage to the environment and my scalp and my bloodstream.

It's over.

The last thing to go in the garbage bin was my nail polish. I gave away the last bottle of polish remover and threw my (unused) bottles of polish away. What a relief!

The money I spent, over the years, getting fake nails! I shudder to think how much food that money could have bought, how many Caribbean vacations I could have enjoyed, had I not been spending money on nails, hair color, and makeup!

As a cute little song goes,

"I know just how ugly I are.
I know that my face ain't no star!
But still, I don't mind it,
Because I'm behind it!
It's folks out in front get the jar!"

Summer of Sick

Well, the title says it all. I got sick about six weeks ago with a nasty bug that keeps on coming back. Thought I was over and went to Toronto to visit my Daughter and had a relapse. Got antibiotics for ten days and dutifully stayed away from alcohol (the horror!) but the day after the antibiotics finished got the sore throat back and started coughing again.

Not fun. Missed out on swimming and Margaritas. Missed out on having people over. Hoping that August goes better than July did!

A Moving Experience

Moving day approaches. In my case, it's on June 17th, so I'm lucky I'm not stuck moving on July 1 with the rest of Quebec. Right now, for me, it's the calm before the storm.

For Boyfriend, it's another story. He's been at the house since the minute he got the keys, tearing down a (non-supporting) wall, clearing out junk left by the previous owner, bringing loads from his apartment in a borrowed van...and in general, tiring himself out real good - he's doing all this after a full day's work, you understand! He's like a racehorse that's been kept behind the gate - exploding onto the track with pent-up energy. In vain I tell him to pace himself - he's a man on a mission.

He started me off packing things about two months ago. My Daughter thought this was funny, but I'm no spring chicken and packing tires me out. We took our time and he put the boxes out of the way of the living space, and it's now starting to look a little bare in here, even though I still have everything I need to be comfortable.

In fact it makes me wonder why I'm keeping all this stuff in the boxes at all. For example, I went through my wardrobe, keeping only the clothes I felt I was likely to wear in the next two weeks, and packing the rest. When I was done, I turned and looked at what was left. There are enough tops left hanging that I could wear a different one every day for two months with no repeats! If I have all these clothes still hanging up, what in the world do I need the other ones - the ones I packed - for? And I don't consider that I have an extensive wardrobe!

In the kitchen, my teapot and wine glasses are packed. But I can still enjoy a glass of wine with a friend, just not in a wine glass. I can still make tea, just in the mug. I have no shortage to contend with, I have all that I need. So what's with the four boxes of kitchen stuff?!

And don't get me started on my sewing supplies. There's a saying in quilting circles: "The one who dies with the most fabric wins." I don't know the half of what I have - but it's too much, whatever it is! Patiently, Boyfriend said "Just pack it babe - you've got the rest of your life to go through it." Only I do hope it doesn't actually take me the rest of my life...

I remember a time when I wanted things, so badly that I'd go into debt to buy them. I would pounce on my paycheck and rush to the store to get things: clothes, jewellery, CDs, DVDs... there were things I just HAD to have!

Now I look around at all these boxes and wonder, what for? What was so all-fired important about getting all this stuff?

Now what seems to be more important to me is having the money to go for a visit to see my Daughter. I'd rather see her than drink out of designer wine glasses.

I've heard all kinds of theories about the universe in my time. The universe is expanding, the universe is shrinking... Well, my universe is no longer in an expansion phase. My needs are simpler now.

Looming Large

I did something different this morning while having my coffee - I turned on the telly to see what early morning programming was like. Usually the earliest I put the tv on is noon - when Star Trek comes on. This morning I thought I'd have a look and see what other people watch.

I didn't last long. There was a brief recap of where each of the party leaders would be campaigning today. That in itself is stomach-churning stuff: Harper seems determined to ruin Canada at any cost, and since he "united the right" a few years ago, nobody on the left seems able to rise to stop him. The spectre of our humane, sane and sober country being laid waste by this corrupt, greedy and intolerant "government", our social programs slashed mercilessly, is a terrifying possibility.

This was quickly followed by an update to a war going on somewhere - probably Libya - with an image of something being blown up in a terrible explosion..."Wars and rumors of wars" indeed, straight from the book of Revelation.

I quickly turned the tv off. The words of one of my doctors rings so true: "A certain amount of denial is necessary for everyone to get through the day."

Yesterday we were greeted with the news that Japan is going to dump radioactive waste water into the ocean, this to prevent a bigger catastrophe on the land.

When, oh when, will mankind ever learn that nuclear power is simply too dangerous to use?

Am I too sensitive? My personal zone of safety seems pretty small these days. I didn't even get through a five-minute newscast before the threat of ulcers made me turn it off. This is par for the course. The world is simply too frightening a place! So I dig myself in, in my basement apartment, curled up on the couch or, more likely, hiding under the covers.

I've got a move coming up, I should be organizing stuff, editing my belongings, packing... But I'm overwhelmed before I even start, standing helplessly staring at shelves and piles, wondering what in the world I'm going to do with all this stuff. I feel as helpless about it as I do about the situations in the world. Personal "power" is also apparently at an all-time low.

My Daughter is moving to Toronto. Six months ago, she was talking about having babies, she was in a relationship with a great guy, living in a house, two cars - the works. Now she's facing an uncertain future tending bar while hoping for her "big break" in her acting career, on her own with no safely net. She's going to be in Toronto before I even move this summer. There is nothing I can do to help her or make her way easier or safer, and it churns me up inside. What kind of a mom am I? Should I be encouraging her? Dissuading her? Am I failing her somehow by doing neither? What the heck am I supposed to do in this situation?

It certainly seems that no matter which topic I pick, which way I turn, my personal level of helplessness is staring me in the face.

.......

Update on weight loss: (good news, I think)

I've played internet doctor this week and it seems that weight loss may be a side effect of one of the meds I'm on. The blood tests showed no cancer markers. So I will be discussing the results with my doctor, but for now I am tentatively hopeful. I will manage a weak smile.

The Sore Back

Fresh from a day of lounging around doing nothing in particular, I am now amazed at the depths of laziness to which I've sunk.

Oh sure, today started off with an early morning trip into town for blood tests, 2 quick visits to friends on the way home, dealing with correspondence, and finally lunch with Daughter...so I could say that I've had a "busy" day. I did do a lot of walking, and at some point or other my lower back began to hurt just the teensiest bit.

But was that from the walking, or from the lounging around?

Now let's get a few facts straight: I am moving in June. In around 10 weeks, approximately. I have packing to do. And, as everybody knows, before packing one goes through one's things and edits (gets rid of) one's belongings.

But there was no evidence of such admirable activity.

I also have a big, three-part quilt project that I've lately begun, and no pun intended. See, 4 or 5 years ago I taught a group of elementary school children the fundamentals of quilting. Well, one of the youngsters' father died, a sad story. He urged his mother to contact me regarding making a quilt out of his father's clothing. Three quilts, in fact - there's a sister, and one for mom as well.

So I've had this clothing with me through two moves so far, and we're looking at 3 years since I agreed to take this project on now. Hence, "lately" begun... For most of the 3 years I've been referring to this project as "the dead guy's quilts," however recently Boyfriend talked me into using a more positive phraseology about it. "The Memories Project" is now the going phrase, having a slightly less negative ring to it.

I've had this week off work because I had vacation days to use up, and I could have been working on the Memories Project.

But no... it rests peacefully undisturbed by activity.

I've had a week off, and I've accomplished precisely nothing at all. To quote Garfield, "if I were any lazier, I'd slip into a coma."

Is my back sore from walking, or from scooching on the couch for too long? I think, left to my own devices, I could quite happily do nothing whatsoever, for an astonishing length of time!

This state of abject worthlessness as a human being quite flummoxes me. I had no idea what indolence I was capable of.

Hell, I've even out-lazied the cat!

Weight Loss

I am puzzling over why I seem to have lost 25 lbs. without trying. Oh yes, I've been eating a bit differently over the course of the past year. I rarely have desserts any more. I've been aiming for more protein and fewer carbs. My appetite/consumption has diminished considerably. I drink water rather than juice, and chips and chocolate are all but unheard-of now, compared to when they were a staple.

But 25 lbs? And no exercise to speak of... I could see losing 5 lbs that way...

The weight has come off by itself, and that's just not ever been my experience, nor, to listen to the tales, the experience of others.

I fear there's something else at play.

I made Hubby go to the doctor several years ago when he began dropping weight without any changes in his diet, and it turned out he had diabetes.

And of course, the "C" word looms large in everyone's minds these days.

So yesterday I humphed myself off to the doc - the gyno - because I wanted him to refer me for a mammogram. I got a bit more than I expected - a referral as well to a gastroenterologist so I can have - yay - a colonoscopy.

The last time I had one of those, I swore I'd rather die than have another. It's not the test itself, it's the prep. You drink this poison that looses everything in the bowels so that by the day of the test you're all pink and clean inside and they can see what's going on. That in itself would be fine - but it makes you naseous as well. Like, really naseous. I don't handle that well at all - get feeling v e r y sorry for my poor suffering self. That's when I swore I'd never do it again.

However, I'm concerned enough to go through with it, even though I doubt that may be the trouble spot, if there is one. But I'd rather be careful.

Now I have to find a doc to send me to get my sugar tested. And since I've had a constant headache (very mild) in one specific spot on the back of my head for a month now, I should probably find a neurologist to get me a scan.

It's all very tiresome, this finding of doctors and appointments and tests. The temptation is to say "Oh you're just imagining it, you've got nothing to worry about," leave it at that, and buy smaller pants.

But I remember when my Grandma lost weight with no changes in her diet, and she had breast cancer.

No, the phrase "no pain, no gain" rings true for me here, though in this especial case, the "gain" is loss - weight loss.

It just seems too easy. Too good to be true. And you know what they say about that.

Aging Parents

When I was a teenager, my father and stepmom moved down to Louisiana, where my stepmom was from, to be near to her aging parents. My father had aging parents of his own, but they were a good decade behind stepmom's and in great health and going great guns.

My dad always thought somehow that I would emigrate to the States to be near them, but that never materialized. I had my own life up here - school, work, marriage, jobs - and I stayed here. Every year daddy and stepmom would drive up from Louisiana to stay with my grandparents for a few weeks, and every year my grandparents would drive down to Louisiana to see them. I only went once, that was enough for me as a teenager. When I heard my stepbrother telling a story about a cop setting a black person down on an anthill, him laughing his head off as he told the story, oh and using the "n" word while he was at it, that just turned me off quite completely. The South gives me the shivers, point finale.

Well stepmom's parents passed away, and my grandparents passed away. My dad and stepmom came up one final visit the year after grandpa was gone, and that was it for the yearly visits.

I went down once again, with Hubby, oh, over a decade ago now. My dad was starting to look thinner than I remembered him being. We had a good visit, but it was overshadowed by the feeling I had that I was seeing them for the last time.

My father has been slipping lately. He's had a couple of bank problems when he needed some assistance to get his Canadian pension re-sent to him because the bank had changed its transit number. It became apparent to me during that crisis that daddy was losing his nouns. He was very nearly unable to make a coherent sentence, he'd reach for a word and lapse into silence, floored by the lack of words. I would coax him on and offer suggestions, and somehow we'd make it through the conversation.

He's in his 80th year right now, and stepmom is 82 and hasn't been really well for some time. He spends all his time looking after her. But being cantankerous, he tends to get into spats with service providers and friends alike. I heard him talk about people coming in to help, and how he'd sent them all away. And he was always fighting with AT&T. Once he even went out and bought himself a cell phone, thinking that would be cheaper than paying the phone company. That didn't work out of course, but the biggest problem was the cell phone just didn't work, or he didn't know how to work it. He has big fingers, and I wouldn't be surprised if that was the reason he had trouble working the phone.

Well, today I tried to call him and his line has been disconnected. So the phone company is having a go this round. I fired off an email to my stepbrother asking him to check what's going on, but in my heart I know perfectly well what's going on. Daddy has been cantankerous and is denying he owes what they say he does and they've cut him off, and I have precious little hope of service being restored any time soon. And now I can't even have the reassurance of hearing his voice on the phone complaining of this and that.

I already fear his home looks like an episode of "hoarders" and shudder to think of what he's like behind the wheel of his car. And I fear that soon the inevitable will come knocking and he'll have to go into some kind of facility, and I'm not there to help him or reassure him or even know how he's doing. I'm out of the loop, unable to do anything for him.

Disconnected.

The Rock

Today my world suffered a tremor. Whether it comes by itself or is a precursor to future events, time will tell. But I was shaken, once again, by forces I cannot control.

Hubby had a medical problem that sent him to the hospital today. His eyesight in one eye all of a sudden had gaps in it. True to form, he quickly downloaded a test off the internet, the results of which were enough to get him to pick up the phone and get an emergency appointment with an opthamologist. Hubby is a diabetic you see, and eye problems are frequent with them.

So I tried to concentrate on work while he went off to the hospital, and I tried to ignore the various scary scenarios that presented themselves to my mind like so many demons poking their heads in through the doorway.

Blindness. Inability to work. Inability to drive.

Suddenly there loomed before me the prospect of my slightly estranged husband becoming someone who needed assistance. And that is topsy-turvy. The ground liquified under my feet.

Hubby is my Rock. In fact, he is quite a few people's Rock. He's the one you can always count on, whether you need something fixed or need a lift somewhere.

He's the stubborn old goat who knows perfectly well what he should be eating and how much exercise he should be getting, yeah yeah yeah, not bloody likely... Mr. "Not Dead Yet", always ready to poke fun at life, quick with the bon mot, taking perverse pleasure in the downfall of the stupid and foolish. A shoulder to lean on, relentless in his pursuit of technology, and an unflagging curiosity that leaves no stone unturned in his determination to be right about everything.

To say I was sick with worry would be an understatement. The whole world had suddenly shifted on its axis. Hubby might be in trouble. Hubby might not be immortal, after all. In fact, there may come a time when Hubby might no longer be there, at all. The thought left me reeling.

Quite a few people depend on Hubby always being there, always being himself. Not the least of which is Hubby! In shock from a) being seen immediately, and b) being treated immediately, he took tomorrow off to recover a bit. Perhaps he'll be assessing his mortality, taking stock of how he should be changing his diet or his sedentary lifestyle.

If I were living with him, I'd be wanting him to stay in bed and bringing him tea. And hovering over him, worrying. As it is, I'll be worrying from a distance and wondering what he's doing. Wondering if this incident was the tip of the proverbial iceberg, and how long we may have before another tremor shakes the foundation of our reality. Wondering if this will be a wake-up call for him. As it was for me.

We do not know what the future holds for us, nor how long we have with each other. Every moment is more precious than we know.

Braving the storm

Well, here we are in the aftermath of an historic winter snowstorm that wrecked havoc over half the United States. For a change, here in Montreal we only got a wisp, a mere 15-20cm. And I couldn't be happier it wasn't more...

Boyfriend is off in Saudi Arabia, for work, and so I have his car, you see. It's a brand-new car, not a scratch on it. And while I love having the use of a car in the summer months, it's quite a different thing to be looking for a parking spot here in the city - in the winter - during a snowstorm.

I had asked my friend R whether I should drive in to work yesterday or take public transportation, and he was eloquent in why I should leave the car where it was. Accordingly, I did the opposite, and drove in.

I wasn't going to. I had made up my mind to take the bus. I had dressed for the weather and was leaving on time for the bus... But then I got outside and the streets were clear and quiet, visibility was good, and there wasn't enough snow on the car to make it worthwhile brushing it off, and I thought to myself, "Why are you such an Old Woman?!" And proceeded to get into the car.

I drove to work in first gear all the way. Apparently, only the visible section of my street was actually clear and free of traffic. From every street in NDG, cars poured onto Somerled, and eventually the drive resembled a train more than anything else: everybody inching along in single-file, and hardly any difference between red lights and green lights, we inched forward all the same.

I had a couple of stomach-churning moments going up The Boulevard where I learned on the spot that you have to turn your Traction Control off if you're going to get up a hill. Traction control, you see, stops the wheels from spinning, and also stops the engine from racing, so if you have it on while going up a slippery hill, your can slows and eventually just stops, no matter what you do to the gas pedal. A very disconcerting situation, I can assure you!

After that first learning experience I turned it off and drove the way I had learned how, turning the wheel and spinning the tires like everybody else, and actually got somewhere.

Approaching McGill, I opted to go to the McIntyre garage instead of the Faculty's garage, because the McIntyre opened off Peel, a big street, an important street, much more likely to have been plowed and salted than old McTavish, where the Faculty garage was located.

And at the last moment I opted to use Drummond, one street before Peel, to gain access to the McIntyre, because traffic had slowed considerably ahead of me and I figured there would be less traffic and more room to slide about on Drummond than on Peel.

And good thing, too. I found out when I got into work that Peel had just been closed, and I wouldn't have been able to get access to the garage at all. Whew!

By this time you would be correct in assuming I had "learned my lesson." Yes, I was in fact wondering why in god's white earth I had decided to drive in. R's admonitions rung in my memory, while visions of fender-benders bounced in my head in lively fashion. There was a potential for disaster at every turn, and every inch of the way between turns. I was, sad to say, part of the problem yesterday, not part of the solution. I should have taken the bus. Or stayed home.

In the end, I only worked a half day. The thought of driving home in 5 o'clock traffic with yet more snow under the tires, and in the dark, proved too much for my state of mind, Old Woman that I seem to have become. But my poor nerves needed daylight to steer by, and the drive home was actually uneventful compared to the drive in. I had to take a couple of runs at my parking spot in front of the house (tracking control still off), but I managed to park safely and run into the house crying to Bijou "I MADE it! I MADE it Bijou! And wif no accidents!"

I was never so glad to be in my lonely little apartment with no one to see and nothing to do. I watched tv till I couldn't keep my eyes open, and the only time I'm sticking my nose out the door today is to see if the snow-clearing crews had put up no parking signs.

Otherwise, I'm staying put, dry, warm, and safe!