Here it is, June 4th and I am wrapped in blankets with my heat on and my dog nestled against me. How strange this season has been. Perhaps summer will prove unbearably hot trying to make up for all these days of damp coolness. For now, the extra sleep is pleasant.
Casting my mind back to more turbulent times, when my family lived in the house so saturated with frenetic energies that no family after us ever stayed more than a few months, and trying to arrive at the point in my mind when I knew without a doubt that time was an illusion, I traveled the road of thought. As a very small being, my universe was infinite. The ghosties and goblins living under the house and in the closets, behind drawn shades and between the lulls in prayers, waited only for a lapse in the attention of the adults to show themselves present. Indeterminate knocks through the central heating systems. and little groans beneath the floorboards; flickering lights and random clicks were all proofs. This world of wonder was exclusively the family realm of our home. Many years later I decided that we haunt ourselves. Forward and backward in time, using dreams, mirrors and mental magic as portals. we connect briefly with ourselves. Flashes of insight, moments of terror, sudden strong longings, yes, I believe we haunt ourselves. Independent of that, I also believe that some of us leave energy footprints in places- emotional stamps of strong feelings imprinted in the place where we felt them.
Growing up in a house so haunted that no neighbourhood children would visit for longer than a few minutes, and few ventured up our stairs on Halloween night, caused me to value the peace of a happy home above all things. My current home is a sanctuary of good thoughts and happy times. A price above rubies say I. As a teenager I met someone else living in a haunted house. They lived on Heather Street in Vancouver, in a home that had been the original farmhouse of that area. It stood four floors and an attic tall, quietly waiting for nightfall. A telephone would ring it's old fashioned brrr sounding in the stairwell. Books would fall from their shelves. A heavy iron bed , with two unaware sleepers in it, moved across the room to block the doorway during the night and sometimes, a cold freeze would descend on the kitchen. The matriarch of this family was deceased. The only daughter left home at 15. The four boys lived on with their dad who steadfastly refused to acknowledge the strange events. The boys, howeever, gleefully told their stories to friends and visitors. I thought it was all a silly fairy tale until the day I was alone in the attic - or so I thought.
My friend Bruce had told me the ghost did not like females staying around, and I had laughed. He was quite stern about it and asked me to make sure not to close the stairs door. I was up in that attic when I heard him call from downstairs. He had gone to get us some snacks so I went to help him bring them up. As I went down the stairs the door closed after me and the light went out. I kept going steadily down, calling out as I went. The doors were closed all the way down. When I got to the kitchen entrance, I kicked on the door and called out to stop fooling around and let me out. Sitting on the stairs, I was quite a bit madder than I was scared. I was convinced that the younger brothers were having a laugh at my expense. But where was Bruce?
I ended up crying in frustration and pounding on the door while yelling. A sudden *pop* sound and the door on the second floor opened. The light went on. Two heads looked down on me. They swore they were just coming down for a snack and had heard nothing. Bruce was in the basement with his father, investigating a series of thumps. They had thought a raccoon had gotten inside. No one admitted to calling me down from the attic. No one had seen the doors close. And no one was even slightly surprised by my misadventure. Needless to say I never stayed in the attic alone again, nor did I go down the stairs without someone right with me. In fact, I broke it off with Bruce as one haunted house was quite enough for me. My house at least tolerated me.
3.6.08
My Time Travelling Friend
There is a distinction between friends I know from work, clients I know from work, and friends. There are also some clients who are very friendly who would, in other circumstances be friends. My time travelling friend is one of these. I love conversing with her, love listening to her, love her company.
Still, she is a client.
There was this incredible book in her formidable library, titled: "Celt Druid & Culdee" by Isabel Hill Elder. It had a forward by none other than Lord Brabazon of Tara, the early gentleman aviator. Perhaps this book is not news to you, but to me it was a welcome glimpse into the truth about Druids. Always portrayed to me as blood-thirsty human sacrificing wild mages, the book discloses that no human bones have ever been found on site of Druidic Ritual.
It was interesting to me. I highly recommend buying your own copy of this book. I ordered mine already.
Still, she is a client.
There was this incredible book in her formidable library, titled: "Celt Druid & Culdee" by Isabel Hill Elder. It had a forward by none other than Lord Brabazon of Tara, the early gentleman aviator. Perhaps this book is not news to you, but to me it was a welcome glimpse into the truth about Druids. Always portrayed to me as blood-thirsty human sacrificing wild mages, the book discloses that no human bones have ever been found on site of Druidic Ritual.
It was interesting to me. I highly recommend buying your own copy of this book. I ordered mine already.
2.6.08
More Thrift Shoppe Adventures
So many shiny things, so little time.
Off I went to the Thrift where the boutique case held bags of junk silver and one little bag of junk gold. This is the same store that has on display, an empty wedding setting in platinum, priced at $89.99. A ridiculous price for melt worthy metal. I asked to see the bag of gold. priced at $44.00. Inside the bag were three 18ct earrings without partners, a beautiful droplet of fine chinese jade, six or seven single stud earrings and two chains. S*O*L*D
Self control?
I have no idea what you mean!!
Off I went to the Thrift where the boutique case held bags of junk silver and one little bag of junk gold. This is the same store that has on display, an empty wedding setting in platinum, priced at $89.99. A ridiculous price for melt worthy metal. I asked to see the bag of gold. priced at $44.00. Inside the bag were three 18ct earrings without partners, a beautiful droplet of fine chinese jade, six or seven single stud earrings and two chains. S*O*L*D
Self control?
I have no idea what you mean!!
1.6.08
The Holiday Song
On each and every statuatory holiday, their are people in my workplace who do not choose to work the day, and use their seniority to ensure they do not. Being a person who works a lite shift and a short week, I try to work every stat I can. It is always enjoyable for me when a new name pops up on my list because of the holiday. I see some grande folk on exactly this basis year in and year out.
My favourite holiday lady, lived in a genteel apartment in the area overlooking one of the tourist attractions as well as the ocean. Life in the upper 90's can be difficult as the body shows ever more concessions to age. It is always sad to see a vital lively mind in a failing body, but this is life and thus inevitable. We all fall down. My holiday lady was always happy to see me and unfailingly gracious. Each time I would leave I would say the same thing, "See you next holiday" and she would nod and smile. Last holiday she said: "Lord I hope not. Not you, dear, me. I hope I don't have many more of those in me."
She was correct. She did not. She was not on my holiday schedule but she was in the obituary column. It is impossible to feel sad at such times. It is more that you are glad for the person and thankful for the knowing of them. Alot of times my wish is that I had known some of these incredible people at an earlier date, and shared more time with them. Mostly, I am just thankful for the time we had.
My favourite holiday lady, lived in a genteel apartment in the area overlooking one of the tourist attractions as well as the ocean. Life in the upper 90's can be difficult as the body shows ever more concessions to age. It is always sad to see a vital lively mind in a failing body, but this is life and thus inevitable. We all fall down. My holiday lady was always happy to see me and unfailingly gracious. Each time I would leave I would say the same thing, "See you next holiday" and she would nod and smile. Last holiday she said: "Lord I hope not. Not you, dear, me. I hope I don't have many more of those in me."
She was correct. She did not. She was not on my holiday schedule but she was in the obituary column. It is impossible to feel sad at such times. It is more that you are glad for the person and thankful for the knowing of them. Alot of times my wish is that I had known some of these incredible people at an earlier date, and shared more time with them. Mostly, I am just thankful for the time we had.
30.5.08
A True and Lasting Joy
In case I have not voiced this in a while, let this post serve to tell the world one basic truth of my life. I love my job. And life is a joy for those who love their work. Each day I arise happy to set forth on my work of the moment. I am never disappointed. Sometimes, I meet other people who clearly do not love their jobs. That is a great pity.
27.5.08
Honorific
Many people I attend to are retired military. Among the eldest of them are a few long retired British Military. Career military gentlemen tend to like to be called by their rank, rather than their names. Many times, this information is not available until the first face to face meeting. This week I had just such a happenstance.
Enter smiling. Me: "Good Morning Mr. Smith."
Large elderly gentleman stands ramrod straight holding the door. A frown passes his countenance, followed by much throat clearing.
I glance at many framed certificates of merit, medals and accolades.
Me: "Would you prefer to be addressed as General, Sir?"
He relaxes visibly, and breaks into a huge smile-
Him: "Now, now, m'dear. don't stand on ceremony. You needn't call me Sir."
Enter smiling. Me: "Good Morning Mr. Smith."
Large elderly gentleman stands ramrod straight holding the door. A frown passes his countenance, followed by much throat clearing.
I glance at many framed certificates of merit, medals and accolades.
Me: "Would you prefer to be addressed as General, Sir?"
He relaxes visibly, and breaks into a huge smile-
Him: "Now, now, m'dear. don't stand on ceremony. You needn't call me Sir."
24.5.08
Early reasoning
It had been a very eventful day indeed. We had visited one of those stately homes with a turret attached or visa versa. Indeed a hotel was built around the site. The turret was only accessible by a terrible outside climb that noone in their right mind would attempt -or- by this old and very unreliable elevator. The whispers were that the elevator was haunted. This whisper started around the time the elevator took to stopping half-way up and lurching menacingly. It was serviced meticulously and always passed with flying colours, only to act up again once re-certified safe. I was the only one of our party that knew the stories about this aspect and had left it out when persuading everyone to take the trip up to the top.
We had, possibly the worst elevator ride in the history of same, with stops and starts, and creaks and groans until we were all convinced we were going to die. I was so scared that I starting singing to dispel my terror. Everyone else was so scared they did not complain. Once we finally got to the top of the turret, at least 12 minutes since departing the bottom, everyone spilled out whereupon the silly lift disappeared. It went down, stranding us. My dad who was a terrible shade of green announced he would climb down, thank you very much. I looked over the top of the precipace wall- down down down and showed Dad. "Perhaps not" he said.
For some odd reason, as everyone was trying to shake the elevator heebee geebies I told them the stories about it supposedly being haunted. This was, in retrospect, a very bad move. We all now looked down at the suicidal climb and went silent. Just then, a click and a slam announced the return of the elevator. We all looked at one another and got in. This time, one of us held the door open and we tried to distribute the weight evenly, for a better chance at a smooth ride. Once in, the metal trellis was pulled across and down we went. Everyone held their breath expecting the treatment we had on the way up. Nothing at all happened. It was a perfectly normal return to the ground.
One by one we exited, and the guide at the bottom took one look at our befuddled state and said: "Glamis acting up?"
"You call the elevator Glamis?" I asked.
"No, actually we call it the Monster of Glamis but Glamis for short." He was smiling. "She doesn't like me, our Glamis doesnt, so I don't push my luck. I never use it anymore, well, after last time."
We did not ask. Probably because we knew.
All the way to work this morning I was fretting about this experience. I had resolved in my mind never to investigate aging turrets again if the guide did not actually accompany me. I was thinking how I should never have taken Dad there. How ridiculous the whole thing sounded but how terrifying it was in the moment. After my second client, I had a moment where I froze in my tracks and realised that I had never been in a haunted elevator and I certainly had never been on a castle/stately homes/ tourist trip with my father. Good God, I realised, that was a dream.
Is it any wonder that I wear a nametag? I might forget who I am at this rate.
It has been a long while since I had a dream indistinguishable from reality. Whose reality, you ask? The reality of haunted turrets and wayward elevators of course!
This is life. Or something like it.
We had, possibly the worst elevator ride in the history of same, with stops and starts, and creaks and groans until we were all convinced we were going to die. I was so scared that I starting singing to dispel my terror. Everyone else was so scared they did not complain. Once we finally got to the top of the turret, at least 12 minutes since departing the bottom, everyone spilled out whereupon the silly lift disappeared. It went down, stranding us. My dad who was a terrible shade of green announced he would climb down, thank you very much. I looked over the top of the precipace wall- down down down and showed Dad. "Perhaps not" he said.
For some odd reason, as everyone was trying to shake the elevator heebee geebies I told them the stories about it supposedly being haunted. This was, in retrospect, a very bad move. We all now looked down at the suicidal climb and went silent. Just then, a click and a slam announced the return of the elevator. We all looked at one another and got in. This time, one of us held the door open and we tried to distribute the weight evenly, for a better chance at a smooth ride. Once in, the metal trellis was pulled across and down we went. Everyone held their breath expecting the treatment we had on the way up. Nothing at all happened. It was a perfectly normal return to the ground.
One by one we exited, and the guide at the bottom took one look at our befuddled state and said: "Glamis acting up?"
"You call the elevator Glamis?" I asked.
"No, actually we call it the Monster of Glamis but Glamis for short." He was smiling. "She doesn't like me, our Glamis doesnt, so I don't push my luck. I never use it anymore, well, after last time."
We did not ask. Probably because we knew.
All the way to work this morning I was fretting about this experience. I had resolved in my mind never to investigate aging turrets again if the guide did not actually accompany me. I was thinking how I should never have taken Dad there. How ridiculous the whole thing sounded but how terrifying it was in the moment. After my second client, I had a moment where I froze in my tracks and realised that I had never been in a haunted elevator and I certainly had never been on a castle/stately homes/ tourist trip with my father. Good God, I realised, that was a dream.
Is it any wonder that I wear a nametag? I might forget who I am at this rate.
It has been a long while since I had a dream indistinguishable from reality. Whose reality, you ask? The reality of haunted turrets and wayward elevators of course!
This is life. Or something like it.
21.5.08
Magnetron *OFF*
(Magnetron *ON* - - - IT'S ALIVE!!)
Quietly eating my breakfast whilst doing my crossword when a gentleman signals me from across the room. He is a familiar stranger, one of those who frequents the same places at the same times I do. Although I do not know him, I know OF him from the old fellas who cross my path. They do not care much for him as it seems he is a braggart, by their standards.
He looks at me and speaks in an almost courtly manner. It comes off as sincere if slick. I am curious to hear what he brags about. It does not take long, in fact he asks me if he is allowed to brag. Yes, he uses that very word.
"Go ahead", I say and away we go. I listen AND do the crossword at the same time as he brag brag brags some more. He has alot TO brag about it seems but when he mentions he got an Academy Award I am incredulous. There is a chance of course that he is a minor player in his field, or a major one for that matter, but an Academy Award? hmm, unlikely. There is also the chance that he has some sort of brain dysfunction and means something other than what he is saying. I have come across that before many times. I still listen but I am plotting my escape. Not that he is annoying me - he is rather charming in fact but I have things to do and he does not. He is at least 25 years older than me and although I love and enjoy conversation I am not really looking for an older boyfriend. I could talk myself into it I am sure but work is work and social is social - I do not want to be a caregiver in my private life unless it is to my own progeny.
As I leave he stops me, standing in that mannerly way, and asks me out for dinner.
(magnetron OFF)
Really, I must fiddle with my settings some more and do a little fine tuning. Many is the charmer I have met in my life in theatre. Many are the men of immense charisma I have crossed paths with. I know the different types well. One thing I can spot easily is the person who wants you to want them and will engage themselves fully until that is achieved - afterwhich it is a question of doing their bidding. The other niggle is that someone who has led the life of a successful professional entertainer in Vegas and LA has been very very much out and about. I am completely convinced that he has indeed led that life- the life of a World Class performer - specialist in his field - especially after using Mr. Google to check.
Quietly eating my breakfast whilst doing my crossword when a gentleman signals me from across the room. He is a familiar stranger, one of those who frequents the same places at the same times I do. Although I do not know him, I know OF him from the old fellas who cross my path. They do not care much for him as it seems he is a braggart, by their standards.
He looks at me and speaks in an almost courtly manner. It comes off as sincere if slick. I am curious to hear what he brags about. It does not take long, in fact he asks me if he is allowed to brag. Yes, he uses that very word.
"Go ahead", I say and away we go. I listen AND do the crossword at the same time as he brag brag brags some more. He has alot TO brag about it seems but when he mentions he got an Academy Award I am incredulous. There is a chance of course that he is a minor player in his field, or a major one for that matter, but an Academy Award? hmm, unlikely. There is also the chance that he has some sort of brain dysfunction and means something other than what he is saying. I have come across that before many times. I still listen but I am plotting my escape. Not that he is annoying me - he is rather charming in fact but I have things to do and he does not. He is at least 25 years older than me and although I love and enjoy conversation I am not really looking for an older boyfriend. I could talk myself into it I am sure but work is work and social is social - I do not want to be a caregiver in my private life unless it is to my own progeny.
As I leave he stops me, standing in that mannerly way, and asks me out for dinner.
(magnetron OFF)
Really, I must fiddle with my settings some more and do a little fine tuning. Many is the charmer I have met in my life in theatre. Many are the men of immense charisma I have crossed paths with. I know the different types well. One thing I can spot easily is the person who wants you to want them and will engage themselves fully until that is achieved - afterwhich it is a question of doing their bidding. The other niggle is that someone who has led the life of a successful professional entertainer in Vegas and LA has been very very much out and about. I am completely convinced that he has indeed led that life- the life of a World Class performer - specialist in his field - especially after using Mr. Google to check.
Splashdown
Owing to the long cool Winter that is stretching into Spring, the beach here fills up at even the slightest increase in sunshine and warmth. We had a record 2 sunny and hot days in a row before the coolness returned. One day it was 50 degrees F and the next it was 85. The sunburns are everywhere.
Even though it has warmed up a tad, I am still wearing my leather jacket. My jeans hide knee socks beneath the denim and when I walk the sands, it is in sensible shoes. Today the tide is way way out as my dog and I do our daily outing. Unbelievably, at the water's edge is a tiny woman with her toes exposed to the water. She is laughing as the water tickles in and out. A couple in their 60's earnestly tries to find out who this lady belongs to. She just laughs her delightful laugh and then suddenly I hear her say: "Ask her. She knows." She means me.
The couple pounce on me and begin an onslaught about negligence and elder abuse and should we call the police so someone can come and take her back to whatever old age home she escaped from and on and on and on. The man has his cellphone out. I look over to the barefoot lady and I recognize her at last.
"No no," I tell the couple, "She lives on the bluff there. She is fine."
Still unconvinced they mutter and walk off. He has his cellphone at the ready, clearly hoping to use it. The little lady calls my dog who is delighted to run over and try to climb onto her.
She bends over and pats him inbetween chuckles.
"How are you doing Bea?" I ask her.
She laughs some more.
"Almost every time I come down here this happens. Some kindly soul tries to save me from myself."
It might have something to do with her tiny stature. Bea is 4 foot nine. It might have something to do with her choice of wardrobe. Bea wears three shades of pink, non matching, and layered innovatively. It might have something to do with the incongruity of a small elderly woman being one mile out from the safety of the curbs where every other person of her age sits.
I ask Bea if she can make it back up the steep stairs or if she is going to walk around the long way. She gives a little snort and I feel chastised.
She stands up releasing my dog. She looks me in the eye, a distance of a foot or so and says:
"I have been coming here since I was 21 years old and newly married. The only thing that has really changed around here is the number of people who have never seen an capable old lady before."
I get the idea and change the subject.
-----------
"If I have lost confidence in myself, I have the Universe against me."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
Even though it has warmed up a tad, I am still wearing my leather jacket. My jeans hide knee socks beneath the denim and when I walk the sands, it is in sensible shoes. Today the tide is way way out as my dog and I do our daily outing. Unbelievably, at the water's edge is a tiny woman with her toes exposed to the water. She is laughing as the water tickles in and out. A couple in their 60's earnestly tries to find out who this lady belongs to. She just laughs her delightful laugh and then suddenly I hear her say: "Ask her. She knows." She means me.
The couple pounce on me and begin an onslaught about negligence and elder abuse and should we call the police so someone can come and take her back to whatever old age home she escaped from and on and on and on. The man has his cellphone out. I look over to the barefoot lady and I recognize her at last.
"No no," I tell the couple, "She lives on the bluff there. She is fine."
Still unconvinced they mutter and walk off. He has his cellphone at the ready, clearly hoping to use it. The little lady calls my dog who is delighted to run over and try to climb onto her.
She bends over and pats him inbetween chuckles.
"How are you doing Bea?" I ask her.
She laughs some more.
"Almost every time I come down here this happens. Some kindly soul tries to save me from myself."
It might have something to do with her tiny stature. Bea is 4 foot nine. It might have something to do with her choice of wardrobe. Bea wears three shades of pink, non matching, and layered innovatively. It might have something to do with the incongruity of a small elderly woman being one mile out from the safety of the curbs where every other person of her age sits.
I ask Bea if she can make it back up the steep stairs or if she is going to walk around the long way. She gives a little snort and I feel chastised.
She stands up releasing my dog. She looks me in the eye, a distance of a foot or so and says:
"I have been coming here since I was 21 years old and newly married. The only thing that has really changed around here is the number of people who have never seen an capable old lady before."
I get the idea and change the subject.
-----------
"If I have lost confidence in myself, I have the Universe against me."
-Ralph Waldo Emerson
20.5.08
Links and Leanings
One of my private clients found me at the graveyard on the day I was wandering about looking at the different headstones. I had come to visit my Mom, on a break in work, and was in uniform. I was malingering, somewhat, as Mom had a newish neighbour or three. Possibly the grave had always been there and only the very noticeable headstone was new. Mom is closer to the peerage than ever - her new neighbours are Lord White and Lady Dora. Whomsoever they were. As I pondered on this, a chug from a powerful V* motor caught my attention. Someone was idling! (gasp!)
As I looked around for the source of the idler, a power window lowered and a little lady called me over to her car. Madame was clutching the steering wheel proudly. Her hair was that tint of blue once so popular in the over 80 set. She was extremely well dressed and had even applied lipstick, although it was rather more orange than pink and extended a tad beyond the natural lipline. The entire effect was charming. Her car, an aging Cadillac of immaculate condition, was glistening in the sun light. Not only was the paint unblemished, but the leather upholstery was gleaming, the chrome sparkling and the wheels scrubbed clean beyond even collector club standards.
" Can you tell me if you see a headstone marked: "Smithright?", she asked me politely. We conversed a few minutes before I went off on my mission. As she watched from the car, I zipped about reading the markers until I found him.
When I went back and pointed the location out to her, I asked her if she wanted me to escort her over as it was in a middle row. The ground was squishy and she looked to be in vintage heels.
"No No dear, can you just go back and tell him that Doreen is taking good care of the car? Tell him it looks good and say hello for me."
I did that. As I stood over that grave she waved at me, or him, or both and chugged slowly away.
It was a few weeks later that I found out my new 96 year old sparkler of a friend, does not have a driver's license.
----------
"What you risk reveals what you value."
---Jeanette Winterson
As I looked around for the source of the idler, a power window lowered and a little lady called me over to her car. Madame was clutching the steering wheel proudly. Her hair was that tint of blue once so popular in the over 80 set. She was extremely well dressed and had even applied lipstick, although it was rather more orange than pink and extended a tad beyond the natural lipline. The entire effect was charming. Her car, an aging Cadillac of immaculate condition, was glistening in the sun light. Not only was the paint unblemished, but the leather upholstery was gleaming, the chrome sparkling and the wheels scrubbed clean beyond even collector club standards.
" Can you tell me if you see a headstone marked: "Smithright?", she asked me politely. We conversed a few minutes before I went off on my mission. As she watched from the car, I zipped about reading the markers until I found him.
When I went back and pointed the location out to her, I asked her if she wanted me to escort her over as it was in a middle row. The ground was squishy and she looked to be in vintage heels.
"No No dear, can you just go back and tell him that Doreen is taking good care of the car? Tell him it looks good and say hello for me."
I did that. As I stood over that grave she waved at me, or him, or both and chugged slowly away.
It was a few weeks later that I found out my new 96 year old sparkler of a friend, does not have a driver's license.
----------
"What you risk reveals what you value."
---Jeanette Winterson
19.5.08
18.5.08
Gestation
In the line of work I have chosen, situations parallel each other. My eyes see the line of humanity, all different, all the same. The sketches of each situation are like embryos, each so alike until the process of gestation defines the differences.
One of the embryos is a clone. Many many of these selfsame clones inhabit our area. The clones name is ALS. This awful disease takes everything away from the person hosting it.My clientèle matures as do I, and the number of people I meet professionally with this disease increases, evermore.
After watching the declines, it is my thought that those whose breathing muscles go first are the lucky ones. The alternative is that you watch your body shut down, bit by agonizing bit, and you become 100% dependent on other people for your personal care, indeed for everything. Like so many things, this is hardest for those with Type A personalities. Loss of control. Loss of everything.
I am thankful that I have had some very bad experiences with some of these clients as I have learned some very invaluable lessons. I am a person who loves to learn. If I fail at something I need to know how and where I failed not just why. I also need to try it again and apply my insights. There was a terrible experience this week for my client and myself. I am looking forward to betterment.
One of the embryos is a clone. Many many of these selfsame clones inhabit our area. The clones name is ALS. This awful disease takes everything away from the person hosting it.My clientèle matures as do I, and the number of people I meet professionally with this disease increases, evermore.
After watching the declines, it is my thought that those whose breathing muscles go first are the lucky ones. The alternative is that you watch your body shut down, bit by agonizing bit, and you become 100% dependent on other people for your personal care, indeed for everything. Like so many things, this is hardest for those with Type A personalities. Loss of control. Loss of everything.
I am thankful that I have had some very bad experiences with some of these clients as I have learned some very invaluable lessons. I am a person who loves to learn. If I fail at something I need to know how and where I failed not just why. I also need to try it again and apply my insights. There was a terrible experience this week for my client and myself. I am looking forward to betterment.
16.5.08
Sunshine in Dark Corners
Working today in the beautiful sunshine, I was out and up very early. I love being out and about before 6 - it suits my internal clock very well indeed. My cellphone was set to vibrate and it started ringing around 7:45. I did not recognize the number so I delayed calling back until I realized I had messages waiting. Calling in, it was the voice of Vespa, the woman staying with Jimbo, calling from her cell.
All week I have been quietly trying to prepare her for his imminent death. All week she has listened but not heard. And now here she was on the telephone in a panic.
"He keeps trying to talk. He says sunshine over and over. I don't know what to do."
I could not help until the afternoon so I asked her to hang tight. give him ice to suck on and just stay mellow. And, if she was really scared she could always dial 9-1-1 although there is nothing much they could do except to transport him to where he does not want to be. I asked her to go for a little walk if she got too panicked. Jimbo is where he wants to be and how he wishes it to be and we have agreed to honour those wishes. Jimbo has astounded me this last month with his determinedness to stay home no matter what.
When I arrived in the mid afternoon it was to a very light smile and the same word - Sunshine.
"Did you want to go outside? Is that what it is?"
He smiled and tried to nod.
"You aren't getting him up are you?"
Of course I was. The bed cannot fit through the little door but a chair can. And Jimbo was still getting up just two days ago. I know if he wants to do it, he can. With help.
Poor Vespa was aghast. She has been at her wits end. She is all right with companioning and very much not all right with the other things that go along with death. We had a transfer chair and a transfer belt, a hospital bed that goes up and down and me. I looked into those bright eyes, too bright for a mortal. Vespa can't take this part of things so I didn't tell her. Just please hold the chair Vespa and hold it tight - and she did.
I learned this from someone else a few years back. When someone really really wants something right at the end of their life they will do what they can to help. I told Jimbo in a quiet sharp whisper that we had to do the transfer very quick and very crisp and we had to get it right the FIRST time. He smiled again.
So down with the bed, into semi-fowler position (head up, feet down),chair alongside the bed, shoes on Jimbo, belt on, sat him up fast, grabbed him tight tight tight and 1-2-3- up and into the chair. 1.5 seconds. Safety belt on, and out through the patio door to the little porch where I had a hassock with a pillow out there for his feet. Jimbo was quite floppsie - it was pretty risky but still I had enough control factors and I knew I would not drop him. Jimbo epitomizes one of my early mottoes in life: "Risk to Live!"
Not all risks are worth taking but this one was. I was not worried about that in the moment. I was too busy watching Jimbo turning his face to the sunshine and smiling. This is a man who loves the outdoors, loves the sea and the sun, loves life - every scrap of it.
We sat outside for 15 minutes. I had to pretend I was sitting behind Jimbo but actually I was supporting his head as I am not completely out of touch with reality - just a dreamer and wish-fulfillment agent. All the pillows in the world are no substitute for hands on. After our sunbath the three of is went back in. I got him back to bed with rather more difficulty. Not too bad but not something I would do on a daily basis for any period of time. That Hospice hospital bed made all the difference. (God bless Hospice and all who work with it, all over the world.)
Once back to bed, some necessary adjustments made Jimbo more comfie and it was then I realized that considerably more pre-death signs were evident. He opened his eyes really wide and did that amazing stare into eternity with a look of surprise and then pleasure. He sat like that for 25 minutes, holding both our hands and squeezing them every so often. He was conscious and satisfied. And he died, smiling.
Vespa asked me if I thought we killed him by taking him outside.
I looked at his body with all the op sites, the powerful frame holding a completely depleted form and the smile- that huge smile still fixed on his face, that old man 33 year old face. I looked her in the eye and said: "Death by happiness? Not the worst way to go, Vespa. "
So in that moment Vespa understood me and a few minutes later I understood her.
"I was not going to tell you but now, somehow I want to, before I chicken out. I always thought Jimbo gave me HIV but I think now I gave it to him and I am so so very scared."
Not much to say in those moments that stretch out. Two people making bad choices in a situation where the loaded gun has a bullet in every single chamber. I just gave her a hug. Poor Vespa, what a confession. I would never have known had she not told me. She is positive but a-symptomatic.
We had a list made out weeks ago about what to do in case of death and I noted with a smile that she had written in pencil above #1 to call me. Together we went through the list and then I had to go back to my own life. When I left she hugged me tight and in a very quiet voice asked nervously: "Can I call you when, uh, if, uh, well,..."
Of course she can call me.
All week I have been quietly trying to prepare her for his imminent death. All week she has listened but not heard. And now here she was on the telephone in a panic.
"He keeps trying to talk. He says sunshine over and over. I don't know what to do."
I could not help until the afternoon so I asked her to hang tight. give him ice to suck on and just stay mellow. And, if she was really scared she could always dial 9-1-1 although there is nothing much they could do except to transport him to where he does not want to be. I asked her to go for a little walk if she got too panicked. Jimbo is where he wants to be and how he wishes it to be and we have agreed to honour those wishes. Jimbo has astounded me this last month with his determinedness to stay home no matter what.
When I arrived in the mid afternoon it was to a very light smile and the same word - Sunshine.
"Did you want to go outside? Is that what it is?"
He smiled and tried to nod.
"You aren't getting him up are you?"
Of course I was. The bed cannot fit through the little door but a chair can. And Jimbo was still getting up just two days ago. I know if he wants to do it, he can. With help.
Poor Vespa was aghast. She has been at her wits end. She is all right with companioning and very much not all right with the other things that go along with death. We had a transfer chair and a transfer belt, a hospital bed that goes up and down and me. I looked into those bright eyes, too bright for a mortal. Vespa can't take this part of things so I didn't tell her. Just please hold the chair Vespa and hold it tight - and she did.
I learned this from someone else a few years back. When someone really really wants something right at the end of their life they will do what they can to help. I told Jimbo in a quiet sharp whisper that we had to do the transfer very quick and very crisp and we had to get it right the FIRST time. He smiled again.
So down with the bed, into semi-fowler position (head up, feet down),chair alongside the bed, shoes on Jimbo, belt on, sat him up fast, grabbed him tight tight tight and 1-2-3- up and into the chair. 1.5 seconds. Safety belt on, and out through the patio door to the little porch where I had a hassock with a pillow out there for his feet. Jimbo was quite floppsie - it was pretty risky but still I had enough control factors and I knew I would not drop him. Jimbo epitomizes one of my early mottoes in life: "Risk to Live!"
Not all risks are worth taking but this one was. I was not worried about that in the moment. I was too busy watching Jimbo turning his face to the sunshine and smiling. This is a man who loves the outdoors, loves the sea and the sun, loves life - every scrap of it.
We sat outside for 15 minutes. I had to pretend I was sitting behind Jimbo but actually I was supporting his head as I am not completely out of touch with reality - just a dreamer and wish-fulfillment agent. All the pillows in the world are no substitute for hands on. After our sunbath the three of is went back in. I got him back to bed with rather more difficulty. Not too bad but not something I would do on a daily basis for any period of time. That Hospice hospital bed made all the difference. (God bless Hospice and all who work with it, all over the world.)
Once back to bed, some necessary adjustments made Jimbo more comfie and it was then I realized that considerably more pre-death signs were evident. He opened his eyes really wide and did that amazing stare into eternity with a look of surprise and then pleasure. He sat like that for 25 minutes, holding both our hands and squeezing them every so often. He was conscious and satisfied. And he died, smiling.
Vespa asked me if I thought we killed him by taking him outside.
I looked at his body with all the op sites, the powerful frame holding a completely depleted form and the smile- that huge smile still fixed on his face, that old man 33 year old face. I looked her in the eye and said: "Death by happiness? Not the worst way to go, Vespa. "
So in that moment Vespa understood me and a few minutes later I understood her.
"I was not going to tell you but now, somehow I want to, before I chicken out. I always thought Jimbo gave me HIV but I think now I gave it to him and I am so so very scared."
Not much to say in those moments that stretch out. Two people making bad choices in a situation where the loaded gun has a bullet in every single chamber. I just gave her a hug. Poor Vespa, what a confession. I would never have known had she not told me. She is positive but a-symptomatic.
We had a list made out weeks ago about what to do in case of death and I noted with a smile that she had written in pencil above #1 to call me. Together we went through the list and then I had to go back to my own life. When I left she hugged me tight and in a very quiet voice asked nervously: "Can I call you when, uh, if, uh, well,..."
Of course she can call me.
13.5.08
Harmonium
har·mo·ni·um (här-mō'nē-əm) Instrument that produces tones with free metal reeds actuated by air forced from a bellows.
I am the bellows.
I am the bellows.
12.5.08
Bitter Home Truths
One of my private clients asked me if I ever write about my caregiving experiences. I was surprised when he asked me to write about him. He wants people to know his story.
I asked why he doesn't write about it himself but he just smiled and said that he was past those days. Talking yes, writing no.
"Write about me when I am gone. Or almost gone. But write about me as if I mattered."
The client asked me to refer to him as Jimbo. He said it with a laugh. I am not in on that particular private joke that gave him such pleasure. Jimbo is from a very small community north of here. He is of aboriginal descent and is a very beautiful man. Jimbo is 33 and in the last few weeks of his life. A battle with alcoholism began for him at the age of 8. He remembers drinking before that age but considers 8 the age at which he became addicted. For a time, Jimbo was a resident of the Downtown East Side of Vancouver. During that stint on skid row, he contracted HIV. For the past decade he lived with HIV until this last year when full blown AIDS hit. Jimbo has little anger for his lot in life and much insight. Now that this life is drawing to a close, he requires someone else to help with his ADLs. The reason Jimbo is a private client has to do with the way he perceives people treat him. We met by chance when I opened a door for him at he local thrift store. Once inside he walked directly to the furniture section and sat down and coughed for a good long time into a handkerchief. I got a glass from the shelf, threw a dime to the cashier and washed it thoroughly before filling it with water. He was still coughing when I sat down beside him.
As it turned out, this was one of the last times Jimbo was able to go out on his own. I had given him the phone number for the Island Health Authority but he could not get past the idea of strangers helping him. One day I came home to a call from a woman I do not know. Amazingly, I had actually answered my telephone! The woman had gone to a considerable bit of trouble tracking me down as she knew where I worked. She knew a co-worker and a client or three and somehow managed to figure out my last name. She wanted to ask me if I could possible manage to consider a part time job checking in on Jimbo. " He doesn't have more than a few weeks but he can't stay home without help."
Jimbo is now hooked up with Hospice and has the right equipment to stay at home. Typically, this is happening much past the time it should have or could have. He has a friend (the caller) who is staying with him but cannot do his care. He is conscious but refusing food. He calls his friend "Vespa" and they laugh. I am thinking there was a scooter involved somewhere along the line.
The reason Jimbo wanted me to write about him is so simple and so sad.
"You are the only person who was ever truly kind to me without being more afraid of me."
I cannot believe that is true but it is his perception at this time.
Jimbo has a face that looks 100 and has writ on it every battle he has fought. He was obviously a larger fellow most of his life. He looks like he could have gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson. He also looks like he lost about 100 pounds. But he is human same as us all.
This will be the last week of Jimbo's life. A Nurse checks in, sent by the Band Office. She is wearing more than just the apron, mask and gloves. She is wearing almost a moon suit. She looks at me in horror as I hold his hand. As far as I know the HIV virus cannot live outside the human body unless a blood or much more rarely, saliva host helps out. Even then, the virus can only last a microsecond. My fingers do not have any orifices, or open sores last time I looked.
Jimbo asked me to bill the Band Office. He has no money left.
He is more concerned with me "working for free" than he is with his imminent passing.
I told him that I work with Hospice and that it is quite all right. This is true. Not current, but true.
A month from now, I will still have the option to work privately for those in this area who have lots of ready money or veteran's benefits. I will still have my little job that I love so dearly. Jimbo will be on the winds, and in the memory.
Is this kindness on my part? I think it is just humanity.
When my time comes someone will hold my hand. I know it.
Why are people afraid of their fellow man when circumstance brings tragedy?
Life piled on life?
Perhaps it is the brain injury I carry with me. I know what it is like to feel shunned labeled and alone. I know what low is.
Aww Jimbo. I did write about you. Sparingly.
You see, this is all I know about him. He told me "You know all the important stuff." what's that I asked. "You see the real me."
And he is beautifully human.
------------- !!
I asked why he doesn't write about it himself but he just smiled and said that he was past those days. Talking yes, writing no.
"Write about me when I am gone. Or almost gone. But write about me as if I mattered."
The client asked me to refer to him as Jimbo. He said it with a laugh. I am not in on that particular private joke that gave him such pleasure. Jimbo is from a very small community north of here. He is of aboriginal descent and is a very beautiful man. Jimbo is 33 and in the last few weeks of his life. A battle with alcoholism began for him at the age of 8. He remembers drinking before that age but considers 8 the age at which he became addicted. For a time, Jimbo was a resident of the Downtown East Side of Vancouver. During that stint on skid row, he contracted HIV. For the past decade he lived with HIV until this last year when full blown AIDS hit. Jimbo has little anger for his lot in life and much insight. Now that this life is drawing to a close, he requires someone else to help with his ADLs. The reason Jimbo is a private client has to do with the way he perceives people treat him. We met by chance when I opened a door for him at he local thrift store. Once inside he walked directly to the furniture section and sat down and coughed for a good long time into a handkerchief. I got a glass from the shelf, threw a dime to the cashier and washed it thoroughly before filling it with water. He was still coughing when I sat down beside him.
As it turned out, this was one of the last times Jimbo was able to go out on his own. I had given him the phone number for the Island Health Authority but he could not get past the idea of strangers helping him. One day I came home to a call from a woman I do not know. Amazingly, I had actually answered my telephone! The woman had gone to a considerable bit of trouble tracking me down as she knew where I worked. She knew a co-worker and a client or three and somehow managed to figure out my last name. She wanted to ask me if I could possible manage to consider a part time job checking in on Jimbo. " He doesn't have more than a few weeks but he can't stay home without help."
Jimbo is now hooked up with Hospice and has the right equipment to stay at home. Typically, this is happening much past the time it should have or could have. He has a friend (the caller) who is staying with him but cannot do his care. He is conscious but refusing food. He calls his friend "Vespa" and they laugh. I am thinking there was a scooter involved somewhere along the line.
The reason Jimbo wanted me to write about him is so simple and so sad.
"You are the only person who was ever truly kind to me without being more afraid of me."
I cannot believe that is true but it is his perception at this time.
Jimbo has a face that looks 100 and has writ on it every battle he has fought. He was obviously a larger fellow most of his life. He looks like he could have gone a few rounds with Mike Tyson. He also looks like he lost about 100 pounds. But he is human same as us all.
This will be the last week of Jimbo's life. A Nurse checks in, sent by the Band Office. She is wearing more than just the apron, mask and gloves. She is wearing almost a moon suit. She looks at me in horror as I hold his hand. As far as I know the HIV virus cannot live outside the human body unless a blood or much more rarely, saliva host helps out. Even then, the virus can only last a microsecond. My fingers do not have any orifices, or open sores last time I looked.
Jimbo asked me to bill the Band Office. He has no money left.
He is more concerned with me "working for free" than he is with his imminent passing.
I told him that I work with Hospice and that it is quite all right. This is true. Not current, but true.
A month from now, I will still have the option to work privately for those in this area who have lots of ready money or veteran's benefits. I will still have my little job that I love so dearly. Jimbo will be on the winds, and in the memory.
Is this kindness on my part? I think it is just humanity.
When my time comes someone will hold my hand. I know it.
Why are people afraid of their fellow man when circumstance brings tragedy?
Life piled on life?
Perhaps it is the brain injury I carry with me. I know what it is like to feel shunned labeled and alone. I know what low is.
Aww Jimbo. I did write about you. Sparingly.
You see, this is all I know about him. He told me "You know all the important stuff." what's that I asked. "You see the real me."
And he is beautifully human.
------------- !!
11.5.08
Spring. Not Spring. Spring.
Dizzying, these changes of weather. Mother's day today- flowers to the grave and wishing I had a mother. One who actually loved me and accepted me as I was/am. A lifelong search for those stolen moments in my nightly dreams. No crime since they never truly existed.
Joy and sorrow.
Sorrow and loss.
Loss and emptiness.
I have found joy in becoming what I never had. Giving freely what I craved so deeply. Teaching as I can, those hard lessons so diligently learned. Joy Joy Joy in my journey and yours.
Here at my beach the ocean spills into the bay; grey waters lapping greyer sands. I want what we all need. Chances slim to none. But still, there IS a chance.
Joy and sorrow.
Sorrow and loss.
Loss and emptiness.
I have found joy in becoming what I never had. Giving freely what I craved so deeply. Teaching as I can, those hard lessons so diligently learned. Joy Joy Joy in my journey and yours.
Here at my beach the ocean spills into the bay; grey waters lapping greyer sands. I want what we all need. Chances slim to none. But still, there IS a chance.
7.5.08
Look Up!
Today the winds were perfect for flying. The sun was shining and the beach beckoned. My dog was beckoning as well so it seemed a perfect idea to walk the sands. The no dog restriction was lifted May 1st so Mr. Fluffy-Pajamas and I joyfully strode out along the shoreline. I was just about to let him run free when I looked up. Way up. An eagle was pacing us from a few hundred feet in the air. A companion was soaring higher but also way too interested in our progress. I did my anti-cougar stance raising my arms high over my head and trying to look as large as possible. The big birds flew away. They have several places along the bay they can sit and survey the action so out of sight for me does not necessarily mean out of their sight. Every year people lose small dogs to eagles in exactly this way. I know my dog. He would have put his butt down and scooted like a very fast rabbit across the beach happily. And those lightning fast eagles would have descended in a flash to claim him.
Look up.
Look up.
3.5.08
The Very Long Wait
Time time time - see what's become of me...
So wet and gloomy this long Spring has been, that I read with great surprise how Friday coming shall be truly warm. According to the weather networks the temperatures will double. Perhaps this will wake me up more from this slumber the Spring has companioned. Part of the deuced unpleasant trade-off , drugs for sleep, serenity for mania are these strange periods where my experience and the world are not compatible. I am not unhappy, not depressed, not annoyed, not anything at all really - just alive to the possibility that better things are beckoning just over the horizon. I need to be more flexible.
So wet and gloomy this long Spring has been, that I read with great surprise how Friday coming shall be truly warm. According to the weather networks the temperatures will double. Perhaps this will wake me up more from this slumber the Spring has companioned. Part of the deuced unpleasant trade-off , drugs for sleep, serenity for mania are these strange periods where my experience and the world are not compatible. I am not unhappy, not depressed, not annoyed, not anything at all really - just alive to the possibility that better things are beckoning just over the horizon. I need to be more flexible.
26.4.08
24.4.08
Seasonally Cool
Let's face it - being cool is rarely about the weather.
Nevertheless Mr. T and I did the beach stroll today, wind howling in our ears. As we rounded a curve some hero in a pickup rolled down his window. "Does that look like a dog to you? Sure looks like a dog to me. Some people can't read."
We were paused beneath the huge "no dogs on beach March 1- May 30" sign. Mr. T was checking for messages. And yes, he was on a leash. I gave the hero my biggest smile and carried on. Silly man - the beach is the part with the sand and surf- the walk is the part with the concrete.
It is really truly unseasonably cool around here. No snow this week but lots of arctic winds. If Steve Brown had been at the park I would have brought out my kites but the goose poop field in the cold was not for me on my own. Somewhere around here I have some lines I can use. -mutter- Can you imagine it was 22 years ago that Ray Bethel taught me how to land my kite on the monument in Vanier Park? I did contribute to the bench in Ray's honour there but I would rather BE there flying than seeing pictures of it. Actually, perhaps not. It is the Vancouver of the 80's I am missing not the Vancouver of the now. I miss flying with Ray alot. I miss Nigel more. Hell Rob Riley, you dirty dawg, I even miss you. Rob was in my BAD BOY books for years because he let Nigel and my kites get caught up by the incoming tides at Long Beach because he thought we were off making whoopee somewhere when, in fact, we were off buying batteries for the great Teddy Bear Drop from one of those HUGE airflow kites. I cannot remember the kite makers name- was it Hans? He was a master anyway. Our kite lines were hopelessly tangled and to rescue them, we had to cut alot of lines. We struggled to save our kites while 20 feet away, Rob sat watching. He was willing to let our entire inventory wash out to sea. I lost one of my best kites to the tide. And Rob lost my friendship.
Rob had already angered me by smuggling his joints into the States in the spar spaces of Ray's kites. Ray blissfully crossed the border just him and his van of kites, and Rob's stash while Rob rode in another vehicle. Even back then it was a very tricky and audacious move. And it pissed me off. :)
Not long ago some MAN who I once dated told me that almost everything pisses me off.
hmmm - perhaps what he meant was more that I do not take things quietly. Forgive yes, forget- perhaps. Not quite the Christian standard but when you were raised by wolves it is the status quo. As I, Braineater once titled his album - "The renaissance of phenomenon - EAT OR BE EATEN." That pretty much sums up growing up in our home. I am positively MELLOW now by comparison. No regrets. (well except for Nigel) In a parallel universe somewhere I am Mrs. Nigel and we travel the continent together for the kite festivals and visit his drill sites all over the world. In this world, Mr. T and I get cozy after our beach outing.
So no kites, and a very very lazy day off.
Today I actually logged onto Facebook and perused some names from the long long ago.
Some people I miss. Most I remember with great fondness. Dawn and Kathy and Joey A.
Time to get my cool self into work mode.
Nevertheless Mr. T and I did the beach stroll today, wind howling in our ears. As we rounded a curve some hero in a pickup rolled down his window. "Does that look like a dog to you? Sure looks like a dog to me. Some people can't read."
We were paused beneath the huge "no dogs on beach March 1- May 30" sign. Mr. T was checking for messages. And yes, he was on a leash. I gave the hero my biggest smile and carried on. Silly man - the beach is the part with the sand and surf- the walk is the part with the concrete.
It is really truly unseasonably cool around here. No snow this week but lots of arctic winds. If Steve Brown had been at the park I would have brought out my kites but the goose poop field in the cold was not for me on my own. Somewhere around here I have some lines I can use. -mutter- Can you imagine it was 22 years ago that Ray Bethel taught me how to land my kite on the monument in Vanier Park? I did contribute to the bench in Ray's honour there but I would rather BE there flying than seeing pictures of it. Actually, perhaps not. It is the Vancouver of the 80's I am missing not the Vancouver of the now. I miss flying with Ray alot. I miss Nigel more. Hell Rob Riley, you dirty dawg, I even miss you. Rob was in my BAD BOY books for years because he let Nigel and my kites get caught up by the incoming tides at Long Beach because he thought we were off making whoopee somewhere when, in fact, we were off buying batteries for the great Teddy Bear Drop from one of those HUGE airflow kites. I cannot remember the kite makers name- was it Hans? He was a master anyway. Our kite lines were hopelessly tangled and to rescue them, we had to cut alot of lines. We struggled to save our kites while 20 feet away, Rob sat watching. He was willing to let our entire inventory wash out to sea. I lost one of my best kites to the tide. And Rob lost my friendship.
Rob had already angered me by smuggling his joints into the States in the spar spaces of Ray's kites. Ray blissfully crossed the border just him and his van of kites, and Rob's stash while Rob rode in another vehicle. Even back then it was a very tricky and audacious move. And it pissed me off. :)
Not long ago some MAN who I once dated told me that almost everything pisses me off.
hmmm - perhaps what he meant was more that I do not take things quietly. Forgive yes, forget- perhaps. Not quite the Christian standard but when you were raised by wolves it is the status quo. As I, Braineater once titled his album - "The renaissance of phenomenon - EAT OR BE EATEN." That pretty much sums up growing up in our home. I am positively MELLOW now by comparison. No regrets. (well except for Nigel) In a parallel universe somewhere I am Mrs. Nigel and we travel the continent together for the kite festivals and visit his drill sites all over the world. In this world, Mr. T and I get cozy after our beach outing.
So no kites, and a very very lazy day off.
Today I actually logged onto Facebook and perused some names from the long long ago.
Some people I miss. Most I remember with great fondness. Dawn and Kathy and Joey A.
Time to get my cool self into work mode.
23.4.08
Spring and the Fever
Each spring, I, like the birds and bees, experience a deep urge to mate and nest. Or nest and mate. Or just mate. Being possessed of the sort of hormones that legends are made of, it was DECADES before it occurred to me that this might not be entirely a good thing.
Being older now and supposedly wiser, I have resolved to satisfy my spring fever by cleaning and baking and working out at the gym. Oh bugger well we all know I hate the gym so make that working out at Curves where I can pretend I am there to help someone else. Why do I hate the gym? Possibly because I have not got the sort of body that looks good in the ever present gym mirrors while sweating. I am a goddess. I have the goddess body, that came with the hormones. Fully functional and stuck on grande mode.
I am uncommonly strong though, and from time to time delight in going to a gym just to watch the hard core feel sorry for my round self until I do my 200 sit ups or a series of lifts. Even goddesses can be vain.
Now about the fever - should I start blogging about dates or new people in my life please email me and give me a virtual smack. There is no room around here for even the occasional companion. Check in two years.
Being older now and supposedly wiser, I have resolved to satisfy my spring fever by cleaning and baking and working out at the gym. Oh bugger well we all know I hate the gym so make that working out at Curves where I can pretend I am there to help someone else. Why do I hate the gym? Possibly because I have not got the sort of body that looks good in the ever present gym mirrors while sweating. I am a goddess. I have the goddess body, that came with the hormones. Fully functional and stuck on grande mode.
I am uncommonly strong though, and from time to time delight in going to a gym just to watch the hard core feel sorry for my round self until I do my 200 sit ups or a series of lifts. Even goddesses can be vain.
Now about the fever - should I start blogging about dates or new people in my life please email me and give me a virtual smack. There is no room around here for even the occasional companion. Check in two years.
The Companion Checks In
My little friend has been mostly quiet lately for which I am grateful. Last week I had one full day of not being able to accomplish anything but it was only one day, and a dark room and bed rest seemed to work.
The companion behaves if I do. Any deviation from routine can be dangerous. Most dangerous of all is the flashing lights and noise intrusions. These are things I absolutely cannot tolerate well. I love to play pinball and own a few machines. These I can handle. But I don't have them all playing at the same time. In fact, due to space issues around here, they are in storage. *sniff* I play my DS these days but it isnt the same.
I have trained my brain to register conversations as white noise but certain voices transcend the barrier. One of these voices belongs to someone close to me. The idea of tonal modulation never occurs naturally to this person, even when suggested. This is where earplugs come in handy. After a long afternoon of pleasant although very loud togetherness I had to come home. My jaw had already clenched and my eyes were very disturbed. I had left it too long.
Later- There was a terrible commotion going on around me. Trying to break free of the chaos and get somewhere quiet before the headache hit, I struggled to find my car. It was missing. Second choice was a quiet room. I was in some strange bathroom quietly moaning waiting for the storm to pass. The hours were slow in passing. My discomfort did not lift. I decided that I had better find a telephone and call 9-1-1 but I could not even see the numbers through the pain. Eventually I vomited and fell down.
Coming to my senses, I was in my bed, fully clothed with my doggie guarding me. My eyes refused to stay focused and open and a metallic taste was in my mouth. My parched throat accepted 1/2 liter of cool water. My feet were twitching and my legs were very heavy. I had the after-effects of cramp along my calves. The clock said 6 am. It took me quite a few minutes to realize that the car flurry and the bathroom incident were not real but dreams of the very troubled night before. The companion had checked in.
22.4.08
Appropo of Nothing...
Lady D and I investigated a new coffee venue in the resort area. On the way there L.D. volunteered that this place also served sushi. We enjoyed home made chai tea and freshly baked cookies whilst looking out the window to this newly developed time share time place. When my Mother was alive, each of the resorts along that area was entered by long long lanes assessible from the only highway that went through this little seaside town. Now that the world has decided to move here, those lanes have been bisected by an entire new road that rings through the area, and the land between that road and the highway is where this new developement is.
Lady Di is looking very good now that the chemotherapy is in the past. Monday is the start of her three week radiation stint. I hope and pray that this is easy on her.
If nothing else, the cancer society provides excellent transport and housing for her during her stay. Not that you can fool yourself into believing its a vacation but its got to be easier than having poisons course through your system making you lose your hair and feel horrible at the same time.
The doorbell just rang - and I answered because I remembered that April is cancer month which is in fact exactly what I greeted the canvasser with. Poor woman had been waiting for good weather to do her canvassing but that doesnt seem likely to occur. We swapped fear of mastectomy stories and agreed we would see each other at the clinic.
--------- *
Cancer is a word, not a sentence. ~John Diamond
Lady Di is looking very good now that the chemotherapy is in the past. Monday is the start of her three week radiation stint. I hope and pray that this is easy on her.
If nothing else, the cancer society provides excellent transport and housing for her during her stay. Not that you can fool yourself into believing its a vacation but its got to be easier than having poisons course through your system making you lose your hair and feel horrible at the same time.
The doorbell just rang - and I answered because I remembered that April is cancer month which is in fact exactly what I greeted the canvasser with. Poor woman had been waiting for good weather to do her canvassing but that doesnt seem likely to occur. We swapped fear of mastectomy stories and agreed we would see each other at the clinic.
--------- *
Cancer is a word, not a sentence. ~John Diamond
21.4.08
The Twins
It was a sad intake. A very lovely woman sitting at her vanity, putting make-up on. "I need all the help I can get these days." She had gone in for a check-up full of hope and happiness and emerged without either. "I am home to decline, or recline or whatever is going to happen." Every time I tried to help her, she rebuffed me, ever more gently. "Don't mind me, I am just miserable."
After establishing that she was a Vancouver girl, from a certain area, we chatted a bit. She asked me my mother's name and it seemed familiar to her. The home we were in was one of the nicest I have visited. Not overly grande nor garishly large or self-consciously patishe, just quietly elegant in an excellent area. Each room was exceedingly tastefully decorated in that timeless style that people who just know what looks right have. Jackie Kennedy could have sat comfortably in any room of that home. She went to her sitting room and I came to join her. As I walked in to the room, I stopped and gaped.
"What is it?" she asked.
There, in the place of honour, sat a highly polished ladies writing desk. It was the identical twin to the one I have. Afer I told her I had the same desk she immediatly said: "No that's not possible. This was my grandmother's desk. She died in 1917."
I told her mine was from my mother's family and I believed it was from my Nana who died in the 1950s in her 90s. I could see they were still unconvinced so I told her I would take a picture of my desk on my cellphone to show her. And then I would like to take a picture of hers for prosperity.
Over the years I have been in hundreds of homes, probably thousands by now. I ave never seen another desk like *ours*. Interesting coincidence though.
After establishing that she was a Vancouver girl, from a certain area, we chatted a bit. She asked me my mother's name and it seemed familiar to her. The home we were in was one of the nicest I have visited. Not overly grande nor garishly large or self-consciously patishe, just quietly elegant in an excellent area. Each room was exceedingly tastefully decorated in that timeless style that people who just know what looks right have. Jackie Kennedy could have sat comfortably in any room of that home. She went to her sitting room and I came to join her. As I walked in to the room, I stopped and gaped.
"What is it?" she asked.
There, in the place of honour, sat a highly polished ladies writing desk. It was the identical twin to the one I have. Afer I told her I had the same desk she immediatly said: "No that's not possible. This was my grandmother's desk. She died in 1917."
I told her mine was from my mother's family and I believed it was from my Nana who died in the 1950s in her 90s. I could see they were still unconvinced so I told her I would take a picture of my desk on my cellphone to show her. And then I would like to take a picture of hers for prosperity.
Over the years I have been in hundreds of homes, probably thousands by now. I ave never seen another desk like *ours*. Interesting coincidence though.
20.4.08
And how IS Shannon Tweed anyway?
A few guilty pleasures can make life interesting. One of my brand new gp's is watching cable television, quietly alone in my room. A few shows I have come to enjoy are CSI: Miami, CSI, and, uhm, (shh) Gene Simmons Family Jewels.
The CSI family are something I do not watch with my eyes- I listen with my ears while I MUD or write. I can't take the autopsies and gore but I do enjoy the mysteries. Gene and his family jewels I put my feet up and watch fully engaged. Gene Simmons is a guy I want to hate on principle being the fuck pig he is. But then, JFK had the same thing going on. It probably is not very good sex- I suspect he reserves that for Shannon Tweed. And speaking of Shannon - I wonder how she is feeling these days? After watching 4 back to back episodes of Family Jewels I googled Gene Simmons to find out how tall he is. Imagine my surprise to find that his sex tape scandal is a current issue. I had no idea that a man as smart as he is would make such an incredibly stupid mistake as to be filmed screwing around. Poor Nick and Sophie. But mostly, poor Shannon.
The success of the Gene Simmons family jewels show is not because Gene is so likable. It is because against all odds he landed the girl with beauty AND brains. Shannon is a great mom and a great spirit. She is the catch not him. And for whatever weird reason, possibly because he adores her but not enough to be monogamous, she appears to love him. Shannon Tweed is a woman that no other man in his right mind would cheat on.
I hope they work it out and I hope Mr. Gene Simmons grows up. But then, Mick Jagger never did. Somehow, I like Shannon alot more than I would ever like Jerry Hall.
What a curse to be famous.
Money isn't everything.
Loosing the respect of your children cannot be bought back.
The CSI family are something I do not watch with my eyes- I listen with my ears while I MUD or write. I can't take the autopsies and gore but I do enjoy the mysteries. Gene and his family jewels I put my feet up and watch fully engaged. Gene Simmons is a guy I want to hate on principle being the fuck pig he is. But then, JFK had the same thing going on. It probably is not very good sex- I suspect he reserves that for Shannon Tweed. And speaking of Shannon - I wonder how she is feeling these days? After watching 4 back to back episodes of Family Jewels I googled Gene Simmons to find out how tall he is. Imagine my surprise to find that his sex tape scandal is a current issue. I had no idea that a man as smart as he is would make such an incredibly stupid mistake as to be filmed screwing around. Poor Nick and Sophie. But mostly, poor Shannon.
The success of the Gene Simmons family jewels show is not because Gene is so likable. It is because against all odds he landed the girl with beauty AND brains. Shannon is a great mom and a great spirit. She is the catch not him. And for whatever weird reason, possibly because he adores her but not enough to be monogamous, she appears to love him. Shannon Tweed is a woman that no other man in his right mind would cheat on.
I hope they work it out and I hope Mr. Gene Simmons grows up. But then, Mick Jagger never did. Somehow, I like Shannon alot more than I would ever like Jerry Hall.
What a curse to be famous.
Money isn't everything.
Loosing the respect of your children cannot be bought back.
19.4.08
Seclusion - me and my pattootie!
OH my. Seclusion. While I enjoy the solitude, its the circumstances that I am less pleased with. Knowing that I was required as a tutor (unpaid of course) and that I am notoriously poor at multitasking, I endeavored to take some days off. The first solution, the solution that does not require using vacation time, is to use those lovely lieu days that an employee working statutory holidays accrues. To take these days off means to take a day off UNPAID so essentially its not something most people jump for joy over. To work a stat is one thing, to take the lieu day owed quite another.
Somehow in the whole get-the-person-in-question-through-school thingee, I got carried away and took my lieu days all in one pay period. Perhaps this means nothing to most, but I run a pretty damned tight ship here what with the cost of *extras* like tuition for the munchkin and brain meds for me. To keep balance in my life (read: to quell the storms within that occur when in the company of loud persons) I do not work a regular week. *AND* I live in paradise. The single smart financial decision of my life was to purchase a smaller home in a price range that could be afforded on a small income. I sold my ocean view gorgeous home at the bottom of the market, paid off he-who-I-never-obeyed, and never looked back. My old home, if I still owned it, could now be sold for enough money to buy this condo outright AND give me a pretty sweet pension fund. But noooo- that would never happen. :P
So these coming weeks I shall probably blog my sweet pattootie off since I can't afford to leave the house. Brown rice and beans yummy yum. And seclusion.
Somehow in the whole get-the-person-in-question-through-school thingee, I got carried away and took my lieu days all in one pay period. Perhaps this means nothing to most, but I run a pretty damned tight ship here what with the cost of *extras* like tuition for the munchkin and brain meds for me. To keep balance in my life (read: to quell the storms within that occur when in the company of loud persons) I do not work a regular week. *AND* I live in paradise. The single smart financial decision of my life was to purchase a smaller home in a price range that could be afforded on a small income. I sold my ocean view gorgeous home at the bottom of the market, paid off he-who-I-never-obeyed, and never looked back. My old home, if I still owned it, could now be sold for enough money to buy this condo outright AND give me a pretty sweet pension fund. But noooo- that would never happen. :P
So these coming weeks I shall probably blog my sweet pattootie off since I can't afford to leave the house. Brown rice and beans yummy yum. And seclusion.
18.4.08
Such a Strange Day
Somebody called my house this morning around 05:45. Perhaps it was a scheduler with more work for me I reasoned but alas, twas not. Thinking no more of it I lollygagged longer than usual in my toasty bed with my companionable dog. As I grabbed my stuff and headed out for work I was three steps out the door before I noticed the snow. April 19th and we had around 4 inches on the ground. Holy Hannah! I believe the early call was for someone else from a wannabe sledder. The roads were awful as I slid me way to my first few clients. By the time noon hit, the snow was but a memory in the area I was working in and just in tome too as I was headed for a very rural address.
The person I was sent to see seemed too young to have the multitude of conditions that read down the notes like a grocery list. As we spoke, frequent groans and gasps crept forth unbidden. Essentially the story was that after yet another hospitalization the discharge was home to die. Home was not really home at all as a good friend had stepped up to provide a room. The house was very large but the possessions were more than equal to it. STUFF EVERYWHERE! I know the house well from the outside at least as it is on the way to my wonderful Jennifer Weisner's Day spa - The Nevaeh Day Spa. Jenn of the many gifts- Jenn of the very best back facials ever - Jenn of the "Coddle me I am needy" enablement. Did I mention I love Jenn?
Jenn's place is farther up the road from that home but the reason it is familiar to me is that every year I buy my hanging baskets there. They are the best in this flower mad area. Now, the down side. For the second week in a row, the weekend scheduler did not check the allergens side and as a result I am lying here sneezing and coughing and waiting for the next dose of anti-allergens. There were 4 dogs in that home. Four long hair dogs. And two cockatoo's. Four Budgies. And judging from the evidence left in the blankets, a healthy colony of mice. It was pretty much overkill in the take out the asthmatic Health Care Personage.
The person I was sent to see seemed too young to have the multitude of conditions that read down the notes like a grocery list. As we spoke, frequent groans and gasps crept forth unbidden. Essentially the story was that after yet another hospitalization the discharge was home to die. Home was not really home at all as a good friend had stepped up to provide a room. The house was very large but the possessions were more than equal to it. STUFF EVERYWHERE! I know the house well from the outside at least as it is on the way to my wonderful Jennifer Weisner's Day spa - The Nevaeh Day Spa. Jenn of the many gifts- Jenn of the very best back facials ever - Jenn of the "Coddle me I am needy" enablement. Did I mention I love Jenn?
Jenn's place is farther up the road from that home but the reason it is familiar to me is that every year I buy my hanging baskets there. They are the best in this flower mad area. Now, the down side. For the second week in a row, the weekend scheduler did not check the allergens side and as a result I am lying here sneezing and coughing and waiting for the next dose of anti-allergens. There were 4 dogs in that home. Four long hair dogs. And two cockatoo's. Four Budgies. And judging from the evidence left in the blankets, a healthy colony of mice. It was pretty much overkill in the take out the asthmatic Health Care Personage.
17.4.08
16.4.08
Completely Unrelated -
Every day at the beach I see a few familiar faces. One of my favourites is a woman who whirls down the hill in her wheelchair to do the 1/2 mile seawalk and then home again. She is attracted to my dog as she had to give her own up. She wears velcro slippers of an unfortunate fabric and a very thermal coat. Today I asked her about the slippers.
"Oh dear, they make me wear them where I live. My shoes don't quite fit these days."
Turns out she lives in one of the extended care facilities in our area. I think it is wonderful that she out and about and LIVING in the community.
--------- *
"When the Greeks said, "Whom the gods love die young," they probably
meant, as Lord Sankey suggested, that those favored by the gods stay
young till the day they die; young and playful." -Eric Hoffer
"Oh dear, they make me wear them where I live. My shoes don't quite fit these days."
Turns out she lives in one of the extended care facilities in our area. I think it is wonderful that she out and about and LIVING in the community.
--------- *
"When the Greeks said, "Whom the gods love die young," they probably
meant, as Lord Sankey suggested, that those favored by the gods stay
young till the day they die; young and playful." -Eric Hoffer
15.4.08
Oh Them Heavy People . . .
Stopping for a coffee in a familiar haunt where I read the morning newspaper and do the crossword to the strains of geriatric buzzing gossip, I looked up as someone touched my shoulder. The gentleman there enquired about my father and then volunteered that he was concerned about some troubling behaviour that he really did not want to discuss with a daughter. Oh dear.
Next day same place another old salt came by my table and asked if he could sit down. He then very delicately chronicled a few reasons why he no longer enjoys chatting with my father. Oh dearie dear.
Oh....
---------------------------------------- *
If we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls.
= = Maya Angelou
Next day same place another old salt came by my table and asked if he could sit down. He then very delicately chronicled a few reasons why he no longer enjoys chatting with my father. Oh dearie dear.
Oh....
---------------------------------------- *
If we are bold, love strikes away the chains of fear from our souls.
= = Maya Angelou
12.4.08
❤ ❤ ❤
❤ Some people you love.
❤ Some people you trust.
❤ Some people you love AND trust.
Not many though.
❤ Some people you trust.
❤ Some people you love AND trust.
Not many though.
11.4.08
Time of No Reply
Sitting here listening to Nick Drake and just overwhelmed by the whole posthumous fame thing. I regret, if you can call it regret that I was not old enough to have seen Nick Drake in person. I enjoy his lyrics almost as much as his incredible guitar playing. Not many can do what he did. The notes sing out so clear and crisp - to think he could sing at the same time is beyond belief. His music is so wistful. In another reality there is Nick Drake scoring a film version of LoTR. Who better than one whose work is like a glimpse into a world that should have been that could be elsewhere.
It is unbelievable to me that Cat Stevens was on every 1970's airwave and Nick Drake was not. Marketability is always so much to do with appearance and perceptions of same. Look at Jim Morrison- that loud boozy fat drunk who is marketed in perpetuity as a curly haired angel - a look he achieved only after 5 months of doing acid every day and losing most of his weight. He did not manage to keep that look for long either and yet if you Google him or see an article on him likely the accompanying graphic is this idyllic youth of almost neverwas.
Poor Nick Drake who could not/would not tour. Today he would be revered as a YouTube phenomena or just as a talented brilliant recluse -AND- sell zillions of records. All those years he bemoaned not selling - how sad that now that his records are, he is not around to benefit..
Ah Nick.
Too soon.
Wrong decade.
Very much missed now.
For a weird link between Heath Ledger and Nick Drake read this
It is unbelievable to me that Cat Stevens was on every 1970's airwave and Nick Drake was not. Marketability is always so much to do with appearance and perceptions of same. Look at Jim Morrison- that loud boozy fat drunk who is marketed in perpetuity as a curly haired angel - a look he achieved only after 5 months of doing acid every day and losing most of his weight. He did not manage to keep that look for long either and yet if you Google him or see an article on him likely the accompanying graphic is this idyllic youth of almost neverwas.
Poor Nick Drake who could not/would not tour. Today he would be revered as a YouTube phenomena or just as a talented brilliant recluse -AND- sell zillions of records. All those years he bemoaned not selling - how sad that now that his records are, he is not around to benefit..
Ah Nick.
Too soon.
Wrong decade.
Very much missed now.
For a weird link between Heath Ledger and Nick Drake read this
10.4.08
Unexpected Gift (*in many ways)
This week I received a beautiful card thanking me for "... caring for my husband during his decline and providing singularly dignified care." In the pocket of the card was a very beautiful angel pin with five crystals in it. It now adorns the dashboard of my car.
Those who ride with me sometimes comment on the angel pins which decorate the headliner. Each one of them represent some person that I made a deep connection with. I also have a few keychains, and other paraphernalia, mostly gifts from families and the odd student I have carried along with me.
My car guy used to tell people that I collect angels. This is almost correct. I do not collect angels, I just accompany them on their journey.
9.4.08
-Just another day -
06:00 - uncharacteristically I do not wake until my alarm
07:00 - my private client has had a very bad night. We spent an hour+ cleaning him up, and another hour+ cleaning the bedroom. I get him up much to the surprise of his wife.
10:00- a walk at the beach with my doggieboy
11:30 - a very long visit at the Doctor with another private client having options explained.
13:00 - I get to the gentleman of the early morning and put him back to bed. More cleaning up.
14:30 - home again BBC7 I love you
15:30 - tutoring for someone who goes to a Private School that costs alot of money.
17:00 - dinner, such as it is.
19:45 - I light my candles and declare the day to be over.
But first - must fill my water jug.
Suddenly I see the blips on my answering machine. Why I have one is anyone's guess. I rarely answer the home phone unless expecting an urgent call. Uh oh- 1 have 13 unheard messages.
I listen to a few not so urgent and then one that is gently chiding me for not being available for last minute visitors as it is well known to be my day off and I am clearly just poking around somewhere.
---------------------*
------- *
-=poke=-
07:00 - my private client has had a very bad night. We spent an hour+ cleaning him up, and another hour+ cleaning the bedroom. I get him up much to the surprise of his wife.
10:00- a walk at the beach with my doggieboy
11:30 - a very long visit at the Doctor with another private client having options explained.
13:00 - I get to the gentleman of the early morning and put him back to bed. More cleaning up.
14:30 - home again BBC7 I love you
15:30 - tutoring for someone who goes to a Private School that costs alot of money.
17:00 - dinner, such as it is.
19:45 - I light my candles and declare the day to be over.
But first - must fill my water jug.
Suddenly I see the blips on my answering machine. Why I have one is anyone's guess. I rarely answer the home phone unless expecting an urgent call. Uh oh- 1 have 13 unheard messages.
I listen to a few not so urgent and then one that is gently chiding me for not being available for last minute visitors as it is well known to be my day off and I am clearly just poking around somewhere.
---------------------*
------- *
-=poke=-
8.4.08
Today at the Thrift (!!)
Gentle reader rejoice with me as I give an account of the DEAL OF
THE YEAR from the Thrift Shoppe. It is taking amazing restraint not to rub my hands with glee whilst typing. I have a smirk/smile/euphoric expression in place that will likely STAY in place for a few hours.-------------------- *
On my third waltz through, I saw a monitor with blue and silver beckoning me. My subconscious recognised the reality before the rest of my brain as I walked over casually and heaved it onto my arms. It was not a monitor and keyboard as I am sure the pricer thought it to be. It was an iMac. I paid $9.99 for it. Oh lovely lovely thrift. It is not for me. It is for the home of he-who-I-never-obeyed for the use of a lovely child I know very well. I plan to charge him $100.
------------------- !!
On the other side of things, the reason I was on my third go through is that I came face to face with a man I like very much. We are fellow magpies who met at the since defunct Consignment Store in town. A Tim Hortons sits on the site these days. I was able to furnish my Father's new abode in the days when he was on the lam from his atrocious elder abuser wife. About $1500 bought everything from toasters cutlery and bedding to chairs, tables, wall units and bedding as well as two televisions and a computer. This were all almost new high end brand items. My co-hort was tempted to open a consignment store of his own but rising real estate prices impeded this. We just chat when we see each other. He has not been around for awhile. I asked him if he was still buying and selling and he allowed as how he was just buying these days as he was busy. Busy doing what I asked? Busy with treatment for bone cancer. BUGGER anyway.
One very good thing is that he was able to have a bone marrow transplant with himself as a donor. It was a stem-cell thing and it was done in Vancouver General Hospital.
He looked like someone on Prednisone and his mood was that flat affect you get with people in a prolonged state of shock. His cell-phone rang and we parted but you know.... he will stay in my thoughts. Likely I will be seeing him professionally soon.
THE YEAR from the Thrift Shoppe. It is taking amazing restraint not to rub my hands with glee whilst typing. I have a smirk/smile/euphoric expression in place that will likely STAY in place for a few hours.-------------------- *
On my third waltz through, I saw a monitor with blue and silver beckoning me. My subconscious recognised the reality before the rest of my brain as I walked over casually and heaved it onto my arms. It was not a monitor and keyboard as I am sure the pricer thought it to be. It was an iMac. I paid $9.99 for it. Oh lovely lovely thrift. It is not for me. It is for the home of he-who-I-never-obeyed for the use of a lovely child I know very well. I plan to charge him $100.
------------------- !!
On the other side of things, the reason I was on my third go through is that I came face to face with a man I like very much. We are fellow magpies who met at the since defunct Consignment Store in town. A Tim Hortons sits on the site these days. I was able to furnish my Father's new abode in the days when he was on the lam from his atrocious elder abuser wife. About $1500 bought everything from toasters cutlery and bedding to chairs, tables, wall units and bedding as well as two televisions and a computer. This were all almost new high end brand items. My co-hort was tempted to open a consignment store of his own but rising real estate prices impeded this. We just chat when we see each other. He has not been around for awhile. I asked him if he was still buying and selling and he allowed as how he was just buying these days as he was busy. Busy doing what I asked? Busy with treatment for bone cancer. BUGGER anyway.
One very good thing is that he was able to have a bone marrow transplant with himself as a donor. It was a stem-cell thing and it was done in Vancouver General Hospital.
He looked like someone on Prednisone and his mood was that flat affect you get with people in a prolonged state of shock. His cell-phone rang and we parted but you know.... he will stay in my thoughts. Likely I will be seeing him professionally soon.
7.4.08
New People, Places and Faces
Not so very long ago, my Mondays were chock-a-block full of my 90 year olds, all living independently in their own homes. 2 deaths, and 3 placements to Extended Care later, my Monday list looks very different. Not alot of people like the 11 o'clock and 12 o'clock slots, so I have been through a few people on the road to a more stable clientèle.
This morning I met two new people. One is a person recovering from aneurysm surgery. Slowly. The other is trying to regain independence after a hip replacement that did not quite take. This is perhaps the 3rd person this year I have met who has had a bad reaction to this particular surgery. -sigh
And then there was my afternoon client. I have gone to the spouse for quite a while during a terrible battle with cancer. Now I am with the partner as my client died last week. Felt a little weird I must admit. The good thing was that death came as a blessing and there are few grief and loss issues. Also it was a good life comparatively speaking. *Eighty Nine years*
It was a little more driving than I would like ideally today. My former client list was all contained within about 5 kms. Today I was at each corner of my area.
---
Lady D and I had coffee today. She is looking alot better. Now that chemotherapy is over with, she has a three week break and then its radiation. Honestly, where she gets her courage from I do not know. As I was parking my car after work, I realized the sign warning of oxygen in use was no longer present in my neighbours home. Sadly, she passed away at the age of 28 from ovarian cancer.
Cancer is .... a bitch.
This morning I met two new people. One is a person recovering from aneurysm surgery. Slowly. The other is trying to regain independence after a hip replacement that did not quite take. This is perhaps the 3rd person this year I have met who has had a bad reaction to this particular surgery. -sigh
And then there was my afternoon client. I have gone to the spouse for quite a while during a terrible battle with cancer. Now I am with the partner as my client died last week. Felt a little weird I must admit. The good thing was that death came as a blessing and there are few grief and loss issues. Also it was a good life comparatively speaking. *Eighty Nine years*
It was a little more driving than I would like ideally today. My former client list was all contained within about 5 kms. Today I was at each corner of my area.
---
Lady D and I had coffee today. She is looking alot better. Now that chemotherapy is over with, she has a three week break and then its radiation. Honestly, where she gets her courage from I do not know. As I was parking my car after work, I realized the sign warning of oxygen in use was no longer present in my neighbours home. Sadly, she passed away at the age of 28 from ovarian cancer.
Cancer is .... a bitch.
6.4.08
-= & Anti-Grace -=
Just as a measure, a marker, a roadmap to this perceived grace of mine -
Here is an exerpt from a letter from --someone-- in the family referring to La Professional.
You will get the idea REAL fast.
-------------
---> snip
(la professional) is lucky it was not me, I would have torn her apart shred by shred, taking every bit of her credibility, her good name, and left her with nothing. Left in my hands, one of us would have had to leave, and it would not have been me. I would never have let that pathetic, self absorbed, embellished, tacky, classless, transparent, dried up menopautic husk of a woman do to me what she did to him. To be betrayed the way that he was deserved a good old witch burning with witnesses and lots of foul talk being spread, not to mention the odd 'scare' being sent her way.
snip <------
-------------
I love that letter.
It's so.... LITERATE!
Why is evil so very very alluring? I am the evil really. The one who pretends to want grace and yet obviously yearns for something quite different.
Here is an exerpt from a letter from --someone-- in the family referring to La Professional.
You will get the idea REAL fast.
-------------
---> snip
(la professional) is lucky it was not me, I would have torn her apart shred by shred, taking every bit of her credibility, her good name, and left her with nothing. Left in my hands, one of us would have had to leave, and it would not have been me. I would never have let that pathetic, self absorbed, embellished, tacky, classless, transparent, dried up menopautic husk of a woman do to me what she did to him. To be betrayed the way that he was deserved a good old witch burning with witnesses and lots of foul talk being spread, not to mention the odd 'scare' being sent her way.
snip <------
-------------
I love that letter.
It's so.... LITERATE!
Why is evil so very very alluring? I am the evil really. The one who pretends to want grace and yet obviously yearns for something quite different.
- = Grace = -
Today being Sunday, and family being afoot, I thought it would be fun to go to our 
Vancouver lunch haunt - The White Spot. Now we did not brave highways waves and ferries to go there, we opted for the local franchise where we still could order the "Legendary White Spot Platter" and yum yum to that. No matter how old I get the White Spot is the standard by which I measure the tastiness of all hamburgers.
On the wall of the restaurant is a picture from long ago of the original White Spot in it's location at 65th and Granville. We South Vancouverites are well acquainted with it as we used to cut through it's parking lot on our way to David Lloyd George Elementary School - another relic from early Vancouver.
We gave our name and waited for a table as the after church crowd swelled the joint to capacity. I excused myself and went to wash my hands. And who should be sitting at a table for 4 with 3 church goers but (cue evil theme) THE PROFESSIONAL. How lovely to see her looking so very well so botoxed and groomed and dressed to the nines. She lives in my mother's house, the one she saved her entire life for to earn a retirement on the beautiful waterfront of this Island, on my father's money- the money he earned working from the age of 6 for, but, as, Madame Professional likes to say of her gorgeous renovated waterfront home, "She earned it". To my credit I did not accidentally drop something on her head as I walked past nor did I make a remark. I did, however, eat my lunch happily ignoring her.
Grace must be working its magic on me. Slowly.
Very very slowly.
I think I will take flowers to Mom's grave today.
Vancouver lunch haunt - The White Spot. Now we did not brave highways waves and ferries to go there, we opted for the local franchise where we still could order the "Legendary White Spot Platter" and yum yum to that. No matter how old I get the White Spot is the standard by which I measure the tastiness of all hamburgers. On the wall of the restaurant is a picture from long ago of the original White Spot in it's location at 65th and Granville. We South Vancouverites are well acquainted with it as we used to cut through it's parking lot on our way to David Lloyd George Elementary School - another relic from early Vancouver.
We gave our name and waited for a table as the after church crowd swelled the joint to capacity. I excused myself and went to wash my hands. And who should be sitting at a table for 4 with 3 church goers but (cue evil theme) THE PROFESSIONAL. How lovely to see her looking so very well so botoxed and groomed and dressed to the nines. She lives in my mother's house, the one she saved her entire life for to earn a retirement on the beautiful waterfront of this Island, on my father's money- the money he earned working from the age of 6 for, but, as, Madame Professional likes to say of her gorgeous renovated waterfront home, "She earned it". To my credit I did not accidentally drop something on her head as I walked past nor did I make a remark. I did, however, eat my lunch happily ignoring her.
Grace must be working its magic on me. Slowly.
Very very slowly.
I think I will take flowers to Mom's grave today.
2.4.08
My Invitation to the Festivities in Skopje
o
Wish I could be there - -
Perhaps you can go for me?
Just tell them Morg from Ironforge Choppers sent you!
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
.jpg)
Wish I could be there - -
Perhaps you can go for me?
Just tell them Morg from Ironforge Choppers sent you!
=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
.jpg)
The Weirdness About Clocks
Remembering back to my childhood is not something I do easily nor well. Because of the injury or at least so I am told, I remember very little about my early life. Many of my memories are really just recordings of stories other people have told me. The few things I do remember are mostly sounds, tactile sensations and smells. The events were secondary to me. I remember clocks because I loved hearing the chimes and the tics and tocs. We had a mantle clock when I was a child but my mother hated it, and never would allow it to be wound. Eventually it just disappeared from the household. Mom had a grudge against time and refused to listen to any device that would measure it. Later in her life when she became obsessed with the acquisition of jewellery, she collected beautiful wrist-watches but she never wore the ones that ticked.
Oddly, I rarely wear a time piece and when I do its generally a pocket watch on a chain. I have a house full of clocks but keep only 4 wound to minimize the annoyance to others. It always seemed very silly to me to pretend to measure time.
Oddly, I rarely wear a time piece and when I do its generally a pocket watch on a chain. I have a house full of clocks but keep only 4 wound to minimize the annoyance to others. It always seemed very silly to me to pretend to measure time.
A First For Me
I quote Wood's Current English Usage:
"GENDER. 'Being myself of the feminine gender, I suppose I should be
favourably disposed towards any proposal which would place women on an equal footing with men.'-From a women's magazine. Incorrect. Gender is a
grammatical term: only words have gender; human beings and other animals have sex."
--------------------------------------*
In my time rolling around the planet, I have met all sorts of people with all sorts of gender identity tags. It does not really matter to me what orientation or origin a person has. It is their life, not mine. Having said that, it is not every day you meet a hermaphrodite.
During my time in the Care Lane, the most difficult of all things is to keep shock from showing on your face or in your attitude. It is only strange once and after that it is the known. The two times I remember struggling to keep myself neutral were upon seeing a person in the latter stages of bile duct cancer (the person was a horrid shade of green) and another person with a growth from their chest wall shaped exactly like a ginger root. As I said, it is only strange the first time.
I hope I do not sound tactless. I really am able to present myself as neutral.
But again, it is not often you attend to a double gendered person.
As Emily would say:
"GENDER. 'Being myself of the feminine gender, I suppose I should be
favourably disposed towards any proposal which would place women on an equal footing with men.'-From a women's magazine. Incorrect. Gender is a
grammatical term: only words have gender; human beings and other animals have sex."
--------------------------------------*
In my time rolling around the planet, I have met all sorts of people with all sorts of gender identity tags. It does not really matter to me what orientation or origin a person has. It is their life, not mine. Having said that, it is not every day you meet a hermaphrodite.
During my time in the Care Lane, the most difficult of all things is to keep shock from showing on your face or in your attitude. It is only strange once and after that it is the known. The two times I remember struggling to keep myself neutral were upon seeing a person in the latter stages of bile duct cancer (the person was a horrid shade of green) and another person with a growth from their chest wall shaped exactly like a ginger root. As I said, it is only strange the first time.
I hope I do not sound tactless. I really am able to present myself as neutral.
But again, it is not often you attend to a double gendered person.
As Emily would say:
1.4.08
My Bad Bad Brain
Keeping the world at bay is one of the things I have learned to be necessary to master. The world does not care about the workings of an uncelebrated mind. If you begin to show distress of the physical or emotional, you are asked to find a way to cope that minimally involves other people. Any variances make people suspect that you may suffer from one of the plethora of anxiety disorders, or possibly a bi-polar illness. Unless you chat up the voices they won't try to make you schizophrenic but that isn't for sure.
No, I am not overly-anxious.
No, I am not mentally ill.
No, I do not have a drug problem.
Yes, I do get pissed off because I have a constant companion. A brain injury.
Peace doesn't last. Not in this world and not within my brain. Continuing to post the stories of the people who entrust me with their most precious gifts- that of their presence in the moment, is one of the things that keeps me centred. Posting about my own true self, and my daily battle with my own brain, is hard but necessary. Before the Internet I had journals. Each New Years Day I ceremoniously burned my journal of the year gone past and considered myself renewed. This ritual and the self congratulatory feelings of making it through another year were important tools for the time.
Adrenilin is my greatest enemy. For some weird chemical reason, my already hyper-sensitive body got stuck on overdrive the day I got struck on the head.
This is only cool when you are a hunter gatherer. It would seem that with this aspect I could have been a rocket rider or a stunt woman, but the companion to nonstop adrenilin is constant exhaustion and the after-effects of same.
I got through my teenage years by drinking copious amounts of alcohol. Being blitzed was the only thing that shut the tornado in my mind up. Back then, I thought all of us, every single person on the planet learned how to wrangle brainstorms.
I did not know any different because I never thought to try to explain the mental chaos. I could see in my mind, myself and my memories, and this cavern of static which was not me but was settled upon me. If I tried to look beyond where the storm was, I would faint. Mostly this happened at night. The amount of alcohol necessary to ignore the storm was just shy of lethal. Luckily, I stopped drinking and started an exploration of holistic alternatives in my twenties. Although it was mostly just an interesting waste of time, it saved my liver. Turns out I needed it!
Describing a brain injury is like trying to breathe on Mars. You need certain tools to make it possible. I am unpossessed of these and continue to try to make sense of something that is utterly irrational. I consider my life to be a huge triumph of will over circumstance. The greatest of all victories is the one of seeming to exist within normal parameters. I pass for a body possessed of an unmedicated untainted brain. My personality comes across as eccentric or so I am told, but my ability to focus utterly and completely on what I am doing in my work outshines the quirks. I have learned to be charming. I have learned not to care what other people say. But I have not learned how to just live a balanced life. I hold it to be within the realm of the possible.
One major side-effect of taking brain medications is weight gain. I have to suck it up for as long as I need to earn my daily bread. A side-effect of weight gain is depression. Not content with gifting me with all these bad-fairy blessings, the Universe also gave me the gift of hyper-sensitivity. This is a fairly common thing that happens to people touched in the head. It means that certain senses become like super powers that you cannot turn off. You have to learn to ignore them. The bugger of it is that the injury wont LET you ignore them so again, you end up taking medication. So---- the upshot is that when you should be out and about enjoying the day is likely when a brainstorm will hit.
I went to the Pool today and forgot my ear plugs. Sounds like a minor inconvenience I am sure. -pound pound pound -
Frequently, I wonder what would have been my life-path without the bonk. There is no gain to an unbridled intellect. My grande focusing skill is only possible with medication. The sad thing is that although I can focus, I loose my brilliance.
My brain whine. My sorrow for what cannot be.
Is it shades of the possible I mourn or just sour grapes?
Many of my preferences and life choices were made to accommodate my injury. No that is a lie. *ALL* of my lifestyle choices were made this way. I have to live small to just live. Every day I open my eyes is a miracle. Odds are that one day I will stroke out at an early age or succumb to an aneurysm. No need to hurry the demise.
But my friends, life is a difficult choice.
-------------------=
When patterns are broken, new worlds emerge.
= Tuli Kupferberg
No, I am not overly-anxious.
No, I am not mentally ill.
No, I do not have a drug problem.
Yes, I do get pissed off because I have a constant companion. A brain injury.
Peace doesn't last. Not in this world and not within my brain. Continuing to post the stories of the people who entrust me with their most precious gifts- that of their presence in the moment, is one of the things that keeps me centred. Posting about my own true self, and my daily battle with my own brain, is hard but necessary. Before the Internet I had journals. Each New Years Day I ceremoniously burned my journal of the year gone past and considered myself renewed. This ritual and the self congratulatory feelings of making it through another year were important tools for the time.
Adrenilin is my greatest enemy. For some weird chemical reason, my already hyper-sensitive body got stuck on overdrive the day I got struck on the head.
This is only cool when you are a hunter gatherer. It would seem that with this aspect I could have been a rocket rider or a stunt woman, but the companion to nonstop adrenilin is constant exhaustion and the after-effects of same.
I got through my teenage years by drinking copious amounts of alcohol. Being blitzed was the only thing that shut the tornado in my mind up. Back then, I thought all of us, every single person on the planet learned how to wrangle brainstorms.
I did not know any different because I never thought to try to explain the mental chaos. I could see in my mind, myself and my memories, and this cavern of static which was not me but was settled upon me. If I tried to look beyond where the storm was, I would faint. Mostly this happened at night. The amount of alcohol necessary to ignore the storm was just shy of lethal. Luckily, I stopped drinking and started an exploration of holistic alternatives in my twenties. Although it was mostly just an interesting waste of time, it saved my liver. Turns out I needed it!
Describing a brain injury is like trying to breathe on Mars. You need certain tools to make it possible. I am unpossessed of these and continue to try to make sense of something that is utterly irrational. I consider my life to be a huge triumph of will over circumstance. The greatest of all victories is the one of seeming to exist within normal parameters. I pass for a body possessed of an unmedicated untainted brain. My personality comes across as eccentric or so I am told, but my ability to focus utterly and completely on what I am doing in my work outshines the quirks. I have learned to be charming. I have learned not to care what other people say. But I have not learned how to just live a balanced life. I hold it to be within the realm of the possible.
One major side-effect of taking brain medications is weight gain. I have to suck it up for as long as I need to earn my daily bread. A side-effect of weight gain is depression. Not content with gifting me with all these bad-fairy blessings, the Universe also gave me the gift of hyper-sensitivity. This is a fairly common thing that happens to people touched in the head. It means that certain senses become like super powers that you cannot turn off. You have to learn to ignore them. The bugger of it is that the injury wont LET you ignore them so again, you end up taking medication. So---- the upshot is that when you should be out and about enjoying the day is likely when a brainstorm will hit.
I went to the Pool today and forgot my ear plugs. Sounds like a minor inconvenience I am sure. -pound pound pound -
Frequently, I wonder what would have been my life-path without the bonk. There is no gain to an unbridled intellect. My grande focusing skill is only possible with medication. The sad thing is that although I can focus, I loose my brilliance.
My brain whine. My sorrow for what cannot be.
Is it shades of the possible I mourn or just sour grapes?
Many of my preferences and life choices were made to accommodate my injury. No that is a lie. *ALL* of my lifestyle choices were made this way. I have to live small to just live. Every day I open my eyes is a miracle. Odds are that one day I will stroke out at an early age or succumb to an aneurysm. No need to hurry the demise.
But my friends, life is a difficult choice.
-------------------=
When patterns are broken, new worlds emerge.
= Tuli Kupferberg
Nigel's Eggscape
In my INBOX today, was the most amazing picture with a cute little story from my Valentine boyo Nigel. Regular readers will know him as the man I could have-should have married. Many long years ago, we agreed to wait a year and see if we still loved one another as we were also best friends and no one wants to ruin a friendship over mere sex. We had the rock and roll and the kites, the British Motorcycles and the gourmet cooking, and we definitly had the fun but we never had the sex.
So what happened in that year?
Well - lots of personal things that can change the course of a life.
Of course this too is MY fault as I told Nigel to spend the year dating buxom sexy blondes to get it out of his system as I am not a fan of infidelity. Nigel was able to undress a woman from 50 yards by just looking at her. He did not salivate but he was definitely Mr. Wolf. Damn it, it just did not work out well for us. What a bugger of a thing. But he has his Alma and his house and his motorcycles and his amazing diamond-drilling business and I have my daughter. All things considered I believe I got the better end but I sure do miss my friend and all the fun.
So back to the Eggscape-
On the Solstice Nigel doesn't merely balance eggs. Last year it was Egg-henge and this year it is . . .
So what happened in that year?
Well - lots of personal things that can change the course of a life.
Of course this too is MY fault as I told Nigel to spend the year dating buxom sexy blondes to get it out of his system as I am not a fan of infidelity. Nigel was able to undress a woman from 50 yards by just looking at her. He did not salivate but he was definitely Mr. Wolf. Damn it, it just did not work out well for us. What a bugger of a thing. But he has his Alma and his house and his motorcycles and his amazing diamond-drilling business and I have my daughter. All things considered I believe I got the better end but I sure do miss my friend and all the fun.
So back to the Eggscape-
On the Solstice Nigel doesn't merely balance eggs. Last year it was Egg-henge and this year it is . . .
31.3.08
The Magic Mirror
Magic Mirror on the Wall. . . .
The many mirrors of my childhood home were never chanted to, as far as I have heard, but from a tender age I equated mirrors to magic. Benign mirrors are everywhere in our society, fracturing people a million times, a million ways every single day. Once in a great while, you encounter a mirror that you do not want to look into. There was such a mirror in my past, a long time ago in a very old house. It had another mirror directly across from it on the opposing wall. When you glanced in the one, you saw smoky reflections of almost the same room you were in. The other mirror was just a mirror on it's own. I used to RUN past it, rather than look it after the time I saw something not me in it.
My evil twin brother is just a little younger than I am and was raised completely differently than I, HOWEVER we turned out remarkably alike. His hex mirror practically oozed emotion. It sat in his apartment, in a pile of other pictures and mirrors until one night when it spoke to him and OUT it went to the alley. Of course it did not really form words, it just became very noticeable.
Magic is so tricky. One part of our heritage is the damned side. The fey side. The side cursed by alcoholism and mysticism and sometimes madness. This would be the Priestlays - those who made prophetic utterances and those who clutched bibles babbling - they are all of a piece to me. We just tag the word disturbed on it and gloss over it as it is not particularly valuable in this society to be truly fey. Even without a brain injury I knew this!
In the thrift today, a beautiful ancient mirror sat on an easel with a bloody huge price tag. This glorious piece had come in with a large estate - mostly oversized wood furniture and chintz chairs. A clock and this mirror sat together in the boutique section. The mirror had quite a crowd of people around it admiring it - a crowd that included some of the petty flea market dealers who never pay more than $5 for anything *AND* a few of the high end dealers who own posh Antique Shoppes that cater to higher end purchasers.
This mirror was like a rock-star with it's swirl of devotees. It had a SOLD sign on it. The staff said it was put out and sold in about 2 minutes. The same couple bought both pieces. As I was leaving the couple came in to pick it up. They covered the first the clock in heavy blankets and took it gingerly to their car. When they returned for the mirror, they first preened a bit in front of it and they stood basking in congratulations before covering it too in blankets and carefully exiting the store, out to their Van. As they went around the corner to the parking lot the gentleman swore. The damned thing was heavy! He said it again. "Damn this mirror!"
And just like that -it jumped out of his hand and landed on the pavement. The woman, still holding her end went straight into blame mode. They lifted the blanket to survey the damage. The next stop for that mirror was the dumpster. Strange how the mirror would rather die than go home with that man. I bet the clock stays overwound too!
Of course I am just rambling. But such events happen.
And such people as us tend to be around such events when they do.
------------------
“Maturity is that time when the mirrors in our mind turn to windows and instead of seeing the reflection of ourselves we see others.”
The many mirrors of my childhood home were never chanted to, as far as I have heard, but from a tender age I equated mirrors to magic. Benign mirrors are everywhere in our society, fracturing people a million times, a million ways every single day. Once in a great while, you encounter a mirror that you do not want to look into. There was such a mirror in my past, a long time ago in a very old house. It had another mirror directly across from it on the opposing wall. When you glanced in the one, you saw smoky reflections of almost the same room you were in. The other mirror was just a mirror on it's own. I used to RUN past it, rather than look it after the time I saw something not me in it.
My evil twin brother is just a little younger than I am and was raised completely differently than I, HOWEVER we turned out remarkably alike. His hex mirror practically oozed emotion. It sat in his apartment, in a pile of other pictures and mirrors until one night when it spoke to him and OUT it went to the alley. Of course it did not really form words, it just became very noticeable.
Magic is so tricky. One part of our heritage is the damned side. The fey side. The side cursed by alcoholism and mysticism and sometimes madness. This would be the Priestlays - those who made prophetic utterances and those who clutched bibles babbling - they are all of a piece to me. We just tag the word disturbed on it and gloss over it as it is not particularly valuable in this society to be truly fey. Even without a brain injury I knew this!
In the thrift today, a beautiful ancient mirror sat on an easel with a bloody huge price tag. This glorious piece had come in with a large estate - mostly oversized wood furniture and chintz chairs. A clock and this mirror sat together in the boutique section. The mirror had quite a crowd of people around it admiring it - a crowd that included some of the petty flea market dealers who never pay more than $5 for anything *AND* a few of the high end dealers who own posh Antique Shoppes that cater to higher end purchasers.
This mirror was like a rock-star with it's swirl of devotees. It had a SOLD sign on it. The staff said it was put out and sold in about 2 minutes. The same couple bought both pieces. As I was leaving the couple came in to pick it up. They covered the first the clock in heavy blankets and took it gingerly to their car. When they returned for the mirror, they first preened a bit in front of it and they stood basking in congratulations before covering it too in blankets and carefully exiting the store, out to their Van. As they went around the corner to the parking lot the gentleman swore. The damned thing was heavy! He said it again. "Damn this mirror!"
And just like that -it jumped out of his hand and landed on the pavement. The woman, still holding her end went straight into blame mode. They lifted the blanket to survey the damage. The next stop for that mirror was the dumpster. Strange how the mirror would rather die than go home with that man. I bet the clock stays overwound too!
Of course I am just rambling. But such events happen.
And such people as us tend to be around such events when they do.
------------------
“Maturity is that time when the mirrors in our mind turn to windows and instead of seeing the reflection of ourselves we see others.”
28.3.08
Things *NOT* to Buy at the Thrift Shoppe
Don't worry, this is not a post about underwear - although it could be I suppose.
It would depend on how impoverished you are and so on....
My usual list of things invisible to me, things I do not buy secondhand goes something like this:
1- Food (Unless using a food bank)
2- Pets ( no no no and NO)
3- Plants (Bugs,and other awfulnesses.)
5- Shoes unless still with price tag intact
There are a few sundry others I cannot think of this moment but you get th jist. Now I have a new addition to this list. Printers! Do not be fooled by the inclusion of install disks and a full ink cartridges. Do not be lured by the low prices.
Just say NO! Proceed to your local retailer and buy one new.
The carnage from this estate -
2 Canons, 2 Epsons, 1 Hewlett Packer, 1 Dell and 1 Brother. - - and this just since I was keeping count. I have gone through the troubleshooter so often I can chant the instructions. BAH.
-------------------*
Thrift is not an affair of the pocket, but an affair of character. ~S.W. Straus
25.3.08
Living on the Small
Having had the big city life, a degree of(in)fame(y), a sizable income and lots of shiny things, at a time in my life when I was least equipped to appreciate it, I look on fortune with a jaundiced eye. Alas had I know then that the small life is what is best for the likes of me. Alas for all such insights that take so long to be made clear.
This week I was visiting a lovely lady who I first met in another incarnation. Her husband was a client long long ago. He called himself a Jeweller but he really was a merchant running a store with some jewellery in it. He had taught himself to repair watchbands and install watchpins, and used his scales to buy old gold. He sent all his repairs to another company I did alot of business with - Trayling and Waters.
Living in this retirement mecca has brought me into contact with 3 people, all strangers to each other, affiliated with Trayling and Waters. Person 1 is the jewellery store people above, Person 2 is the sister in law of one of the principals of that firm, and person #3 was a woman goldsmith, first of her time, working in the factory floor. Interesting how things come together!
Back to the Jewellery store....
The Proprietor had a little jar until the counter which he took to the bank once a month and deposited into a special account. This was the money he made repairing watch bands. That little jar and the money made, are what that lovely old lady is living on all these years later. That was their retirement plan.
Not bad.
She is still living small by most standards, but she is quite all right thank you.
I love her for it all the more.
This week I was visiting a lovely lady who I first met in another incarnation. Her husband was a client long long ago. He called himself a Jeweller but he really was a merchant running a store with some jewellery in it. He had taught himself to repair watchbands and install watchpins, and used his scales to buy old gold. He sent all his repairs to another company I did alot of business with - Trayling and Waters.
Living in this retirement mecca has brought me into contact with 3 people, all strangers to each other, affiliated with Trayling and Waters. Person 1 is the jewellery store people above, Person 2 is the sister in law of one of the principals of that firm, and person #3 was a woman goldsmith, first of her time, working in the factory floor. Interesting how things come together!
Back to the Jewellery store....
The Proprietor had a little jar until the counter which he took to the bank once a month and deposited into a special account. This was the money he made repairing watch bands. That little jar and the money made, are what that lovely old lady is living on all these years later. That was their retirement plan.
Not bad.
She is still living small by most standards, but she is quite all right thank you.
I love her for it all the more.
22.3.08
Getting real
Murphy's Law dictated that my car turn on every possible trouble light the week that there was no extra anything around my place. It can be disheartening.
Sometimes, when things seem bleak, expenses high, and income low, I cast my mind to the reminiscences of dear Oline. 93 years old, Oline lived through the dirty 30's but assured me the worst times were in the 40's. She said there was no work to be had anywhere. She left her baby with her mother and took her older son, as her husband loaded up their elderly truck and went looking for work down-Island.
The little family found a sweet wooded spot along the Gorge and pitched their tent.
The husband found a job on the waterfront directing traffic. Unfortunately, after only a week on the job, his leg was run over by one of the machines. He hitched a ride from the hospital to the Gorge, only to find a Policeman waiting.
"You are on private property. You'll have to move on."
The little family folded their tent, packed their possessions, and drove back to where they had started. They pitched that tent on Mom's property, but of course she made them come inside even though she only had 4 rooms.
Eventually things leveled out for them and work was found.
I have a home. I have a steady job. I have food in my cupboard.
Not even close.
Sometimes, when things seem bleak, expenses high, and income low, I cast my mind to the reminiscences of dear Oline. 93 years old, Oline lived through the dirty 30's but assured me the worst times were in the 40's. She said there was no work to be had anywhere. She left her baby with her mother and took her older son, as her husband loaded up their elderly truck and went looking for work down-Island.
The little family found a sweet wooded spot along the Gorge and pitched their tent.
The husband found a job on the waterfront directing traffic. Unfortunately, after only a week on the job, his leg was run over by one of the machines. He hitched a ride from the hospital to the Gorge, only to find a Policeman waiting.
"You are on private property. You'll have to move on."
The little family folded their tent, packed their possessions, and drove back to where they had started. They pitched that tent on Mom's property, but of course she made them come inside even though she only had 4 rooms.
Eventually things leveled out for them and work was found.
I have a home. I have a steady job. I have food in my cupboard.
Not even close.
20.3.08
Testing the Limits
It has always been easier for me to deal with female clients then male. It should not matter -however- a few experiences with men with poor judgment have honed my voodoo instincts. Treating everyone alike has always been my way- providing the same level of care to the rich and poor, the mentally, emotionally and physically ill, those with HIV-AIDS and the common cold. It is important to me to uphold that credo, so it annoys me with my voodoo radar goes off and my guard goes way way up.
This is an embarrassing thing to have to admit, but for some reason men in their 90's absolutely love me. Most of them are very gentlemanly, but some, believe it or not, get a little overly physical. Usually its a hug they want, or a kiss, or some other seemingly benign request. Let me assure you it is not benign. It is really uncomfortable. If this was my own time and private clients, I am very vocal and somewhat chilly, but on the Government's dime, I find it hard. In my mind I am thinking about how I exacerbated the situation. It is not ny favourite ponderance.
The gentleman in question that prompted this post is 94. I am not really there for him, I am there for his wife. He all but physically stops me from going to her, trying to get me to sit and drink tea with him. She has been on a downward roll and says the things that my own Grama used to say to me. "Don't get old, my dear, and if you do, stop before 90".
Her husband has forgotten to remove her nitro patch, again. He does remember to give her medication at the right time, but clearly they are both in the last glimmerings of independance. His inability to see the purpose of my visit is indication enough of this. But its sad.
As I leave he is still trying to grab my arm and get my attention, and then as I am out and going down the stairs he smiles and says: I didnt brush my teeth yet or I would kiss you goodbye.
All the training in the world, all the boundaries you learn to keep in place and all the proactive solutions you can dream of do not make these moments any easier. For me, I find the best solution for these things is to send someone else. A man preferably. After all this man is in his own home, not in a hospital or care home. As judgement declines, he really believes he is being pleasant and appropriate.
--sigh-
This is an embarrassing thing to have to admit, but for some reason men in their 90's absolutely love me. Most of them are very gentlemanly, but some, believe it or not, get a little overly physical. Usually its a hug they want, or a kiss, or some other seemingly benign request. Let me assure you it is not benign. It is really uncomfortable. If this was my own time and private clients, I am very vocal and somewhat chilly, but on the Government's dime, I find it hard. In my mind I am thinking about how I exacerbated the situation. It is not ny favourite ponderance.
The gentleman in question that prompted this post is 94. I am not really there for him, I am there for his wife. He all but physically stops me from going to her, trying to get me to sit and drink tea with him. She has been on a downward roll and says the things that my own Grama used to say to me. "Don't get old, my dear, and if you do, stop before 90".
Her husband has forgotten to remove her nitro patch, again. He does remember to give her medication at the right time, but clearly they are both in the last glimmerings of independance. His inability to see the purpose of my visit is indication enough of this. But its sad.
As I leave he is still trying to grab my arm and get my attention, and then as I am out and going down the stairs he smiles and says: I didnt brush my teeth yet or I would kiss you goodbye.
All the training in the world, all the boundaries you learn to keep in place and all the proactive solutions you can dream of do not make these moments any easier. For me, I find the best solution for these things is to send someone else. A man preferably. After all this man is in his own home, not in a hospital or care home. As judgement declines, he really believes he is being pleasant and appropriate.
--sigh-
18.3.08
Ray-gun
There is a school for kids not tailored for the regular system located by the new Starbucks. There are those who want to learn but have trouble doing it the traditional way, and there are those who are enrolled because it is forced on them. Frequently, small gaggles of these teens walk the sidestreets or lounge on the grass, smoking. As I cruise past I try not to judge harshly as I too, once lounged on grasses smoking instead of sitting bored in a classroom.
A week or so ago, I drove past a group of red-eyed sneering boys. They smirked at my car and then one of them raised his arm. A flash of a red laser managed to find my left eye. Whether coincidence or consequence that eye has been misbehaving to the extent that dark rooms and cool cloths are my only solace.
Bugger it.
A week or so ago, I drove past a group of red-eyed sneering boys. They smirked at my car and then one of them raised his arm. A flash of a red laser managed to find my left eye. Whether coincidence or consequence that eye has been misbehaving to the extent that dark rooms and cool cloths are my only solace.
Bugger it.
14.3.08
Just Ducky
The time-honoured way of gaining access to a secure building is to ring the bell, pound on the door or buzz the intercom. In the adult-living environment, it is deemed most important to deny entry to any disreputable sorts loitering about for no good reason. In our storied area, with the whiff of money so fresh on the wind, who comes and goes is surveyed with a jaundiced eye by the residents of the Dead End Hotel.
Now that, my friends, is a less than charitable metaphor to describe Assisted Living buildings. A kinder one does not occur to me so it shall suffice. I could have called it the Prison for Old Ladies Ala Nancy O but the D-E shall suffice.
Today at the front entry to the D-E a small spectacle is taking place. In the vestibule, I stand shouting into the intercom. A group has assembled behind me also waiting to gain entry. My conversation, started in clear measured tones, has disintegrated to me shouting one word at a time to my intended client. Yes, she is deaf as a post. She does have hearing aids but does not deign to put them in to merely converse with unspecified callers.
I give up and wait for one of the people behind to gain entry and slip in. A sharp eyed gentlewoman pushes her walker into my path and asks me if I have valid business here. I side-step here with a smile and flash my badge, wishing it said F.B.I.
After nodding at the concierge, I sprint up two flights of stairs and down the long hall to my destination just in time to witness my client locking her door and heading out for a walk.
----------
How many possible answers are there to the following question asked after introducing myself?
"Can you buzz me in please?"
- no she isnt here yet. (click)
- no, I told you, no one has come yet. (louder click)
- no, I cant understand you. What do you want anyway?
- Yes? (no click)
- Yes? (again) Are you in the hall? (pause) No you are not in the hall. (click)
- I dont buy anything over the phone. (definite click)
- oh- did you want me to buzz you in? Yes? All right then. (click)
- All right I am buzzing you in this time. I press six don't I? (the clear buzz of a nine being pressed)
- Nine you say? Nine what? For heavens sake speak up.
---
Believe it or not this woman has someone in every morning. How new can it be?
Now that, my friends, is a less than charitable metaphor to describe Assisted Living buildings. A kinder one does not occur to me so it shall suffice. I could have called it the Prison for Old Ladies Ala Nancy O but the D-E shall suffice.
Today at the front entry to the D-E a small spectacle is taking place. In the vestibule, I stand shouting into the intercom. A group has assembled behind me also waiting to gain entry. My conversation, started in clear measured tones, has disintegrated to me shouting one word at a time to my intended client. Yes, she is deaf as a post. She does have hearing aids but does not deign to put them in to merely converse with unspecified callers.
I give up and wait for one of the people behind to gain entry and slip in. A sharp eyed gentlewoman pushes her walker into my path and asks me if I have valid business here. I side-step here with a smile and flash my badge, wishing it said F.B.I.
After nodding at the concierge, I sprint up two flights of stairs and down the long hall to my destination just in time to witness my client locking her door and heading out for a walk.
----------
How many possible answers are there to the following question asked after introducing myself?
"Can you buzz me in please?"
- no she isnt here yet. (click)
- no, I told you, no one has come yet. (louder click)
- no, I cant understand you. What do you want anyway?
- Yes? (no click)
- Yes? (again) Are you in the hall? (pause) No you are not in the hall. (click)
- I dont buy anything over the phone. (definite click)
- oh- did you want me to buzz you in? Yes? All right then. (click)
- All right I am buzzing you in this time. I press six don't I? (the clear buzz of a nine being pressed)
- Nine you say? Nine what? For heavens sake speak up.
---
Believe it or not this woman has someone in every morning. How new can it be?
12.3.08
Cockle Shells
It was a very boring meeting. The speaker was not at fault as he was brought in to make a presentation of a specific topic and so he did it admirably. It just happens that I was present only as a show of respect for the work he did on behalf of us all.
Somewhere between the overview and the conclusion I noticed a buzz in my brain.
This is always the harbinger of trouble ahead. Looking for a trigger in hopes of delaying the coming storm, I turn my mind inward and so miss the one thing that is bothering me on a subliminal level. It is the carpet in this meeting room - a horrid red and green that has an effect of flashing my brain like a strobe light.
To get through I close my eyes then open and focus on the speakers hair, Not good enough but better. By the time he finishes and I wait through the question period, my brain is on fire. I make it out the door and down the stairs with a minimum of fuss. Home and a dark room help to dim the cockle shell to the ear buzz that screams behind each thought as a background. Not good. Not good at all.
Waiting for the whirl to tornado away, it comes to me why I no longer work in management or indeed anything or anywhere that I might encounter noise or visual triggers. Mental carnage. Sonic roadkill of the mind. Neural fodder.
How can you tell people that random events might send you off into the twilight for a few minutes? What can you do to justify the sudden and very real need to leave and lay down? It is not easy to balance needs of the damaged mind with the real world.
Communication trouble irritates me more than anything.
Heck I am still mad at the techies who flashed the lights at me during last years show triggering a minute of surreality and a very real seizure in full view of the audience. To them it just seemed I had an attack of nerves. To me, it was a searing brand that took days to dull.
Just when I think it is behind me, a little reminder from life to remind me of my limitations.
Somewhere between the overview and the conclusion I noticed a buzz in my brain.
This is always the harbinger of trouble ahead. Looking for a trigger in hopes of delaying the coming storm, I turn my mind inward and so miss the one thing that is bothering me on a subliminal level. It is the carpet in this meeting room - a horrid red and green that has an effect of flashing my brain like a strobe light.
To get through I close my eyes then open and focus on the speakers hair, Not good enough but better. By the time he finishes and I wait through the question period, my brain is on fire. I make it out the door and down the stairs with a minimum of fuss. Home and a dark room help to dim the cockle shell to the ear buzz that screams behind each thought as a background. Not good. Not good at all.
Waiting for the whirl to tornado away, it comes to me why I no longer work in management or indeed anything or anywhere that I might encounter noise or visual triggers. Mental carnage. Sonic roadkill of the mind. Neural fodder.
How can you tell people that random events might send you off into the twilight for a few minutes? What can you do to justify the sudden and very real need to leave and lay down? It is not easy to balance needs of the damaged mind with the real world.
Communication trouble irritates me more than anything.
Heck I am still mad at the techies who flashed the lights at me during last years show triggering a minute of surreality and a very real seizure in full view of the audience. To them it just seemed I had an attack of nerves. To me, it was a searing brand that took days to dull.
Just when I think it is behind me, a little reminder from life to remind me of my limitations.
11.3.08
A Stable Clientelle
Any time, indeed every time I hear myself remarking on how stable my client list is I remember with a start what lays ahead. It means change looms imminently, and so I brace myself, hoping not to be too jarred by the tremors.
My list was stable. Two days a week every person I visited was well into their nineties. The same three ladies, my pretty maids all in a row, were on those days, one at a time of course. It was such an honour to stand in their company. I was the suckling pig, nursing wit and wisdom hungrily.
One tumbled and broke in three places. Her convalescence in a nursing home did not suit and she let go. One caught the flu and the flu caught her and away they flew together to neverland. The third, adamant that she would stay in her own home until the very end, heaved a great sigh, her last sigh and sank with a smile back unto her pillow, while in the other room her children noisily commented on what a burden Mother was. As that last breath exited her lungs, that smile, and the twinkle in her eyes was dazzling for an everlasting moment. I tucked her in and went home.
Change, she blows hard and we all bow down.
My list was stable. Two days a week every person I visited was well into their nineties. The same three ladies, my pretty maids all in a row, were on those days, one at a time of course. It was such an honour to stand in their company. I was the suckling pig, nursing wit and wisdom hungrily.
One tumbled and broke in three places. Her convalescence in a nursing home did not suit and she let go. One caught the flu and the flu caught her and away they flew together to neverland. The third, adamant that she would stay in her own home until the very end, heaved a great sigh, her last sigh and sank with a smile back unto her pillow, while in the other room her children noisily commented on what a burden Mother was. As that last breath exited her lungs, that smile, and the twinkle in her eyes was dazzling for an everlasting moment. I tucked her in and went home.
Change, she blows hard and we all bow down.
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