Grandma was lost in a fog of drugs – drugs to ease the pain, drugs to help her sleep, drugs to keep her alive. Teri and I entertained ourselves with tabloids. Teri flipped to an article about Sharon Stone and her sister. They smiled up from the page in a sisterly embrace. Sharon her usual perky, pretty self. Her sister, less so. A lot less so.
We exchanged a few comments about how difficult it would be to have such a beautiful sister when you were … not. It brought to my mind another pair of attractive/unattractive celebrity sisters.
“That reminds me of…” I began.
“You and me? I know, how sad for you,” said Teri.
And we laughed. The kind of laughter that cannot be reigned in. Your sides ache with stitches and tears roll down your checks, but you just can’t stop.
Grandma doesn’t mind. She doesn’t even stir. But the ICU nurses do. The ICU is a place for tears, sure, but the crying kind. Not the laughing kind. They shoot daggers at us with their eyes and although they say nothing, they urge us to stop. We can’t.
Grandma wouldn’t be angry with me for laughing myself silly at her death bed. She loved to laugh. We laughed at each other a lot. I know she loved me, even though she never told me so. Well, she did once, but she was dying at the time, and dying people are liable to say anything.
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Tuesday, November 17, 2009
Good Morning
Wrenched from peace. Foreign, offensive sound assaulting my ears. Eyelids squeeze tight against the light. Confusion and dread combine for an instant. Then comprehension and denial. Rebel. Resist. Legs and arms push against the body next to me. Kick. Shove. Must stop the noise, the attack. Kick again. Anger rises at the injustice, the unfairness. Kick harder. Shove harder. The noise, the noise, the noise won’t stop and it’s torture. Loud, so loud and grating, irritating. The high pitch seems to climb impossibly higher. I want to scream back at it, kill it, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop. Frustration so strong I want to cry. Instead I kick again and again, a tantrum. I cannot control the noise so I lose control of myself.
Then, like a wave of tranquility, silence returns. Anger disappears instantaneously and calm is restored. Relief washed away by the quiet. Tense muscles relax. My only concern, my only adversary is gone and forgotten. The body next to me now a source of comfort, warmth, love. Embrace the warmth. Dissolve back into the peace.
Wrenched from peace. Foreign, offensive sound assaulting my ears. Eyelids squeeze tight against the light. Confusion and dread combine for an instant. Then comprehension and denial. Rebel. Resist. Legs and arms push against the body next to me. Kick. Shove. Must stop the noise, the attack. Kick again. Anger rises at the injustice, the unfairness. Kick harder. Shove harder. The noise, the noise, the noise won’t stop and it’s torture. Loud, so loud and grating, irritating. The high pitch seems to climb impossibly higher. I want to scream back at it, kill it, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop. Frustration so strong I want to cry. Instead I kick again and again, a tantrum. I cannot control the noise so I lose control of myself.
Then, like a wave of tranquility, silence returns. Anger disappears instantaneously and calm is restored. Relief washed away by the quiet. Tense muscles relax. My only concern, my only adversary is gone and forgotten. The body next to me now a source of comfort, warmth, love. Embrace the warmth. Dissolve back into the peace.
Wrenched from peace. Foreign, offensive sound assaulting my ears. Eyelids squeeze tight against the light. Confusion and dread combine for an instant. Then comprehension and denial. Rebel. Resist. Legs and arms push against the body next to me. Kick. Shove. Must stop the noise, the attack. Kick again. Anger rises at the injustice, the unfairness. Kick harder. Shove harder. The noise, the noise, the noise won’t stop and it’s torture. Loud, so loud and grating, irritating. The high pitch seems to climb impossibly higher. I want to scream back at it, kill it, make it stop, make it stop, make it stop. Frustration so strong I want to cry. Instead I kick again and again, a tantrum. I cannot control the noise so I lose control of myself.
Wednesday, November 4, 2009
Bloody Good Luck (or, A Case for Flossing)
The woman’s limp body is held in the driver’s seat by her seatbelt. The man stumbles out of the passenger side, staggering, apparently drunk. Blood drips down his chin, creating a crimson bib on the front of his shirt. Pedestrians and passers-by fly into action.
“Someone call 911!”
“Ishokay eye ush ad eye eesh ulld,” the man explains, arms flailing.
He runs to the driver’s side and attempts to bring the woman back to the world of the living. As he slaps her face, she comes around. Blinking, she looks around and tries to make sense of where she is. Her eyes come to rest on the man’s bloody face and she passes out again.
The gathering crowd is confused. “Did you see what happened?” they inquire of one another. “They crossed all four lanes, but didn’t actually hit anything.” “Why is he bleeding? Is she dead?”
A police officer shows up.
The man is desperate to explain, but his words come out like gurgles and he’s spitting blood on everyone. He wobbles. The woman wakes up again. She can’t answer questions. She sits on the sidewalk with her dizzy head between her knees and her eyes looking to the ground. Not at her husband. No, don’t look at him.
Ambulance sirens wail in the distance. “O ahooence,” the man says to the officer. He follows this up with an explanation of the bizarre scene: “Eye ad oo aff eye eesh ulld…”
I had to have my teeth pulled. All of them. I’d be put under, so the dentist told me to have someone with me to drive me home because I would still be groggy when they woke me up…
The bottom half of his face is still frozen as he relays his tale, so it has to be repeated several times before the officer understands.
The dentist packed the man’s mouth with cotton and he and his wife headed home. With no feeling in his mouth or chin, the man was unaware that blood, soaked through the cotton, formed a little red creak down his chin to the front of his shirt. He was oblivious and happy as he floated on the nitric oxide cloud on the way home.
The woman can’t stand the sight of blood. It makes her faint. But there won’t be any blood, so she’s okay. Except when she looks over at her husband, as she drives along the busy, four-lane, downtown street, there is blood. Blood all over his mouth, chin, neck, shirt. Oh no. Good night.
Something is wrong with the man’s happy journey. Are they supposed to be heading into oncoming traffic? They’re heading into oncoming traffic! He reacts slowly and clumsily, but finally gets his foot across the shifter and onto the brake. The car comes to a stop on the sidewalk, just inches from a brick building.
“So no one is hurt?” asks Officer.
“’O,” says my Dad.
Mom is looking away. The police officer sends them on their way, with Dad in the driver’s seat.
Mom dwells on the What Ifs. What if:
someone had been standing on the sidewalk?
there hadn’t been a break in the oncoming traffic?
Dad hadn’t hit the brakes in time?
I think life is bloody funny.
“Someone call 911!”
“Ishokay eye ush ad eye eesh ulld,” the man explains, arms flailing.
He runs to the driver’s side and attempts to bring the woman back to the world of the living. As he slaps her face, she comes around. Blinking, she looks around and tries to make sense of where she is. Her eyes come to rest on the man’s bloody face and she passes out again.
The gathering crowd is confused. “Did you see what happened?” they inquire of one another. “They crossed all four lanes, but didn’t actually hit anything.” “Why is he bleeding? Is she dead?”
A police officer shows up.
The man is desperate to explain, but his words come out like gurgles and he’s spitting blood on everyone. He wobbles. The woman wakes up again. She can’t answer questions. She sits on the sidewalk with her dizzy head between her knees and her eyes looking to the ground. Not at her husband. No, don’t look at him.
Ambulance sirens wail in the distance. “O ahooence,” the man says to the officer. He follows this up with an explanation of the bizarre scene: “Eye ad oo aff eye eesh ulld…”
I had to have my teeth pulled. All of them. I’d be put under, so the dentist told me to have someone with me to drive me home because I would still be groggy when they woke me up…
The bottom half of his face is still frozen as he relays his tale, so it has to be repeated several times before the officer understands.
The dentist packed the man’s mouth with cotton and he and his wife headed home. With no feeling in his mouth or chin, the man was unaware that blood, soaked through the cotton, formed a little red creak down his chin to the front of his shirt. He was oblivious and happy as he floated on the nitric oxide cloud on the way home.
The woman can’t stand the sight of blood. It makes her faint. But there won’t be any blood, so she’s okay. Except when she looks over at her husband, as she drives along the busy, four-lane, downtown street, there is blood. Blood all over his mouth, chin, neck, shirt. Oh no. Good night.
Something is wrong with the man’s happy journey. Are they supposed to be heading into oncoming traffic? They’re heading into oncoming traffic! He reacts slowly and clumsily, but finally gets his foot across the shifter and onto the brake. The car comes to a stop on the sidewalk, just inches from a brick building.
“So no one is hurt?” asks Officer.
“’O,” says my Dad.
Mom is looking away. The police officer sends them on their way, with Dad in the driver’s seat.
Mom dwells on the What Ifs. What if:
someone had been standing on the sidewalk?
there hadn’t been a break in the oncoming traffic?
Dad hadn’t hit the brakes in time?
I think life is bloody funny.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Reservations for dinner
Rob’s in trouble. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, and I am scorned. Last night, he forgot about Date Night. He promised to make up for it by joining me tonight, and now he’s late.
Stacey is only in town for a short visit and Saturday night presents her one opportunity to get together with everyone. “Everyone” meaning mostly her girlfriends. We’re to meet for dinner and drinks at 8:00. Normally, this is a scene Rob would avoid, but tonight he’s making up for last night. “I really want to come,” he lies. “As long as we’re together.”
Fine. I allow him the honour of accompanying me. First, though, he will spend the afternoon hunting. He will be back in time to have a shower, dress and take me to dinner at 8:00. But Rob is easily distracted. At 7:40 he phones to advise me that he is still 40 minutes from home. If I’d like to go to dinner ahead of him, he’ll catch up. How thoughtful.
Going ahead of Rob would deny me the occasion to give him shit in a private setting. So I wait. He arrives home at 8:20 in obvious need of a shower. He tells me that he would have been on time, but he stopped in to see Ed. Then a quick visit with Billy. He provides me with news on their lives. I tell him to get his ass in the shower.
On the drive to the restaurant, Rob chatters away about his hunting adventures. He has yet to apologize for his lateness. I interrupt his story and launch into my rehearsed tirade. He would have been on time if he cared. His actions speak louder than his words. He doesn’t care about my feelings. My friends are never his priority. My social commitments are never his priority. He should try harder. He is NOT sorry and even if he is, it doesn’t matter because he could have been on time if he’d only tried and he’s an asshole anyway.
Rob is very gentle natured. He does not fight back. Instead, he wears a look of regret like a dog caught chewing the carpet. He looks to me and bats his eyelashes and puts the smallest curve to the edges of his mouth. I don’t take the bait. No sir. I’m good and mad and someone must suffer.
Always the gentleman, Rob drops me off in front of the restaurant and goes off in search of a parking space. I run in to meet my friends and give them a quick version of the events that resulted in my lateness. But where is everyone? Where is Stacey? I look around at the hundred different faces and can’t find Stacey’s.
I check my BlackBerry. Dinner is Saturday at 8:00, here in this restaurant. Next Saturday.
I leave the restaurant and wait by the entrance. Rob approaches, still looking humble and sorry.
Stacey is only in town for a short visit and Saturday night presents her one opportunity to get together with everyone. “Everyone” meaning mostly her girlfriends. We’re to meet for dinner and drinks at 8:00. Normally, this is a scene Rob would avoid, but tonight he’s making up for last night. “I really want to come,” he lies. “As long as we’re together.”
Fine. I allow him the honour of accompanying me. First, though, he will spend the afternoon hunting. He will be back in time to have a shower, dress and take me to dinner at 8:00. But Rob is easily distracted. At 7:40 he phones to advise me that he is still 40 minutes from home. If I’d like to go to dinner ahead of him, he’ll catch up. How thoughtful.
Going ahead of Rob would deny me the occasion to give him shit in a private setting. So I wait. He arrives home at 8:20 in obvious need of a shower. He tells me that he would have been on time, but he stopped in to see Ed. Then a quick visit with Billy. He provides me with news on their lives. I tell him to get his ass in the shower.
On the drive to the restaurant, Rob chatters away about his hunting adventures. He has yet to apologize for his lateness. I interrupt his story and launch into my rehearsed tirade. He would have been on time if he cared. His actions speak louder than his words. He doesn’t care about my feelings. My friends are never his priority. My social commitments are never his priority. He should try harder. He is NOT sorry and even if he is, it doesn’t matter because he could have been on time if he’d only tried and he’s an asshole anyway.
Rob is very gentle natured. He does not fight back. Instead, he wears a look of regret like a dog caught chewing the carpet. He looks to me and bats his eyelashes and puts the smallest curve to the edges of his mouth. I don’t take the bait. No sir. I’m good and mad and someone must suffer.
Always the gentleman, Rob drops me off in front of the restaurant and goes off in search of a parking space. I run in to meet my friends and give them a quick version of the events that resulted in my lateness. But where is everyone? Where is Stacey? I look around at the hundred different faces and can’t find Stacey’s.
I check my BlackBerry. Dinner is Saturday at 8:00, here in this restaurant. Next Saturday.
I leave the restaurant and wait by the entrance. Rob approaches, still looking humble and sorry.
Wednesday, September 30, 2009
I am not a pickle
“Are you a pickle?”
I’d only been to five houses, and this was the third person to ask that question.
“Dad, she thinks I’m a pickle.” Poor Dad. How to console an eight-year-old whom everyone thinks is pickle?
Who ever heard of a pickle with antennae anyway? (Or were they eyes?) I was obviously a Martian. I thought it was a great costume. It wore like a large felt pylon with the tip about six inches over the top of my head and the bottom ending at my knees. It was light green with dark green felt circles of various sizes stapled randomly all over. A hole on each side allowed my arms to carry a pillow case and one in the front, covered with dark green mesh, gave me fresh air and a blurry view of the dusky neighbourhood. At the tip of the head, two green pipe cleaners were affixed, each with a styrofoam ball at the end.
So it hurt my feelings to be mistaken for a pickle. Ruder still were the unimaginative grown-ups who didn’t even bother to guess.
“What are you supposed to be?”
“A Martian.”
“A Martian? You look like a pickle.”
I can’t remember what my dad said in his attempt to comfort me. I only remember the humiliation and frustration caused by being mistaken for something other than what I was trying to be. So it goes. No ones confuses me for a pickle anymore, but I am still pained when snap judgments are made are made about me. Others have perceived me as a slut, a stick-in-the-mud, a prude, a party girl, a lesbian, a know-it-all, a geek, a fool, an intellectual. Maybe I am all of these things. Maybe I am none of them. A single moment in time, presented without context, seems enough to permit a witness to judge for themselves.
If I met a Martian, I would ask what it ate for lunch. I would want to know how the Earth looked from Mars. If I met a pickle, I might ask it how it feels to be a pickle. I would ask if it was hard to breathe in brine and I would want to know if its own salty juices burned its eyes. I wouldn’t ask a Martian if it was hard to breathe in brine. The Martian might think I was insensitive or, worse, insulting.
If I met something green and spotted and I wasn’t sure what it was, I would try to resist blurting out “Pickle!” I know how it feels. I am not a pickle.
I’d only been to five houses, and this was the third person to ask that question.
“Dad, she thinks I’m a pickle.” Poor Dad. How to console an eight-year-old whom everyone thinks is pickle?
Who ever heard of a pickle with antennae anyway? (Or were they eyes?) I was obviously a Martian. I thought it was a great costume. It wore like a large felt pylon with the tip about six inches over the top of my head and the bottom ending at my knees. It was light green with dark green felt circles of various sizes stapled randomly all over. A hole on each side allowed my arms to carry a pillow case and one in the front, covered with dark green mesh, gave me fresh air and a blurry view of the dusky neighbourhood. At the tip of the head, two green pipe cleaners were affixed, each with a styrofoam ball at the end.
So it hurt my feelings to be mistaken for a pickle. Ruder still were the unimaginative grown-ups who didn’t even bother to guess.
“What are you supposed to be?”
“A Martian.”
“A Martian? You look like a pickle.”
I can’t remember what my dad said in his attempt to comfort me. I only remember the humiliation and frustration caused by being mistaken for something other than what I was trying to be. So it goes. No ones confuses me for a pickle anymore, but I am still pained when snap judgments are made are made about me. Others have perceived me as a slut, a stick-in-the-mud, a prude, a party girl, a lesbian, a know-it-all, a geek, a fool, an intellectual. Maybe I am all of these things. Maybe I am none of them. A single moment in time, presented without context, seems enough to permit a witness to judge for themselves.
If I met a Martian, I would ask what it ate for lunch. I would want to know how the Earth looked from Mars. If I met a pickle, I might ask it how it feels to be a pickle. I would ask if it was hard to breathe in brine and I would want to know if its own salty juices burned its eyes. I wouldn’t ask a Martian if it was hard to breathe in brine. The Martian might think I was insensitive or, worse, insulting.
If I met something green and spotted and I wasn’t sure what it was, I would try to resist blurting out “Pickle!” I know how it feels. I am not a pickle.
Tuesday, September 22, 2009
Frozen Bologna and Best Friends
I know the friends I had in grade school were true friends, because my sandwiches were not fit for trading. Anyone would be friends with the kids who had Oreos or pudding to offer.
The sandwich I ate on the last day of school was almost ten months old. Until it thawed at noon, I didn’t know if it was a bologna sandwich, peanut butter and honey or peanut butter and jam. I hate jam, but there was always a one-in-three chance that I would find it in my sandwich. I went to grade school long before peanut products were banned. I never knew any kids with peanut allergies.
To this day, my parents think themselves quite ingenious for hatching their efficient idea of preparing an entire school-year’s worth of sandwiches for four kids. They were well-intentioned working parents who just didn’t have time to organize themselves, their brood of children and lunches by 8:30 every weekday morning. Well-intentioned, but a bit daft.
My sister, two brothers and I were banned from play one dreaded Saturday each summer. Already tarnished from the cruel imprisonment on a summer day, our moods would further plummet at the sight of the kitchen table. Piled upon it were dozens of loaves of Wonder Bread, jars of peanut butter, jam, honey and mustard and stacks of bologna. It was Sandwich Making Day.
“No fair.”
“Life’s not fair.” My fingers were stained French’s yellow.
The sandwiches were placed in plastic bags. There were no Zip-Locks then. The plastic bags did little to ward off freezer burn. But into the freezer they would go, hundreds of ready-made sandwiches.
Every school day morning, my siblings and I would trek down to the basement where the big freezer lived among the spiders and take a sandwich. Please not jam, please not jam. My sad sandwich was placed in my blue Jabberjaw lunch box, along with a Wagon Wheel and an apple.
The Wagon Wheel was always gone long before the bus deposited me at school. Who could resist? When the bell signaled it was time to head for the gym to eat lunch, I knew my sandwich would be more or less thawed. The centre would still be cool, but at least I could now determine whether I had won the sandwich lottery. In my mind, peanut butter and honey was the top prize.
No one would trade with me. Who would trade anything good for a frozen sandwich or an apple? I wonder if I would have different friends today if I had had crackers or ham and cheese sandwiches in my lunch back then. Maybe. But I don’t believe they would have been as good as the ones I was able to make, and keep, with nothing more to offer than a ten-month-old sandwich.
The sandwich I ate on the last day of school was almost ten months old. Until it thawed at noon, I didn’t know if it was a bologna sandwich, peanut butter and honey or peanut butter and jam. I hate jam, but there was always a one-in-three chance that I would find it in my sandwich. I went to grade school long before peanut products were banned. I never knew any kids with peanut allergies.
To this day, my parents think themselves quite ingenious for hatching their efficient idea of preparing an entire school-year’s worth of sandwiches for four kids. They were well-intentioned working parents who just didn’t have time to organize themselves, their brood of children and lunches by 8:30 every weekday morning. Well-intentioned, but a bit daft.
My sister, two brothers and I were banned from play one dreaded Saturday each summer. Already tarnished from the cruel imprisonment on a summer day, our moods would further plummet at the sight of the kitchen table. Piled upon it were dozens of loaves of Wonder Bread, jars of peanut butter, jam, honey and mustard and stacks of bologna. It was Sandwich Making Day.
“No fair.”
“Life’s not fair.” My fingers were stained French’s yellow.
The sandwiches were placed in plastic bags. There were no Zip-Locks then. The plastic bags did little to ward off freezer burn. But into the freezer they would go, hundreds of ready-made sandwiches.
Every school day morning, my siblings and I would trek down to the basement where the big freezer lived among the spiders and take a sandwich. Please not jam, please not jam. My sad sandwich was placed in my blue Jabberjaw lunch box, along with a Wagon Wheel and an apple.
The Wagon Wheel was always gone long before the bus deposited me at school. Who could resist? When the bell signaled it was time to head for the gym to eat lunch, I knew my sandwich would be more or less thawed. The centre would still be cool, but at least I could now determine whether I had won the sandwich lottery. In my mind, peanut butter and honey was the top prize.
No one would trade with me. Who would trade anything good for a frozen sandwich or an apple? I wonder if I would have different friends today if I had had crackers or ham and cheese sandwiches in my lunch back then. Maybe. But I don’t believe they would have been as good as the ones I was able to make, and keep, with nothing more to offer than a ten-month-old sandwich.
Monday, September 14, 2009
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)
