Time Passages

I suppose I could have just as easily titled this post "Transitions", but "Time Passages" sounds a little bit fancier, don't you think?

Whatever, I like it. And whether you call it time passages or transitions, there does seem to be a bit of that going on around here as of late. When I think back to this time last year, I couldn`t begin to picture where we are are today.

Last August, we (myself and two other families) had just started negotiations with the Department of Community Service for the Blue Jay and two of her friends (young men she has grown up with and who are in Special Olympics with her) to live in their own home, with the support they would need to be successful as part of a government pilot project.

Those negotiations were long and painful - nine months long, in fact, and nearly as painful as giving birth to a baby. But by the end of December, we had a lovely house rented and the three young adults were able to live there on weekends; unfortunately, only weekends at that point because we didn`t yet have the government funding to do any more than that.

But then, as of June 1st, the Blue Jay and her friends have been living in their own home full-time five days a week; unfortunately, we never did manage to get enough funding for them to live in their own home full-time. The other two days per week, the young adults return to their family homes.

For the past two months, there have definitely been a few huge bumps along the way - it`s definitely a process and we`re learning as we go (both the young adults and the parents). The beauty of this, though, is that it is neither a group home nor a small options home - in both those situations, you are placed in the home with other adults, often strangers. Instead, the Blue Jay has been able to choose her own roommates.

Another major difference from the old way of doing things is that we don`t have staff; instead, the Blue Jay and her friends are supported by ``house buddies``, who, for the most part, are pretty much peers (chronologically) - thank goodness for our local university and its SMILE program, which pairs up interested students one-on-one with children and youth with special needs. The Blue Jay has been in the SMILE program since she was 3 or 4 years old - in fact, that is where she learned how to swim (and she`s quite a good Special Olympics swimmer) without any formal lessons.

Last but not least, the house is not being run by either the government or a private agency - we, the parents, are the home`s administrators. Trust me, that can be both good and bad, depending on the day. It`s a lot of work for us, but an ideal situation for the young adults. Or, at least, hopefully it will be once we finally get all the bugs worked out.

Life has not always been easy for the Blue Jay or for us, her family. It`s been a long, often hard road at times, but she is finally getting some of that independence she so desperately wants and needs.

By the way, did I ever mention that she is also working part-time (two days a week) at a local Tim Hortons, something she has wanted to do since was a little kid? She also does some volunteer work and in one of those places, she gets to run a cash register in a small second-hand clothing store - something else she has wanted to do since she was little (run a cash register, that is).

So there`s that.

And then last, but very far from least, is the fact that we moved my youngest daughter, Kit Kat, to Halifax and into the dorm at her university of choice.

It's so hard to believe that my baby is starting university. Definitely mixed emotions there - proud, nostalgic, a little worried and a little sad; not much different than those faced by any parent who sends one of their children off to university for the first time, I suppose.


I am very, very proud of my two girls. They both continue to face challenges, but they have grown into amazing young adults and, in many ways, those challenges have helped shape who they are today. I guess we all must have done something right.

Today?

Today's the day. It's here. It. Has. Arrived. Most definitely.

I think.

Yeah, I may have been somewhat ambivalent with the concept (let alone overwhelmed in the part of my life that requires the actual "doing") of applying for guardianship of the Blue Jay.

Don't get me wrong. I know I have to do it.

My own ... ambivalence (and I'm really not sure what that is all about - ambivalence from She Who Preaches the Need to Seriously Consider and Decide How to Manage the Legal Relationship with Your Adult Child?) aside, it needs to be done.

Sooner. Rather than later.

And yet, somehow, She Who Created a Legal Guardianship Kit So Families with Absolutely No Legal Experience, Background or Training At All Can Apply for Guardianship Without Incurring the Cost of a Lawyer has managed NOT to do anything (and let's be clear here, I mean ANYTHING) about it in the past five weeks since the Blue Jay turned 19.

But having one big at-the-last-minute-total-surprise project off my plate (or as far off the plate as I can possibly make it go - after a presentation to the Camp's Board of Directors last evening I refuse to think about it any more right now ... uh uh, nope, you can't make me) and having an entire week before being scheduled to make a presentation (that I am totally unprepared for, by the way) to the Student Services Co-ordinators from around the Province ... I mean, really, what excuse could I possibly have for not starting the paperwork today?

Other than the fact that I desperately need to market my new business more ("more" as in so I have some actual work because I don't have any at the moment) after having worked the last day for my 12+ year client last week? But, hey, let's not get sidetracked here.

Right. Exactly. That's what I thought. No excuse. None.

But first, first I really need a cup of coffee. Then I will check my email again. Because you never know, there might just be something important there. And maybe Facebook, too, because ... you know ... it's Facebook.  'Nuff said.

But then, then I am going to be all over it. Like flies on honey. Like a rug on the floor. Like, like ... wow, I'm tired and those are so bad it's a true blessing for all of us that I can't think of any more.

But you get the point, right?

Cuz I'm going to do this. I am. Honest.

* Okay, sure, it's entirely possible that I could just be valiantly trying to convince myself here. But, then again, it is my blog. And I can cry if I want to. Right?

PS I am seriously considering adding a new label to the blog. How does "Pathetic" sound?

Too Close To Home

Are you a reader?  I am.

And every once in a while (okay, in a very long while) a book will jump up and grab me by the throat.  Or, perhaps more accurately, the gut. 

I read a lot, good books, so-so books, really good books.   But those rare ones that really grab me - they hang on, they hurt and they tend not to want to let go.

It's been awhile since I've experienced that, though. And, the last time it happened, I ended up in The Deep End.

Having just come off my second P.T. Deuterman book (damm, that man can write!), I thought I might be in the mood for something a little different.  I wasn't quite sure what though. 

I am really into audiobooks as of late and if I am going to spend a credit on a book, I tend to make sure it's a lengthy one.  None of those abridged versions for me ... who the hell even decides what stays in and what goes out?

So I'm not sure why I purchased Still Alice.  Not sure exactly when either.  But the strange thing is it's a short book.  Only seven hours.  Ever hear of small but mighty?

Yeah, about that.

I identified with this book on so many levels and alternated between laughing and crying my way through it - yes, even once, at the same time.  Then again, that is one of my sayings - Some say that if you can either laugh or cry, you might as well laugh.  Me?  I prefer to do both at once.

Alice just turned 50.  For 25 years she has been a psychology professor at Harvard University. [Park the car in Harvard yard - sorry, side joke for any lost Bostonians in our midst.] 

Happily married to a biology prof at Harvard.  Three young adult children - all successful professionals ... okay, with the exception of her youngest who has deserted the life of academia to take up an acting career. But pretty much a perfect life.

Near the beginning of the story, Alice is diagnosed with Early Onset Alzheimer's Disease.  This is the story of how Alice (and her family) comes to terms (or not) with that diagnosis and the progression of the disease.  Because progress it does.  It's heartbreaking in many places.   And equally humorous in others.

But I found myself identifying with the book Alice on two different levels.  It's been almost 2.5 years since my Mom passed away.  The last few years of her life were marred with dementia along with her other medical issues.  It wasn't Alzheimer's but, really, it was close enough. 

Which is why, in so many places, the story grabbed hold of my stomach and twisted.  Hard.  Although not told in the first person, the book paints the story from Alice's point of view.  I was familiar enough with the care giving other side - was this really what it was like from Mom's eyes?

Surprisingly (or not), I also found myself identifying with the story in other way.  Being a Harvard psychology professor, specializing in the cognition of linguistics, and a respected highly sought-after guest lecturer around the world, we might presume that Alice is just a wee bit on the intelligent side.  A hell of a lot smarter than me, that's for sure.  And yet I could identify with being proud and confident of that academic side, of defining yourself, at least somewhat, by your work.  You can imagine how devestating it was for Alice.

And although I am not too worried about dementia, personally, early onset or otherwise (although the book did make me ponder the fact that both my mother and grandmother experienced dementia to some degree before their deaths), I can identify with the concept of a hidden disability. A completely uncontrollable,  unpredictable enemy that can throw your life into a tailspin without a moment's notice.  One that (fortunately only very occasionally for me) can rob you of your ability to find the words you need and/or the ability to process thoughts at the level and speed you're accustomed to.  

MS isn't Alzheimer's, thank God. 

And yet, as I have recently discoverd, it can affect a person cognitively, as well as phsyically.  Luckily for me, on those rare occasions when it has, it would seem that others don't notice.  But I certainly do. 

Not only do I find it frustrating and irritating, but it's also very scary.  For the simple reason that, I suppose much like Alice, I tend to define myself, at least in part, by my 'book smarts'.  And if I'm trying to work my way through a research problem or, worse yet, talk to a client and my mind can't clear out the fuzz or find the words needed to express what I need to say ... yeah, let's just say it's not so good.

There's about 45 minutes left in my audiobook.  Which means, I suppose, that there are about 45 mintues left in Alice's life.  Alzheimer's being a progressive, debilitating, ultimately fatal disease. 

I don't want to read hear any more.  But I know the minute I walk away from this computer, I will finish the book.  I have to.  It's one of the best, most awful books I've read in a long time.

Memories

On the road again for our once every two year visit to the IWK, this evening I find myself sitting at Ronald MacDonald House reminiscing.  It's funny, really, I've been to this place so many times, too numerous to count over the past 15 years.  But tonight, somehow, feels different.

I've been here, very rarely, all alone while the Blue Jay was in hospital.  Very rarely because on the vast majority of times she has been hospitalized I have stayed with her in her room.  I've been here on occasion with just the Kit Kat and I've been here many many times, as I am tonight, with the Blue Jay.

But tonight my mind wanders back to those times long along ago.  I recall staying here once when the Kit Kat when she was very little (maybe a year old or less) while the Blue Jay was in the hospital.  There was my Mom, myself and little Kit Kat all in the Blue Jay's hospital room.  It was definitely going to get interesting.  That was, I think, the first time I ever stayed here, that anyone ever suggested I could.  So the Kit Kat and I stayed here while Mom stayed with the Blue Jay in the hospital.  Because it was going to be a little hard for all four of us to sleep in that hospital room, particularly when one of us was a breastfed infant.

I recall the Kit Kat crawling around the very room where I sit now typing this.  Crawling from the living room to the dining room to the delight of the various parents sitting at the tables.  I recall getting up every morning and heading to the IWK with the Kit Kat to spend the day with the Blue Jay and Mom.  And I recall coming back here every evening.

Then my mind turns to the numerous times I've stayed here with the Blue Jay over the years when she days full of various appointments at the hospital.   She was so little.  So cute. So excitable (think really cute flapping hands - yes, that is one of the signs of autism). And she absolutely loved staying here - it is a really nice place. Nice for the parents.  Nice for the kids.  Well, nice, if you don't stop to consider the reason why you're here.  Oh some of the stories I've heard ... They break your heart.

Another funny, though - the Blue Jay and I have stayed here so often that as the Kit Kat got older, she actually got jealous.  She had never stayed here after she had been an infant but had been in on occasion to pick me up so she had seen the place, checked it out.  Saw all the toys.  The kids.  The big screen TVs.  She wanted to stay too.  It just wasn't fair.

And it eventually ended up that she did.  She was booked for day surgery at the IWK and not knowing what time we would get out or how she would react to her first time under general anaesthetic, I told her we would spend the night here.  She was so happy, so excited.  Poor kid - as it turned out, she reacted whether badly to the anaesthetic and spent a very very sick evening here.  In fact, she was still sick in the middle of the night.  And the next morning.  Yeah, that was fun.

She demanded a do-over.  And she got that too eventually, when I finally managed to get her in for psych testing. Both neuropsych testing (which the Blue Jay has tomorrow) and the learning disability testing are pretty well all day affairs.  And because we have to be at the hospital so early in the morning, we come in the night before (witness tonight).  So she's stayed here twice over the years for that and she will actually be back again very soon.  In November, I think.

And yet it's not those times that my mind turns to tonight.  It's the times when both the Blue Jay and Kit Kat were so very little. Or, in the case of Kit Kat, not even here at all.  It's a strange sense of melancholy, it is. 

As an aside, I will tell you this - one very nice, but rather strange thing about being here, is the laziness allowed.  The not having a hundred things you know you should be doing.  Because, you know, you can't.  Not here.   So it's a lot of reading, watch some TV, check out the computer, chat with some parents, smile at some really cute little kids.  It's nice -  a forced mini-vacation.  Sounds strange, I'm sure, but it is what it is.

But tomorrow is another day.  A long day.  And so, for now, I will bid you a fond adieu. Enjoy your evening.  I know I will.

Chillin'

The May Long Weekend. The first official unofficial weekend of summer.

There's nothing quite like it.

It's hard to describe, somehow it always feels a little more special, being the first weekend that beckons of what lies ahead.

So, here I sit, having just finished a bbq, musing about the afternoon I spent with the girls. It's funny how, if you tried to plan this stuff, it wouldn't work. But when you least expect it? Yeah, that's when it happens.

The Kit Kat is still, in many ways, a Tomboy. And yet, at 14, she has also entered the teenage world in way too many ways. But still, a Tomboy.

So I was more than a little surprised when, after I forced her to try on an old pair of her sister's shorts to see if they might fit her, she declared that she liked her legs. Okay. We were up on my room and lay on the bed chatting and laughing for awhile until I finally decided I had to get something done.

At which point she disappeared, reappearing in a different pair of shorts and a very nice black form fitting t-shirt (with a colourful zebra on the front, nice but hard to describe) and hair pulled back in a ponytail. She looks really good with her hair pulled back but she rarely does it. After considering her it for a while, I told her that she had a dancer's body. She seemed to like that.

Then it was jewelry (this is so not a jewelry type of girl), various bracelets which she tried on while I painted her toenails. Well, she asked. Insisted actually. But the Kit Kat and painted toenails, not so much.

But her grad dance (for middle school) will be next month and as much as she despises shopping for clothes, I hear her musing about what she needs to buy for the dance. I know she won't get too dressed up (I will be thrilled if I can get her out of jeans) but still ... when she said she would like a manicure (another first), I suggested that I might just be willing to pay for both a mani and a pedi if she would wear something to the dance that actually showed off her toes ie) not sneakers. Not sure how much luck I will have there but I did plant the seed.

So it's been a nice weekend (so far, almost one-third of it gone). Yeah, I had a long list of things "to do" for this long weekend but I am much more inclined to just chill at the moment and spend some time with my girls, who are growing up much too fast.

Play station, anyone?

A Good Day

I had a good day today, I did.

Went into the city early this morning to give a presentation on the issue of guardianship. I mentioned previously about working on a putting together a guardianship kit for parents interested in obtaining guardianship of their adult children with disabilities.

I'm pleased to say that the kit is almost complete. Almost ready for public consumption. Almost.

Too bad it's *almost* considering I no doubt could have sold a few today. Probably quite a few by the sound of it.

I was asked by HACL to give a presentation on guardianship. The room wasn't all that big so they capped registration at 45. And the room was full.

Took along a friend who had obtained guardianship of her son last year. With my help. Took along another friend who had also obtained guardianship of her son last year through Legal Aid. Met up with two other parents at the seminar who had obtained guardianship of their children yesterday. With my help. Yeah, I think I see a pattern developing here.

It was great to have the other parents there as they could speak first hand to my contention that this could be done without hiring a lawyer. Provided you had the right kind of help.

The session went well - I really enjoy doing this kind of thing.

The room was very appreciative; I repeatedly fielded the question of when exactly the kit would be done.

In fact, one of the parents who came up to speak to me at the end told me he thought I should leave now. So I could finish the kit. I told him I would kind of like to have lunch first. He was amenable to that but really wanted to know when it would be done. Two weeks? he asked. No, not two weeks. When then? Clearly getting that the man was not going to give it up, I told him one month. He seemed happy with that and went on his way.

Proceeded to lunch with my two friends. Not being in any hurry to get home, we took the ferry across the harbour and enjoyed a leisurely lunch with a nice view of the water.

It was a little bit like the The Three Musketeers Ride Again - once upon a time, many, many, many years ago, the three of us had formed a cross-disability parent support group locally. Interest waxed and waned (although we definitely did have some fun along the way) but the three of us were the core group, the Three Musketeers.

Moseyed back home, joined the family for supper.

And then headed out to the movies with one of my friends. Sent the kids to see The Last Song; my friend and I went to The Bounty Hunter.

The movie was a nice distraction, far from an outstanding movie but I've been having really bad luck with movies lately so ... yeah, this one was a nice end to a good day.

'When You Thought I Wasn't Looking'

When you thought I wasn't looking I saw you hang my first painting on the refrigerator and I immediately wanted to paint another one.

When you thought I wasn't looking I saw you feed a stray cat and I learned it was good to be kind to animals.

When you thought I wasn't looking I saw you make my favourite cake for me and I learned that the little things can be the special things in life.

When you thought I wasn't looking I saw you make a meal and take it to friend who was sick and I learned that we all have to help take care of each other.

When you thought I wasn't looking I saw you take care of our house and everyone in it and I learned that we have to take care of what we are given.

When you thought I wasn't looking I saw how you handled your responsibilities, even when you didn't feel good and I learned that I would have to be responsible when I grew up.

When you thought I wasn't looking I saw tears come from your eyes and I learned that sometimes thing hurt but it's all right to cry.

When you thought I wasn't looking I saw that you cared and I wanted to be everything that I could be.

When you thought I wasn't looking I learned most of life's lessons that I needed to know to be a good and productive person when I grew up.

When you thought I wasn't looking I looked at you and wanted to say "Thanks for all the things I saw when you thought I wasn't looking".

~ Author Unknown ~

Running Walking Scared

I hate to be a whiner.

Or, perhaps more accurately, if 'n I'm going to whine, can I at least have some cheese with that?

Blogging remains light. Both here and at the other blog. And that bothers me because, after all, it is me, so of course I have things to say. And yet, as much as that bugs me, it's really the least of my concerns.

In the past 24 hours I found myself trying to express (with conviction, nonetheless) the same thought, albeit for very different reasons, to both my husband and a good friend. Namely that although there is much in life we can't control, the one thing we always do have control over is our attitude, how we choose to respond to what life throws at us.

Sounds rather noble, doesn't it? Ain't I smart?

The problem is that I'm feeling a mite hypocritical at the moment. Because although I tried to give myself a rather stern talking to this afternoon on the very same topic, I seem to have trouble taking my own advice heeding my own words of wisdom. In other words, apparently I am having a bit of difficulty adjusting my own attitude to what life is throwing at me at the moment.

Not to put too fine a point on it. But. I. Am. Scared.

And wimpy. And whiny. And more than a little bit cranky too.

I haven't been feeling well lately. That you know.

What you most likely don't know is that I'm not exactly starting to feel any better. And I could very easily freak myself out just a little and start to believe that things are actually getting worse. But I would really rather not go there.

Which leaves me here. Wondering if I should create a new blog label. "Warning - Whining Ahead".

And struggling to control my own emotions. To not "freak out", so to speak.

I go back to see the specialist in May. And my plan had been is to simply wait it out until then. Keep on keepin' on.

Which is what I will do suppose. Seeing as how I don't seem to have many other options at the moment.

And yes, yes, I did question whether this was an appropriate blog post. And then, after giving the matter the careful consideration it deserved, decided ... to hell with it.

It's my blog. I'll cry if I want to.

On 'Why We Fight'

At the continued urging of a close friend, I watched the documentary film "Why We Fight" on DVD last night.

The film over, I wondered idly why my friend was so anxious to have me view it. After all, it hadn't really told me much of anything I didn't already (think I) know.

There was that whole "military industrial complex" thing (which, from what I can tell, the mere mention of which can cause many on both sides of the political spectrum to see red and rant and rave on either how evil it is or what a pile a crap the whole concept is, take your pick). Although apparently more correctly-titled, from the man who first coined the phrase, the military-industrial-congressional complex.

Warnings about letting "the tail wag the dog", how the system takes on a life on its own; not so much that it goes "looking for a war" but how quick can it can be to respond and push policy in that direction if the chance presents itself.

Warnings about a congressional system in which the members have to bring home the pork the bacon, making what should be a decision about military spending essentially one about jobs for constituents. How it is often (always?) just about the big money involved. And warnings about behind-the-scenes think tanks pushing policy ... in the direction that they think it should go, I suppose.

I must say that I did find the story of Eisenhower's life quite interesting. Confessing that knowing that there was both a General Eisenhower and a President Eisenhower at some time in the United States' history being roughly the extent of my knowledge on that subject. He sounds life a very interesting man, the kind I would love to sit down and chat with over a cup of tea.

The US invasion of Iraq was pretty much pillaged in the film. But since I never was in favour of that move, never felt that the intelligence on whether or not there were actually weapons of mass destruction present was strong enough to justify that action, there wasn't much of anything new for me there either.

Although I must admit that good points were made as to how the public (and the politicians, too, to an extent, I imagine) have been duped into thinking that so-called smart weapons are so much smarter, so much more accurate than they actually are.

Making the idea of waging a particular war perhaps a little more palatable, a little more acceptable with the thinking that we can strike with supposed precision and leave the innocent civilians unscathed. On which point, one might want to check with the citizens of both Iraq and Afghanistan.

But what I found most interesting about the film was buried in the "Special Features" section. Two interviews given by the film's producer, Eugene Jarkecki; one with Jon Stewart on the Daily Show and one on Charlie Rose.

I appreciated Jarecki's even-handedness, how he gently corrected the erroneous thinking of both interviewers, explicitly stating he was not about conspiracy theories and explaining that the point of the film was not about any particular party or any particular President. In fact, it wasn't even about the neo-cons (gasp). [My apologies - but it has now become my signature to add the appropriate gasp following every use of the dreaded word ... neo-cons.]

That the "enemy within the gates", so to speak (my terminology, not his) is a necessary system that has taken on a life of it's own. And how each and every one of us (he was, of course, speaking of and to the United States but it is unarguable that the point applies to every industrialized, developed country in today's world) has the responsibility and the duty to be aware and on guard.

To be on guard to ensure that the tail is not wagging the dog. To ensure that we hold our politicians accountable and that policy decisions are made by those that are accountable (as is so often, unfortunately, not the case in the world today). And to ensure that America, a country built on the principles of a republic, does not become an empire. Which is what President Eisenhower was warning against.

Good stuff. Valid points. So true.

As, unlike the Olympics are for the vast majority of us and contrary to what often appears to be public opinion, democracy?

Most definitely. Not. A. Spectator. Sport.

On another note, I found it interesting that an interview with Senator John McCain featured prominently in the film. Interesting because 90% of what Senator McCain had to say sounded to be in basic agreement with the words of President Eisenhower.

He spoke of the military/industrialist complex taking on a life of its own, of (if not actual corruption) a congressional system which allowed decisions to be made in very questionable ways and for very questionable reasons. How insidious it is. How we had to be aware of and on guard against it.

Which I thought was interesting considering that he was the Republican candidate in the recent 2008 election; the one whom (if you believed some a lot of the hype) candidate Obama had to save the country from. Well, from him and Sarah Palin, of course. But that's a story best for another day.

All in all, I'm glad I watched the film. Both for the (Eisenhower) history I learned and for the musings of Jarecki. Two interesting men with very valid points to make.

And in exchange for my watching "Why We Fight", my friend has agreed to read Palin's book, "Going Rogue".

Who knows, perhaps, he too will write a review for us?

Under The Weather

So much to post about it. Such little energy.

What's a girl to do?

It was pointed out to me that the recent post in which I expressed my pride in the Canadian military's efforts in Haiti did end with a bit of cliffhanger. Somewhat intended, to be sure. It's just that I didn't intend to leave it hanging this long.

I finished Sarah Palin's book and the same intrepid soul who pointed out the cliffhanger has suggested that I post my final thoughts. Which I'm okay with that but ...

Then there was a nice piece in the Jan 19th edition of the Chronically Horrid (alas, too old to access now) concerning foreigners' attitudes towards Canada's seal hunt - something about them eating horses in Europe. 'Twas to be aptly titled "Hypocrisy".

And from the darkest corners of my mind something about climate change. And our upcoming Purple Day events.

Well, I hope you enjoyed that little stroll down memory lane because, for now at least, I'm afraid that's all you're going to get.

I am officially ill. Sick, as they say.

Afflicted. Ailing. Below par.

Aka feeling awful. Feeling rotten. Feeling terrible. Indisposed. Infirm. Laid low. Off my feet (that one is very fitting). Out of sorts. Peaked. Poorly. Run-down. Unwell.

Did I, by chance, mention under the weather?

And so, until I get this under control, I'm afraid I might be a bit scarce. But hopefully not for too long.

Until then, I bid you a (temporary, to be sure) fond farewell.

In Search of Common Ground

I am currently in the midst of (about half-way through) reading Sarah Palin's book "Going Rogue" at the moment.

I'm reading it because I can't quite get a 'read' (pardon the pun) on Ms. Palin. I don't usually watch Oprah but I did watch the day she interviewed Palin. Interesting enough but I still don't really know what to think of her.

She definitely ain't stupid, I can tell you that much. But she definitely does seem different in some way I can't quite put my finger on. Perhaps it's something in her way of speaking, I'm not sure.

I do know that a lot of people (including most of the media) seem to have ganged up on her and I don't get exactly what that's all about. I think it is true that a lot of people are scared of her but once again I am stuck as to the why.

I posed this question to the nice young guy who works behind the counter at our local Fair Trade coffee shop last week. He never sees me without a book and commented on what I was reading.

Knowing, just knowing, how far to the left of the political spectrum he is, I couldn't help but engage the conversation. I must say that he was more level-headed than many I hear (than again, I think most Canadians are); I think he actually paid her a compliment at one point. But when I mused about people being scared of her, he not only agreed but admitted he was.

When I asked why, he said it was because of her values. Ignoring the amusing point that values are generally considered positive attributes and not something that should create fear, I pointed out that we all disagree with different people on different things but that doesn't usually engender the reaction Palin gets.

Anyway, I am reading the book precisely because I can't get a read on her. The fact that I have made it half-way through speaks for itself in a way - despite the fact that I am an avid reader, I don't can't seem to read non-fiction. Perhaps I get enough "reality" in my work, I don't know, but for the most part I seem unable to force myself through any book that isn't fiction. This one is taking some time but I am making it through. I think maybe because it is told in a rather 'folksy' (for lack of a better word) style, a story told rather like a story, if you will.

And so it occurs to me that if I ran the world, it would be screwed up in totally different ways I would like to make the book mandatory reading for many.

Although my gut is telling me that I will still have that uneasy feeling of being unable to get a 'read' on Ms. Palin after I finish the book, I do appreciate hearing her side of the story on some of the slams things that were brought up during the campaign (such as the alleged book burning, creationism v. evolution in the schools and the infamous 'Trooopergate') and I think it's only fair that people give her a chance to have her voice heard. And then make up their minds.

I know the book (as does the author) tends to engender extreme reactions on both sides (you either love it or you hate it) but for those in the middle and those tempted to quickly write her off if any way possible, might I suggest you read the book first. Then vilify away, if you must.

Reading earlier tonight about Sarah's pregnancy with Trig brought tears to my eyes (an easy enough thing to do on a topic close to my heart). I have posted before about how moved I was by the video Palin made for Special Olympics (which, by the way, I found another copy!) and some of what she speaks of in the video is repeated in the book.

But I was also reminded of a newspaper piece written by Rick Lavoie during the US Presidential election with his thoughts on Governor Palin's promise to be a champion for "special needs families" because she "knows what they are going through".

He shared that response at a Learning Disabilities Conference I attended last year. It too touched my heart. Yeah, yeah, I know; I have a very touchable heart. But you have to give the man credit. He did hit the nail right on the head.

As an advocate for families of handicapped children for over three decades, I have taken a special interest in the role that Trig Palin is playing in the Presidential campaign. Trig, now six months old, is nominee Sarah Palin’s son. He has Down Syndrome. Governor Palin often tells her audience that she will be a champion for “special needs families” because “she knows what you’re are going through.

With great respect and empathy, I must say, “Sorry, Governor, but you don’t.” You will…someday. But not now. Not yet.

Trig is – and always will be – a blessing in your family’s life. But, Governor, your journey has just begun. You will understand…someday. But between that day and today, there will be a lot of other “somedays.”

Someday…you and your family will spend stressful hours in a hospital waiting room while Trig undergoes corrective surgery. The doctors will call it “routine” … but that characterization will seem foreign and insensitive to you.

Someday…a relative or “close friend” will suggest that Trig not be brought to a holiday function because “it may be too much for him to handle.” Your relationship with that person will never be exactly the same again.

Someday…all the students in his class will be invited to a birthday party…except Trig.

Someday…some stranger in a store will stare at him and ask an insensitive and intrusive question. Startled, you will give a bland response. But for several days after the incident, you will generate great and clever retorts that you “should have said." (By the way, you won’t be able to recall these “clever retorts” the next time this occurs).

Someday…your adorable daughter who stroked Trig’s hair during the GOP convention will grow into adolescence. Trig will embarrass her in front of her friends and she will tell you, “I hate him! I hate him! I hate him!” (…she will feel guilt-ridden after her rant and will cry herself to sleep that night).

You can read the rest of it here. And might I suggest that you do.

Meanwhile, I will get back to that book. And I will let you know what I think when I finally get through it.

And So This is Christmas

Or Christmas Eve, at the very least.

I know I've been kind of quiet on the blog lately. Not really sure why.
Not too much to say? Or not enough time to say it? A little of both, I suppose.

And then there's the fact that this month has been tinged with sadness and melancholy for me. Which is a step up from last month, I suppose. When there was only pain and hurt.

The girls don't seem anywhere near as excited for Christmas as they usually are. They were much more excited just to be out of school for two weeks. I asked the Kit Kat what was up with that and she told me that knowing for sure there is no Santa (as opposed to her merely suspecting it but not really wanting to know) takes a lot of the fun out of it. I know what she's saying. But I still find it sad.

Still, we are all here. The four of us. Back from the Christmas Eve service. In our brightly-lit house. With our beautiful tree. I love Christmas trees. I like to turn out all the lights and just sit and stare at it, letting my mind wander.

Tomorrow close friends will join for us for dinner. After a breakfast of the Kit Kat's yummy French toast and bacon. And despite the fact that they are, indeed, growing up, something tells me there will still be some excited squeals coming from underneath the tree (too) early in the morning.

In the meantime, I have gifts to finish wrapping and arranging under the tree. And stockings to stuff. But, alas, not until they all are off to bed. Which, teenagers though they may be, won't happen until we are read The Night Before Christmas.

A childhood friend of my husband's gave him the book as a Christmas present when I was expecting the Blue Jay. He said it was a Christmas tradition in his family to read it to his two young boys every Christmas Eve before bed. And so it has become our tradition, too. Except now, instead of us reading it to them, they read it to us.

But when they are all snuggled in their beds (with visions of I-Pods, books and new clothes dancing in their heads), there will be time for me to have a drink. Or two. And raise my glass to those I love, both those that are with me (or soon will be) and those that no longer are. And to my good friends, who make my life richer. Who laugh with me through the good times and hold my hand in the bad.

And so it is that I will leave you with one my favourite Christmas songs.



Merry Christmas to you, then. And to all, a good night.

Healing

I have tried my best to avoid our local hospital over the past year.

But I've been up there two or three times since Mom died; once for a workshop and once for blood work, anyway. Still I have managed to avoid the actual wards. Like the plague.

There is a coffee/snack kiosk in the lobby and surprisingly, the coffee is pretty good. Being a true coffee addict, I spent a lot of time there when Mom was in the hospital. One woman, in particular, who worked there (her name escapes me now -I have a good memory but it's a little on the short side) was particularly friendly. Sweet, actually. We chatted a lot and shared a lot of personal stuff.

I've seen her at the kiosk on a couple of occasions when I've been at the hospital since then. And I literally could not physically force myself to walk over there and say hello.

Just. Could. Not. Do. It.

It was too much. Just the thought of it hurt too bad.

I was up at the hospital this morning for blood work. And she was at the kiosk. I was surprised to find that not only could I go over, get a coffee and chat with her but I was compelled to. I really wanted and needed to say hello.

So I did. And shared with her that I hadn't been able to speak to her for the past 11 months. Not until now. She got it. She's still sweet. I wouldn't have expected any less.

I walked out the door with tears in my eyes. But I had to wonder ... perhaps, just perhaps, it was a small sign of healing?

Disjointed

Driving to work this morning. Lost in thought. Mulling over this and that.

When I thought I heard news snippets from that other September 11th. 2001. And then, yeah, there it was again. On the radio.

The song "In a New York Minute", the same song that caused me to write this post one year ago today.

That was when I realized it was a repeat of what our local radio station did last year. Between 9:45 and 10:00 AM Atlantic Standard Time (perhaps when the first planes took off?) they played snippets of news tapes from that awful day, "In a New York Minute" and "I Will Remember You" interspersed between various commercials and The Parent Report.

I like that they do that, that they keep doing that. I wonder how many other Canadian radio stations do the same thing?

~ ~ ~ ~

I moseyed over to Homefront Six's blog today.

She wrote about her memory of that day eight years ago.

Her husband (MacGyver she calls him) is in the military and at the time they were stationed in Alaska. But I will let her tell the full story, from an earlier post in 2007.

We were in Alaska. About as far away from New York and the Pentagon as you can get and still be in the United States. MacGyver had come home from PT and was in the shower. I was on 1/2 days leading up to maternity leave and didn't have to be to school until 11am that day. My alarm went off and it was set to the local country station. When it went off, I slapped at the snooze button. About a half second after I hit the snooze button, my brain registered what the DJ had said..."a plane has crashed into the Pentagon. No word on casualties yet. This, in addition to the World Trade Center...".

I remember the words verbatim.

I sat bolt upright in bed and lunged for the radio and turned it back on and sat there for what felt like minutes but was actually more like seconds listening to the DJ go on about the events that had unfolded thousands of miles away while I slept.

MacGyver shut the shower off and I jumped out of bed and ran to the bathroom. I about ran into him as he came out and told him (like millions of other people said that day), "You have to go downstairs and turn on the TV. Planes have hit the Pentagon and the World Trade center." That is all I could get out. I still couldn't wrap my brain around what I had heard and it would be days...weeks, even...before I was able to do so.

We went downstairs - MacGyver still dripping wet in his towel and me, 10 months pregnant - and turned on the television. We just stood there. I can still feel the sensation of my mouth literally hanging open. I kept closing it and it kept falling open. And we just watched.

Finally, MacGyver said something about maybe now not being the best time to bring a child into the world. I said something back to the effect that it was a little too late for that thought. He then started moving very quickly to get dressed and get to work. I remember him grabbing his A and B bags, not knowing if he would be home...

It was that last part is what struck me so vividly when I read it.

Or as she recalled it today:

We went downstairs and stood, gaping, at the television. We couldn't even cry. We were too shocked. I think the first tower fell while we were watching and that must have sparked MacGvyer to move. He bolted upstairs, threw on his BDUs, grabbed his overnight bag and some food, kissed me goodbye, and left. Still, there were no tears. I didn't know if I would see him again. In my mind, he would deploy. I don't know where I thought he was going or what I expected him to be doing but I did not expect him to come home. Mentally I was trying to steel myself to have this baby alone. And I was ok with that. Hell, after thinking about what the people in New York, DC, and Pennsylvania were going through, having a baby on my own was nothing compared to that.

Still, there were no tears.

Yeah. Can you imagine? I can't.

~ ~ ~ ~

So just how long is too long?

I recall some non-Americans questioning quite a few years ago why the US was still "going on and on" about 9/11. That other countries have had similar tragedies. Bigger tragedies, even. Suck it up and get over it, they said. "Why should you remember 9/11 while we are asked to forget ours?"

Imagine. As if anyone should could ask, could even suggest that some other nation should just "get over" their tragedy, whatever it was. The difference being (if there is one), I suppose, that historically we in North America had such a tradition of being *protected* from so much. Sure, read about it in the newspaper. Turn the page. See it on the TV news. Change the channel. Or just wait a minute. Much like the weather, the story will soon change to something more palatable, less horrifying.

After my first year of college, a good friend and I traveled to Europe. It was a wild trip, we went where we wanted when we wanted. And only came home when we finally ran out of money. Did a lot of backpacking and hitchhiking. Stayed in a lot of hostels.

I have a lot of amazing memories from that trip. But two things in particular are burned into my mind until this day.

One was walking through an open air market in Rome. Accidentally bumping into somebody. Looking up to apologize. And finding myself staring into the face of an old man with only one eye. No patch, no bandage to cover the missing organ. Just one eye. And what looked to my horrified eyes as literally a hole in his head where the other belonged.

I could handle the people begging in the street. Even the woman begging as she sat on the sidewalk while she breastfed her infant and three other little ones played nearby. The man with only one eye ... not so much.

The other incident occurred when we staying at a hostel in Greece. We met a young girl, around 14 or 15, from Israel. Very pretty. She was traveling by herself, which both my friend and I agreed was nuts.

Traveling as a duel, we documented at least 30 pairs teams of guys who tried were determined to pick us up, who were hard-pressed to take No for an answer when if we declined. And then there was the one guy in Paris who approached us on the street at night, grabbed my friend and tried to kiss her on the mouth. She pushed him away and we took off at a mad run for the hotel. Fortunately, he only followed for a block or two. So, yeah, we figured the Israeli girl was either very brave or very stupid. Or maybe a little of both.

And then she made the comment that I will never forget. That all she wanted in life was to find a place to live where you could wake up in the morning without wondering if your father or brother was dead. It completely blew me away, I couldn't imagine living that way.

I believe the word is sheltered. Protected. Not so much any more.

Perhaps that trip to Europe was a wake-up call to me. Perhaps 9/11 was another.

Once is once too often. And, for me at least, having it happen to the US was the same as watching some terrible, unthinkable tragedy happening to your next door neighbour's home. So even if your own house remained unscathed, your psyche didn't. It was the next worse thing to it actually happening in your home.

~ ~ ~ ~

This post. Disjointed.

Sort of like my memories of September 11, 2001, are today.

Mixed Emotions

Autumn (or Fall as I prefer to call it) has always been my favourite time of the year.

The change in the colour of the leaves. The bright sunshine with a break from the stifling heat of summer. What's not to like?

The first few years after the girls started school, I found that I was happy to come back come September. Enough of their bickering and fighting. And demanding to be entertained. Time to put some structure and routine back in their lives. And mine.

But as they grew older (and as I accumulated more experience with the very "special" parent/school interaction inherent in having a child or two in school with special needs), I started to see it a different way. Having them over the summer really wasn't that bad.

'No more school, no more books, no more teachers' dirty looks' took on a whole new meaning. After all, let's not forget ... no more meetings, no more phone calls and communication scribblers, no more crying over homework...

And no more 3,000 extracurricular activities to eat up your evenings. There are many times I would swear that that Christmas and summer holidays were only created so parents would not go completely off the deep end. To give us that much-needed break to catch our collectives breath.

So it is that this year, I look upon the season with mixed emotions.

I know that New Year's Day is suppose to be that time of taking stock and making resolutions. Somehow that has never much worked for me. For the past 11 years my calendar has revolved around the school year. It ends in June. And starts again in September.

And this year, it feels tinged with sadness. Although I am not entirely sure why.

I blinked. And missed summer. I think I was so focused on our trip out West last month, alternately waiting for and dreading the time and trying to get all done that needed to be before we went, that for me, summer started with that trip. And, apparently, ended shortly thereafter.

Another winter is coming. That I could live without. Sucks it does.

Then again (and perhaps what is really bothering me), there remains the matter of my work. Work, I have. Just not the kind of work I want. And yet if only it were as "simple" as going out and finding the job I want. I need to "create" the job I want, you see, not just find it.

When Mom was so sick last year, I knew she really needed me. In truth, I was pretty well running full-out. And yet, true as that was, it also gave me a ready made excuse to not do anything about my work situation. After all, Mom needed me. I had no time to go job-hunting, let alone job-creating. That would wait for 'later'.

Guess what? 'Later' has arrived. And so far, I haven't done much of anything in that regard. Yeah, me thinks that might just account for a significant amount of my melancholy at the moment.

That and the fact that back to school means that we will very soon be back to the school grind.

It couldn't be that I am just getting older. Nah, couldn't be that at all.

No Dogma, No Doctrine, Just Faith

Which is what I am sorely in need of at the moment.

At first I thought that perhaps I had been so focused on rejecting anything even remotely resembling dogma or doctrine in my life for so long that I had cast aside faith at the same time. But then I realized that wasn't quite so. That irregardless of dogma or doctrine, I have no faith. None.

That wasn't always so. As a pre-teen, likely into my early teen years, I had a very strong faith. A very strong belief in and love of God; a deep, sure knowledge of what He wanted from me and an absolute desire to live my life that way. And, in return, I knew the final result. I knew that He promised would come to pass. Wasn't life simple then?

But that was before I drifted away from the Witnesses. Away from the Witnesses, but towards nothing else, I guess.

Yes, I believe in God. Yes, I believe that He sent his son, Jesus Christ, to earth to die for our sins. Yes, I believe the Bible is God's word. The problem is that it all seems to end there. That although I do, honestly, *believe* all that, it seems to have no connection to my life. That what I know with certainly in my "head" does not resonate in my "heart".

Okay, it may not be quite that simple, not quite that cut and dried, but it's close enough for the purposes of this post.

As a child, I was taught that "Faith is the assured expectation of things hoped for". And yet, over the course of the last several years, I have come to believe that hope is bad for the soul.

Born out of the Blue Jay's health issues, I learned that when you actually begin to hope for something, you truly begin to believe that it might just be true. And then, when you find out otherwise, it's devastating. But if you have no hope, if you expect nothing, anything good that comes your way is gravy. A blessing. Something to be treasured and appreciated. All up the up, none of the down.

When Mom was so sick in the hospital last year, I struggled with the concept of "hope". Or, more accurately, with the idea that there could be some form of good, some form of hope, to be found in the situation. That there was even any point, any value, in looking for any.

I recall reading one of the books the palliative care team provided me, entitled "Finding Hope" and mulling over a blog post on the subject. The book that promised to help me find and nurture hope in my life came up short.

But to cut to the chase (a little too late for that, I suppose), the bottom line is that I have no faith that I will ever see my Mom again. It's not just that I don't believe I will ever see her again. It's that I believe I will never see her again.

And that ... that just hurts. Indescribably so.

In a few weeks, we will take a trip out West to visit my brother, do some traveling and then, finally, bury my Mom's ashes next to Dad. And as that time draws closer, I am left with a renewed sense of overwhelming longing and loss.

This, my friends, is not closure. It's agony, pure and simple.

It's life without hope faith.

Sunday Musings

My apologies upfront.

Although really too much for one lonely musings post, there are just too many ideas bumping around inside my little pea-brain to give each of them their own post. That just ain't gonna happen.

So you have this instead.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Looks like I mislabelled that post about the Kit Kat's dance recital.

She hurt her foot quite bad two weeks ago. you see - we actually thought she might have broke it, but fortunately the x-rays were clean. Still, the whole outside of her right foot remains bruised and swollen. I had serious doubts she would make it through the ACR, let alone the dance recital (which involved three shows over two days).

She made it through both though. Who knows, perhaps some of that preaching I'm so good at about sticking with your commitments might actually be sinking through. At any rate, it occurred to me as I was saying good night while she moaned about her foot last night that I really should have titled the post "Dance Like A Flamingo".

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

And yes, I agree. That kid has been taking up waaay too many of my weekends lately. Hey, it's not like she drives herself to three dance recitals, you know.

~ ~ ~ ~

To be filed under the category of Pet Peeves ... as if bicyclists who seem incapable of following the rules of the road aren't bad enough, now we're suppose to deal with them all nakkid?

Apparently they're concerned about their exposure. To cars, that is. Which, in that case, perhaps I should start driving naked, considering one of the fully-clothed (I-pod included) variety just about struck me last week. While my vehicle was stopped. In traffic. As in, not moving.

Just toodling down the middle of a main Halifax thoroughfare in rush hour traffic, weaving between vehicles at his leisure while apparently looking everywhere except right in front of him (somewhat of a problem given that he was riding on my side of the road heading straight toward me) ... he just missed plowing into the passenger side of my vehicle. Suddenly awaking from his trance, he hit the brakes and turned away at the last second, mouthing "Sorry". To which I mouthed "Idiot" to his retreating back.

Here's the thing. I have no problem with cyclists. As long as they follow the rules. Meaning, if you're on the road, you are actually obligated to follow the rules of the road. You can't pretend you're a vehicle one moment and then act like a drunk pedestrian in the middle of the road meandering wherever the mood strikes the next. At least not if you want any sympathy from me when someone flattens you.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Seems like we haven't talked much politics lately.

The thing is I thought it would be a bit more exciting to actually have a NDP government in Nova Scotia. And yet, it doesn't feel like much of anything at the moment, one way or another.

I wasn't sure what to make of that until I read Laurent Le Pierres' piece in the Chronicle Herald on Friday entitled "So Why Doesn't It Feel Like History?".

As Le Pierres points out, when an unassuming fellow like Darrell Dexter assumes power, just like everybody assumed he would, something seems to be missing. Le Pierres references Joe Clark's [more commonly known as Joe Who?] line:

We will not take this nation by storm, by stealth or by surprise. We will win it by work.

Perhaps that's what's at work here.

... Tuesday evening was the culmination of 10 years’ hard work for Dexter and his disciplined crew. Through his steady, studious and ambidextrous approach — an ability to use the left and right hand with equal ease — Dexter succeeded in turning the New Democrats into the new normal. In fact, he was so successful that their ultimate victory was somewhat devoid of shock value.

The Dexter majority is a minor quake on the Richter scale...

A little anti-climatic, perhaps?

Le Pierres considers the NDP ready to govern now, in a way they most definitely were not in 1998 when they shocked the Province by winning 19 seats and tying with the Liberals. One more seat then and how different history would be now. For better or For worse, according to LePierres.

As much I would have loved to have seen a NDP victory at the time, I must say that I'm not completely broken up that it's taken until now to happen. Because as much as I tend to agree with their policies (at least provincially), I'm glad they've had the time and the chance to do what they've done, to influence government policy as much as they have, from the other side of the aisle.

Today, no one is more conscious than Darrell Dexter’s NDP of the importance of getting it right. They understand that they have been handed a historic opportunity, and that the trust of Nova Scotians must be handled with care. On Tuesday night, many voters, especially in rural areas, cautiously tiptoed into the NDP camp.

If Dexter can keep them there in four years, he’ll truly make history. If not, he’ll be history.

To which I can only add ... Hear, Hear.

~ ~ ~ ~ ~

Speaking of politics, my thoughts turned back to one of my favourite Lex quotes (yes, I admit it, I do have the occasional Lex quote) when I saw this picture followed by this headline today.

The Lex quote in question being

I believe that choices are actions, and that actions have consequences. If you didn’t pick up on this growing up, you weren’t paying attention.

I believe my grandmother's rendition might have been something closer to "Think before you speak" while a good friend of mine is always working on teaching her children to "Stop. Plot. Think. Do." Personally, I prefer "Put brain in gear before engaging mouth".

But however you choose to word it, the point remains ... actions do have consequences. Oh yeah, sorry, I guess that line is already taken. Too bad someone hadn't pointed that out to the Pres.

But never fear, Hilary is here.

Hey, it could be worse ... it could be Homeland Security Secretary Napolitano.

Oh wait, I guess Hillary isn't much better, is she?

Woe is us...

Still Dreamin' ... of Free Falling

Whatever you may think of his politics, the man does have style.

Former president George H.W. Bush marked his 85th birthday on Friday the same way he did his 75th and 80th birthdays: He leaped from a plane and zoomed downward at more than 100 mph (160 km/h) in freefall before parachuting safely to a spot near his oceanfront home.

Bush made the tandem jump from 10,500 feet (3,200 metres) with Sgt. 1st Class Mike Elliott of the Army’s Golden Knights, who guided them to a gentle landing on the lawn of St. Ann’s Church.

Good Lord, I hope I don't have to wait until I'm his age before I get my chance.

To Free Fall. For real.

Gifts

I quickly looked for a book to grab, nothing too big, nothing too interesting, as I ran out the door to take the Blue Jay to her riding lessons yesterday. I didn't want anything I would get too immersed in, there being too much else I *should* be doing.

I ended up with "The Deep End" by Joy Fielding, likely one of the books I had picked up at the hospital gift store this past summer. Nothing like 50 cents for a paperback and a buck for a hardcover.

It turned out to be small but fairly mighty, sucking me in to stay up to finish it last night. Just your typical "everyone is having a mid-life crisis while some serial killer is out to kill the main female character" kind of thing. Doesn't sound too appealing, does it?

But it was well done or, at least, differently done. I've seen, heard, read enough about men's mid-life crises, their need for fast cars and younger women. This was written from the abandoned wife's point of view whose best friend, apparently, was going through her own mid-life crisis.

And yet, none of this silliness was what I wanted to write about. Our main character, Joanne, has a 95 year old grandfather in a nursing home. With dementia. Whom she faithfully visits every Saturday. Grandpa never knows her, of course, and really only ever opens his eyes to ask if his daughter, Joanne's dead mother, is there. Depressing, huh?

But at one point in the book, Grandpa opens his eyes and he is there. He recognizes and knows his granddaughter. Although fuzzy on some of the details, he is able to ask about her family. And then he asks if she has time to play gin rummy.

As a kid, Joane and her grandpa had played cards all time time. So this is huge for her. She frantically rushes around trying to find a deck of cards. Transported back to her childhood, they play three or four hands. But eventually, inevitably, she can see him start to tire and she has to talk him through every hand. Then he closes his eyes and is gone again.

Heartbroken, Joanne begs him to wake up. Unsuccessful, she holds his hand and shares all her troubles with him, this man who use to be her grandfather, just your typical, run of the mill "my husband has left me, my teenage daughters are driving me insane, I no longer know my best friend and I keep getting calls where someone is threatening to kill me" kind of thing. During this tirade, Grandpa opens his eyes and asks her if she would rather trade places with him.

Three pages later she gets a call from the nursing home telling her that her grandfather has died. "It had to happen sooner or later" Joanne says. "He was ninety-five. "

At which point it struck me ~ "But he gave you such a gift". I know a bit about dementia you see, my mother having passed away six months ago tomorrow (but whose counting?) after a year long battle with dementia and other health issues.

And how well I remember those gifts she gave us. Those times when she came back from wherever she was, to be herself, to be the Mom she always had been, was always meant to be.

It would happen so suddenly, so without warning, that the turn-around was always shocking. Filled with excitement and great hope each time, there was always an equal amount of trepidation. How long would it last this time? And would I finally be able to tell her, to express what I so desperately needed to?

I connected on a visceral level with Joanne as she scurried around asking the nurses for a deck of cards. As she shared those last few hands of cards with her grandfather. Because corny or not (okay, yeah, it was a bit corny), the book touched me at various levels. This one being the strongest.

Those times when a loved one temporarily leaves the fog of dementia, temporarily returns to be with you (invariably as if nothing had happened and they had never been gone and what's the big fuss all about?) are truly gifts. With every moment to be treasured. And carefully packed away for when they once again retreat to another world. Because they will.

Gifts to be taken out and looked at longingly in what at the time seems to be the hardest of times, the worst of all times, when they are still there but are no longer there. When you visit daily but miss them so much it physically hurts.

And, perhaps more importantly, to be taken out and polished, admired and cried over in what really is the worst of times, after they are gone. For those days when it feels like that is all you have left. And then to be carefully put away again, until next time.

On The Potluck of Life

Potluck for supper tonight, it was.

The girls and I attended the annual Volunteer Appreciation Supper for the Alexander Society for Special Needs. My friend, Kathleen, started the society ten years ago ... ten years, hard to believe.

The Alexander Society provides arts-based educational programs to children and teens with special needs, as well as providing resources for people working with special needs populations, organizing workshops and special guest speakers, producing materials such as videos and workbooks, and promoting the inclusion of people with special needs into their communities.

But it's best known for the two after-school Creative Arts Programs (one for children aged 5 - 11 and one for teens) where each child is paired up one-on-one with a volunteer adult, which is why volunteers are so integral to it all. Each program runs once a week for eight to ten weeks and combines storytelling and creative drama, music, creative movement and dance, and visual arts and crafts.

For each multi-week session, one story is chosen and developed using visuals such as a story board, simple costumes and “sets” or felt board cut-outs. On the first day, the essence of the entire story is told and the first “episode” is detailed, at which time the students are enrolled in dramatizing that episode. The story and drama are permeated with songs and story themes are further developed in movement, music and art.

Each week the previous week's story is retold, a new episode is added, dramatized and then deepened with movement, music and art activities. On the final day, the whole story is retold, highlighting favourite songs and actions. By this time, some of the students will be able to help tell the story.

One of the many things that makes Creative Arts so special is the way the story is told. Kathleen has always found amazing storytellers, who tell the story in their own words, as opposed to reading it. Storytellers with incredible voices that, along with their eye contact, engage and transport the the students, drawing them into the story when their attention wanders. The drama is developed by enrolling the students and their assistants and directing them through the actions. Each week, different people take on different roles.

Movement and dance are used to help the children develop balance, laterality, dominance for right or left handedness, fine and gross motor skills, concentration, motor planning, memory, and much more. Music helps develop auditory awareness, concentration, fine motor skills, language development, sequencing and memory. Art, which can include drawing, painting with water colour, acrylics, and finger paint, clay work, weaving and handiwork related to the story, helps with writing skills and the children's ability to express themselves.

And the children (or should I say, for the teen group, the young adults) absolutely love it. Both my daughters were involved in the playgroup when it first started ten years ago. After a few years, the Kit Kat dropped out, in large part because of how she struggled with group activities at the time. But looking back now, with the benefit of hindsight, I can see how it really was a fun, compelling, learning experience for her at one time. I can also see how she has developed and moved beyond it.

But it has been an absolute God-send for the Blue Jay, as it has for so many other local children with special needs. In the beginning, before we had volunteers for each child, the parents would attend and each of us would work with someone else's child. It was an amazing experience to watch. To see the progress made by each of those children.

To see the Blue Jay, who had never delved into dramatic play, sway around the room like a true princess when the beautiful, patchwork purple gown was placed on her shoulders. To see a child in a wheelchair who seemed to respond very little to anyone else make that effort to strike the chime when the music leader sang that it was turn to play the music. To hear from a parent that a child who had never made shown any response like this in the past would now reach out his hand to take another child's hand at circle time, just as we always did at playgroup.

And the Blue Jay still looks forward to going every week, still proudly brings home and displays any artwork she has done. But what I noticed this evening, what prompted this post, was what I saw when the teens and their helpers went through some of the songs and told us some of the story they were currently doing.

I watched the Blue Jay's face literally light up when she sang. I saw some of the biggest, happiest smiles on her face that I have ever seen. And I watched another teen literally jump and down and giggle with delight as she attempted to share what was coming next.

And once again (as has happened every so often over the years), I sat back and found myself filled with a profound sense of gratitude. If it is challenging to raise a teenager (and who amongst us would posit it is not?), it is exponentially more challenging to raise a challenged teen. One who has the same hormonal and mood swings, the same drive for independence as the typical teen but only half the language skills and half the social skills and impulse control, just for a start. Add in other aspects of any particular disability, like obsessiveness or literally getting "stuck" on a topic/issue/ thought and it's fun, fun, fun ... NOT.

Seeing the Blue Jay so completely and unabashedly happy or perhaps more importantly, so happy just being herself, is a rare gift. And it reminded me once again (which I confess, I sometimes forget) how crucial such programs are for these kids. We spend a lot of time, money and effort trying to teach the Blue Jay how to be more like everyone else, how to fit in, how to develop the skills she will need to succeed survive in the world. Which is why seeing her so accepted and so happy just being herself strikes home so deeply.

It may well take a village to raise a child. But it most definitely takes very special people with the gift of creating very special programs to allow our children to not just grow, but thrive and flourish. And I will always be eternally grateful to those people.