Commentary

Nothing at all against Steve Jobs but ... really?

Unintended Consequences

Oh, the irony, the title of my last post, the day before the 10th anniversary of September 11, 2001, being "Hard" ... as if I know what "hard' really is.

Kind of puts things in perspective, doesn't it?

~  ~  ~  ~

I've had a deep respect for Craig Kielburger for quite a few years ... ever since I first heard about his passion and his accomplishments back when I was a member of Results. For those that aren't familiar with Craig's work activism (and I see that apparently at some point along the way he has also been joined by his brother), I would strongly recommend that you read this. And this. And this.

Yeah, I told you I was a bit of a fan, right?

What can I say, but that my own children would turn out so well ...

At any rate, my eye tends to pick out news stories where Craig's name is mentioned. Which is exactly what happened this morning, when I read this story in amongst all the other 9/11 stories in today's newspaper.

A story in which Craig writes about his personal experiences on Sept 11, 2001 and the aftershocks that he feels ten years later in a sprawling refugee camp on the Somalia-Kenya border.

You see, within two weeks of that fateful day in 2001, President Bush signed an executive order making it illegal to provide "material benefit" to terrorists - including humanitarian aid.

To say that seems logical, makes sense, would be an understatement.  But, as I constantly find myself preaching to my children, "actions have consequences".  Sometimes very unintended consequences.

And so it is that relief workers in Dadaab ten years later are experiencing a great deal of difficulty when they try to feed the starving.

Innocent Somalis are dying, including 29,000 children. But U.S. anti-terrorism laws had prevented some U.S. charities from working in Somalia, and now many - despite recent policy changes - are wary of accepting U.S. aid money for fear of inadvertently funding terrorism. Aid could fall into the hands of Al-Shabaab, a group of Islamic militants with links to al-Qaeda, and that charity might be considered an accomplice to terrorism by the U.S. government.

~  ~  ~  ~  ~

While in Dadaab, relief workers voiced the difficulties they encounter and the extreme caution with which they try to feed the starving. They also talked of how Al-Shabaab's link to al-Qaeda is likely one of the factors that have stopped people from donating to the dying Somalis.

Although exceptions have been made to the law for groups acting "in good faith," confusion about the policy still reigns among U.S.-funded charities fearful of accidentally funding terrorists.

And, quite rightly, both journalists and donors question whether the food and money is going to "alQaeda-backed Al-Shabaab." A valid concern, it presents a moral quandary for donors and a challenging situation for organizations trying to save innocent starving civilians.

And yet it's not just the stark reality that the events of September 11, 2001, have resulted in the world not responding to a humanitarian crisis in Somalia ten years later as it has to other such crisis, such as the Haitian earthquake (despite similar concerns there like corruption and disrupted supplies) that grabbed my attention. 

What really grabbed me was the parallel drawn between the reaction of New Yorkers who gathered together in candle light vigils ten years ago tonight (a reaction not that dissimilar to that not just of other Americans but of many, many people around the world) and wondered what would happen to their loved ones, their city, their country; who were really asking the question "Are we going to be OK?" and the situation in the refugee camps today.

In Craig's words:

I thought about that vigil when I was in Dadaab. The camps aren't equipped with electricity, so candles illuminate rows and rows of tents and makeshift shelters. At night, the refugees gather in the flickering light to ask about their loved ones, and their country, as well as that very question I heard in New York. "Are we going to be OK?"

Perhaps part of the reason this article struck me so was because it resonated so well with my own feelings expressed on a previous 9/11 anniversary a few years ago.

It's truly sad that so many of us have lost that sense of compassion and empathy, of being united in a common cause. Or experience. Or perhaps it's some other word that I cannot quite touch at the moment. But I know it was there. Just as surely as I know we have lost it in the intervening years. And that, I think, is another tragedy born out of that day.

So, no, I will never forget September 11. 2001. I will never forget the horror of it all. I will never forget those many who lost their lives that day or the families and friends they left behind. I will never forget that there is true evil in the world and that I saw it in action, with my own eyes, that day.

But neither will I ever forget what it felt like to see so many united in our humanity. Or what it feels like to lose that.

Or, in the words of the Kielburger brothers:

It saddens me to think that a "with us or against us" mentality might have overshadowed our compassion. In the week following 9/11, I watched shell shock and terror dissolve into an incredible outpouring of kindness.

~  ~  ~  ~

It's an unfortunate irony; a terrorist act on 9/11 brought forth such kindness in people, and when compassion is called for again, a fear of terrorism has limited our ability to help those who need it most. There are no easy answers on how to bring aid to those in the snare of Al-Shabaab, but we have to continue to find a way to help compassion triumph over fear.

New England Adventure

Massachusetts has been the wheel within New England, and Boston the wheel within Massachusetts. Boston therefore is often called the "hub of the world," since it has been the source and fountain of the ideas that have reared and made America.

Author: Rev. F.B. Zinckle

Well, that may or may not be accurate. Personally, I'm thinking not.

But be that as it may, tomorrow is the day I jet off to Boston for a week.  One week.  Seven entire days.  No husband.  No kids.  No offence meant.  But boy, does that sound good!

For some unknown (at least to me) reason, I have wanted to visit Boston ever since I moved to the East Coast some 25 years ago. * Wait, I can't be that old.*  Not quite sure why, just thought it would be cool.  And that if a person was to be heading that way, they might as well check out Salem too.

So that is the plan.  A hotel slightly out of Boston - much cheaper that way.  Rent a car for a day to take a trip to Salem.  Sight see. Swim in the hotel pool. Drink lots of  some wine. Sleep. Relax.

Now what have I forgotten?

Wait, I know!  Only the most important thing. 

My good friend, Doorkeeper, is heading east from the wilds of Pennsylvania to meet me in Boston.  Girls' week out!  So that is cool. Veddy veddy cool.

And, as long as we're speaking of cool, the plan is also to meet up with Kris (of the infamous Kris of New England) and her hubby for a day of sight seeing.  Having known Kris *only* through Lex for the past ... six years ... I always look forward to actually meeting internet friends.  Where the virtual collides with the ... non-virtual. 

Yeah, I know.  I do need some sleep. But plenty of time for that on the plane.

Speaking of which (what which exactly were we speaking of again?) Doorkeeper, herself, was once upon a time an internet friend who I was honoured to meet some ... six years .... ago (wait, do I see a pattern here?) in California.  Yep, definitely a pattern.

Okay, I will leave now.  Before I subject you to any more of my twisted ramblings. 

Wish me Bon voyage, will ya?

With Friends Like That ...

I just spent the better part of the morning with the Blue Jay, weeding out her "Friends" list on Facebook. We went from roughly 400 "friends" down to 173. Which, really, is just as ridiculous as the 400 number when you think about it.

Yeah, yeah, I know. It's Facebook, for goodness sake. Play the game and shoot for 1000. Maybe even 2000.

Which is all fine and good if that's what you're into. And you don't have various challenges.

A couple of the Blue Jay's "friends" (actually, kids from school that she barely knew, if at all) started having some very interesting chats with her this past summer. About boyfriend-girlfriend stuff. And what you should do with your boyfriend. In graphic detail. If you get my drift. Yeah, that's what I said.

We only came to find out about it by chance, when the Blue Jay made a comment to her sister about something she wanted to "do" to her "boyfriend" (I could write a whole post on that particular relationship but suffice to say that it's a very safe relationship for the Blue Jay while still giving her that social status of having a "boyfriend").

So. Yeah.

I mean you need to get this - although at times she is pure teen attitude and her body is that of a 17-year-old, mentally she's about equivalent to a 9-year-old. 

She has no interest in this stuff.  At least not until other people instigate it.  And instigate it they do.  And interested she becomes.  For the simple reason that she has been hearing that this is what everyone else does.  And all she wants is to fit in with everyone else.  To be like them and be accepted.

Leaving us suppose to do what exactly?

She is 17.  She doesn't understand why she can't be like other 17-year-olds.  Allowed to do the things they do and have the freedom they have.  Even though she has absolutely no interest in three-quarters of the things they do.  Let's just say that her real interests are at a much younger level.

And so we do our best to protect her from this foolishness.  To keep her safe while at the same time trying to do do the near polar opposite and foster her independence.

I've heard it said that kids don't come with a manual.  No joke.  But neither do kids with special needs and let me tell you - I could really, really use one right now.

Words of Wisdom

Just not mine.

I grew up with practical parents who had been frightened by the Great Depression in the 1930′s. A mother, God love her, who washed aluminum foil after she cooked in it, then reused it. She was the original recycle queen, before they had a name for it. A father who was happier getting old shoes fixed than buying new ones.

Their marriage was good, their dreams focused. Their best friends lived barely a wave away. I can see them now, Dad in trousers, tee shirt and a hat and Mom in a house dress, lawn mower in one hand, and dish-towel in the other. It was the time for fixing things: a curtain rod, the kitchen radio, screen door, the oven door, the hem in a dress. Things we keep.

It was a way of life, and sometimes it made me crazy. All that repairing, eating, renewing, I wanted just once to be wasteful. Waste meant affluence. Throwing things away meant you knew there’d always be more.

But then my father died, and on that clear fall night, in the warmth of the hospital room, I was struck with the pain of learning that sometimes there isn’t any more.

Sometimes, what we care about most gets all used up and goes away … Never to return. So .. While we have it … it’s best we love it .. And care for it … And fix it when it’s broken … And heal it when it’s sick.

This is true … For marriage … And old cars … And children with bad report cards … And dogs and cats with bad hips .. And aging parents … And grandparents. We keep them because they are worth it, because we are worth it. Some things we keep. Like a best friend that moved away or a classmate we grew up with.

There are just some things that make life important, like people we know who are special … And so, we keep them close!

H/T to Mongo at Lex's

In The Looking Glass

I've recently discovered Jodi Picoult. She's really a very good writer. She always manages to hook me.

First it was My Sister's Keeper, this past summer. After I watched the movie. I picked it up in the bookstore at the airport when we were flying out west.

When I finished that, my sister-in-law handed me Nineteen Minutes.

Monday I started Handle With Care.

275 pages later, I realized I was reading the same story all over again. My Sister's Keeper redux. That's not meant as a criticism. Not at all. I am really enjoying the book.

It's just the realization that once again we have a child with a terrible disease.

A mother who has (and will) fight to the death for her. No matter what the cost. Even to the rest of her family.

The father ... strong, handsome, in one of those 'hero' jobs (in My Sister's Keeper he was a fireman; in Handle with Care, he's a cop), the "good guy" who loves his family dearly, can see the bigger picture but doesn't seem to be able to make his wife see it, who helplessly watches his family fall apart.

And the other sibling who gets lost in the shuffle- in My Sister's Keeper it was a younger brother; in this one, it's an older sister. Perhaps the one who is most victimized by the situation (and yet no one seems to notice - not them, not what's happening to them), they each, in turn, act out - the brother in My Sister's Keeper starts setting fires and the sister in Handle with Care turns to stuffing and purging (bulimia) and cutting herself.

But it's the mother that brought me here.

I recognize that mother. I know her well. I am her.

Perhaps it's just a by-product of having a child with significant special needs. Over time, they change you. Make you a better person in so many ways.

But eventually those strength's which they bring out in you, ones you didn't even know you had, can become too strong. That focus, too focused.

Yeah, you really do know what your child needs. But you become so use to having to fight for it (and get so good at it) that it starts to consume your whole life. To the point that all those other people you also love can no longer compete.

Single-minded determination. It will burn out not just you, but also everybody else in its path.

And yet, where is that magic line? When have you taken it far enough? When have you taken it too far?

The answer, often, is a question of perspective. And Ms. Picoult is very good at writing from various perspectives.

She also has a definite flair for the dramatic and unexpected. I now know that there's a very good chance that she will turn your world upside down by the end of a book, if she so chooses. Leaving you with very unsatisfying endings.

In the vast majority of books, the conflict is resolved by the end of the story. The bad guys are found and captured, the lovers re-unite, the world is saved. Not in a Picoult novel, though. People don't live happily ever after. In fact, there's a very good chance that those characters who manage to survive will most definitely live unhappily ever after.

Her next book is to be about a teenage boy with Asperger's Syndrome. On the autistic spectrum, these individuals show marked deficiencies in social skills, having difficulties with social interactions, communications and transitions. They often have obsessive routines and may be preoccupied with a particular subject of interest. And they have a great deal of difficulty reading body language and very often have difficulty determining proper body space. It's these very characteristics that make the boy at the centre of the book the prime subject in a murder case.

I expect another good read. But, I must confess, I do hope not to find myself portrayed anywhere in this book. Knowing from past experience that it can be and usually is more than a little disconcerting.

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.

'She is Gone'

“You can shed tears that she is gone,
or you can smile because she has lived.

You can close your eyes and pray that she'll come back,
or you can open your eyes and see all she's left.

Your heart can be empty because you can't see her,
or you can be full of the love you shared.

You can turn your back on tomorrow and live yesterday,
or you can be happy for tomorrow because of yesterday.

You can remember her only that she is gone,
or you can cherish her memory and let it live on.

You can cry and close your mind, be empty and turn your back.
Or you can do what she'd want: smile, open your eyes, love and go on.

David Harkins
Silloth, Cumbria, UK

With thanks to the Kit Kat

Heartbreaker

Lex brings us a story to remind us all what really matters in life.

Which brings to mind another wonderful family who honours their daughter's memory every day. By helping other children. And who (coincidentally?) are also blessed with Grace in their lives.

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?

Pot: Meet Kettle

A few months ago, I was ranting waxing not so poetically about Janet Napolitano's and John McCain's regurgitation of the same tired comments that some of the 9/11 perpetrators crossed the border from Canada to the US.

As it turns out, perhaps I should have taken a closer look in my own backyard.

On the eve of Prime Minister Stephen Harper’s meeting with President Barack Obama at the White House, a startling new poll suggests more Canadians than Americans believe some of the 9-11 terrorists entered the United States through Canada.

In the Canadian Press Harris-Decima survey, conducted this summer in the United States and Canada, 29 per cent of Canadian respondents said they believed some of the hijackers accessed the U.S. through Canada eight years ago.

Only 19 per cent of American respondents agreed.

*Walks away, shaking head in disgust..*

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.

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.

She They Should Know Better

Like it wasn't bad enough when Janet Napolitano, the U.S. homeland security secretary, came out with those same tired comments that some of the 9/11 perpetrators crossed the border from Canada to the US.

But then to complete the picture, John McCain defends her take because it was, like, true. After all, everybody knows that, right?

I well remember when that story first surfaced. Because the way the tale was told would have had the scum traveling from the Halifax airport to the Yarmouth ferry. Meaning they would have traveled my highway. Which, quite frankly, was a scary, sickening and despicable thought. It provoked both anger and fear in equal measures.

But guess what people. That myth was supposedly busted years ago. Back in 2001. In fact, back in September of 2001, if I recall correctly.

But then again, I suppose we shouldn't be that surprised that some of the most prominent American politicians can't seem to get it right. After all, we all remember this story, right?

So what else is new?

The fact that none of the hijackers crossed the border from Canada to the U.S. was repeated frequently by Prime Minister Jean Chretien and members of his cabinet. But the damage of those first incorrect news stories lingered. In the weeks following September 11, many stories in the U.S. media continued to depict Canada as a terrorist haven. An article in the Christian Science Monitor said that "Canadian and U.S. terrorism experts alike say the giant, genial nation---known for its crimson-clad Mounties and great comedians---has also become an entry point and staging ground for Osama bin Laden's terrorist ‘sleeper cells,' as well as for other terrorist groups."

A story in The Seattle Times declared: "While thousands of U.S. soldiers are being shipped halfway across the globe to fight terrorism, little manpower has been focused on a problem much closer to home: Canada. Experts on both sides of the 4,000-mile border say the nation to the north is a haven for terrorists, and that the U.S.-Canada line is little more barrier than ink on a map."

Hillary Clinton who was then a U.S. Senator from New York said that the U.S. should
lobby Canada to tighten border security: "We need to look to our friends in the north to crack down on some of these false documents and illegals getting in."

Perhaps the most damaging of all the U.S. sources in reinforcing the image of Canada as a safe haven for terrorists was the highly popular television show, The West Wing. After September 11, the writers and cast of the show quickly put together a new season opener in which a middle eastern terrorist crossed the border from Canada to the U.S. The writers showed themselves to be geographically challenged when they had their suspect crossing the border from Ontario to Vermont.

No need to let a little thing like the facts get in the way.

So here's the thing. Frankly, although I think some of this guy's comments where he goes on (and on) are a bit much. rather harsh, in fact, I believe he does have a point. No matter how deeply it might be buried in hyperbole.

How many of you have run smack into American Exceptionalism? If you haven't yet, God bless you, but chances are pretty good that at some point you will.

No, not all Americans are like that. I've met, both in person and online, those that are not. Or at least can control it in conversation. Seriously, there are many Americans I admire and respect. And in return, yes, Canadian diplomats [using the term loosely] and politicians have also made incredibly stupid public remarks about the US at times. So tit for tat there, I suppose.

But there is a real reason that we, as Canadians, should care. Beyond our wounded national pride, that is.

She [Ed. Janet Napolitano] later said she had misunderstood a question asked during the interview and was well aware there had been no Canadian 9-11 connection, but added that the Canada-U.S. border had, in the past, posed a security risk to Americans.

The next day, Napolitano appeared at a border conference and suggested Canada was more lax in its immigration policies than the U.S., alleging Canadian authorities allow people into the country that would not pass muster south of the border.

Napolitano has also ruffled diplomatic feathers with her insistence that the Canadian border must not be treated any differently than the U.S.-Mexican boundary, where a drug war rages and countless illegal immigrants flood into America every year.

Dig a little further and you will find this, once again speaking of Ms. Napolitano.

At various points during her exchange with Mr. Macdonald, she spoke about how "the pattern at the Canadian border has been informality," and how important it was to get the word out that "the borders are going to be enabled with greater technology, but it’s not going to be going back and forth as if there’s no border anymore."

Ms. Napolitano has never crossed the Canada-U.S. border and it shows. Her clichés, if they were ever true, are 10 years out of date. Anyone who has crossed into the U.S. recently realizes you can’t breeze through with a friendly wave at the toll booth.

On June 1, the border will be further thickened by new measures requiring both Canadians and Americans to be armed with a passport or a souped-up ID card if they are entering or re-entering the U.S. by land or sea. It appears Canada is more ready for this brave new world than its neighbour, given that half of our citizens already have a passport, compared to one-quarter of Americans. There are concerns, not only that the more onerous requirements will snarl cross-border trade, but that they will further damage tourism here because a trip up north won’t be worth the hassle for Americans without proper documents.

As time goes by, these problems will probably iron themselves out. But there seems to be little hope that the mindset that sees Canada as the soft underbelly of the United States will improve any time soon.

It is this mentality in Congress that has produced an American policy, which Ms. Napolitano is now duty-bound to enforce, that the U.S.’s northern and southern borders should be treated the same.

To make matters worse, Ms. Napolitano is adding bad politics to bad policy by presenting a hardened Canadian border as a peace offering to Mexico, which is irate about the U.S. clampdown on its end. One border is calm and the other is in the throes of a drug war and massive illegal immigration, but let’s not allow facts to get in the way of appeasement and politically correct "parity." It’s like pretending Canada is as serious a threat as Russia and planning accordingly.

The equivalent of $1.5 billion a day in goods is involved in our bilateral trade relationship with the US. The largest bilateral trade relationship in the world. And about 300,000 people cross our shared border every day.

But remember this, although Canada is the US's largest single trade partner, the relationship is even more important for us, with the US being our dominant trading partner. You can read more about that here, if you so desire.

My point is this.

The myth about the Canadian border may never die. And our grandchildren may well still be refuting it decades from now. But if so, it is imperative that they do. Because (like it or not) the economic relationship (to say nothing of the rest of it) is to important to shattered by fallacies.

It looks like it's up to us to stay on toes on this one, people.

Blogging X Two

Yeah, you've heard this whine before. But it really is hard to keep up with two blogs.

Sometimes I will follow a link to someone's Blogger profile and see three or four blogs under the name of one person. It makes me cringe, I tell ya. How do they do it?

And sometimes it seems to go in waves, I might have lots to say on one blog but nothing really motivates me on the other. Which might be slightly better than when I feel oligated motivated to post on both.

But there does seem to be a bit of an ebb and flow ... perhaps that's a creative ebb and flow. Who knew?

Anyway, I did think to share this with you.

A snippet of a song heard in the car today.
One I've heard many times but a few verses of which particularly struck me today. Took on a whole new meaning.

I guess I thought you'd be here forever
Another illusion I chose to create
You dont know what ya got until its gone
And I found out just a little too late
. . .
Now being without you
Takes a lot of getting used to
Should learn to live with it
But I don't want to
Being without you
Is all a big mistake
Instead of getting easier
It's the hardest thing to take...

Some people say acceptance is the last stage. Others say it is only the first step. I will let you know if I ever get there.

But enough of that for now. I really gotta get to work.

** Obama Is Coming To Town **

** To be sung to the tune of "Santa Claus is coming to town" **

Giddy, positively, giddy, they say is the mood in Canada. Or at least in the Prime Minister's office. And what could inspire such a state in what must be an altogether too sombre place, you ask.

Well, it's quite simple really. Variously referred to as "The Obamanator", "The Big O" and "The Obamessiah", in some circles [but not here, that would be disrespectful], President Barack Obama is coming to town. Or to Ottawa, anyway. Close enough.

Although, perhaps in all fairness, it should be noted that not all Canadians are completely giddy at the thought. Michael Ignatieff, the fearless new leader of the federal Liberal party, is bound and determined to let President Obama know that, come hell or high water, Canada must leave Afghanistan by 2011. And, fearless as he is, he also plans to warn the President against economic protectionism while extolling the virtues of free trade.

I hope Iggy can talk fast; something tells me that he's not going to have a whole lot of time. To be persuasive.

Meanwhile, some are taking the opportunity of this visit to raise the profile of their own agendas, saying that Obama's plans to stiffen environmental regulations will leave Canada looking less than green. Or maybe that's green with envy, I'm not quite sure.

And the media?

Me thinks they might be feeling just a wee tiny bit jealous.

History tells us that when the president of the United States of America comes to Canada, his people make all the decisions they care to make, which seems appropriate enough, given how much more important and powerful they are.

Yup, we're gonna have fun, fun, fun 'til the President decides to fly away. *

* Yeah, I'm open to better suggestions for that last line.

Update: It's official. Obamamania has arrived! Complete with Obamaburgers and Obamatails Obama BeaverTails. Yeah, I agree. It's a complete Obamanation!

Frustration

What's one of the worst things you can do to a person living with dementia?

How about changing the environment? The total living environment, unexpectedly, without any notice.

More than anything else, people with dementia in residential care need to feel safe, secure, occupied, at home and connected to their former lives."

Ms McCann said that in what for these residents is a frightening and sometimes bewildering world of much uncertainty, they need to be helped negotiate a familiar environment that is supportive, makes sense and resonates of home.

Think of it this way ... what if a giant hand were to suddenly and unexpectedly reach down into your home, pick you up and plop you down in a different home? Oh sure, the new "home" may be just as adequate to your needs on an objective basis as the old one but ... how well do you think you would cope?

I can't really blame the hospital. Much as I might like to. I mean Mom has been moved to about six different rooms in just under three months. But I know they are just doing what they need to do. And one of the moves was caused by a shift of the majority of the inpatient units from one floor to another in order to facilitate renovations.

But. This last move. Believe it or not, words fail me ...

Mom has been doing so well mentally for the past month. Quite frankly, we didn't expect her to make it through the summer. She had been losing the battle with MS (multiple sclerosis) over the past year. Struggling with the dementia. And then diagnosed with cancer this past February. She had lived with us for a little over a month in the early summer. But about a month after going into the hospital in the beginning of July, she was doing very poorly. And the doctors told us to expect maybe another week or two.

But once again she bounced back. At first it seemed like she would recover when company would come, only to crash hard each time afterwards. But for the past month, mentally, she has been doing so well.

When I was up to see her yesterday morning ... it was one of those times of really having Mom back again. I really miss my Mom, even though I see her every day. I miss her because even though I physically see her, I can't talk to her the way I use to. As my Mom. To really discuss things with her. The good. The bad. The worrisome. But yesterday, she was so right on.

Then I got a phone call in the afternoon. Mom wanted them to call and tell me that they had moved her to another room. Quite frankly, I really didn't think that much about it. Just another room move. So I wasn't planning on going up that night but when I unexpectedly found myself near the hospital that evening, I decided to drop up.

I was very glad I did. And left there very upset.

If Mom had been an 8 or 9 mentally on a scale of 1 -10 that morning, she was a 3 that evening. The move down the hall had taken that much out of her. In her former room, she was next to the window. There are two patients in each room and we are always pushing for a "window seat". Because when you are in there for the long-term, being by a window can make a huge difference. Especially if your roommate who has the window likes to keep the curtain between the two beds closed.

Well, this had been one of the better rooms Mom had had. Right by a window which looked out on a small garden set in the middle of the hospital buildings. She had a beautiful view of roses and bushes out that window. And of course, the ledge to put pictures and plants on. Plants which could actually grow. Because they were next to a window. I had bought her a beautiful cyclamen and brought in a couple of African violets she had been growing in her own little house. And they loved that window.

So. New room. Next to the door, not the window. All her stuff packed up and shoved in the closet. And Mom terribly sad and confused. I felt her frustration. It was like a physical presence. It became my frustration. And it seemed like the best, the only, thing I could find to help her was to tell her that no matter where they put her, I would always find her. That was guaranteed a small smile and she would respond "Yes, I think you're right".

I did my best to reassure her. To put some of her stuff back out. To tell that she would get use to the new room and would feel better in a few days. And hoped that I was right.

When I went back up today, she was a little better. A little. But she still had this air of sadness and confusion about her. And I wasn't there more than five minutes when she started falling asleep. Which is something she does in phases. So even though I know that it doesn't necessarily "mean" anything, it still hurts. Because it leaves me with a sense of loss, a sense that she is slipping away from me yet once again.

My brother is suppose to be back for a visit next week. And it's highly likely that she is simply "recharging her batteries" as we tell the Blue Jay. Conserving her energy until he comes. I hope so. I pray it's so.

But once again, I walked out of that hospital with some a palpable sense of frustration. Of sadness and loss. Of wanting to have someone to strangle, but no one being there.

Remembrance

I had never heard this song or seen this video before. But I came across it today and despite my previous comments about being unable to watch any visual reminders of that day, this video struck a real chord with me.



The date may have passed but the sentiments will always remain the same.

H/T to Lindsay at USO Girls

'In A New York Minute'

In a New York Minute
Everything can change
In a New York Minute
Things can get pretty strange
In a New York minute
Everything can change
In a New York Minute

So goes the song. And how true it is.

Given that this is the first time I have blogged about the anniversary of September 11, 2001, I really wasn't sure which route to take. I have seen a close friend profoundly and, I believe, permanently changed by the events of that day. Seen how it affects her everyday interactions with the world. I could write about that.

Or I could write on and on about my own feelings on that day, and for months afterwards, all the while in tears. It still surprises me, in some ways, how the strength of the feelings and sensations garnered that day remain so close to the surface for me seven years later.

I remember, even at the time, having trouble explaining the depth of those feelings to some American friends. Because it hadn't happened in Canada, they presumed that I couldn't really "get it". And perhaps they were right. Up to a point. But as I tried to explain to them at the time, it was like watching a 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.

To this day I refuse to watch any movies or documentaries concerning the events of September 11th. I refuse to look at any still photographs. They instantly transport me right back to that day of incomprehensible horror and pain. It's not that I won't look because I would rather forget. It's simply that I can't allow myself to physically and mentally relive that time again.

And yet, amazingly, out of the horror, one positive thing has also stuck with me since that fateful day. Something which, at the time at least, gave hope and not pain.

It was the sense that the horror was shared. It was the strength of the outpouring of emotion from around the world. The compassion, the empathy that people from around the world felt and expressed for the people of the United States. As we sat glued to our television sets, unable to tear our eyes away from watching the same horrific images over and over again, at the time it seemed as if the whole world stood in support of America. That we would do anything we could to support and help it, that we could agree with almost any action it took in the horrible aftermath.

Of course, I very quickly learned to pay attention to the inhabitants of what might as well have been a whole other "world", people who rejoiced in the tragedy of that day. But at the time, it felt as if all the 'civilized' world, at least, were united in this common tragedy.

And I am deeply saddened and troubled by the fact that we have all gone off in so many different directions since then. Not that the rest of the Western world should have to play cheerleader for every action taken by the U.S. since that day, not that we all have to agree with everything the American government and its people decide to do, but that we have lost that sense of outrage and shared humanity that united us so strongly at the time.

It's truly sad that so many of us have lost that sense of compassion and empathy, of being united in a common cause. Or experience. Or perhaps it's some other word that I cannot quite touch at the moment. But I know it was there. Just as surely as I know we have lost it in the intervening years. And that, I think, is another tragedy born out of that day.

So, no, I will never forget September 11. 2001. I will never forget the horror of it all. I will never forget those many who lost their lives that day or the families and friends they left behind. I will never forget that there is true evil in the world and that I saw it in action, with my own eyes, that day.

But neither will I ever forget what it felt like to see so many united in our humanity. Or what it feels like to lose that.

Transitions - Accepting Separations

One of the hardest things to deal with at the moment is my mom's general state of unresponsiveness. To my voice. To my touch. To my kisses.

And even worse, even more hurtful, is when she seems to respond just a little more to the Kit Kat and the Blue Jay than she does to me.

"Loss of emotional closeness is sometimes most painful for loved ones as the dying person separates from them. This happens when the one who is sick begins to focus on the process of dying rather than staying alive."

A person near dying has little reserve energy to give back into relationships with even those who are close.

The dying person may not be able to risk vulnerability of growing closer while preparing the enormous task of transitioning.

You can help prepare by letting the sick person set the pace and the intensity of these last days or hours together. A dying person usually does not want lengthy conversations. If he or she needs to separate, allow a quiet time to buffer your need to keep the person close and that person's need to slip past loving ties. Your loved one may want you always near or wait for solitute in which to slip away. You will ease the transition by allowing the person to guide you.

Separating from relationships may be more painful for caregivers left behind than the actual death. Separation is normal for the dying person. Understanding can ease some of our pain, anger and disappointment when a loved one withdraws from emotional connections. Inability to continue relationships suggest a refocusing rather than rejection or loss of concern for loving ties.

. . .

As the dying person decides to separate, he or she may grow calm, peaceful, or remote. Letting go replaces holding on. Stay near and quietly available. Your gentle presence may be all that is needed.

This is the time for family left behind to change focus somewhat.

Comfort and take comfort from others. Allow the death transition and sorrow of losing someone very dear to come to full expression.

Understanding separation as an important part of dying allows acceptance of the dying person's remoteness.

Yet understanding will not stop our feelings of helplessness, rejection and loss.

No. No, it won't. But at least it does help explain it. A little.