Author: Paula

Good and Perhaps Last

We would celebrate come what may.

My Bert was celebrating a birthday.  Born under the sign of the Lion the pussycat relationship was at the forefront most of the time. Despite living under the thrall of Alzheimer’s it was time to celebrate another year. My Bert’s inner child is most apparent on his birthday.

The restaurant was alerted.

The amazing staff at his home assured me he would be ‘spiffy’ for his outing. He was.

The mobility transportation was booked.  The guests were all lined up.  Covid-19 curtailed the numbers, only eight in total and even so, physical distancing was the order of the day.

Yet, I worried.  What if the transportation was late or my Bert not in the mood or gets an anxiety attack.  There were so many ifs to consider.

The worry was a wasted emotion as everything went exceedingly well. As per the norm, my Bert rose to the occasion. He chatted, ate, drank, and kept smiling at everyone.  He knew Corbert and Amy and me.  The others were ‘friends’ and that was all he needed to know.

He surprised one by exhibiting his usual alpha male tendency by squeezing the hand offered to him.  It was so much the norm for both of them they had a good laugh.

Before leaving the home the young ones had decorated his room with a large peel and stick mural. Given the macular degeneration that has left him legally blind things have to be large and brightly coloured and well defined.  The mural was aligned for maximum viewing space as depending on where things were placed there could be a best place for viewing for him. The wheelchair needed to be at an angle for him to see it.  He touches the mural and says: “Pretty birds.  Woo lots of butterflies too.”

He is happy.  So am I. Here is some new scenery for him to look at. Each morning he sees the mural it is new and he is delighted.

I read the cards. He laughs at the funny ones and he wants to know who gave it to him. The only answer he needs is that it is from a friend.  I name them and add: “If you saw them you would know them.” He laughs at one of the cards from the kids which is actually from their dog. They know he loves to get cards so that is an extra and he loves it.

Is this the last birthday celebration? That is my anxious nature asking. It could be.  I do not know and I have no control over that.  As I observe his pleasure, his delight at the funny cards and his slow but happy smile when he finally comprehends the sentiments expressed, the question becomes moot. Instead I begin to wonder what the next birthday celebration will be like. I have every intention to celebrate it, given the chance.

What is surprising and most welcome is that on returning to the home, my Bert looked around and said: “Home again, at last.”

What a difference. When we had entered into this home just over two years ago I never thought my Bert would ever utter these words. But I know he is sincere.  This is his home and it is familiar territory. I am spending the rest of the day with him.  That’s even more reinforcement that he really is at home. My relief at his acceptance is more than that.  It also alleviates the discomfort I still feel when I see his shrunken world. Each day as I leave after visiting, he may ask me where I am going. I tell him the truth.  It could be to an appointment, grocery shopping, or to get gas for the car but often it is “back to the apartment” which is my physical home. To my Bert it is the other place that I look after. It is not ‘home’ because he is not there.

He is correct. Home is where we are together. We went out and had a great time with family and friends. We celebrated his birthday, his day.

My Bert- Happy 89th Birthday August 17, 2021

The Meander: Sometimes home is not where you were born, or where you chose to live, or where circumstances dictate. Sometimes it is simply where the heart is.

Lasts

It is Corbert and Amy’s wedding anniversary.  I smile as I sign their card.  I blithely write that it is from Dad and Mom.  The smile fades. In its place is not a frown but a hesitancy, a new kind of indecision wrapped in doubt and some wistfulness.  The question intrudes: “Will this be the last time I write Mom and Dad?”

I send a birthday card to a niece and write, with a flourish, from Uncle Bert and Aunt Paula. Another goes to a friend and again from Bert and Paula.

Birthdays, weddings, anniversaries, sympathy, condolences, get well and thank you cards were under my list of duties and all of them were signed by me for two. It was always from two.

It is the little incidents of thought, reverie, a shiny object, a souvenir and the simple signing of a card that can bring about an extreme sense of loss. All of a sudden I began to wonder about lasts.  The last hello, the last and final goodbye, the last trip to the Home, the last hug, the last farewell to the staff, the last pondering of how to acknowledge the care given to my Bert.

We sit at my Bert’s table looking out his window.  A slight gust of wind and the canvass awning on the nearby balcony rises and falls.  My Bert looks out and says: “The wind is strong.  Look.”  The wind and the movement of the awning always bring some reaction.  I wonder when it will be the last time for this.

What will be the last programme we share, the last pub night, the last musical presentation? Will I be holding his hands? When will I see that last smile or hear the last: “I love you too.”

Lasts are roiling in my mind. I contemplate the last hair cut, the last foot care, the last grapes I bring to him.  That brings to mind the last food he will eat and I wonder if it will be regular, mince, puree, liquid or gel. Even food foretells the decline to the end. Should I ask that his favourite foods make up his last meal? Will the last meal be regular or potage or the drip, drip of a colourless liquid?

We sit on the patio and I make sure he is out of the sun.  My Bert does not tan well.  He goes from pale to lobster red and back to pale quickly.  I put some sun screen on his hands and wonder: Is this the last time?  I glance at the rose bush which is coming out strong and already I can envision the lovely yellow roses that will bloom soon.  It is a beautiful bush and again I wonder if this will be the last time we admire it together.

I shake myself out of morbid thoughts and try to substitute happy lasts.  For the life of me I can’t think of any. Last of anything is a precursor to an end.  In the effort to move away from sadness I find I must move away from the lasts that involves anything to do with my Bert.

Forcing myself out of morbidity I immediately think of a last that I will welcome. Oh, how I will welcome the last day of Covid-19. What a celebration that would be when not just first world but the entire world is free of Covid-19?  I am not sure that is possible but one can hope and dream.

What a conceit it is to think of the lasts with my Bert as being comparable to a world pandemic.  Yet I think that the sheer enormity of both makes the comparison reasonable.

As I try to conjure up happy lasts I find myself reverting to endings.  It seems that there are many more endings that are sad than happy.  That should not be.  Yet I see happy endings as fairy tales.  It must be the mood I am in, the burden I carry, and the onus that sits constantly on my shoulder to be happy for my Bert.  Now I appreciate how much I depended on him to enhance our natural joy.  He carries so much joy in him. It is infectious. As I remember his wonder, his happiness in the smallest thing I know I have to try to maintain that childlike magic he has.

It can be wearying being happy for two.

It is Father’s Day.  Along with a few gifts my Bert has received four cards.  He has eyes for one card only. It is from Corbert and Amy and features his favourite pet, a dog. It is special. When you pull a tab the dog talks.  It begs him to have a Happy Father’s Day, asks to be thrown a bone, pants and again the Happy Father’s Day wish.

The card is shown to every staff member; my Bert cannot get enough of it.  I finally succeed in teaching him to pull the tab and he is delighted to hear the dog ‘speak’. He takes it with him to the patio. He has so much pleasure in this card that I find myself laughing along with him. He is so animated and pulls the tab so vigorously that I know the card won’t last long. That won’t matter.  For now he is happy.  When the card is pulled to pieces he might ask someone to fix it, but in a very short time he will have forgotten it.  That does not matter either.  We live in the moment. Take pleasure in the moment.

Yet still I wonder?  Is this the last Father’s Day?

The Meander:  Like floaters in the eye the worry about lasts hovers constantly but unobtrusively in the background.  You almost forget they are there. Almost.

Hair Oh Hair!

I want to blame Covid 19 for my hair distress but it wouldn’t be fair.  It is just one of the culprits.

The first iteration of my hair I can recall is of a middle part and two braids hanging with ribbons attached at the ends.  The ribbons matched the dress, of course.   I was a child; I had no say.  This was how my hair was styled.

Then there came the ‘straightened’ hair.  There was a heavy metal comb, heated on a very hot stove contraption that was used to do exactly as described, straighten the hair.  The comb and heating contraption looked like a torture instrument from the Middle Ages and was not too far off the mark. It sizzled and clouds of smoke accompanied by the smell of burning hair pervaded the atmosphere.  No matter how careful the hairdresser, there had to be at least a few times when the comb grazed your ear and you got a foretaste of what going to hell in the afterlife would be like.  I loved the page boy hairstyle during this period.  Here began the intense personal relationship with my hair.

Not long after came ‘creaming’.  Also known as ‘processing’, or ‘touching up’ this was in reality a chemical process containing caustic lye that was combed through the hair.  Those of us who thought the heat of the hot comb was awful soon found out that if the hairdresser was not adept, the burn you got from a bad job was worse than the hell fire.  I have friends who have been made permanently bald through bad processing.

The great advantage of the chemical process was that once done, you did not have to repeat it  for perhaps two to three months and if you were skillful at styling your own hair it was so much easier and more manageable to create what you wanted.  You could curl it, keep it straight, fashion updos, French rolls, loose waves or whatever your heart desired.  You had control.

There was still a little work and discomfort to be endured to keep it looking well groomed on a daily basis.  Every night, the last thing you did was ‘set your hair’.  Depending on the hair length and texture you would sleep with myriad curlers of varying sizes.  I am still in awe of how we could sleep with our heads swollen by those curlers, hairpins, nets, clips and sleep bonnets.

Then I decided the curlers were giving me a headache so I invested in a curling iron.  I may have to wake up at the crack of dawn to curl the entire head of hair but at least I had had a comfortable night’s rest.

The experimentation was not over.  I did try the natural afro look.  My hair was showing the years of battering and I thought if I cut it off, wore it natural, I would be giving it a chance to rejuvenate.  The experiment failed.  I looked in the mirror, did not recognize myself and prayed for quick regrowth so I could return to the ‘touch ups’.

I also tried wigs.  They came in handy, especially when travelling, but they too gave me headaches.  They received scant use.

A Caucasian friend who went to the same hairdresser as I did would go for a ‘perm’ which meant she went through a tortuous routine that made her straight hair curly.  I went to make my curly hair straight.  Oh, the irony! 

All was well until Alzheimer disease entered my life.  Suddenly I began to notice a large amount of ‘shedding’.  I like that word because that is exactly what was happening.  Also I was prescribed a new diabetes medication that worked really well but on researching its various effects found out that it could also lead to hair loss.

I was flummoxed.  My hair is naturally fine so it does not take too well to shedding and hair loss.  It is decision time.  Do I reject the medication or do I take it and see how much shedding there was before I cried Uncle.

Health comes first.  So I continued with the medication and bought various potions, lotions and unctions to help, I hoped, with the shedding.

Enter Covid 19, with its companion a world pandemic, and it seems my hair just gave up.  The stress was too much.  Every day I kept seeing more and more shedding.  I was raining hair.

What do I do now?  Do I just keep shedding until I am bald?  Do I get a buzz cut?  Wigs are fashionable and the variety in colour, cut, style, and length, endless.   Should I get a magenta or green or blue?   No I am too conservative for that.  I will just look for gray wigs.  I soon became bug eyed at the variety and the number.  I had no idea there were so many shades of gray.  It put the famous fifty shades to shame.

Remembering my friends who have been wearing wigs forever I decided to consult them about their wig buying habits and places of choice.  I needed their experience and advice as at this moment I am living in the twilight zone of hair today, gone tomorrow.

I hope the hair revives itself, that some of the lotions and potions will do what they claim they can and so I can make the other options moot.  In the meantime, if you are unsure who that hair challenged person that looks like Paula is, just say hello.  It could be me.

I have abandoned the bald look.  After taking a good look in the mirror I know I do not want to expose the phrenology of my cranium with its bumps and lumps to the world nor to my family and friends.

I love them too much.

The Meander:  If there is reincarnation I want to come back as a peahen.   No muss, no fuss with my feathers.  I leave that to the peacock.  He can have all the preening stress and showing off to entice, while I, in my drab plumage peck, eat and glance coyly at the display.

The Word of the Day is NO!

“Hi love, how are you?”  I entered into the home with my happy face on.

“Good.”

My Bert looked up at me but he was not smiling, he was not giving me a salute, his new greeting.  He seemed a bit morose.

“Is everything okay?  Are you feeling well?”

“I am fine.” Hmm, he is not his usual cheerful self.  Maybe he is hungry.  It is soon lunchtime.  I wheel him into his room and set up the cart ready to be shown the choices for the day.  In the meantime I put on his music, but he did not sing along as he usually does..

Soon our cheerful dancing PSW comes in to display the choices for lunch.  First displayed was the tuna fish sandwich with garden salad.  My Bert looked at it and said: “No.”  

She moved in time with the music as usual then showed him the hot lunch.  It was hamburger with macaroni somewhat akin to hamburger helper, mixed cooked vegetables, mashed potatoes with gravy.  The dessert was not displayed but he loves sweets and I know he would get two desserts.  He looked at the plate and said “No.”

“Sweetheart, you will have to choose something to eat.  Look again.”

My Bert looks at the plates and with a shrug chooses the hot lunch.

The tray is brought in with his chosen lunch, milk, cranberry juice, water, fruit salad and a piece of pie and the soup of the day which today is vegetable.   My Bert loves soup so all should be well.

“No.”  That came as I offered the soup.  No problem I will start with the entrée.  “No.”  That’s okay I think as I select the mashed potatoes. “No.”

“What do you want to eat first?”  My Bert points to the fruit salad.  Eating dessert first is no sweat at all. My Bert eats it all up then points to the entrée.  He eats a half and says, “No.”  I offer the mashed potatoes, and he eats most of it.

My Bert now points at each item in turn and eats until there is not much left of anything.  He eats all the vegetables.  It is smooth sailing or rather, eating.  I think the soup will be a breeze.

He looks at the soup as I raise a spoon to his lips and he says “No.”   I begin to cajole, entice, and stir it to show him how much vegetables are in it.   I talk about how he makes very good soup and how we both love soup.  At each juncture he says “No.”

“Hey, I bet if you taste it you will like it.  Have some soup and then you will have some pie.”

“N… O… NO!”  He shouted.  I was speechless. The force with which my Bert said this as he looked at me, the resolute, unyielding, indomitable will evident in every fibre of his body made it impossible to misconstrue the fact that he was not going to eat his soup.  Not today and perhaps not ever!

I slowly put the spoon on the tray.  I covered the soup.  I knew without a shadow of a doubt that soup was not going to go anywhere near my Bert today.  While I did this my mind was a turbulence of thoughts.

What depth did my Bert have to plumb to retrieve that sequence?  It was appropriate, to the point, communicated exactly what he wanted to say in a concise and forceful manner.  But not something I thought he was capable of doing.

From where did that so logical utterance come?  Was he recalling the old memory of us together telling our sons: “Capital N, capital O means capital NO.?”   This was usually the response when they ganged up one or the other or both together asking for something trivial.  When this answer came they knew that was the final answer.

Did My Bert have a sudden but compelling need to exhibit some control over his circumstances?  There is so little over which he has any control now.  Was my Bert who was decisive; who was in control of his own business; who had strong opinions and made choices unafraid; was that man now reduced to refusing a meal just to prove he was still a man? The thought saddened me.

Was I being fanciful and reading too much into the incident?  Maybe he just did not want soup today.  I smiled inside.  This was the take charge brook no nonsense Bert I knew.

I cut into the blueberry pie.  He accepted it, chewed and said: “Good.”

The Meander:  I believe we underestimate the abilities of our loved ones.  We are so caught up in the caring we sometimes forget the characteristics and those inherent elements of their nature that makes them the persons we know and love.

Alzheimer disease may take away their faculties but it cannot take away their character, their essence, their personhood.

Recap to Forward

How were the holidays for you?  I was going to ask how 2020 was but I know the answer to that.  Unless you were under a rock in some undiscovered region of our planet you will have definite opinions on the pandemic year and I would guess the recap is not ecstatic.

Yet, it was not all despair.  There is no need to itemize neither the many disasters nor the outpouring of kindnesses.  The yearend pundits have done that ad nauseum. 

Let’s leap forward into 2021.  It’s  January 1, 2021 and leap is the wrong word.  The transition from one year to the next was so uneventful.  I made a tour of New Year’s Eve celebrations on television that were not.  The hosts of the non events tried valiantly but New Year’s Eve celebrations need people, music, parties, gatherings, community, and friends.

If it were not for the various fireworks displays streamed every now and then as we followed the dawning of the day around our world this passing of 2020 into 2021 would be just another night into day.

Yet this is a special passing from darkness into light, and although we are stumbling around in the dark there is some light.  There are signs that a new day dawns.

Who would imagine that a vaccine would be the most positive highlight of a year or that so many would be anxious to roll up a sleeve to get a jab from a needle?

2020 was such a disaster positive spins came out negatively.  Comments ranged from: “Well, I am still on top of the grass.”  To “It could have been worse, I suppose.”  The latter said with such dubiousness that you heard the unspoken: “but I don’t know how it could have been”.

Christmas 2019 I was so stressed going all out on the celebrations, fearing that it would be the last Christmas we would be together as a family in our home. We knew that a person with Alzheimer disease went one way only.  Every recurring occasion, event or celebration could be the last.

Though 2020 made the fear a reality it could have been worse.  We were all well, on top of the grass and Christmas was not cancelled.  We did have lunch together with Zoom as the connector, and a new tradition was born.

I am not sure Corbert and Amy are aware of this new tradition as yet but I have already embraced it wholeheartedly.  Until this pandemic year the family came to us.  We had a great time but lord, was I tired afterwards.  This year I went to them.

What a difference.  I was pampered, well fed by the wonderful Amy, while Corbert got me whatever I cared for, set me up with a movie we could all enjoy, and I was able to watch the minuet as they both worked at the various tasks that resulted in a delicious meal. It was a special time of togetherness, family, love, sharing and caring.

That is my new tradition.  I better tell them about it.

As for being together, that had special meaning because at 12:01 a.m. December 26th we would be in lockdown.  That meant being confined to our homes, only leaving for essential services like going to the pharmacy, grocery store or to medical appointments.   Since I was sleeping over I decided going home qualified as essential especially as it included a stop with my Bert for lunch. 

So now 2021 is here.  How will it unfold?   Who knows?  I think it is good we cannot see the future.  We can look forward with anticipation and hope.  Hope is positive but there is a tad of negativity in the oft repeated phrase: “Well, it can’t get worse can it?”

When you are a caregiver to a loved with Alzheimer’s disease it can get worse.  There is no denying that, yet my Bert is able to bring joy.  He has two fixations these days.  He looks at me and calls me his wife but is unsure that I am Paula.  It seems there are two Paulas.  One he met years ago and remembers and this old, masked, face shielded and sometimes gowned apparition who is somewhat familiar but is another Paula.

The next fixation is that he is often at sea when he is hallucinating.  Most times he is on a cruise but at other times he is sailing with the Swedish Merchant Marines.  He cruises a lot and usually tells me to show other guests (he sees them) to the dining room.  There is logic to that as I always visit him to help out at mealtimes.

I want to be in his brain.  First the Paula he is seeing is one I would like to see when I look in the mirror each morning.  She was hot! 

Oh, to be on a favourite cruise line, enjoying the sea, the people, the ports, the tours, the food.

My Bert and I are still living in true partnership.   He is living in recap mode and I must look forward to meet what’s next.  That is perfect symmetry.

The Meander:  May we more than endure in 2021.  May the new normal be an improved normal in a healthy world.

Happy New Year!

Covid Busyness

It is hard to live in two worlds. Yet that is what you do when you are a caregiver to a loved one with dementia.  Your two worlds are the real one and Alzheimer’s world. Add in a third which is the Covid 19 virus world pandemic and that existence becomes even harder.

I believe that the next world pandemic will be a mental health crisis that will be a marker of the new normal, whatever that is.

Now that I am about to get my 17th Covid test I am convinced that my mental stress will come from having that elongated Q-Tip being swirled around somewhere north of my eye socket and approaching my brain via a nostril.  I mean, really!  Yet I go trotting off again because I need to have that negative test result to be able to visit my Bert.

To add insult to injury, another edict has come down from the Ministry of Long Term Care (LTC) that the tests are now required to be done every seven not 14 days.  This might mean a test every four days as there is no guarantee that results will be available in the touted 24 hour turnaround window. 

I call this Covid busyness of an insane Government.   The LTC Covid-19 Commission released an interim report recommending that hours spent by staff on personal human contact in direct care be increased.  The Ministry’s response was that it would aim to achieve this in FIVE YEARS and then it announced that testing for all staff, essential and designated caregivers would be required every seven days.  Essential caregivers would have to show the negative test result to be able to visit their loved ones. No negative test result, no positive visit.

In one devastating swoop incompetence met up with insanity; privacy issues went out the window as you must show your medical record which will be kept on file; already stressed staff will be going for testing instead of caring for residents; the amount of time now spent on care will be reduced going counter to the recommendation of the need for more time for residents; critical social contact necessary for resident’s well being may be curtailed if test results are not timely; any help given by family essential caregivers will most likely decrease if test results are late, lost or testing appointments missed for any reason.

I surmise that if your loved one is in a large or medium sized home, testing every seven days of every staff member and others would take away a good percentage of the little time already being spent with residents.  After all, the everyday workload would not be reduced but nowhere did I read that staff would be increased to allow for this weekly testing..

There is talk of a new fast test protocol where results would be available in twenty minutes but until that happens, it is just palaver.   There is always talk and more talk but no action.   If this is action then five years could become ten or perhaps never.

Am I opposed to testing? Certainly not, hence 17 and counting. However, it seems this is just another patchwork idea to say: “We are doing something.” without looking at the efficacy of the ‘something.’

My Bert too has some Covid busyness going on.  He is so chatty my head spins trying to keep up with his forays into all subjects within one sentence stream.  This is good, but it is as if he was so devoid of conversation that now I am available he has an audience of one to verbalize all the pent up thoughts in his head. Like the politicians he is suffering from verbal diarrhea of a different ilk.

Most of my Bert’s conversations are born in hallucinations veering into delusions and confabulation. Interestingly enough I can follow these strains of errant thoughts as in the telling there is usually some hint of reality of past shared experiences.  If there isn’t I just agree.  I mentioned this to a friend, a professor of Ophthalmology, who suggested they may also be complicated by his having advanced macular degeneration and thus experiencing Charles Bonnet syndrome.

Being aware of my penchant to hear disjointed streams of words, as example, hearing Baker’s yeast instead of Baker’s cyst and emotional liability instead of emotional lability, I asked her to spell it.  Good thing she did as the Bonnet is pronounced Bonay.  I might have still been looking for Charles Bunny. Briefly:

“Charles Bonnet syndrome refers to the visual hallucinations caused by the brain’s adjustment to significant vision loss. It occurs most often among the elderly who are more likely than any other age group to have eye conditions that affect sight, such as age-related macular degeneration.”

No wonder my Bert is busy.  Not only does his brain have to deal with Alzheimer disease hallucinations he also has hallucinations caused by macular degeneration and living in Covid-19 world too.  Crazy world and crazy life.

I too have Covid busyness.  Besides trying to figure out the intricate permutations of my Bert’s brain, I find that I am becoming more of an advocate for those living and working in LTC hence this somewhat political slant in my thinking.  If only politicians would recognize that their role is to advocate on behalf of their constituents and enact legislation that benefits them. 

My friends are also Covid 19 busy.  Ask what keeps us all so busy and we are stumped to come up with a definitive answer.  My answer is I have found an infinite capacity to be busy doing nothing.  That is not all true.  I believe that Covid 19 has shown us a different kind of busy where the simplest task stretches out to fill an inordinate amount of time disproportionate to its difficulty.  This is also coupled with an inertia that goes right down to the bone.  Everything is slowed, takes more effort than it should, more thought, and care.

We seem to have our fingers hovering over the pause button. It is a long frustrating pause but it is also a time to dream and breathe and wonder.  It is a pause to create, to be creative, to care and to act.  

The Meander: If we care enough perhaps our tomorrows will be brighter than our todays and we may just be able to avoid the next pandemic.

Twice Walloped

The last few days have weighed heavily on all aspects of our lives.  We are living in a global pandemic. I miss seeing my Bert so much.  We make the best of phone calls, ZOOM visits and revel in the simplest pleasure while separated.

Then the Military Report that revealed the horrific conditions in Ontario’s Long Term Care homes was published.  There was a general wringing of hands, wailing and gnashing of teeth even from those who knew or should have known.   The report revealed in bald, bare facts the long standing atrocities that were perpetuated against our most vulnerable.

For those of us who had intimate knowledge of the system, for those who lost their loved ones during this pandemic it was no surprise.  If there was surprise it was to wonder how the system was allowed to become so degraded.  It was sickening to read the report.

We are aware that when people become products for profit they become expendable losing priority to the greater and more important issue of shareholder profits.  It is the reason we have advocacy groups solely concerned with residents and families in Long Term Care.  It takes constant vigilance and proactive, consistent effort to oversee the well being of our families and friends who are residents.

The fact that my Bert was in a home that did provide good care and security; that his caregivers were dedicated, committed, loving and went beyond the call of duty to look after our loved ones, did not take away from the immense sadness felt as I read the full report.  It only made me resolve even more to be an advocate on behalf of the community of which I am one.

The telephone call came as I deliberated ways I could be a voice in the Long Term Care solution.

 “Paula, do you have the news on?  Turn it on.  There is a report of another black man killed by the police in the US and it is all on tape.”  I could hear the agitation in my friend’s voice.

I turned on the T.V and I still cannot get the image erased from my mind. I witnessed a modern day lynching in living colour.  For a moment, just like George Floyd I could not breathe.

Myriad emotions fought for space.  I was sad.  I was angry.  I was enraged and felt a deep despair.  Playing out in front of me was 400 years of hate, fear, mistrust, and the negative branding of black people as being less evolved and thus less human than a white person.

I watched the protests and marches.  I listened to the prattle of various pundits. I saw the lowest denominator of humanity look for excuses, take advantage, and indulge in riotous behaviour.

The irony of the greatest proponent of building a wall to keep asylum seekers and immigrants outside and now cowering behind a hastily built third wall to keep citizens out of the ‘Peoples House’ is risible.

The double irony is that the descendants of slaves are the ones who suffer the greatest racism yet are the only ones in America who are not immigrants.  They never bought a ticket, filled in immigration papers nor were they refugees or asylum seekers fleeing war or pestilence or poverty.  They were not seeking a better life. They were cruelly captured, dragged from their villages, separated from their families, chained, penned in the filthiest conditions imaginable, endured a most hazardous ocean voyage, whipped, died and thrown overboard like so much garbage, then put on  a block and sold as chattel in a foreign land where wealth was determined by the number of slaves you owned.

Those who came later, who actually chose to be immigrants are dumped into the same pool because, well, they are black.  If you are black you can never achieve first class status.  You are forever a second class citizen.

That racism that is embedded in the DNA of white America still sees a Black President as an aberration, the exception that proves the rule and still vilifies him.

The thousands of George Floyds over the years that have suffered systemic racism in all its virulent forms do not have a chance.  They were and are still at the mercy of those who clothe themselves in the impregnable hoods of white priviledge.

Friends across the spectrum and from five different countries have all asked: “What can we do to change this?”   There are ideas being floated the simplest of which is, as the Bell mental Health slogan suggests, ‘Let’s Talk’. Being black in America is certainly a major mental health issue.

It is simple but not easy. Already the cowards who are witnessing what I hope is the beginning of a new era are saying the opposite: “Don’t get into any debate with any black person because no matter what, now they will be always right.”  That is the racist DNA talking.   At a time when we should be engaging in meaningful conversation, of learning about each other, of trying to understand,  they would disengage, crawl into their bunkers until this all blows over and then they can be the ones who emerge, as usual, always ’right’.

Let’s call out the little incidents of biases and not in a whisper but right out loud.  Recognize when you are being patronized or used as a token to fit someone’s notion of diversity. My American friends of all stripes talk of being ‘ashamed’ ‘sad’, devastated’ ‘despondent’, ‘pessimistic’.  They can do what I cannot.  They can vote.  It is a powerful tool in any effort to impel change.

Yes, I am a shy one but last Christmas, while shopping in my local grocery store the line to the cashier was so long that I remarked: “Wow! Will we get out today?”  The man behind me laughed and began to sing Silent Night.  The next commented: “Yeah, wish we get out by nightfall.”  Two women joined in the carol as did I and before long we had quite a choir singing Christmas carols.

Sometimes that is all you need to demonstrate the commonality of human beings or as John Lennon and Paul McCartney wrote: “All you need is love. There’s nothing you can do that can’t be done.” I know little things can mean a lot.

The effect of the blatant lynching of George Floyd echoes the fight of Martin Luther King, Jr, the resilience of Nelson Mandela, the selfless charity and humility of Mother Teresa, and so many others.  They achieved their approbation through continuous and prolonged dedication to their cause. 

400 years of oppression will not evaporate in a day or a year or ten.  To right the wrongs that will result in a more just society will take everything in us that makes us human, and  the will to stay the course no matter how Herculean the task or difficult the journey.

I just hope it will not take 400 years.

The Meander:  It took a virus to highlight the darkness of Long Term Care;

                          It took a global pandemic to open our eyes to recognize the real heroes of our day;

                          It took the recording of the murder of another black man to underline the evil that is racism.

There is global condemnation. Dare we hope that a new day dawns that will usher in a better future for all?

Rat Race or Humane Race

“Yes, this is certainly a wakeup call.”

Almost every conversation with friends echoes that sentiment in some form.  It is in reference to the COVID-19 pandemic that has the world in its thrall.

The novel coronavirus is pushing us to think in novel ways.  There is much more introspection as we consider the world before and try to imagine the world after this pandemic.  One consensus is that our lives, our world will be different.  We seem resigned to the fact that we will not go back to what was.  The ‘new normal’ is au courant, often  repeated as we try to accept that we will not fall back but go forward to a new reality where life as we know it will be forever changed.

World leaders, journalists, social commentators, religious leaders, and political pundits have their own take on what this pandemic means as it unfolds in ways that affect every facet of our lives.  They too see a changing and changed world.

It has taken a pandemic for us to pause and consider our relationship to nature, to others, to families to all who live on this planet.

Even as we are forced into self- isolation, quarantined, holed up in our personal spaces, COVID-19 decimates borders.  We cannot go to our playgrounds while it makes the entire world its playground.

In isolation I find the time to go inward. I muse about what I would like to see in the ‘new normal’.

First is that I would like to see the old rat race be replaced by a humane race.  The rat race had taken over our lives. The rat race is propelled by greed and envy.  In the rat race we look at costs, not value or worth.  The rat race turns vulnerable citizens into commodities to eke out profits.

The rat race propels us to find the easy way out, not seek the thrill or satisfaction of achievement.  The rat race panders to I and ME but forgets about WE and US. The rat race touts rights but ignores responsibilities.

The rat race is the master of labelling.  It belittles anyone that in its egomaniacal disillusionment it considers to be ‘the other’.

In the rat race we trample anything and anyone in our paths to satisfy our own desires while we disregard the common good.  The rat race mindset is to take, and take some more and to neglect giving and sharing.   Neither does the rat race ever think of gratitude.

The rat race is full of busyness, forever on the treadmill, racing fast and furious going nowhere as there is no finality to greed. 

The rat race is a daily grind, putting your shoulder to the wheel for instant gratification. In that pursuit we mistake the ephemeral for the permanent.  That fleeting fix does not satisfy so we are continuously on that revolving wheel.

We are so enamoured of the rat race we forget to be humane.  Too enthralled by the acquisitive insatiable avarice of the rat race we forget we belong to the human race.  The rat race is selfish; the human race is a community to which we all belong but where we have failed to fulfill our collective obligations.

This pandemic shines a bright light on the impotence of our existence.  However, it shows us ways to redeem ourselves to become a human race that can build a humane new world if we wish to do so.

The best news items are those that show how empathetic we, who live in a rat race, can become when jolted out of our complacency and busyness.  In isolation creativity is freed.  Music, art, dancing, drive-by birthday parties, silly walk zones, outpourings of kindness towards service providers, and acknowledgment of the value of that service are foremost.

We are learning to recognize what matters.  There are new categories of people who define courage, sacrifice, caring and empathy. These are examples of the humane race.

The humane race looks outward and upward.

The Meander: As human beings we are given the ability to think and reason and the incredible gift of choice.  What will the choice be for our new normal?  Will it be regression to the rat race or progression towards a humane race? 

New Year Traditions

Every year for the last 40 or so I exchange special New Year’s Eve greetings with our friend who lives in Spain.  Whether by email or telephone we remind each other to eat twelve grapes as the clock chimes the last seconds of the old year.  Each grape represents one month of the coming year and eating them guarantees a year of good luck.

In the last few years my Bert and I have not made it to midnight.  We will not be under the same roof this year but the tradition continues.

As I closed the usual message I asked my friend if the luck for the twelve months would still be forthcoming if I ate the grapes too early.

In her reply she said she has failed sometimes to eat at the correct hour and also being Scottish she has been her own ‘first footer’ for many years.  She then told me of the Irish tradition of holding the front door open to welcome the New Year while simultaneously holding the back door open to bid farewell to the old year.  She ended with: “What about those who live in flats without back doors?”

I replied that I had no trouble with doors as my balcony door is actually my back door.  My worry would be that the old year may come to a precipitous end because as at stepping out he would fall nine floors down.

I did not want to imagine the splat.

That got me looking at other traditions my Bert and I have enjoyed.

The Netherlands:  My Bert was so happy to introduce me to his New Year’s Eve tradition, the most important of which involves food.  You are not Dutch if you do not greet the New Year with Oliebollen or oil balls.  These are round balls of dough deep fried and dusted with sugar.  They taste like doughnuts.  If you ever wondered where the hole in doughnuts went before there were Timbits they were oliebollen.

Friends still call to wish us a Happy New Year and proudly announce that they are eating oliebollen.

Of course there are fireworks.  So many and so ubiquitous that the news reports on New Year’s Day always include how many have been injured during the night of revelry.  It is usually in the hundreds.  The injuries run from a slight burn to: “You are lucky you’re not dead!”

Did I tell you that there is a lot of drinking too?  That might attest to the fact that each New Year’s Day there is also a Dutch version of Canada’s Polar Bear swims.  Only that being Dutch it is everywhere, done by everyone it seems, and having seen bikini clad women and children diving into the North Sea on January 1st  I am in shivering awe even today at the recollection.

Denmark:  For four consecutive years my Bert and I spent New Year’s Eve in Denmark.   We were most surprised how paltry the meal seems – boiled cod – but that is only the traditional dish.  There were enough other surrounding dishes to feed an army in addition to the company of fourteen that gathered in our friends’ home.  I asked the whereabouts of the son and was told he was out smashing dishes around the neighbourhood.  I heard a smash at the door and was about to open it but was told: “Don’t, the smashing is not over as yet and there might be more being thrown at our door.”  Huh!?

Yes, Danes save their broken crockery to throw at the doors of the people they love on New Year’s Eve.  The more crockery found on your doorstep, the more love and abundant luck you will have in the coming year.

I love the Danes.

Incidentally, they too have a mad rush of fireworks that start at dark and may continue to the dawn of New Year’s Day.  They too may have many a hospital visit after the revelry.

Another reason for a hospital visit is the custom of jumping off the highest point you find at the stroke of midnight.  If you are celebrating in a home, that would be the sofa or a chair.  If you are at a really fancy party in a posh hotel you will see people jostling to get on a chair or a table, if inebriated, to ‘leap into the New Year’ at the stroke of midnight.  One year we grabbed the kids and moved slowly but surely to the huge windows to get an optimal view of the fireworks, as grown men and women leapt from anything elevated.  An older couple with a heavy German accent, who were on a similar mission as us said: “Ach! Those are the Danes.” I thought of sprained ankles and more.

Sweden: We gathered with family and friends for an amazing seafood smorgasbord.  There is herring prepared in every way imaginable plus lobster, shrimps, oysters.  The best china and glassware are unearthed and the table is beautifully decorated.

This is family.  This is a communal feast.  Everyone has contributed.  The home is warm and cozy and then comes the main tradition:  You must light the fireworks or go to the neighbourhood park, Town Hall or wherever you go to watch the fireworks as long as it is outdoors!

Note that Swedes are outdoorsy types and that for most of the year they live, if not in the dark then in a sort of twilight.  Being outdoors in the cold is normal. We Canadians can relate. 

At midnight you hug every single person in the room.  I like that!

Then we bundle up, children and all.  I am so swaddled I look like the Goodyear blimp.  I stand in snow up to my knees trying to stamp my feet which I cannot feel; my teeth are chattering; I shiver under the layers of clothing.

The fireworks are wonderful.  For a moment I cheer, and stamp.  I ooh and aah, I think, as I am too cold to know for sure.

We trudge back inside.  I pour myself a large cognac and curl up in a corner with an afghan.  What a wonderful night.

The following year we invite our niece and husband to accompany us to the New Year’s Eve party at the posh hotel in Copenhagen.  The headline band was Boney M.  Yes!

Jamaica: Yeah mon!  What excitement the holiday season brings.  The ‘clean-up’ for Christmas begins December 1st then right after comes a New Year tradition – the laundry.  You must not have any dirty clothes in your home to greet the New Year.

The New Year’s Eve ball is a must.  If you can afford it you go to a Ball dressed to the nines. You must choose your venue early as all hotels, inns, large and small entertainment venues are fully booked weeks in advance.  If you cannot afford the gala events then the parties happen in every place imaginable including great house parties.  You party no matter your circumstances.

Watch Night Service is another must do.  Jamaica has the greatest number of churches per capita in the world.  We are a religious people.  Greeting the New Year in church is not optional for the vast majority.

Fireworks displays run the gamut from playing with fire crackers and ‘star lights’ to the big display in Kingston Harbour.  This harbour is the seventh largest natural deep sea harbour of the world and on New Year’s Eve it becomes a pyrotechnic wonder on land, sea and air.

Not to be left out, we also do a swim.  Polar Bear it is not! Families and friends go to the beach on New Year’s Day and wash away the old year.  Ah, to be at the beach and splashing in the azure waters of the warm Caribbean Sea on New Year’s Day.

The Meander: I must confess that for a few years I went to a party, left and rushed to put on my choir robe for the Watch Night Service, quickly disrobe at its conclusion and went right back to the party.  I know a few friends reading this did exactly the same. Cheers!