Faith, Hope, and Charity

That's all I can really count on right now.

Other than that, I got nothin'.

This photo was taken by my friend K. who is on her way to being a stellar snapper don't you think?
 

It really spoke to me.
 

 

Right now, I'm just looking for things that speak to me,
and centre me,
so that as a situation in my work-life continues to press forward,
I can remain calm.



photo credit: Kim Heaslip

Maelstrom

MAELSTROM

"a situation marked by confusion, turbulence, strong feelings, violence, or destruction."
That's where I'm at right now.
I had to look this word up because it popped up in my head last night as I lay in bed, going over
my week in review, this sh*tstorm of a week. 

I can't, much to my eternal chagrin, write about what is going on right now. 
Even this blog is basically by an anonymous writer right now (it is--notice...).

There are a few with whom I've shared the particulars, hazy though they may be, of this most
recent 'happening'.  They have responded with positivity, with wild anger (directed at the situation), and unquestioning support (as always in these types of situations, the ones I've seemed to find myself mired up in over the past few years), the phrase "you know who you are" pops up in my head. 
My husband, my sister (who has been my most vocal supporter, to the tune of "I'm worried about how this will affect your health"), my friend T., who knows ALL the background stories--they have buoyed me along this week with their encouraging words and calls.

This is the type of blog entry I despise--you know what I mean.  One that is vague, un-telling, that clearly hides a big story, veils an emotional turmoil.

What can I say? 

More later.

Birthday Letter

Lots of things have been popping up lately that remind me of you, Dad.
I'll tell you about them.

The new James Bond movie comes out this Friday. With Daniel Craig. I'll let you know how it is.
You and Mom would have liked to have gone and seen this one in the theatre. It looks like it has some great action and effects. You would love the song, sung by Adele. You would love Adele, I know I would have already bought you a CD of hers.

The U.S. election was last week. You would have been following this pretty closely over the past year or so. You would have told me all Mitt's secrets, things that no one else would have known. I would have bought you copies of the New Yorker to read all about the GOP and you would have sharpened your arguments, your opinions.

The hurricane. You would have been able to fill me in on all the devestation, point by point. You would have wanted to know exactly where in Conneticut Mike's family lives, and if they were all okay. I would have assured you of the safety our my friend L. and Mike's cousin A. in NYC. You would have been glad that anyone we knew and any family of Mike's was alright.

You would have just joined Mom, most likely, on Hallowe'en night, helping the kids go door to door for candy, and taken masses of pictures. They miss you lots. They ask about you all the time. I tell them funny stories and we talk about Shadow. We look at the pictures on my fridge, from happier times. When they are not looking, I tear up.

Mom misses you alot, but doesn't talk about it much. I think she's afraid too, afraid of her own pain. I don't press the issue, but I try to leave the door open. I called her on your wedding anniversary to let her know I was thinking about that day.  She was uncharacteristically down. Normally, no matter what, she remains cheerful and tries to think about others.  Not on October 10th. She said she'd already had her cry in the morning and that now there are 'no more anniversaries'.  I reminded her that the significance of the wedding day will never diminish. She sometimes tells me how she talks to you everyday and wishes you were in the apartment with her. She thinks you would have loved it.
I think so too. You would have gone walking near the water every single day. You would have met lots of people in your walks already. You would have challenged yourself walking the huge hills in the Beaches. You would have loved to see the changing seasons here.

I guess you know but we sprinkled some of your ashes into the lake on Father's Day. It was a sad day, but we knew you would have liked to have been in the water. When I go running now, it's one of my favourite routes. I also whisper a hello to you as I run by and most times, I take a break and walk out into the sand to stand near that little inlet of water. I don't worry about getting sand in my shoes. You would have told me not to worry about that. "You can shake it out later, that's all." That's what you would have said. Now, when I say "That's all." I think of you. You always said that as a way of illustrating a point that was simple. Moot, as you once taught me.

I chanelled your calm yesterday when dealing with a really difficult (older, rich) client. He was confused about something, but insistent. I simply let him win the argument. It was nice to think about how you never worried about petty things like this, as so many of my clients with money do. You always reminded me to not let money be my master. It's been good, solid advice, and I never got to thank you for that.  The client complimented my scarf as we were leaving his newly-renovated condo, the way you would have.  "Green suits you", he said, not looking at me. I had a strong memory of you then. I asked if his kids help out as him and his wife get older. He shook his head.  "They have their own life; they come first".  I thought, with pride, about how you could have answered this question should someone have asked.  You would not have had to say something like that.

On Sunday, an NFL coach with cancer gave a locker-room speech to his team about circumstances versus vision. Circumstance being that yes, he has cancer, vision being that he wants to see two more of his daughters get married and dance at their weddings (he actually said "weddins" a little American spin thrown down on the word) but I cried shamelessly, alone, at that sentence. I realized that toward the end we had talked about so much, but we never talked about that. Maybe we both knew that such a discussion would have been too painful. Maybe we were both just grateful for even having the time we had to just talk about the weather, and our crazy family, and the mystery of faith. I didn't dwell on the fact that you would not live to see me married. The dream I had before my wedding assured me that you were in fact there, in your own way, as much as you could be.

I finally read the last two articles you mailed to me, one from the Toronto Sun, which I always nagged you about reading (I think I referred to it as "junk writing"), about car insurance and one from Macleans, about running.  I am going to call my insurance company and discuss some of the great points in the article you sent, written by a lawyer. I'm sorry I couldn't get up to the task of reading them earlier. I was, perhaps, in a strange way, saving them for later. You had your customary little note in the envelope, your writing all in caps, as mine always is. You always ended your notes with a wide smiley face, a signature doodle.

I fell at work last week, but I guess you already know that. There is no other way to describe that a fall on concrete, a hit on the head, my left elbow breaking my fall a bit, but nothing more than bruises and a bit of a strain. How is that possible? It just is, that's all.

So, I'll sign off for now. Not sure what the plan is for the 13th. I think Mike should be in Canada by then. If you were here we'd all have dinner together somewhere, with Mom too, of course. You could regale Mike with election tales you'd heard. You could impress him with your knowledge of U.S. politics. Not that you ever need to impress. You just had to be yourself.

You taught me that, too.

Quick Update

What can I say? I've been up to exactly nothing.
It was a busy Friday and Saturday but I found time to run 11 km after taking my car in for its oil change.  A slow, but steady run in the rain.  I was glad.
Sunday was just me and just the couch and just the tv.
It's been raining alot.
I greeted Monday with my usual grudging respect.
I was on time for work, after sleeping really well, something I don't normally do on Sunday nights.

A site meeting was scheduled to check on something.
We went to the site, two large condo buildings, just two of what feels like thousands all over the city.
All routine stuff. I'd been there before.
As I said, it's been raining alot.

We got down to the fifth level of the parking garage, where what we needed to see was installed.
One of my colleagues, walking ahead of me, pointed to a large patch on thinly-spread-out coffee-coloured mud.
The words "Watch this, it's slippery" were not even out of his mouth before I was down,
falling, and then hitting the ground, backwards, hard, my hard hat flying off, my head hitting the concrete, hard, my left elbow taking the rest of the brunt of the fall.

I lay there for exactly one second before bursting into loud, panicked tears, in front of both my colleagues and our client. Panicked does not even describe how I felt lying there. How hard did I just hit my head? What have I done? Can I see? (yes). Can I move my legs (yes, yes, thank you, yes).
My second co-worker crouched down, put her jacket under my head. I tried to calm myself.
More people arrived. The usual response, I guessed, when something happens on a construction site.
Things unfolded. I got up (covered, I will add, in mud. Me, my raincoat, my hair, my clothes, my notebook, my purse (my purse...)We walked back up (nothing was going to be looked at today). We sat in a construction trailer and I had some water.
My wonderful colleagues brought me home. I had scared, secret thoughts of Natasha Richardson. As I do with every thought that enters my head lately that I find disturbing (how much I miss my husband, how much I resent my job sometimes, how frustrating I've been finding life in general lately), I brushed it aside.
I took some Advil. I did some work online. I called my husband. I watched the endless CNN loop of Hurricane Sandy coverage, chiding myself for worrying about my situation when people's homes, cities, and very livelihoods were being threatened.
A couple of hours went by. I was sore. My condo board meeting was cancelled due to weather.
The shock that had encapsulated me wore off.
I started to cry. I felt panicked again. I watched the rain outside, watched the wind blow leaves around and I listened to the raindrops hitting my windows and felt a little better.


Fast forward to today. I awoke at 8, not a minute before, and I didn't hear anything after I went to bed last night of the storm. I text messaged my boss that I was going to work from home. I lay still on my side because lying on my back hurt.
I took some more Advil and fell back asleep. I woke up and went to my doctor.  There was, for the first time, no one waiting in his outer office. He was, as he usually is,  matter-of-fact and brisk. A strain, nothing more, to my hip, something else to my neck.  I worked online when I got back. My other boss wanted details. I didn't feel like giving them to him. My sister came by with her kids and we all had dinner. She went home, night falling. My neck starting to ache again as the ibuprofen wears off. Me, not feeling like taking anything else. Me, feeling sorry for myself. Me, calling my mom for comfort (why do I do this to myself?) Me, crying again. Me, not feeling any comfort at all.
Feeling, instead, panicked again. Crying about 'my luck' and about another physical ailment I can't seem to control or do anything about.

Me, sitting on the couch, under a blanket, alternating the heating pad and the ice pack, and just thinking about nothing.

Seventeen Months

It was seventeen months since my dad died, on Saturday, October 13th.  I didn't mark the anniversary.
I was in Maine, having the kind of fall day that everyone thinks of when they think of fall.
Meaning, I was just living my life, deep in the rhythm of a crisp, sunny day, one where you're living each and every moment, just for itself, enjoying this weird ritual we call life.
Colours on trees. Driving upstate. A small quaint town that reminded me of the one my dad grew up in.  A college frisbee tournament, Mike's niece deeply enmeshed in the competition, all sorts of young, energetic college students running around a field, in teams, supporting each other. Cheering from the sidelines. Looking around and wondering, how, and when, exactly, did that time in my life slip from me, lightning-quick.
Driving looking for a beach with a view. Stopping at Dairy Queen. Eating sundaes in the car.
Me, musing to Mike that there are still small windows of time where I do forget my dad is gone.
Buying The Economist last week I thought, oh my dad will want to read this when I'm finished with it. And that sudden upside-down thought of, oh...no.

But even musing to Mike didn't bring me back to the reality of the date, how much time has gone by, how much has happened, and, as Mike put it how time seems to feel like it's 'speeding up.

I've exchanged emails with a close friend lately about exhaustion, the onset of fall, the frustration of running injuries, how hard it was for me to sit out of the half marathon I worked hard to get to, and accepting the limitations of the body as it ages, as it heals, as it mends itself. I was actually glad to be out of the city while the race was going on so I didn't have to encounter it, see it, hear about it. Sad, huh? Self-centred.
But that's just how I feel.

Writing. As evidenced here, I haven't been doing a whole helluva lot of it.
Reading has been my balm lately, nights after work when I get home, even the tv doesn't really tempt me. I leave stacks of unopened mail. I don't look at my computer much at home. But my pile of library books gets dealt with every week, without fail. Seven day loans are not a problem. I sometimes take out more than one. And I read them all.

My latest discovery is a writer named Lisa Genova. She has a book out called "Still Alice" about a woman with EOAD. Early-onset-Alzheimer's Disease. She has a PhD in neuroscience from Harvard, so she has the research and knowledge to back up a book like this. But the book doesn't just cover the robbery of the mind for the protagonist, an professor. It tackles her relationships with her adult children. With her husband. With her colleagues--as the disease strips away her confidence and awareness. The notes she writes herself, questions about her memory. If I've ever wondered how to quantify memories, as a tangible...this book exposes this for me.
I just finished reading another novel of hers called "Left Neglected". The storyline seems tidy at first. Another high-achieving wife and mother. Her car accident on a slick, wet stretch of the Mass Pike. Her traumatic brain injury known as "left-neglect" where she is unaware of her left side. Of having a left side. Of seeing the left side. Her type-A personality goading her on to recovery, but realizing that she is unable to return to her six-figure job as a juggler in the corporate world. The support of her husband and children and her new skill of learning how to just 'be'. Re-connecting with her estranged mother. Illustrating how often in life, when one thing happens, other things often happen at the same time. It was a good read for someone like me, who, for the last five months since this head thing happened (five months ago today), I have really been unaccepting of the situation. Acting like not doing anything about it would somehow make it disappear. How slow the real healing has been. How much the little things mean when there is some advancement. How amazed I am to look back on three years of running, two of them during some of the most tumultuous times in my life, and be unable to get back to that right now, where I let running help to sustain me, because I simply can't.
That's where the reading comes in. My fallback when I'm not 100%.

So that's where it's at on this fine fall Monday. It's grey, it's cloudy, I've been up since 4:30 am catching planes to get home, I still want everything and more, and ever so slowly I keep trying to wake up.
Time speeds along.

Life Plan (or lack of)

My friend H. pointed me in the direction of this amazing column by a National Post writer,
Jane Macdougall.
I thought about life plans (and thought about how it's never really occurred to me to have one).
And then I decided to respond.
Enjoy! And think about your own (or lack thereof)!

http://life.nationalpost.com/2012/10/13/the-bookless-club-life-plans-and-other-giant-wastes-of-time/?__lsa=3fc74680

A List about a Run

1. Running again. Without my head getting in the way, both literally and figuratively.
2. A wrong turn, a trail, a sense of having to get the hell out of there.
3. Getting the hell out of there, running fast, to the stairs at the base of the bridge where Queen Street arcs over the DVP, just east of River.
4. Running up said stairs, practically a sheer vertical, 3 flights, at least 10 steps per flight, two at a time, feeling like a running animal. A gazelle. Something much more graceful-looking than my form allows.
5. Finally getting it: THIS is why you save it all up for that last 5 km.
6. Getting to the top of the stairs, staggering against the bridge railing, knees buckling from exertion.
7. Drinking my water (okay, finishing my water) while simultaneously wondering if said water would stay down.
8. The nausea fading.
9. Looking down King Street from my vantage on Queen and just...starting to run again.
10. Running downhill on King, pounding downhill on King, feeling taller than I ever have.
11. The clouds.  Rushing to meet me.
12. The solitude of a quiet Sunday.
13. Lucky 13. (13.1 to be exact). On the 14th. Wish me luck.