Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Waiting Rooms.

May 17, 2013August 17, 2013 / boo king / 2 Comments

I have become intimate with waiting rooms over the past few months. But none have gotten under my skin so deeply as the one at the Cancer Agency where E had the PET scan.

It was a small crowded room packed with patients waiting to be tested and their respective support groups. And me, the consummate Groupie. We got there early so there was ample time for E to fill out the intake form and for me to get restless and bored. The chairs were stiff and awkwardly close. The lights were unbearably bright. Mocking and cruel. The air was weary. This was not a place to linger nor languish. Here, you waited, got it over with and then got the hell out.

We waited. And waited. Waited some more. At one point, I fell asleep and may have snored, ever so slightly. E gave me a little love nudge. I bolted upright and looked around, momentarily confused by my surroundings. Oh yes, we’re still here I thought.

E’s name was called precisely at the appointed hour. I gave him a quick peck on the lips, squeezed his hand and watched as he followed the nurse through the heavy metal double doors. What lay beyond was all a big mystery to me. I wanted to keep it that way. Others had gone before him and they all came back okay. So would he.

I settled in for the 2-hour wait.

I managed to read a few pages from The Color of Water before succumbing to the call of slumber. My eyelids fluttered and slowly closed. My head sagged heavily onto my chest like a two hundred pound pumpkin. Not a pretty sight. In the end, it was the drool trickling from the corner of my mouth that brought me back to wakefulness. I wiped my chin with the back of my gloved hand, closed the book and slipped it into the side pocket of my purse.

Then I did what I do best. Observe. Witness. Listen.

There was a painfully thin older woman in her seventies surrounded by her family, who were helping her fill out the daunting intake form. Her son patiently went through the form question by question. Sometimes answering for her. And like E and I, sometimes guessing at questions with possible multiple answers or ones that simply didn’t make sense. Close enough was good enough.

There was the young man waiting for his beautiful wife. She was one who had gone through the double doors before E. When she emerged, he jumped up and was immediately at her side. “Ah, my beautiful wife,” he declared as he kissed her cheek and took her hand. They sat in the hallway together for a moment, holding hands. Then he returned to the admitting desk with questions about the “reports to the doctor.” “Would they get copies as well?” he asked. Once assured that all was in order, they left. He, with his arm around her waist, and she, with her head snuggled into the sweet spot in his neck. It took my breath away.

There was the athletic looking woman with the grey hair and backpack slung over here shoulder. She stood next to the wall with her equally fit friend and made arrangements to meet up afterwards. There was the heavyset woman who sat quietly knitting. The middle-aged man in the leather bomber jacket and faded jeans reading the paper. The teenage boy with the headphones and rapper-style hip-hop jeans, who paced the hallway in step to the music he was listening to. The young happy bubbly girl barely into her teens, who greeted her anxious parents with a big smile and a reassuring, “It wasn’t that bad.”

And there were others too who came and went during my wait that dreary afternoon in the middle of February. All there for the same reason.

As I write this, my eyes well with tears at the memory.

The Big C is an equal opportunity invader. It strikes randomly and carelessly. Unapologetic and audaciously so. Old women confused by the questions on forms. Girlfriends with backpacks and sensible walking shoes. Beautiful young wives with handsome thoughtful husbands. People killing time by reading newspapers and books. Knitters of scarves and baby blankets. Middle-aged men in denim and leather. Young teenagers, whose walk on this earth too new to leave footprints. And yes, even bluegrass musicians who play the upright bass with passion and heart.

The rich. The poor. And everything in between. The happy and optimistic. The pessimist and naysayer. The sad and lonely. The newborn and the ancient one. There are no precise demographics. No one can pinpoint the target audience. By touching us all in some way, the whole thing seems so common. Perhaps that’s the divine irony. There are no favorites here.

The thing that struck me the most while I was waiting. Hit me in the gut so deeply and profoundly. It was what all these people had in common that I did not possess.

Bravery.

Take that Big C and shove it where the sun don’t shine.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Escape Artists.

April 29, 2013August 17, 2013 / boo king / Leave a comment

A and E grinning from ear to ear at her high school graduation.

Sometimes I just want to escape. Get away from it all. Take off. Break out. I have fantasies about this. They usually go something like this.

I’m in the truck, or some other vehicle with an automatic transmission, heading towards work or some other obligatory destination. I come to a traffic light. It’s red. I stop. That’s when it happens. Instead of waiting for the light to turn green so I can follow the prescribed relentless path. Otherwise known as my daily routine. I hang a right on the red and keep on going. To where, I don’t know. My only thought is, I’ll know when I get there. I briefly consider my family, and those I love. The ones who clutch and cling and cleave to my hungry heart. I shake those distracting binding thoughts from my head. Toss the rattling chains to the curb. I hammer on the gas pedal. Accelerate. Take a deep breath. Off I go. A free bird. Untethered.

Of course, I’ve never done that. Like John Donne once said, it’s “a nothing, a fancy, a chimera in my brain.”

This daydream of breaking free had exponentially grown since E received his diagnosis back in December. Like everything else that had happened since then, I wasn’t the only one looking for some escape hatch. A magical rabbit hole to dive into. E too was looking for a way out. Even if just for a little while. A small respite away from the all-consuming Big C was all we both needed.

So in the middle of February, E and I left town. Split. Vamoosed. Set sail.

The truth is, we didn’t go far and our little escapade had an underlying medical purpose. But for two full days we were in a cancer-free zone.

It was divine.

On Monday, February 18 E was booked into the Cancer Agency in Vancouver for a PET scan. This is one big mother of a test. Head to toe 3D color imaging. Nothing can hide from its radiating nuclear eyes. If cancer is there, the PET will reveal it.

That was Monday. Before that we had two glorious days of fun and play in Vancouver.

Our oldest daughter A lives there so accommodations were taken care of. What we didn’t expect was the pampering she provided. We were eternally grateful. She gave us exactly what the medical profession couldn’t. Love. In massive doses.

Saturday night was a “date night” orchestrated by this wonderful girl of ours. We hadn’t had one of those in ages. If ever. E and I didn’t really date. Everything we did was kind of topsy turvy, upside down and backwards. We met in a country bar, fell in love, found our groove, had our youngest daughter and got on with day-to-day life.

Everywhere we went that weekend, we were enveloped by such grace and love.

We had many close encounters of the angelic kind. Starting with The Fish Shack. Being both popular and trendy, it was crowded. Filled to the rafters. No room at the shack for us. Despite the generous gift certificate from our daughter, we weren’t up to standing in line and waiting to have dinner, no matter how good the food. But before we could even consider hightailing it out of there, the young restaurant host had a table set up just for us. Once settled into our cozy table for two, we were greeted by our waiter who was gracious, witty and downright entertaining. The food was great, but he made the experience extraordinary. We felt like royalty.

After dinner we strolled arm-in-arm up the street to the Vogue Theatre, where our daughter was working. She had seats for the early show waiting for us. It was improv night with Colin Mochrie and TheatreSports. This was a new experience for both of us. We’ve been to scads of music concerts and festivals over the years but we were Live Improv Comedy virgins.

They say laughter is the best medicine. On that particular Saturday night in Vancouver, this cliche proved to be true. We laughed ourselves well that night. Not physically. E still had cancer. It wasn’t a night for those kinds of miracles. Seas didn’t part. Water didn’t become wine. Yet supernatural things occurred. Spiritual healing took place. It was a night of joy. Merriment. Glee. Our spirits were uplifted. Our hearts lightened. Worries held at bay. We were just us. Not the guy with cancer and his wife.

On Sunday we hung out with our daughter. She cooked homey comforting food for us. It was like being back at 204 in Ma’s kitchen. Brunch and Sunday night dinner. Sandwiched in between was a trip to Ikea. We returned to the apartment with shelving, a hanging lamp and other Ikea accoutrements. I languished on the sofa like the Queen of Denial while E and A assembled everything with the infamous Ikea allen key.

I treasure the memory of that evening. Just the three of us.

It’s funny how you can shut things out when you need to. For those 48 hours, E and I were free. Unencumbered. Immune. Safe. The untouchables. Monday would come soon enough.

As I breathed in the delicious aroma of beef stew simmering on the stove, I thought how wonderful it was that we were here in this place, at this time, with each other. This made me happy.

It was the perfect gift.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Today.

April 7, 2013August 17, 2013 / boo king / 4 Comments

E relaxing by the pond with Coco and Rusty.

I usually like to keep a bit of time and distance between me and the stories I tell. Sometimes years like I have with the Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter. With others, it’s weeks or months like this blog about me and E and the Big C. This is the psychological and emotional space I need to tell a good story. It’s the way I work.

Time allows me to separate myself from the story so that it doesn’t erode into sentimental sop. Don’t get me wrong. I love a good tear jerker. I just don’t intentionally write one. I’m not here to emotionally manipulate. It is my desire to share what I know, what I’ve learned on this journey. At best, it may only be an enjoyable read. At worst, a waste of time. But if it informs and illuminates, touches a heartstring, resonates with some truth you hold dear, then I’ve accomplished more than I could have hoped for.

My story is your story. We’re all in this together after all. You may not have cancer, nor be married to someone with it. You may be lucky and this disease hasn’t touched your life in any way. But I doubt it. That’s not the point. This isn’t about the disease, you see. It’s about two people and their family and friends and community. It’s about you and me. All of us.

Oh yes it is my dear ones.

Because we’re all human and this is a very human story. Not a tragedy. Although sometimes it is heartbreaking. It is often fraught with folly. And great big belly laughs. Tears are shed. Curse words are spat like mouldy grapes. But there’s a whole lot of loving going on too.

So today, Saturday, April 6, exactly four months after my world was rocked I am going to do something I typically don’t do with my storytelling. I’m telling you how it is now. On this day. No time. No distance. No space between me and the story.

This morning E and I were in the kitchen making coffee and chatting idly about the things we had to do today. For reasons I’m not even certain of – maybe I was born with it or maybe it’s Maybelline – I turned to him and said the following:

“I know nothing can compare to the way you feel. Part of me can’t even imagine. But I just want you to know that for the people closest to you. It feels horrible. Awful. Everyone expects you to feel like crap. You’ve got cancer for Christ sakes. But I feel like crap too. I’m worried and exhausted. I’m so depressed.”

E slumped in the chair and said, “I’m worried too. I wake up at three in the morning and I can’t sleep.”

“Neither can I,” I snapped.

But what I wanted to say and couldn’t because he’s the one with cancer and that trumps everything: “You just don’t get it. Yes, you have the disease, but you don’t have a monopoly on feeling bad.”

“I’m depressed,” he sighed.

“Some days I feel like I’m hanging on by my fingernails.”

And that was the end of the conversation. Maybe hanging on by your fingernails trumps everything.

There you have it. Four months in and the truth is, we both feel like crap. Not all the time. The mornings are the worst. Fortunately life distracts us. We carry on. Get on with it. Try not to wallow. Nor allow this thing to swallow us whole like a snake eating a rabbit. Take the best part of us. We ‘do not go gentle into that good night.’

This afternoon we took our dogs for a walk around the lake. It was good. As we walked the trail, I breathed in the beauty of the world surrounding us. The trees were green with newness. Life was exerting itself everywhere. Hope filled the clouds above. The breeze whispered sweet nothings in our ears. You have today, it said.

There wasn’t a trace of cancer anywhere.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Take Two. Let’s Try This Again.

March 31, 2013August 17, 2013 / boo king / 5 Comments

E and his band mate A wait to go on stage.

Sometimes I just want to start over. Tear out the page. Crumple it up. Toss it into the nearest garbage can. Press delete. Delete. Delete. Begin again. Change everything. Rewrite the story.

Never have I wanted to do this more than with this story about E.

After the holidays, we settled back into our old familiar routine. The one we enjoyed before the thunderclap of cancer struck. It was as if all that crazy-making stuff never happened. Monday to Friday focused around our work. Weekends were filled with errands, chores, family meals, music and church. Smack dab in the middle of January we celebrated E’s birthday with joy and profound gratitude. After the roller coaster ride of December this mundane life of ours felt good. Humdrum was welcome. The unremarkable everydayness had lulled us into believing that things were back to normal. It was life as usual.

Not so.

Truth was, E’s appointment with the Radiation Oncologist was scheduled for the end of January. There was no denying, nor getting around that. This was “the meeting” where we would get the lowdown on this scary disease that had invaded E’s body. The results of the CatScan and the biopsy would be explained to us. This was where rubber would hit the road.

The Cancer Agency sent E a package of information to prepare him for this meeting. He filled out the forms, read the brochures, watched the DVDs and composed a list of questions. I borrowed a snazzy digital recorder from one of my colleagues to tape the session. We were prepared. At least so we thought.

I met E at the Cancer Centre on the afternoon of his appointment. It was a mad rush from work to the Centre with five minutes to spare. I flopped down in the seat next to him expecting a long wait. My plan was to scarf down a sandwich before meeting with the Oncologist. Two bites into my cheese and lettuce and we were called. I quickly stuffed the sandwich back into my bag and followed E and the intake nurse into “the room.”

We exchanged pleasantries with the nurse while she took E’s temperature and checked his blood pressure. A few minutes later the Oncologist appeared. It was one of those jaw dropping moments. She was nothing like what I was expecting. I was thinking someone more like Einstein or the original Dr. Who. Someone who looked like they could cure cancer. Not pose for the cover of Vogue. She was drop-dead gorgeous. Tall, slim, perfect skin and hair. Beautiful smile. Stylishly dressed from head to toe. And by toe, I mean kick-ass high black leather boots. She was lovely in every way and immediately put E and I at ease.

I switched on the recorder. She began with a round of standard questions to determine E’s overall health. What other things besides the mess in his mouth were causing him grief. E rhymed off the litany of ailments that had been hurting, aching, paining, irritating and gnawing at him over the past two years. It reminded me of the Skeleton Song we all sang when we were kids. With the toe bone connected to the foot bone. Was there anything that didn’t hurt I wondered?

After the inquisition, the Oncologist probed and prodded his neck and throat checking for lumps and bumps. Looking for signs. Was the cancer on the move? Spreading like wildfire to the rest of his body or behaving itself and staying contained in the front of his mouth?

Modern medicine is full of wonders to behold. Technological marvels that are mind-blowing. Like the probe that allowed us to see inside E’s nose and throat. More like science fiction than science seeing this strange interior world so close-up and personal. Beyond the uvula. It reminded me of the Biblical story of Jonah and the whale.

After the examination the doctor discussed “the next steps.” This took both of us by surprise. We thought we’d be leaving with a surgery date and a pep talk on how this would soon be behind us. A little inconsequential blip in our lives that would be over with a quick snip and a stitch. Not next steps.

E wearing one of his favorite Hawaiian shirts.

What we quickly learned was that the results from the CatScan and biopsy weren’t one hundred percent definitive. Inconclusive. They didn’t know the full extent of the disease. Whether it had spread to other parts of his body. So this uncertainty meant more testing. Big Kahuna examinations. MRI and PET Scan.

The drive across town to home was dismal. Again I was alone in the truck. A Gloomy Gus. Consumed with worst case scenarios. The wind had just been kicked out of our sails. We had just spent the month believing that things were going to be okay. E was back to normal. He was feeling great. Healthier than he had in a long time. This wasn’t such a big deal, we thought. Certainly not deadly. Nothing to worry about. A piece of cake. Walk in the park.

For two smart people, we were seriously naive when it came to the Big C.

Back at the house, E and I spoke briefly about the appointment. I asked him how he thought it went.

“Not good,” he said.

Then I knew we were in big trouble.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter. It Smells Just Like Yesterday.

March 11, 2013March 11, 2013 / boo king / Leave a comment

Certain smells always bring me back. Flood my brain with memories. Ones I thought were long gone and forgotten. I love it when this happens. It’s enough to send me on a scent hunt. Digging up recollections like hidden clues to buried treasures.

Then becomes now in a heartbeat.

I can’t walk into a kitchen where baking has taken place without thinking immediately of Ma’s cookie baking emporium at 204. Oatmeal raisin. Hermits. Ginger Snaps. Sweet and spicy. Rich with love and motherly goodness. One whiff of Italian food and it’s a Spaghetti Saturday Night. The best comfort food smack dab in the middle of a brutal Northwestern Ontario winter. Cold as the Arctic outside but warm and deliciously cozy inside. Turkey roasting in the oven conjures up decades of Christmases enjoyed with our family. This mouthwatering array of aromas reminds me to count my blessings.

I can close my eyes and smell Ma’s Second Debut face cream. Breathe in her presence. Inhale it’s gentle loveliness as my lips brush against her cheek. Just like I did every morning before I headed off to school as a kid. This fine scent not only evokes memories of the softness of her skin but the kindness of her heart. In her later years she treated herself to a weekly hairdo. She would return feeling pampered and pretty, filling the house with the beauty parlor scent of freshly coiffed hair. Set for the week. I’m reminded that although true beauty blossoms from within, it’s also nourished with a dab of cream and a nice do.

When I wash with Ivory soap I think of The Old Man. A grimy bar sat in the soap dish next to the bathroom sink. As soon as he got home from work he washed off the grunge that clung to his face and hands after a long day on the road delivering Holsum bread and Persian buns. He’d emerge from the bathroom a new man. An Ivory man. Pure and simple. Now when I stand in the shower preparing for my day, lathering on this creamy white soap, I am reminded that hard work of any sort is honorable. No matter what you do. Sell bread. Or shoes. Fly to the moon. Or stand on your feet all day. Work, especially in service of others, is good.

Old Spice makes me think of Sunday mornings and going to church. Once a week The Old Man donned a suit and tie, and escorted Ma and me to Christ Lutheran Church on Walkover Street. We drove there, despite the friendly invitation to hoof it. All week he wore his stiff blue twill uniform that smelled of flour dust, sweat, and when I was really young, tobacco. But on Sundays, he dressed for the occasion. He was a stylish confident man with his two favorite girls in tow. Old Spice has always been a feel good scent memory. Yet also contradictory. Like The Old Man, in many ways. A peculiar blend of spirituality and carnal pleasure. Old time religion and hedonism. Fear of the Lord and the folly of the man. Imagine all that in just one sniff.

The mauve lilac bush at 204.

There’s nothing like the perfume from a mauve lilac. One hint and I’m instantly transplanted to the front yard at 204. There, a charming little tree bloomed every year in June. It marked the end of the school year and the beginning of summer vacation. It was a symbol of freedom and carefree days. A simple bouquet adorned Ma’s kitchen table and filled the room with such exquisite inimitable beauty. I’m reminded of the wonder and splendor just outside our door. The natural abundance of the earth. It’s symmetry and grace. And for that I am grateful.

Then there’s the fragrance of first love. I can’t walk in the early morning rains of April or May without thinking of him. Not every time. For the memory to come, the rain must possess a particular scent. A bittersweetness. Sadness in the joy. Longing in the reverie. Then I go back to this love that was beginning to unravel. So new yet tired of itself. Still, all these years later I think tenderly of him. Of us then. I know the smell of him. It reminds me to be inspired by love. To carry on. Love again. And again. Enlarge my heart. Grow it bigger. Until it beats no more.

And oh, the sweetest of all perfumes. My newborn babies. Tender. Innocent. Still so close to heaven in their scent. Still so filled with the essence of the divine. Without earthly tarnish. Nor painful sheaths sullying their pristine souls. Just perfection. I have been blessed to enjoy this redolence three times. Three times I breathed in their beautiful newness. Each time I was reborn.

I’ve read that the science behind this sentimental journey originates with the olfactory bulb in our limbic system, which is associated with memory. Called the “emotional brain” it allows us to conjure up memories in an instant just by smelling something.

I am grateful for this bulb in my brain that allows me to go back. Not just remember. But to be there. Time travel does exist. And the beautiful thing is, we all possess this wondrous gift of uncommon sense.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter. What Were You Thinking?

March 3, 2013August 17, 2013 / boo king / Leave a comment

E before he quit smoking.

I’m not a mind reader. I don’t have X-ray vision. No telepathic abilities that I’m aware of. I’m definitely not a clairvoyant and the last time I checked I don’t have ESP. But on occasion I do have an acute sixth sense. Like Spider Man. Sometimes I just know something’s up.

Such was the case the night we went to visit a gravely ill friend at the hospital.

After two decades together I thought E and I shared everything. Our thoughts. Feelings. Fears. But I learned that with this cancer thing, that wasn’t true. Fact is, no one really knows for sure what’s going on inside another person’s head. Nor do we know the things kept tucked away in timorous hearts. Our interior worlds are ours alone. We share what we share. Give what we give. Reveal only what’s comfortable or safe. We’re transparent at times. But more often than not, opaque. The proverbial window into a person’s soul is often dirty. Foggy. Obscured. Dark and scary.

We rode up the hospital elevator to the seventh floor in easy silence. Each in our own private world. Elevators have this affect on us. I watched attentively as the red digital numbers over the doors changed. Floor by floor. Thankfully no one else joined us on our ride upward. I wasn’t in the mood for company. A fleeting thought of our sick friend crossed my mind. Followed by an unsettling twitch of anxiety in the pit of my stomach. I took a gulp of air and let it out with flapping lips. I sounded like a horse snorting.

Just before the doors swung open, I glanced over at E. There was something about his expression that concerned me. Did it bother him to be back in a hospital? Was he looking down the road to the day he’d have to return? Was he afraid?

The doors opened. We stepped out into the bright glaring lights of the corridor. A startling contrast from the dimly lit elevator car with its hypnotic hum. The steel box that confined and contained our emotions.

Boom. Reality hit. Raw. Intense. Chilly. I couldn’t hold it in anymore.

“How do you feel?” I blurted out.

“I’m fine,” he auto-responded.

“No, how do you really feel?” I persisted.

“I’m tired,” he exhaled fully, releasing weeks of held emotions. “And depressed. I don’t know if I’m tired because I’m depressed. Or depressed because I’m so tired.”

“I understand,” I said.

Finally some truth. A place to start.

For the first time in a month, E fully understood that he wasn’t alone. He had me. No matter what. Although the cancer was inside his body, the journey was ours. We were in this together. The good. The bad. And the ugly. We were a shameless spaghetti western. Clint Eastwood, this movie belonged to us.

The next day I sat down at my computer and wrote this poem.

The Truth About This Thing Called Cancer

Yesterday when we got off the elevator at the 7th floor

And we were heading towards room 721

To visit our friend who was back in the hospital

Having a blood transfusion

In preparation for surgery the next day

His third in nine months.
His body was covered in scars

From years of cuts and mends

Repairs and retribution

A missing foot

An ulcer on the other

Now in peril.
But this isn’t about him.
I asked you how you were feeling

Really feeling

No fake bullshit

No more keeping secrets.

I’m a big girl

I can hear the word cancer

The Big C

Without wanting to dive

Into the river of terror.
I’m your love

And you are mine

We’ll do this together.
So you confessed.
You said that even though

You laugh and joke

Put on your happy face

There are times that you feel tired

And depressed.
You sleep

Because you are tired

Which makes you depressed

So you sleep

To make the depression

Go away.

You can’t tell

The cause

From the effect.
I told you that I understood.
But the truth is

I only understand

Half of the equation.

I don’t know cancer

But I know depression

And the desire to sleep it away.
I know love

And the power it wields

The healing it contains

For both of us
I told you right from the start

That all I ever wanted

Was for you to

Tell me the truth.
And that goes for this thing too.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: The Search for Meaning.

February 24, 2013August 17, 2013 / boo king / 4 Comments

E on his throne enjoying the Christmas festivities.

I’m a seeker. Especially at Christmas time. I search for perfect gifts for everyone on my list. Ones filled with wow and wonder. I comb second hand stores for delicate vintage glass ornaments like the ones we hung on our tree at 204. I inherited all of Ma’s and have been growing her precious collection every year for the past decade. It’s my magnificent holiday decorating obsession.

I scour cookbooks, online cooking blogs and recipe websites looking for something new and delicious to bake or cook over the holidays. In the end, nothing compares with the treasure trove found in Ma’s sacred and magical Gurney Recipe Box.

I flip through fashion magazines for inspiration on what to wear for all those festive occasions. This is a silly pastime because E and I don’t attend those kinds of affairs. Yet I do it anyway. It pleases me.

I’m also bedazzled by sparkly festive shop windows. I hunt for the perfect holiday outfit. I daydream about a beautiful more glamorous version of myself that will somehow magically appear like Cinderella at the ball. I wonder what it would be like to knock ‘em dead at our office party. I fantasize about a transformation from drab nondescript woman in the corner cube to glamor girl in the shimmery dress with legs that never quit. That never happens. Even the younger me couldn’t have pulled that look off. Truth is, that’s not me. Never was. Never will be. But it is fun to play that movie in my head once a year.

Pursuit of the perfect gift, recipe, or dress aside, what I really seek at Christmas time is meaning. What’s it all about? This search trumps everything.

With E’s cancer diagnosis hanging over our heads like the Sword of Damocles, the desire to find something deeper, more profound, more significant was intensified. It served to remind us of the fragile nature of this life we live. Teach us to grab onto every precious moment like it was your last. Embrace the ones we love.

We were given a reprieve from the fear and anxiety that brought us to our knees the week E was in the hospital. The Friday that he was released from the RJH was glorious. A heaven-sent day.

The first thing E did when we got home was take the dogs for a walk in the crisp clean December air. It was as though he was breathing for the first time. He could walk unencumbered by the inescapable steel dance partner he had been hooked up to all week. Free from all the medical machinery that monitored his every heartbeat and breath. Free from the antiseptic smell that clung to every cell and fibre of his being. Free to walk upright. Stride. Strut. Swagger. Flounce his new found freedom up the rocky hills that surround our home.

Simply be alive.

For as long as I have known E, he’s been a real crank about Christmas. He would happily take a page from Rip Van Winkle’s book and sleep right through the entire month of December. It was the same old thing every year. Come the day before Christmas, the spirit would finally move him and off he’d go in search of my Christmas present. Some years this was found at the local Shoppers Drug Mart down the road. When M got old enough he solicited her help. This put a stop to the drugstore gifts.

“I’ll make sure he gets you something really good Ma,” she’d say.

And she does.

Of course, it’s not about the quality of the gift. Or even that there are gifts at all. But in our family, we do enjoy this tradition. We like to acknowledge each other in this manner. It’s sounds cliche but it isn’t so much the gift as the giving. As a family we like this and we’re good at. One look at our living room Christmas morning says it all.

This year, the curmudgeon grouchy bah humbug E left the building. Like Elvis on August 16, 1977. Replaced by the new and improved version. Enthusiastic and joyful. Happy to celebrate. Cheerful and charitable. Without complaint nor criticism. No protests. Gripes or grumbling. Beefs or bellyaching. And above all else, the new E, that emerged from the chrysalis on Friday, December 14, was grateful.

Deeply. Profoundly. Beyond words.

Recently, I read a quote by Cicero that really resonated with my spirit. It expressed so beautifully the meaning I sought and found over the Christmas season.

“Gratitude is not only the greatest of virtues, but the parent of all others.”

E and I are consumed with gratitude these days. There is so much to cherish and give thanks for. Starting with our love for each other. For our family, our beautiful children, our granddaughter, our extended family and friends, our good neighbors, our understanding colleagues, the compassionate caregivers and spiritual teachers. Everyone who has touched our tender hearts so sweetly.

Kindness and compassion. Generosity and magnanimity. Big-heartedness and goodness. It’s everywhere. Dressed in the same attire. Cloaked in the fabric of love.

Jesus and John Lennon were right. Love is all you need.

I’m grateful for that.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: My Best Friend Forever.

February 11, 2013September 21, 2013 / boo king / 2 Comments

B at Boulevard Lake posing in bellbottoms.

I have a best friend. Ma always told me that if I had one really good friend in life, then I was truly blessed. She was right. And I do. I was reminded of this on Saturday when a little package arrived just for me.

Little back story. We met when we were both sixteen. My recollections of our first meeting are hazy, veiled in layers of years. I think we were introduced at a party. Why not? We were teenage girls. That initial contact put us into each other’s orb for life.

We might have met sooner, had we grown up in the same neighborhood. The world is small in a small town but even smaller when you’re a little kid. Now when I look back, there were many opportunities for us to have met before that night. The Old Man delivered bread to their house. Our neighborhoods weren’t that far apart. We were both Finlanders. But back then, I never wandered too far away from 204.

We had been going to the same high school for two years before the party and yet we had never crossed paths. We were in different academic programs and travelled in different circles. I was a band nerd and had trouble making eye contact. She was one of the admin girls and painfully shy.

But once we were introduced that all changed. Wham! She’s in my universe and we’re bumping into each other everywhere. Hallways. Gymnasium. Cafeteria. Washrooms. Schoolyard.

We had a lot in common.

Soon we were walking home from school together. Sometimes we would stop at the corner before heading on our separate ways. These conversations that so absorbed us; it was impossible to let go. Other times she would come to my house for tea and the fresh-baked cookies Ma always had waiting for us. Our discussions were large and deep for two teenage girls.

B and pregnant Boo on the shores of Lake Superior.

We explored everything. No topic was off limits. We wondered and pondered. Probed and mused. Drilled down deep to places most young girls that age would never have contemplated. The subject matter wasn’t always full of profundity however, nor was it terribly serious. We were sixteen after all. We talked about boys a lot. She had a steady boyfriend. I did not. At times I lived vicariously through her romance. It was fun. And safer.

We were tender and sensitive. Lovely and sweet. Gentle and kind. Creative and imaginative. We both liked to write and sew and do crafty things. We combed through teenage magazines and picked out fashions we loved. One of our favorite haunts was the fabric department at Eaton’s. She was a brilliant sewer. I was accomplished enough but nowhere near as gifted as her. She could have been a fashion designer. That’s how good she was.

We were poets and Philosopher Princesses. Our hearts were broken often. Not just from love gone wrong. But from all the pain, suffering and heartache we saw in the world. Everything touched our young fragile spirits. We were emotional risk takers, willing to go out on a limb. Fall. Break. And when we did, we helped each heal.

We laughed our faces off. And cried until we were exhausted. We ranted. And raved. We sang along to our favorite records. And danced like wild girls in my small upstairs bedroom.

She taught me yoga and the power of meditation. Macrame and how to make the perfect square knot. The fine art of stringing colorful beads into gorgeous necklaces. She gave me a slip from her mom’s African violet and taught me how to grow my first plant.

We hung out at local dives and smoked cigarettes and drank coffee until we were shaking from nerves rattled by too much caffeine and nicotine. We wrestled with our own mortality. Danced with our inner demons. Contemplated what it was like on the other side of this life. We were complex young women. We were simple teenage girls.

B with my son having a tea party.

We shared dreams. Held secrets. An unbreakable bond. Sisters of the soul. Best friends. We got each other. Really dug one another. Like we were cut from the same cloth. We were sisters from different mothers.

We marvel that this friendship of ours has endured decades. We’ve gone from Teen Girl Warriors to Wise Crone Goddesses. We can be apart for years, barely keep in touch, and reconnect in a heart beat. We’ve been through first loves, marriages and separations. We’ve had children and watched them grow into beautiful adults. We’ve lost loves and discovered new ones in unexpected places. We’ve said goodbye to parents and stood at gravesides. We’ve been through a lot together and apart. Yet one truth remains. I’ve always known that no matter what, she had my back. And I had hers.

Last week, she posted a note on my Facebook timeline.

“Did I receive the pkg?”

“I got a notification but didn’t know who it was from. I was going to pick it up on Saturday,” I posted in response.

I love surprises. On Saturday afternoon while E and I were running errands we stopped into the local grocery store, where the post office is tucked away in one corner. I picked up the parcel, which was light and rattle-free. Its weight and silence only added to its delicious mystery. E picked up a couple of pints of ice cream that were on sale and headed to the checkout. While he was waiting in line, I went outside.

B’s original design vintage sundress inspired chef’s apron.

Suddenly I was sixteen again. I couldn’t wait to get home. Standing next to the row of grocery carts, I thought to myself, I’ll just take the tape off. But once the tape was removed, I couldn’t stop. It was like Pandora’s Box. Too tempting. Before E was through the checkout I had one end of the brown wrapper removed and was opening the box.

And there it was. Wrapped in green tissue, sealed with gold stickers, and inscribed with five precious words, “made with love for Bonney.” An original design by B. Vintage sundress inspired chef’s apron. Meticulously crafted with attention to every detail. Sweet whimsical buttons in yellow red and blue set on tiny pink flowers. Wonder-filled.

There isn’t a word for the delight I felt at that moment.

Once home, and in the privacy of my sacred writing space, I held up this beloved gift to take in its full magnificence. It was like I was holding B in my arms. Love was radiating from every thread.

Tucked in the pocket of the apron was her “go to” dessert. Plum Clafoutis. I will make this my “go to” dessert too.

Her final instruction to me on the pink post-it note included in the package, read simply. “Enjoy!”

And I will. Oh yes I will.

Footnote: Last summer when I was back East for my brother’s wedding anniversary B and I had a glorious visit. It was brief, just one afternoon but long enough to reconnect. She took me out to see her beautiful garden. Everything she touches blooms and blossoms abundantly. One flower in particular captured my attention. The Brown Eyed Susan. In the package, with the apron, was an envelope with one last note from B. It was filled with Brown Eyed Susan seeds from her garden. “Scatter them in spring and let nature take its course,” she wrote.

Yes, my dear friend.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Five Days.

February 10, 2013August 17, 2013 / boo king / Leave a comment

E with his bass jamming at home.

In many ways I’m a creature of habit. Sometimes I wish it weren’t so. But at times it’s a blessing. I slipped as easily into this new routine as my favorite summer flip flops. Driving across town to the hospital that first night felt familiar. Like I had done it a hundred times already.

Truth was, I had. Flash back a decade. Same time of the year. Same weather. Same heavy feeling in my chest. Except a different vehicle. Different driver. This cross-town trip had been part of our daily evening routine those last few months of Ma’s life.

I hated that this was so easy to do.

E was still in the ER when I got there. It was a different wing with a large flatscreen TV and chairs set up in rows like it was movie night at the local community centre. The chairs were full of patients and their respective support groups. Beleaguered husbands and wives. Friends and lovers. Sundry others. Some of the patients were hooked up to IV’s on portable stands. The place was bustling with movement and activity. Even those with IV’s were shuffling around. They reminded me of the Walking Dead. Eyes wide open but with no particular destination. Just a scent embedded in their nostrils and an indestructible urge to follow it. E wasn’t one of those.

I found him in a hallway propped up on a gurney and hooked up to a couple of IVs. Fluids and antibiotics. These would be his primary sources of sustenance for the next five days.

He greeted me with his usual wide toothy grin and rascally blue eyes. He looked better than he had in days. It was a relief to see him smile. Maybe things were turning around, I thought. In a way they were. It was a subtle shift. But I could feel it the second I saw him. After more than two decades with this man I could read him like a cheap paperback novel. Smiles like that do not lie.

“I’m feeling much better,” he said as I leaned in to kiss him.

“You look a million times better,” I said. “What’s with the hallway?”

“Waiting for a room. I could be here all night.”

“I’m just glad you’re here being taken care of,” I said.

I stood next to his gurney while we visited. Moving aside for passing orderlies or nurses pushing stretchers through the narrow corridor. It was noisy and more like a Pub then a hospital. The season aside, there was something uncannily festive in the air. I kept my gloves on while we visited. Partly because I was chilly but mostly because I felt submerged in germs. People were coughing and hacking all around us. My imagination was running rampant. I couldn’t shake the fear that I’d catch some crazy incurable virus or ugly transmittable disease and land up in a gurney next to E. Although I couldn’t think of anything finer than lying next to him, one of us had to remain healthy.

I don’t know how long I stayed with E that first night. Time takes on a different dimension in situations like these. It stretches on endlessly. And it flies by in a second. I only know I left when we were both too tired to visit any longer. I kissed him goodbye and headed home.

This would be my afterwork routine for remainder of the week.

When I visited E the next evening he was in a private room. The lights were too bright. Glaring and jarring. It was like a science fiction movie. It hurt my eyes. Assaulted by fluorescent lighting. E was still hooked up to the IV and looked so small lying on a normal sized bed. I had grown used to seeing him in small cots and gurneys. To see him looking so frail and vulnerable took my breath away. He looked like a little old man. Just like his Old Man in fact, the year before he died at eighty-seven.

Where was my E? How had he gotten to this place so quickly? Was he really this feeble? Rail-thin and boney. His cheeks sunken and sporting shocking grey stubble. And his voice. It sounded just like his father’s. Not E’s. Who was this old man that had taken my love hostage?

I took a deep breath and forged on.

We chatted leisurely about his day as if we were in our own living room unwinding after work. He was full of praise and gratitude for the care he had been given by the nurses. All things considered he felt good. He jokingly referred to his portable IV stand as his dance partner. He sashayed her through the hallways, he laughed. Round and round in circles just to get some exercise. For a moment, I was jealous of a steel pole and a plastic bag full of saline water. E’s mouth was still in pain and his tongue was swollen. Yet things were improving. He ate green jello.

I kissed him on the cheek. Not the lips. I didn’t want to touch his mouth for fear it would hurt. It was difficult to imagine that my kiss would not bring pleasure to his lips.

I stepped out into the dark rainy night. Alone.

On Wednesday night everything changed. Originally, E had been scheduled to have a CAT scan after the surgeon gave him the results of the biopsy, which wasn’t supposed to have been for another week or so. But because he was already in the medical stream the doctor ordered the CAT Scan that day.

The surgeon had been in to see E earlier in the evening. M arrived right after her last class. She was curled up comfortably on the little leather couch under the window, her grey flannel knapsack resting next to her feet. She was chatting quietly with her dad when I walked in the room. The lights were still blaring. There were no soft shadows cast. I took the chair under the hanging TV.

I had barely taken my seat when E broke the news.

“I don’t know how to say this,” he said. “So I’m just going to say it the way the doctor told me. I have cancer. It’s the early stages. The doctor said he can take care of it. He’ll get rid of it. Don’t worry.”

Don’t worry. Don’t worry. Don’t worry.

I wanted to throw up.

“That’s better news than it could have been,” I blurted. “And if you’re going to get cancer, this is the place to be. We have the best of everything here.”

I rattled on. Spewing the fragmented bits and pieces of information I had picked up from work. One of our clients at the Agency was the BC Cancer Foundation so I knew something about treatments and research. How advanced our Province was in this field. While the advertising crone spouted lines of optimistic copy from a recent campaign, all the wife wanted to do was ram her fist through the wall.
On the way home, M and I stopped into the little Mexican cafe up the road from our house and picked up beef burritos. We sat in front of the television and ate in silence. The room reeked of salsa, refried beans and fear.

On Thursday night my sister and her boyfriend came to visit. She had called E earlier to see if there was anything she could bring him. He wanted KFC. He wanted solid food. Anything but green jello and tomato soup. He craved something nasty. Junky. Greasy. Chicken licken good. She walked into the room with the illicit contraband concealed in a brown paper bag. You could smell it the second she got off the elevator. E’s eyes widened with delight. And gratitude. He opened the bag immediately and ravenously started in on the chicken. It hurt his mouth but he didn’t care. It was the first solid food he’d had in a week. Green jello doesn’t count.

It was good to see him eat something that didn’t require a straw. We were like proud parents feeding solids to an infant for the very first time. Grinning from ear to ear. It was a surreal visit. If not for E being hooked up to a monitor and IV, we could have been drinking tea and chatting around our kitchen table. The conversation ebbed and flowed. Intermittent at times. B regaled us with stories of his misbegotten youth. We laughed. We stared at the floor. We were silent. Then it was time to leave.

I kissed E on the cheek, whispered I love you and said goodnight. I didn’t look back.

I had Friday off but still had to get up early for a doctor’s appointment that I had booked weeks earlier. I was sitting in the clinic waiting room taking Instagram photos of my boots when my photographic musings were interrupted by a text. It was E. He was getting sprung from the joint. Hallelujah.

By the time I got to the hospital he was going through the check-out process with his nurse. It was the first time I’d seen him upright in five days. Without the IV stand, he looked like himself. E had returned.

E drove us home. The sun was shining for the first time in five days. It was a large blue sky. Just like the ones that hung over 204 when I was growing up.

Things were looking up.

Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter: Best Laid Plans and How To Blog. Or Not.

December 30, 2012December 31, 2012 / boo king / 12 Comments

A year ago I started a blog. I didn’t have a hot clue what to write about. It was just something I felt inspired to do. The goal was to write two posts a week. Maybe more, if the muse struck with high pitched frequency. Kind of the opposite of lightening. Easy peasy lemon squeezy. Really, how hard could it be?

Bloody hard. I’m not one to make excuses, especially when it comes to myself. But it turns out writing one post a week was a challenge. Two, damned near impossible. And more than that, well forget about it. What I didn’t realize a year ago was that I actually had a bit of a life beyond the iMac and the things that go on inside my head. So I reset my sails, pared down my goal and determined that one post per week would do. Not only would this do, it would be an enormous accomplishment.

This is my 54th post. Bravo for me.

Little back story. I had read an article online in The New York Times by Eric Weiner called “Americans: Undecided About God.” This article intrigued me because the premise was something I thought a lot about. God was on my mind. Here, there and everywhere. Just a little insight into my interior world. I thought it would be interesting to engage in an online conversation with other folks of a similar ilk. I thought there had to be millions of people out there who would love to do this. And most importantly, participate via my blog. Looking back, I don’t know if I was incredibly naive or full of hubris. Or just a pompous ass. I’ll leave that for you to decide. Keep it to yourself though. My ego is fragile after a year of this.

Long blog short. This didn’t happen. None of it. You know what they say about best laid plans. I don’t either. But I think it had something to do with mice and men. And things not always turning out the way you expected.

As it turns out, this confounding cliche proved to be true for my blog about God. It’s painful to be reduced to a literary cliche, I might add. Thank you very much Mr. Steinbeck.

Not that God isn’t a hot topic. He/She most certainly is. It’s just that very few people wanted to read my blather on this theme week after week. Good God jumping Jehoshaphat. Truth is, I didn’t even want to talk about it. I only thought I did. I thought I had tons of things to say, given the amount of time I spent pondering. Contemplating. Meditating. Ruminating. Praying to and mulling over God. Turns out I didn’t.

I had about three posts-worth.

The thing is, I didn’t deliberately change course with the blog. It just happened. It took another three posts to realize that I was telling these stories about my life growing up at 204. As it turns out very few were interested in that either. So on that level my little foray into blogging was a colossal failure.

Either I have an extraordinary talent for picking lousy topics to write about. Or very few people care what I have to say about those topics. Or I just write poorly about the topics that interest people, and therefore, refuse to engage. Thus, the lights go dim on computers worldwide whenever one of my posts is broadcast. Regardless, my naive, hubristic, pompous dreams of blogging to the masses was possibly just a tad grandiose. Do you think? Don’t answer that question. Remember the fragile ego. May the echo of cracking ice on a frozen country pond haunt you eternally if you dare.

Fortunately, I’ve learned to not let those kinds of failures stand in the way of having a good time. And that’s exactly what this past year has been. The time of my life. I wouldn’t trade it for a wiener on a stick.

It wasn’t easy. In fact, it was one of the hardest things I’ve ever done. Except for childbirth. Truth is, this blog was a bit like giving birth. In this past year, I gave birth to a new me. The authentic me. 100% genuine. Bona fide and real. Most importantly, it gave life to the storyteller me. And it set me free.

Before Diaries of The Breadman’s Daughter came to life, I never in a million years would have considered revealing the things I did. The thought was enough to make me shudder and hang my head in shame. Oh shame. How vindictive, rancorous, spiteful, venomous, cruel and unkind you are. You are the schoolyard bully. The coward. Tormentor and thug.

But through God’s grace, and one blog post a week, you are gone. I, and those who shared this journey, have been liberated. Telling these stories about my life growing up with Ma and The Old Man at 204 didn’t cause my heart to stop, my world to implode as I had so feared all my life. No. In fact, the exact opposite was true. My heart beat stronger and fiercer. My world exploded with love and kindness, compassion and empathy, joy and appreciation.

Although I didn’t intend to go down this path, I am so grateful I did. Along the way, I discovered my parents, Ma and The Old Man. I got to tell their story with all of its complexities. Their complicated love for each other. Their unconditional love for me, my siblings and their grand children. The lessons that love taught me. Somehow through the rush of time and the dailiness of life, I’d forgotten that. Or dismissed it as being trivial. Or worse yet, not true. But this past year helped me to realize and remember all the love that lived at 204. In all its shades, muted and glorious orange, the highlights and the dark shadows, the frostiness and the humidity, the large blue skies overhead and the beige sand beneath. The home in our hearts and the heart in our home.

On one of our many walks together, Ma said, “I’d love to write my life story but I don’t know how. And who would read it anyway?” This notion, this gut-wrenching, heartfelt cry touched me. Far deeper than I realized at the time. It took years, and much practice as a writer and storyteller, to bring her story to life. A simple tale about an ordinary woman, who in many ways, lived an extraordinary life.

I can write Ma. I can tell your story. Does it matter who reads it? I think not.

As for The Old Man, had I not written this blog I may never have realized just how much I miss him. Orneriness and all. He had always been such a thorn in my side. Not any more. Extraction is complete. Wound healed. Only love remains. I am proud and honored to be The Breadman’s Daughter.

Although there weren’t any grand discussions about God in my blog, the presence and influence of the divine was the underlying melody throughout. God was present in every grace note. Not only in the process of telling the story. But in the stories themselves. It was there. In the space between the notes. The reading between the lines.

As for those grander God discussions, I learned that in the end, I’m ill-equipped to have those. I’ll leave that to Eric Weiner or Wayne Dyer, Louise Hay or David Javerbaum, even. I could never write something so sublime and witty as The Last Testament. Not in a million blog years.

What next? More storytelling. I think I’m better at that than blogging. I’ve joined Cowbird, the online community for storytellers, so all five of you can find me there. I do have a few more Daughter stories to share with you. You’ll find those here and on Cowbird.

If the blog survives, it’s my plan to take it in a completely different direction. At least I think I will. As you know, I’m easily sidetracked. And we all know what happens to best laid plans.

One parting thought, watch out for mice.

My Thing About God