my christmas dreams, left
in a pile, like discarded
boxes and wrapping

It's been a wonderful, and a terrible, christmas.

Highlights:  A strap-on penis ring toss game, captured on video.  Great food.  Friends.  Family. 

Low moments:  Bob developing mania, and a reaction to weed.  911 called.  Leaving CATS.  Cleaning up the mess.

I'm going to Montreal this morning for 2 days.  Against my better judgement, but I'm desperate for a rest and some relaxation.  I'm desperate for sleep.  To recharge, face things again.  I love my husband but this is a lot of work. 

cast iron cookware
goes from stove top to oven
never escapes heat


I'm so glad today is over.  I'm bone-weary, dead-dog tired, emotionally exhausted - and waiting to exhale with only 4 days and two working days until christmas.  Christmas, the elusive holiday hovering in the wings like a flirtatious boy you're considering breaking up with a serious boyfriend for.  The prospect and allure of something new and mysterious with absolutely no promise and more of the same on the other side.

And yet we wait.

For me, it is two weeks' rest.  Theatre, and some travel, and some reading by the fire as my spirit relaxes and my brain breathes in new air.  Heals.  Rejuvenates.  Readies itself for spring.

This advent, I've given some thought to waiting.  Waiting for Christmas, waiting for rest, waiting for peace.  Waiting for what, I wonder, as I consider my husband's diagnosis.

eight hole doc martens,
wool socks, the toes with extra
his cane in the snow


Winter and Christmas carry their own traditions.  While some folks find themselves in the kitchen, baking, or skating with family - we buy a puzzle and listen to the vinyl cafe.  Alexa, god bless the machine, was able to dig us up a few podcasts as we sat with our daughter and her husband and laboured over a picture of old toys.

And as we huddled together and worked on the puzzle, I remembered our earlier Christmases - Bob wearing his oxblood doc marten boots, sliding in the cold with his cane, his always-clad-in-wool feet pulling out of the boot - on the vinyl flooring of our dining room.  I remember the large living room, windows over looking the back yard, covered in snow - his mother and my parents watching the kids open their presents.  The year I accidentally opened the one he said not to and being embarrassed by the contents in front of our parents.

like a good mail man

in rath in and in sleet and snow 

walking through the town

There's a guy in this village who walks everywhere.  Everywhere.  In rain, sleet, snow, sun - he wanders up and down the big hill we live on.  If my dogs see him, they go crazy - worried that he's casing the place or some criminal mastermind about to kill us all.    He's friendly, always with a wave and smile if I'm outside.  He wears reflective vests.  I find him interesting - and often wonder what his story is. 

Life is a bit overwhelming.  

questions unanswered
or, not answered directly
filling in the gaps


Just when I was hoping to relax and maybe ready myself for the holidays - Bob has a relapse.  Weakness, blurred vision, panic attacks - and some other fun symptoms means a week of steroid treatments, sleeping pills, constant monitoring, and revamping my personal and professional schedules.  No rest for this weary girl.

a winter morning
the sun rises ever slow
like walking a dirge


Yesterday, Bob had a panic attack at work.  Related to MS, or maybe an infection, but still - oxygen, 911, home, doctor.  This morning, I'm sitting in my office, reading email, and my chest tightens - thinking about Bob's worsening MS, some decisions I need to make in the workplace, challenging conversations waiting to happen, and Christmas coming in two weeks.

I'm emotionally exhausted. 

When I think about emotional intelligence, I think about evaluating my work situation before speaking.  Evaluating if what I'm facing is feelings or reality.  Evaluating how important it is.  How others might be impacted.  What I can handle.  What's worth mentioning.  What's worth my own mental health.  Friendship.  Trust.  Teamwork.

The tightening in my chest doesn't lighten.  It's a bit endless, if I'm honest.  My work drama, if only in my mind at the moment, is taking a back seat to my real life.  But it's stressing me out.

a quiet morning
so far it is undisturbed
i wait for some noise


Morning.  My office is softly lit and I'm surfing the net and drinking coffee.   The PSW is showering and dressing Bob, she's got a constant stream of chatter going to entertain him.  He'd lose his mind if I talked that much, but he seems to be amused by her.  He's getting so old in his soul, my husband, that irreverent boy somehow taken over by an old man who is life-weary.  I don't blame him, but every once in a while, I really miss him.

The dogs lay around me.  They love when I work in my office, and chat with them while I do. 

Bob's had 4 calls to security in a week - 3 at work  and one with me at the mall.  I love those moments when I have to gracefully exit the men's washroom, enter a store to find a manager, ask them to call security and then go back into the men's washroom to wait.  And then to instruct two guys in their 20s how to lift and hold my husband so I can finish re-dressing him and get him safely into his chair.  At work, it's probably worse, with no wife to manage all of that for him and just 2 security guys (and where he works, heavily armed) to pick him up and pull up his pants. 

I'm not sure why he still goes in.  Pride?  Perseverance?  Stubbornness?  I wouldn't.  There's no way.  But we're different like that.  I'd be looking into assisted suicide (not that I think he should - I'm just saying what I would do!), and already retired, and finding a way to read and watch TV all day.  He perseveres and then occasionally - usually when I'm on my way out with friends or have plans - asks if we should model the house to take care of him here or sell it so he can go into a nursing home.  It's like - emotional bombs - these conversations.

What do I want?  I want this to not get any worse, or to get better, and to care for him here.  I want him to retire or go off on disability, and find something simple he can do that doesn't stress him out and allows him to be somewhere safe all day.  But that's not my reality.  Later?  Maybe we can do this here, maybe we can't.  He asked the other day, "where do you want to live after me?"  and I had no answer.  I'm not there yet.

day of re-mem-brance
that moment in the front seat
haunts me even now

I've heard more than once, "it doesn't happen to women like you".  So when it does happen to women like me, we're too ashamed to disclose, because it makes us the other kind of woman.  The kind that deserves to be hit - or asks to be, or courts it. 

I remember the beige car.  The fabric on the front seat.  Arguing about keys and destinations.  I remember how it felt to have my arm repeatedly bashed against the steering wheel, me crying, asking him if he understood how much trouble he'd be in if he broke my arm.

And his cold, mean voice asking, "you think they wouldn't understand, after meeting you?"

The days of bruising, after, both on my arm and in my soul - when his words were more harmful than the blows to my arms - slowly believing in my own shame, my own deserving of the situation.  He'd be understood, afterall, right?  It was my fault.

And the note, the one I still can't talk about.  That note, haunting dreams and making me have night terrors to this day.  The damage is deep.

Today's a national day of remembrance.  I lived.  I left.  I moved on. So many women never got the chance.

is it just me, then
that stares at something i love
worried it may die?


Yes, bleak.  But I was just staring at my dog, thinking about how awesome she was, and then worried she will die one day.  Everything and everyone dies someday.  And yet, sometimes, I worry about it.

But not yesterday, as my clutch failed and my car skipped out of gear, as I was cruising at 100 kms or so down a major highway 90 minutes from home.  And as I guided it safely to the shoulder, half worried about what happened and half super pissed off about it. 

And how frustrated I was this morning when I woke up, less shaken, annoyed with how I was treated at the service desk of my car dealership.  And how annoyed I am now, hours later, with the team for not responding to my email.  Fuck.  I need that car for work.  It's 3 p.m.  Why haven't they called? Written?

4 p.m.  still no call.

my breath sticks, exhale
willing my pulse to slow down
feet firmly on ground


It's been a long week.  Is it always a long week?  I didn't cry in the bathroom at work this week - so that's awesome.

It's been a long week of unpacking feelings - something I don't love doing because I am scared to name the feelings I have and work with them and confront them.  But since I've done the work and feel a little less conflicted about where I am as a person, I might as well share.

My brother has cancer.   If you'd ask me to name the top twenty people I thought might get cancer, his name would not have been on it.  And it's weird that we think like that, but we do.  And his cancer has brought up some strange feelings for me.  Sadness, of course, because no one wants their brother being sick or having all the issues to deal with.  Regret, that we don't always relate as well as we should after the incident.  Frustration, because I feel like some people like that he and I aren't outwardly close.  More frustration, because I feel like some people actively try to draw a line between he and I.  Anger, that the conversation is always around God loving him and healing him when I have a husband who is also sick and will never get better.  Shame, that part of me is angry that my brother will get better when Bob will not.  Confusion, because emotions are complicated when you're 48 and facing down your own issues with your health.

And that's what I'm dealing with while going to work and figuring out strategies and meeting deliverables and participating in meetings and trying to be there for my friends and my husband and my family.

And goodness, I did not expect to be so worried about my brother, especially knowing that in two months he'll be good as new. 

And then yesterday, a friend built a ramp at his house so we could continue going to the yearly potluck he hosts.  And, like a balm to a wound, everything stopped hurting.  Seriously.  The guy built an entire ramp into his house that's temporary and store-able so that when we come over (once a year) we can get in.  The kindness of some people is so utterly remarkable.