warm wind and cloudy

waiting to build my garden

feeling overlooked

How do you feel about drunk driving?

Do you think it's a crime?  Do you think it's selfish?  Arrogant?  Do you see it as a substance abuse issue?  Should there be mandatory minimums?  Throw the book at them?  Use restorative justice?

I read a post this morning.   The guy who killed 3 kids and their grandfather while drunk driving is getting day parole.  I read this on a conservative candidate's post, so of course the comments were all "piece of shit" and "mandatory minimum" statements.  Vitriol filled with vengeance undertones.

So here's what I think about drunk driving:  

• We all know it's wrong.  It's an endless message stream of it being bad and why it's bad and the risk it puts on society.  

• But people do it.  People drive drunk. They either don't think they are drunk, or they don't think they are THAT drunk, or they think they can mitigate the risks by driving slow or using back roads or whatever.

•  It kills people, but not all the time.  Enough that there's a societal outrage, but not enough that there's a sense of that being a reasonable outcome.

• Society is way more angry about drunk driving when it kills people, especially children.  And our anger is exponential, depending on the number of people, especially children, killed.

• If we don't hold mentally ill people criminally responsible, how do we hold drunk or high people criminally responsible?  Are they even capable of making "reasonable man" standard decisions?

I don't think mandatory minimums work.  They might work for pre-meditated crimes.  But no one thinks they're a drunk driver who will kill kids.  Education hasn't worked, because no one actually believes they'll be so stupid as to make that mistake.  Decision making in the moment doesn't work.  

It's complicated.  And we really haven't thought enough about this.  Do we take decision making out of someone's control, so that you cannot operate a vehicle after drinking?  Do we design cars to do this for us?  Do we stop making drugs and alcohol so readily available when we know it alters our decision making and clarity?  

Interesting.

nana's mirror
looking glass into the past
memories faded


I had two mirrors, both from my nana's (great-grandmother's) house.  She came here, to Canada, at 19 - born in Hales Owen around 1893.  She was pretty, my nana, but had a hard life.  Flirted with on the train from Montreal, she had a salt and pepper shaker from a soldier she met.  They were painted and lovely and are probably either sold or in my mother's collection.  The story was also that she brought these mirrors over from England, but that proved untrue.  It didn't matter, they were both from her house and solid memories from my childhood.

These mirrors stayed with me during my tumultous first marriage, living on my own, and three moves with Bob.  One broke, the square one, but the round one was always on my wall.  It reminded me of her, of my childhood, of the house in Port Colborne that she lived in - and then my brother did.  Of mates beds and mothball smelling blankets to the aroma of white pepper when you opened a drawer.

Last night, Bob broke the round one.  My last tangible link to my nana - just gone in an instant.  I don't typically care about things.  But that mirror was irresplaceable.  It was hers.  She held it, she looked into it, she decorated her house with it. 

She was gone when I was still a child.  I remember her gardens.  Her front porch.  I remember her, and I cherished that mirror.     Today's task is finding something to replace it - something to cover the wall with it's scraped paint and emptiness.    I feel like I do that a lot - find things to hide the scrapes and emptiness, cover up holes, and bury pieces of my past that tie me to the future. 

+++

Maybe that's how things go - the breaking of mirrors, the loss of childhood, and one just stands in the driveway, looking for unbroken cardboard boxes to contain the wreckage.  I hate being almost 50.

authenticity

why can't people be honest

curation of truth

I'm scrolling through instagram and see a number of posts.  I see a number of posts that are blatantly untrue.  I knw for a fact that these people are not enjoying their life right now, or struggling with their mental health, or damn near hate their families.  And yet, hearts and joyful posts fill their 'gram.

Why?

Is it to fool others?  To curate something that looks better than what it is to make them feel better about the life they're leading? Is it hope - hope that if they can stitch together bits of happiness that somehow what exists is a whole?  Is it the pressure of having it all - look - I can work, have a life, joy, and great kids? 

Or does your social media credibility go down if no one wants to like or view your pictures of reality?

I'm just as guilty.  I take pictures of beach and trail scenes, my dogs, and spring weather.  I don't take photos of my husband, lying on the floor, after I dropped him trying to get him to the toilet.  I don't take pictures of breakfast dishes, sitting for hours; laundry, unfoldered for days; of me, rolling my eyes that I can't get a chapter read in my new book.

my co-worker smokes
getting high in my office
i try not to mind.


At work, we have this thing where we call our children, spouses, and pets co-workers, and we document their comings and goings.  My co-worker peed on the floor, wrote on the wall with crayons, is having a tantrum, etc.

My co-worker smokes weed in my office.

A little about weed, from my perspective.  Don't be offended.  I grew up and never touched the stuff.  The only people who smoked at my high school were the stoners - the group of kids who were only at our high school for the vocational offerings, and who were clearly headed to low paying jobs as soon as they completed grade 10 (often in the amount of time it took me to finish grade 13).  It was the smell of no ambition, of laziness, and of wanting less out of life.  It wasn't mind blowing or a miracle, it was a cheesy little high school drug that made people slow and kinda dumb.

Fast forward 30 years.  It's a miracle.  Bob's ex-wife has come out as a "pot advocate" - it's all but cured her chronic fatigue.  Our mentally ill addicted son is a pot advocate.  Who needs actual, science driven medical and behavioural therapy when you can smoke the devil's lettuce and feel okay?    My point, with these two - yes, there are claims for weed's amazingness - but these continue to be the type of people who support cannabis.  Someone "suffering" from a pseudo-real disease that's a cover story for laziness (is it just me or do people with chronic fatigue still find ways of doing what they want, they just don't seem to be able to work without chronic bitching?) or a serious mental illness.  AND it's always people who smoked recreationally, who are suddenly advocates for its many medical wonders - big shock - that they HAPPEN to be diagnosed with!

Now, my husband.  He has serious pain with his spasms and pot helps.  He's tried a lot of things and nothing else really worked.    I try to be patient as he dabbles in cannabis, but while it helps with the spasms and pain, it also makes him incredibly annoying.  He trips, as it were, through one idea after another that sound terribly alert and astute to him and only manage to make me roll my eyes and imagine taking his weed and flushing it down the toilet.  Instead of chilling him out and making him quiet, it gives him energy - and he does it after dinner when I want to wind down and chill out.


He had one PSW, once, who also smoked and they kind of bonded over that until I told him that I'd report her if the pot talk didn't stop.  She was a little rough, the kind of 30-something that still goes to bars and smokes weed in the parking lot, and I was not amused by them bonding over shared use.  Medical use, I reminded my co-worker, doesn't happen in parking lots of bars, and no one bonds with their medical staff over their use of antacids.  So.. yeah.

Being a caregiver to your spouse means overlooking things you might not have before.  But this is really a struggle for me.

my dog cannot speak

maybe that's why i like him 

preferring quiet

I volunteered at the Mission yesterday and am very conflicted.  

• On the positive side:  I did a lot of work, felt very useful, and worked with two amazing guys in the kitchen who not only made dignified, healthy meals, but did the logistics for all the supplies to maximize effectiveness.

• On the negative side:  I was really not treated well by the women who volunteered there - they were nasty.  They were self-promoting empire-builders who refused to let me help and then complained and were bitchy when the guys let me help.  

I'll need to think on this.  I'd like to be frank with my feedback to the volunteer coordinator and let her know that the women really were awful, but Bob says it could have just been a bad day for them or "just who they are".  I feel like it was so negative that they probably need to know that before putting someone else new in the position.  This is why I quit St Vincent's, years ago.  The "I volunteer here more than you - and I'm too good to clean bathrooms" attitude.

I'm really conflicted having such a bipolar experience. 

Edit/Update:  My husband thinks it's unfair of me to "judge these women".  Of course he does.  He gets special treatment due to being in a wheelchair and they all fawn over him - it MUST be my fault - I MUST have done something to deserve this.  I give up.

my brain defuses
unwinding memories as
technicolour dreams

I had a nightmare last night.  It wasn't scary, per se - but I'm classing it as a nightmare due to it's content, subject matter, and questions that have lingered long after waking, showering, dressing, and making my breakfast.

It was about an attempted suicide, and someone else who wanted to die.  It was about disrupting that moment, and helping to save them - but having serious questions about if I should be and the what the consequences would be.

My views on suicide changed a couple years ago when a dear friend's son died by suicide and his brother challenged us on it.  What if, he said, we could all carry a little bit of pain for a while, instead of his brother carrying a lot of pain forever.  That's held me, and stuck with me, wondering if that's the correct view.  It was so poignant, but is it true?  Can pain be parsed out over a crowd to make it easier?  Is suicide really a community sin?  That statement, echoing, became the moment that I started questioning everything I have ever believed in - and a big part of why I do not participate in organized religion anymore.

So why the dream?

my husband, on hold

my grandparent's music fills 

our hallowed halls.

Adventures in caregiving.  That's what I'm branding covid as.  Last night at 1:30 a.m. my husband knocked over the urinal he uses.  So I was up, mopping and doing laundry, in the middle of the night.  This is not nearly as bad as picking him up from the floor the other day, after he fell trying to transfer on his own.  At least in the middle of the night, I'm not also negotiating a conference call and trying to remember if I put it on mute and also pretending life is not a huge mess.

I had to have another conversation with Bob about his healthcare provider.  While I deeply and honestly appreciate the fact that someone comes in to shower, dress, and get him ready for work - I am becoming a bit frazzled by the endless complaining.  I understand that he feels underpaid and stressed, but when a healthcare provider talks about it endlessly, I feel like I do when our youngest puts it out there that he's dumpster diving - like they expect me to jump in and offer help.  And don't get me wrong - I kinda feel like doing that, but it's not my place and certainly inappropriate.  

(as per the dumpster diving - i'm not cold hearted.  but if you're mentally ill and not taking your meds or doing treatment, and instead drinking steadily and doing drugs - i'm not sending you money or buying you food.  your bad choices do not translate into obligation on my end.  i'm here if he needs me, but i'm not a supplement income for his drinking and drug use.)

Today I'm celebrating things I am enjoying because of this plague:  healthier hair, softer skin, slightly later mornings, a relaxed and restful lifestyle.  Opportunities to support my community by volunteering - because I'm not exhausted from early mornings and long drives.  I'm feeling whole again.  It's a miracle.

And yet, scary to shop.  Line ups and shortages and it feeds an anxiety that previously only came at night, alone.  And while it's not insurmountable - quite frankly I can't get too stressed about the lack of lysol wipes when I have spray and cloths at home - it feels so surreal and out of place against everything I knew to be true six weeks ago.

snow covered lawn chairs
the sun, hiding behind clouds
the air, crisp with cold


News - Bob starts back at work Monday.  Working from home, with hope to transition at least part time in the office, and an awareness that while that might not work, we'll try.  His manager seemed to be hesitant around the idea of Bob working fully or mostly from home once his folks go back to the office, but open to the idea that there might be modifications to his role to support his needs.  Either way, he was off for nearly 8 weeks - and he's done some good work in that time.  He's stronger, more thoughtful to the situation, and has been volunteering and keeping busy.  I worry, though, that the transition back has the risk of him going back to full-asshole mode - even yesterday he was doing some email cleanup and got uppity about me not "bothering him", but perhaps we can discuss boundaries to keep us both sane. 

The last time I was at the office was March 12 - and the last time I ate out or went out "normally" - even slightly, was March 14.  Even then, it had started - but we didn't know the full scope of what would happen over the next four weeks.  Schools were closing for March break, and an additional 2 weeks - and we didn't yet know about essential services.  Four weeks later, the world is so different.  I had trouble finding dog food yesterday.  There are line ups for grocery stores.  Some shelves remain unstocked.  Curbside delivery is everything.

I'm making broth this morning and the house smells wonderful.  I'm one of those people who don't like waste and whenever I cook with bone-in meat, also make broth from it before throwing away the bones.  It's veal - so a beef-style base that I think I'll use for an irish stew tonight.  I have carrots and potatoes and some stewing beef, so it may be time to do a stew and use up some wilting vegetables and not have to freeze the stock.

how was it sunny

not even two days ago

i want the sun back!

I made myself a bagel this morning.  And as I was finishing up, adding the peanut butter to its crispy-breadiness, I noticed that the peanut butter was almost out.  Not out enough to throw away, at least for a wife, but potentially out enough that when the PSW makes Bob his shake in two hours I will hear "Chris!" from the kitchen.  They'll be looking at it and unwilling to scoop around the sides and use up the end of the peanut butter, and be calling me to ask if there's any more.  They won't be opening up the pantry to check - even though both Bob and his PSW know where the peanut butter is kept.  They won't open it and stir it - we do peanuts only peanut butter - they'll call my name and ask me to find it.  And then I'll have to open it and stir it, knowing that if I do not they will only tear off some of the seal and then use the thick portion at the top without stirring, which means the rest of the jar will be an oily mess.

I had a moment of "maybe I should just open the new one, stir it, and add the old peanut butter to it" but then another moment of "why the hell should I have to?"  

And now I'm in my office, finishing my coffee, listening to the dogs snore and seeing a frenzy of flurries through the window.  Sometimes I just can't.

men are know-it-alls
i accept this, but hate it
store it in my heart


It's completely fair to go into this post thinking, "but you hate being told what to do".  It's true.  I do.  I don't think I need to be told what to do.  I'm almost fifty, quite intelligent, raised 3 kids, (and 2 husbands), and went to school for both nursing and workplace learning.  If I ask for your support or guidance, feel free, but please do not tromp all over my domain with your unsolicitated man-advice.

And so, my husband's healthcare worker is a man.  Older than me.  Used to work in nursing homes and now in the community.  He's continually complaining about how little money he makes and how many hours he gets, and rushes through things.  I'm fine with all of that.  My husband and him get along famously, so I overlook the slightly unprofessional behaviour and just shake my head. 

Four weeks ago, I found a patient lift, motorized, for $800 with a receipt.  YAY.    It's amazing.  We abadoned our quest to find and get funding for a sera steady - about $4500, because the OT was on the fence if it would work longterm for Bob, and the safety of it with his lack of balance.  And, quite frankly, I'm not a medical device warehouse.

Today, I'm standing in the shower with Bob and his healthcare worker.  We do this weird two-person lift now where I support, standing in a damp, hot area, while listening to these two.  He really needs a sit-to-stand, I hear.  It would really help, I hear.  I explain, I hope patiently - as I wasn't really feeling patient - that yes it would be easier right now but longterm it would not work - and then get lectured on the type of sling that would be best.

I know he just wants to make his life easier, and support my husband.  But inside of me, a voice was shouting "OH MY FUCK, CAN I JUST GET A THANK YOU FOR WHAT I DO INSTEAD OF THE MEN IN MY LIFE ALWAYS ASKING FOR MORE??"

So I'm in my office, blogging.  Sipping coffee.  Riding the wave of annoyance out.

anxiety rests
heavily in my spirit
refusing to quit


Last night, I woke up before midnight.  The day took a lot out of me - physically and mentally.  They came with a trial chair for Bob, and I was shaken to see where we were from the perspective of where we wanted to be.  It hurt me, at the core, wondering how many more disappointments were to follow - any more losses.  The whole covid thing has separated us from family and support and I'm finding it's harder and harder to cope.

And then he fell.  A bad fall in that nothing was broken, except his spirit.  His inability to transfer mixed with the consequences of lying on the floor without my knowing, and then layered with what it took to get him clean and dressed and back in his chair.  We were both spent - physically and emotionally, with no one around to shoulder the burden.  He doesn't want me chatting to his siblings or friends.  I have to wear a brave face and get through it for him. 

But the dog barks and I get angry.

And then I wake, shortly before midnight, and can't get back to sleep.  Worried about him, about covid, about a new world I don't like and can't see out of.  I can literally feel the anxiety moving through me and get up to watch 3 episodes of station 19, hoping it will distract me and help me sleep so that I can ignore the anxiety for a few hours.

5 hours later I'm at my desk.  Dressed, and knowing today will have more than I can handle.

the difference, I 

explain, patiently, again

is the tone of voice

It's barely 6:30 a.m.  A Monday morning.  Before covid, I'd be on the highway, headed into work - showered, dressed, fed, prepared.  Four weeks into covid I'm in my office at home, pajamas, first coffee, slightly dirty glasses, and wondering when the world will return to something I know.

Four weeks ago, I would put Bob in his shower chair and leave for work.  His PSW would get him up and ready and prepared for his day.  Bob woud go to the gym or out with friends.  Now everything is closed.  Bob's outings during the week are for volunteering at a soup kitchen during covid.  I tried to talk to him about how concerned I am about the risk for us - but he was unmoved and refused to listen.  I gave up trying.  In the end, I'd do the same thing he is so it seemed hypocritical to pursue it.

In the last four weeks, I've assisted with Bob's lifts in the shower.  In the last few days, this has increased to helping with his pants.  Today, he was tired of being fussed over and told his PSW that he could stay with his pants down and "Chris would just do it later".  We'll have to talk, also later, about how the whole point of having a PSW was to decrease my workload and exhaustion.  I'm not here to save them work.  But he's too nice and I'm probably too patient with this stuff.  Instead of asking, "wtf are you talking about?" I smile, pour a coffee, and come in here to blog.

Cowardly, perhaps, or patient, thoughtful?  I can never tell.

Yesterday was good.  I had a pleasant, lazy morning, followed by errands.  I came home, did yard work, and burned the leaves.  It felt normal, almost - the sun on my face, wind in my hair, burned leaves in my nostrils. The dogs were playing and sleeping in the sun - and for a moment I forgot how utterly changed the world is in four weeks.

I keep oscillating between "this isn't so bad" and "holy crap".  Tme will tell, I suppose.

another day, spent
doing the same things as now
my life, set to pause


Week three of the social distancing and working from home.  I joke that it's no big deal for me - just low key same shit different day, without the pressures of visiting and going out for dinner.  I haven't worn make up in 20 days.  Live almost exclusively in sweats,   Work out online and take the dog for a walk.  Hear the same comment that I don't take the other dog for a walk.  Make the same comment that she's ill-trained and won't listen.  Leave, knowing my husband will give her treats for being an asshole.  Let that wound fester a bit.

And it's not a wound about dogs, but kids.  Our boys are about the same age.  His is mentally ill and on the streets and didn't finish high school and has spent time in prison in two countries.  Mine works his ass off, lives here rent free (only home occasionally), and lives like a 24 year old who doesn't know he'll live past 30.  My step-son has always had the easy route.  Parents that excuse his behaviour as mental health.  I listen to phone calls where my husband and his mother talk about him "cleaning up and going to school", like it's a reality.  When I question the sanity of that, I hear I'm too negative.  That I don't have enough patience.

And yet, my son was 3 hours away and in the hospital for pain and vomiting, finding out he had a stone in his kidney, and my husband's response was, "too bad he didn't go in when I told him to".

DO you know how bad I wanted to say, "too bad you didn't discipline your kid like I told you to" or some such nonsense?    It hasn't been a very good 2 or 3 days here - because the old wounds are open - the divide between him and I, his and mine..  my son sends us a snap of him driving in west virginia, singing country boy, and my husband barely cracks a smile and does not respond.  His son posts a picture of him dumpster driving with a weapon of some sort, and my husband says, "looks like he's keeping busy!" as if he's writing a fucking phD in being an asshole.

Wounds are funny - seemingly healed until something knocks against it.  I know this won't last, and the wound will scab back over, but while open - it's making me crazy.