December 21, happy holidays

Ben, car sick yet always ready to shake your paw

The snow has once again buried our house in Springbrook. All paths which would lead to a place other than the road itself, Springbrook Road, have disappeared. It is only by car that you can get out of the gates, and that, only if Colin has had time to clear the driveway with the help of his fierce, backward moving, snow and pebble spraying red tractor. Behind the house the forest and ponds are bearing with reverence the commanding white coverings which, if the last three winters are any indication, will only be absorbed into the rocky ground by the month of May. Long after the neighboring farms have been released.

These days we are under the threat of that infamous, by now common phenomenon, freezing rain. The rain that freezes all it envelops. Pluie verglassante. Sounds even worse in French, where the expression summons images of beings encased in a cold sheath of ice, unable to move, paralyzed. A sort of return to the Ice age.

Besides the metaphor, the main, objective and justified fear remains the breaking down of power lines. It happens every year a couple of times in winter, and in summer during violent storms. That's when we are left without heat and running water. For now, heat is not that much of a problem, for we do keep those two wood stoves burning night and day. As for water, or the lack of it, the limit of my patience has proved to be three days.

The last time it happened, fortunately, Brother Greg was here, so we had a great time, or at least I did, watching the men bring heavy pales of water from one or another of the ponds close to the house. Its use reserved for toilet-related decorum of course. It swiftly brought home the realization of how easy total breakdown may occur, once the amenities of modern life are taken away with the severance of electricity. Nothing works any longer. No coffee, no flushing, of course no daily shower, that North American must.

After three days I remember calling hydro in a state of hysterical rage, which finally produced results under the guise of a couple of trucks leisurely parked in the driveway, and a couple of guys leisurely talking about what must have been the heroic deeds of the past crisis. They talked for a while before one of them climbed the pole and pushed back the leaver which had snapped out of place so many days ago. All it took was five minutes.  Because we were the only house in the area with a problem, we did not represent a problem. Just a blip on an otherwise good to go map of the back to normal report.

To that we may add how, on another occasion, having called my neighbour across the road for help with the dark (as is often the case, the crisis chose to erupt when I was alone at home), he insisted to call hydro himself. As is well known around here, a woman's voice, calling and pleading, is taken less seriously than a man's. Unfortunately his call proved to be just as inefficient, especially considering that his main argument turned around those quantities of meat in the freezer which were going bad presently. I assume the hydro operator was either envious of so much discounted meat, or thought that a serious household with survival material in the freezer should have its own backup system to fall upon in such events. What kind of a home is that where a proper generator is missing?

Imagine that adventures of this sort make one fret in the face of the next winter power outage. Fortunately I only have to bear with it for a couple of days, Brother Greg is due for the traditional Christmas Visit on Monday and therefore all our problems are a priori solved. Besides his many other talents, Greg is possessed of the most skilled survivor-ready techniques I know.

As you have probably guessed, since this ice warning came upon us, Colin is duly at the hospital, on call day and night, night and day...

But I was going to write about the holidays, and maybe I have already, even if my tone is not as uplifting, as such occasion should grant. First I wanted to thank our friends who remembered, to my amazement and gratitude, that I was due for another scan in December, and asked how that went. To continue along the line I have started, I'll tell you how that morning unfolded. 

I woke up at five and took care of the morning ritual. Fed the dogs, had my coffee, decided what to wear that would agree with the imaging machine, as you know I am bound to. By 7 I warmed the car and readied it for the dogs. Convincing Ben to get into the back of the car is a feat, because he, among many other sensitivities, suffers with car sickness. Therefore, every time we need to drive somewhere, he's torn between the excitement to go and need to be with Rocky, and the abhorrence of those states the moving car induces in him. Since I had no time for enticing him with words, I had to lift him up, which is way beyond my present physical capabilities. Ben is a big dog and he can become heavier if he wants to. Once in the car, he jumped back down immediately, and I had to go through it again. Witnessing this strife, Rocky started having second thoughts about this particular ride. Something was amiss, they were forced to do something against their will. I had to insist, although that is not usually necessary. Once they were both in, and the door shut, I sat at the wheel, panting as if it had run for life.

By 7:30 we were at the pet hotel, where I left them in capable hands. Hands I could have kissed if such a thing were permissible. My dogs were starting a new program of socialization, in the hope that one day the three of us could, like some civilized trio, walk along the streets of some city, or even small town, without looking like a band of crazed three-directional antagonists. For now, we are taking small steps, which consist of sit and stay when the door gets open, stay sit and wait rather than trying to break down the door, rip the door handle, and of course topple without mercy the one who opens the door.

Not only was I in time for my scan, but even a bit early. Five to eight. Just a few people ahead of me. In a few minutes the technician came out, a mild mannered man with a kind smile, surprised to see me again so soon. I laughed and said the last one had been inconclusive, which he received as better news than some dire conclusion would bring. Fair enough. Did not even have to take my boots off, nor my necklace, which he carefully placed so as not to interfere with the process. Three takes where the machine tells you when to breathe and when to hold, with the last hold longer than the previous. It usually turns out that the patient holds her breath more than she breaths, since it's never quite clear when the command will come. Be that as it may, the scan took only a few short minutes and I was free to go.

We will find out the results in January. As usual, there is quite a waiting period between the test and its reading. But since the results are often inconclusive, there is also less impatience to find out. These have become stages along some road which we will have to follow, as if for its own sake. Hopefully.

Ice or not, we are looking forward to the holidays because Colin will be home more, and Greg will be with us, who, besides rescuing us from the hardships of the pioneer's winter, will flood the house with good humor and soulful music. Some of our friends, among them our dear friends from Montreal, will also visit.

In the spirit of kind brotherhood, sisterhood, friendship, we wish you a wonderful holiday season. We thank you for the many generous thoughts and signs you have sent our way during the last year, and wish you many good things for the year to come. 

November 11, Pictures old and new

Maria, Ioan and Elena, circa 1935

The last CT scan seemed to proceed with more ease than usual. In spite of the fact that I was late. I had mentally prepared to spend the whole day around this test. And yet, when the time came to leave the house, I could not find my keys. I went into a panic attack unwarranted by the circumstances. I felt like tearing my clothes off, and throwing myself on the floor with desperation. Forget that the hospital is just ten minutes away from the house in the city. It was raining. Forget that I could have called one of the smelly city cabs operated by disheveled men in pajamas. Who can act reasonably in those moments of panic?

If you take the time to look at it, now that's all in the past again, you will observe something meaningful contained in those apparently mad throws. Ripping your clothes off is of course not how you prepare for the test; nevertheless, having to take them off, that is, principally, your skin, technically and symbolically, is troubling beyond words. Because the machine, of course, does not care whether you are clothed or naked. Between telling you to breathe Now! and Stop! breathing, the feminine voice of this dominatrix sends transversal neon-blue photo-blades across your body, at those places of interest to your interested physician. For the lung specialist it goes to the lung, for the radiation oncologist it goes at the base of the neck, there where the tumor used to eat at the bone. There where a sizeable, sort of memorial hump, now marks the place of this self-digestion.  After which photo-shots, it puts the slides together in the shape of a body. Like a loaf of bread which has been sliced by that toothy guillotine for the convenience of the consumer, the evening before its expiry date, and is sold under its deceitful loafy form thanks to a sweaty plastic bag.

The nurse setting the IV for the contrast die had had her hair bleached. I complimented her, it suited her better than the shade she had put on before. She acknowledged, but maybe because she could not recall anything about me, she did not reciprocate.

The room was cool and I was wearing a scarf when I came in, a pretty one so the scanning cylinder may like me more and be kind to me. The technician, whom I also recognized from my previous visits, spoke for his machine and told me to keep the scarf, even if part of the operation was concerned with throat and neck. On the spot though, somehow, this did not feel right. I remembered, once in there, that i was going to find it hard to breathe, because of the claustrophobic effect of this rounded coffin right above one’s nose, and the little room the gurney allows for the arms while in lying position. I did not need something else around my neck, so, in spite of his insistence, I threw my scarf away. Let the picture be as clear as it can, I thought, even if for the computer eye the scarf is invisible. As the scanned object, you are of course not supposed to wear jewelry or glasses lest they become a suspicious growth attached to your limbs. Some new bone-like, or kist-like formation. Some calcified tissue, or the residue of a long forgotten infection. Granuloma.

These past weeks we have been plagued again by small yet upsetting animal body concerns. Rocky has had not two, but three molars extracted. Soft food agrees with him just fine for the moment and we suppose some field mice shall live longer if not quieter from now on. After which we went to Kingston in order to have the results of the scan properly interpreted by specialists. My family doctor had seen those and panicked almost as badly as I had, when I misplaced my keys. In fact I spent some time in his office trying to cool things down. For both our sake. "Something soft" and new was showing in the vertebrae atop of the one lost. "Something fuzzy" and new was showing in the lower right lung, there where things, bits aspirated haphazardly end up lodging. Had I aspirated anything of note lately? Probably not, but I could not remember. Maybe at night? No way! intervened Colin vehemently, as if he spent his nights watching my every breath. She has No sleep apnea! It is true that sometimes I feel as if I tumble down, inwardly, sucked by the bottomless pit of dark nonexistence, breathless and gagging. But don't we all? The hour though was not to existential musigs, nor angst. We probably only had 12 minutes in his book of obligatory encounters. Did I sleep poorly? Did I wake up in the morning feeling poorly rested? Under Colin's watchful gaze and barely contained inner outrage, I tried to stay balanced. Then filled, albeit conservatively, a questionnaire asking kindly misleading questions. This form seemed addressed to slowing down seniors of vintage gold. It wanted to know whether I fell asleep while entertaining casual conversations with a group of acquaintances. Hell no! Not me! I'm alert like a squirrel, am following with raptured attention everybody's every word, comment wittily and only fall asleep when the situation warrants such selfish behavior. Colin was afraid the lung specialist would take away my driver's license over a thing I never aspired in the first place.

Ben, on the other hand, aspired he has. One evening just a few days ago, while alone at home, like some billy whose mother goat had warned profusely, but to no avail, he encountered head on - that is, muzzle and soft tissue inside the mouth - the old porcupine. Remeber how Alice was the first to meet him, and only showed quill-trophy on her forearm? Remember how Rocky’s turn came, one weekend again, he whose mouth bore, between here and Peterborough, where the only free vet was available, both mustache and beard? It was already past nine when Ben had to be rushed by a super-tired, overworked, hungry Colin to the nearest emergency animal hospital, an hour away from home. More than 80 extracted quills later and he is almost as new, although hesitant to go to the dog enclosure at the back of the house, which is supposed to be their safe powder room but where, to my dismay, the encounter with this shrewd, cunning, wallet-depleating enemy took place. In fact nowhere around here is there a safe place to loiter about, to smell the tracks of passing or dwelling animal coworkers without becoming the target of their survival techniques.

There will be another CT scan in December, so we know for sure, as "for sure" as possible, what my lung swallowed. In the meantime, I run into an old photograph (circa 1935) of my grandmother’s and her two children. I worked at this portrait for a few days, thankful, first, that this young woman, then of twenty-two years, and in the throws of poverty, had found the means to be photographed, as if by surprise, for they do not seem to be specially appointed, with her children: my father, five, and his sister, two. Many other thoughts, of course, nourished my concentration and gave to my replica the urgent sense of purpose this old portrait communicates, to me at least. Those children, so serious and for good reason aware, much too early, of the impending struggle where life makes her uncertain nest: is it not mysterious how such a simple, un-staged artifact, has the strength to bring forth and preserve the sense of forthcoming struggles?

September 26, Mistaken identities

dog read

It is Monday morning and I'm in one of my favorite seats 7D. I get the whole window and none of that forty year old Via train curtain which some travelers still draw to avoid bathing in the fresh, encouraging morning sun. Cows in the fields are not yet on their feet, still huddled in the order of family or friendship preferences which make them sleep in twos and threes under the stars. The train I take is never full, since it gets to Toronto way after businesses have had their business breakfast. I travel business class simply because, with the rare exception, I get two whole seats for myself. When you look at it that way, it is preferable to economy class by far.

The few times I got company, it was that of important men who liked to talk. Do not get me wrong, I like talking to strangers, I find out a lot of things I would not be entrusted with by closer friends except after years of sharing and being put to the test. But the two hours of listening can be overwhelming, and the last confession disclosed a life filled with events worthy of sharing, according to him. It took me days to be released of that febrile pouring of the soul.

My last two visits to Toronto have been a combination of dentistry and osteopathy. Teeth and posture. The visit to the dentist had left me with pain for a few days in a row, so I finally decided to take a close look in the mirror and see what was going on. A simple investigative reflex. To my astonishment I noticed a small, grayish round filling right in the middle of the one implant I possess, a molar. I had thought that the filling was supposed to correct the last molar of the lower row, but no, that one looked pristine. This one, immediately anterior though, was supposed to be a false tooth through and through. Even falser, if that can be said, than a crown. Do they fix false teeth nowadays? As if they were real? Has our condition of partial cyborgs come so far as to have us treat the artificial parts in our bodies just like we treat the organic ones? These questions troubled me for two weeks; I shared them with visiting friends, who came to think one simple thought. I must have a very incompetent dentist.

Yet I knew this not to be the case. The woman dentist who takes care of us at the moment was an engineer, among other things; I do regard her very highly and, in spite of her young age, I trust her. The only explanation remained for me that artificial parts are prone to decay, in other words, that they behave not unlike the organic ones.

Before my next appointment I happened upon another perplexing story, this time of a friend, who has been in analysis for many years and still is. Upon returning from her summer holiday, at the very outset of the first visit, she remarked that the armchair, in which she had been sitting for most of the previous year, once she migrated from the couch to the seated position, had been changed. She sat in it, found it less comfortable than the one before it, and wondered aloud, in the direction of her analyst, one of the most respected, well known figures on the North American psychoanalytic scene: how come he had decided to change the old chair with this one? She kept to herself the thought that this, new armchair, being in fact just as old and rather ragged looking as the old one, lacked in comfort by comparison. The replacement seemed therefore hardly justified.

The good analyst replied,  casually at first, that he had done no such thing as changing chairs. That this was the chair that had always been there, from the beginning. Surprised and slightly confused by the denial, my friend insisted. How could he tell her that this was the same chair, tell it to her, who had sat in the old thing for the better part of the year, week in week out, three to four times a week, as he would have it? She, who, as he knew quite well, took some pride in her faculty of observation, she who looked closely at things, noticing carefully their placement and various qualities, she who had a memory of some repute, put to test and reaffirmed through years of training in her field, which, in fact, requires a flawless ability to remember and reproduce, just as much as the flawless capacity to tell things apart? The true from the false, with a very small margin for error?

Indeed, having recognized all these assertions to be true, the analyst decided to enquire further into the matter. Could she tell him more about the "old" chair? What did it look like? How was it different from the "new"? And how did it compare with the numerous chairs rushing now through the open doors of memory, invading the office, overflowing with sentiment musty of distant past? To which question my friend gave him an extensive, detailed answer, going from the size and color, to the rocking qualities, shape of the arms, feel to the touch, all of which made the two chairs if not vastly, at least definitely different. The analyst had to leave his own well protected seat, behind the desk, and come in the open, near the analysand seated on the chair under question, in order to point out the various details which made of this, here chair, a mature, well used, well weathered object, well scratched and therefore hardly deserving, indeed, of the trouble of having to replace another old, well used chair. Point at which my friend started, as expected, to wonder about her own mental process, and the spell under which she felt she had maybe fallen, in this unexplainable and yet so real syndrome of "the other chair".

Even if, to me, the decisive proof that she was not mistaken, that something had changed, lied in the affirmation that, while the old chair would have allowed her to curl up, to comfortably nest by bringing her legs underneath, had she chosen to do so, which she of course never did, but could have, if she ever wanted, the new chair was too tight to allow for that would-be comfort.

In the dentist's chair I was wondering how I would bring about the topic of my molar's mistaken identity. At first my lovely dentist did not quite get my point. I opened my mouth and showed her: see? That smallish, well-distinguishable grey patch? No no no no. What are you saying? It is the last molar we worked on the last time. But you didn’t. Look.

Of course, she did not need to look. And at that very moment, while talking to her, I remembered the words of the other dentist, the arcane torturer who, almost ten years ago, had put the implant in. The grey patch in case of emergency. If there's a need to get in there. In case something goes wrong. A way in.

The pictures of the procedure of two weeks ago were brought up on the computer screen and there it was: the last molar, half way through the process, gaping sorrowfully, and at the end. The filling so shiny, softly white and pristine. Almost invisible. You must forgive me, I said, I have a bit of a neurosis these days. My dog Rocky has two equally broken, probably equally painful upper molars, the largest and more useful of his teeth. They also show cavities, and as we have found out, they have to be extracted. And I do not quite trust the vigor or the competency of the man who will have to carry out that momentous task, a new vet of whom I know close to nothing.

It is not the first time I identify with my dogs' misfortune. Of course. Does it matter, whether those broken teeth are theirs, or mine?

June 26, what about your dreams

The day before the interview I did not feel good. Weak, tired in spite of the kind weather I had yearned for for so long, a sunny fresh spring. I did not feel I was going to be able to take the train to the city the next day, as promised.

Behind the expression of commiseration, a thin but tenacious nuance of disappointment made itself felt in her voice. Appointments are set three and four weeks in advance. Rescheduling is extremely difficult. "You are very tired though, aren't you."

I suggested we do it by phone. I had dreaded a two hour phone interview, yet something had to be done, and we left the appointment stand for the next day.

I prepared by printing the letter I had sent in a while ago, which contained the names of all the medications I take, and why; all the health care providers I see or have seen, why, when, upon whose recommendation. Turned out to be a rather long document which covered the last two years. I brought to the interview room a bottle of water and a few mandarines, although I did not think I was going to eat. I took my medication two hours early. And acting on an impulse I did not think through, neither tried to explain, went to the bathroom to fetch some tissues. Thankfully Luba was there, cleaning. She said, take the whole box. I hesitated and refused, why would I, in fact, need any? I did not have the slightest idea what automatism had made me seek any at all.

The voice at the other end young but thankfully not very young. Thirty something. Nice manner. Used to doing this kind of thing, that is, experienced in dealing with the distraught academic client. Not an easy thing, she admitted from the beginning, this attempt to accommodate the return to work for those whose work is made of 40% of one thing, 40% of another, and 20% of another thing yet. Even insurance companies know this is three jobs in one. While the employer's, that is, the university's strong point, is not flexibility.

This conversation was not going to be about the state of my health. That topic is somebody else's domain. It is the responsibility of the person I talk to every once in a while, she who wants to know if I'm better. "Oh good." Her voice struggles with depression, or despondency, or pure lack of interest, I'm not sure. It takes me some effort to abstain from recommending that she herself seek professional help. (It is not because one works for an insurance company that one is doing better than the rest of the lot.)

This inquiry, or rather interrogation, was to be about dreams. Regardless of the so called medical reality of my condition, and abstraction made of our respective positions, perfect strangers to each other of course, between whom one is to pour out her soul on the confessional mode, while the other, to take notes, literally: in the best of worlds, how do you dream yourself to be, what do you dream to do, from now on?

I have always disliked hypothetical talk. In the classroom it is often the preferred method of demonstration of this or that possibility. "Let's suppose that...". Abstract, non committed reasoning, always disembodied, always indifferent of what things feel or are like. To ask what my dream of the future may be, presupposes that speaking about the future is an easy topic of conversation; after all, why not, we're just speaking, just in case it comes to that. I resent this approach, it has many faults, but the most glaring is the lack of awareness of what an illness like mine does to the concept of future itself.

Of course we understand that it all had to do with my returning to work. I told my young interrogator that, had she called to take my pulse six months ago, I would have said, excitedly almost, yes, by all means, let me go back to my job. It just so happens that in the meantime, for the past few months, I have been going to the city. That allowed me to rediscover, if at a very slow pace, what I might and might not be able to do.

It is one thing to go to Toronto for two days every two weeks, in order to seek therapy; another, to actually go there to work. Not to speak about the fundamental requirement intrinsic to the act of teaching young people. The seventeen to thirty something, mostly inquiring minds, as they are branded, sons and daughters of privilege mostly, are here to discover wonders hidden under the proverbial stone - such things do exist indeed - wonders unveiled by the magic wand of an at once enthusiastic, optimistic, energetic and laid back instructor. The instructor's task, to mainly, wittily, entertain. The students' expectations, quite the opposite of being confronted by a middle aged woman who has just met with some of life's nastier accidents. I did not have, I continued, the emotional stability required by such a demand any longer. Even in the course of this interview, I chocked when faced with the most innocuous of questions: "So then, you came to U of T in 2002?" Or, "do you like your job?"

Can I explain why I such easy questions would bring me to tears? Can I explain what those past ten years mean, in the context of my professional life? What liking your job means, after having spent more than thirty years to become sufficiently qualified?

There is something fundamentally perverse in the presupposition that, while on disability, the employee is to employ herself at getting better, so that she may resume her life from the point where, quite abruptly, she left it. Falling off and out of the normal trajectory came to me, to us, as a powerful, unforgiving and sudden accident. With this fall, something was lost that I cannot, no matter how much I would like to, go find again, intact, waiting to be grasped. Of course, there is some understanding that the work I would be doing should accommodate my present, diminished condition. Yet everybody in the industry, as they call it, knows that the academic profession suffers very little accommodation. It suffers excess under the form of overdoing, but not of underdoing things. University abhors underachievers. Apparently, much more than many other jobs. Hard to know how that is, considering how so much of the current public opinion sees these teaching positions as plum jobs. Do many other professions require quite this much training? Not many. But in a culture which does not privilege learning, the question is not only irrelevant, it is of no interest.

This is another discussion altogether, though. Here the more scary part: if you are deemed able to work, but no accommodation can be arranged with your employer, the kind academia lets go of you so you may seek employment elsewhere. I suggested selling shoes was not an option, having done that already, when I was a student in search of better things.

Thankfully, the conversation did lead to an answer on my part. What I want, I said, and I know this to be true, and not a reaction to the barrage of questions, is to keep being just as I am now. I want to be as I am, keep doing what I do. A year and a half ago I did not dare hope I was going to be here, and yet here I am.  I can only be grateful for what I have received and only wish to hold on to these lovely new days for a while. If, from the point of view of the employer, it means retirement, than that is what I want. In fact, in a not too distant past, I had even put a number on it: 61. In those days I was still part of the plan according to which, when to leave and make room for the many young people waiting in line, would be my decision.

My interrogator was somewhat surprised, yet, as soon as I put the word retirement on it, agreed with my position: what is lost is lost, we cannot go back and recover it.  Getting better can only mean, essentially, finding a way of life which will accept that something irreversible has happened. The accommodation cannot, and should not come from the employer, but first, from the one who has, at the hands of life, known loss.

June 19, Lavandula

I have finished this still life on June 19, the day after the events I describe in "what about your dreams". I do not know to what extent that conversation helped me finish this particular work, but I do know clearly it was a day of great energy and relief. Somehow that interview brought my ambivalence to a hopeful resolution.

June 14, the touch of friendship

I am trying to understand what has changed around me while so many things have changed within. I have often, particularly during those long winter nights, considered the friendships which are alive and still tie me to so many people I love; and the withered friendships, which have little by little dried out and sometimes simply died. To which, to my enchantment, I must add those friendships which were hibernating but have come to new life over the last couple of years.

With those close to me, with whom I speak often about such matters, I exchange regretful thoughts about the lost bonds. Most everybody suffers, usually in secret, the loss of a friend who has stopped calling, or is too busy and has little time to spare, either because of work or family obligations. I have myself been there. For years, because of work, I did neglect those who did not belong to the same sphere. Meanwhile, I admired people who knew how to nourish friendships other than the working relationship with which they are often confused.

My mother had eight siblings, six sisters and two brothers. Back home, she had few friends, and thought she could only have few, given the close bond to her sisters. Once we came to Canada, she made friends, of very different ages and occupations, both women and men. She had the gift of receiving people and giving them the attention they needed, the love they did not find elsewhere. She was sought after to the point of never feeling lonely. She would have been appalled to know that I have chosen to live in the country. In solitude, that is. The means of communication we have now, including this blog, were not available in her day. But more importantly, she was not a person of words, but of touch. Of smile. And kiss. All that cannot happen on the keyboard, no matter how hard we try.

I am maybe beginning to answer the implicit opening question of this note. It is certainly possible to keep friends by corresponding with them, and what a lovely thing it is, when that happens. But friendship without touch, what kind is it?

I will go so far as to say that it has been the friendships where touch was not possible which have died first.

I know it is one of my favorite topics, that of the feeling of well being imparted by those who lay their hands on us. A few professions, less and less frequent, allow for that still. Definitely not the medical profession any longer, regardless of the lost benefits of such contact. But nowadays we have gone so far as to refrain from shaking hands for fear of contagion, and how sad it is to have this permanent, never breached distance between people who never find out what it feels like, to hold the hand of another, or to kiss another's cheek. An uncle of mine used to tell the story of my mother's younger years, when she was still childless. She used to stop strangers, women with children in their arms, on the street, and kiss their children. Stop them in order to give the stranger child a kiss. Considering how lovely she was, I am sure nobody minded, except to say that she obviously needed her own to hold and caress. But can you imagine that kind of a scene today? Here and now? The least you would expect is outrage and accusations of physical abuse, if not mental disturbance.

Maybe this is why nobody knows how to hold and kiss those who are not directly, that is legally, entitled to such treatment. And yes, I did have, in my time, friends whom I held and kissed in spite of themselves, and yes, because it was against their habit or wish, I believe I did end up loosing them.

I do not mean to say that this is why those friendships withered. Not at all. I am sure that graver, more important reasons (if such a thing exists) lead to it. But I dare say that I could have predicted that severance, had I cared to, in the days when all was still well. They say you cannot force a person to love you. Maybe the same is true of people's tolerance for affectionate gestures.

There is, of course, touch without affection.

We had to go to Kingston again the other day, for a visit with the hematologist.

The day was glorious. We trust our heads in the fresh, windy sun, happy to finally meet with a good day while in that lakeshore town. Colin was taking one of his days off, those reserved for doctors' appointments. We had found out the address of a place which offers a few varieties of vegetarian and vegan burgers. Imagine! Not one, but a few kinds to choose from! We were impressed and promised to return.

It is odd to utter these words when taking leave of any doctor, but particularly of an oncologist: see you soon. Or worse: hope to see you soon. One would rather say: farewell. There is one oncologist, the radiologist, whom I like to see often. The hematologist, much less.

That is maybe why we had not seen him in a year and a half. He was gruff when entering the room, for of course something had gone wrong and we had fallen by the side-road of the system. This is a very competent researcher, who does transplants, the last and latest in myeloma treatment options. I still hope I will not have to belong to his group of research subjects. Yet of course I very well might.

He informed us we were there to ascertain whether myeloma had advanced, spread elsewhere. Of course we knew why we were there, but that matters little. To reaffirm that sorry reason was necessary, just in case any trace of the earlier well being remained with us. A lot of blood had been drawn of my arm just before the visit, but of course he had no results to look at, so he looked at one of the last reports in the chart, and for a while seemed to fall in a trance. As if an enormous problem had taken hold of him and he could not even breathe under its spell. As if speechless.

I watched him very closely, and so did Colin. Later Colin would say that he had probably drawn a blank. It happens. Yet we all came somewhat diminished from that spell, quite the opposite of an angel's passing. Imagine one of those powerful silences before a revelation. In this case, we were left with apprehension and a sense of the meaninglessness of it all.

Do you want to see me in three weeks or three months? You guessed, I chose the three months. If things are indeed found to be as we hope, if the myeloma has not multiplied, these tests will hopefully be enough to keep us away from him until september.

He recommended another full body X-ray, or bone scan. The technician was a very young Asian man, of mild manner and barely perceptible smile. He had me placed for the twelve views with most care, just like in the old days, when you went for that important, one in a decade memento of your life stages. When the photographer took great pains to have you look your best. Look as if in the direction of a desirable object lost in the distance, or as if thoughtful; press your shoulders back; incline, or hold your head high; smile, or not, according to the state of your teeth.

While in this camera obscura, the X-ray technician, unwillingly of course, had me think about my present topic, touch. He held firm and with no hesitation oriented my head, my shoulders, my arms. He repositioned my hips, pushed my shoulder blades together, time and again checked for the waist line on whose placement the alignment of the rest of the body relies. When we were done, another memento of the state of my bones, from head to toe, was obtained, on whose clarity so much depends for the next while.

A witness for a mere ten minutes he was, for sure, a very distant witness, but whose touch I have to trust. We have gotten so used to snapshots, that friendship herself begins to look, at length, like those old, half yellow half effaced photographs. We are resigned to loosing even those who have accompanied us for a long while, and nod accordingly: yes indeed, there's an end to everything, it is in the order of things. Nothing to regret. Nothing to be nostalgic about. After all, who cares about those old photographs any longer, which tried so hard to show you in your best light, which tried to make you look lovable, so somebody would want to call you their friend?

June 1, what feels good

A day I awaited with so much anticipation and yet a day which did not start well. By 6 in the morning, Ben was barking his 'I am bored' bark. 'I want you to come down' bark. 'I have something to show you.' 'I have done something I am not sure about.' 'On the one paw I might have done something wrong, on the other, I am super excited  because what I have done will certainly elicit a rise of you guys.'
 

I came wobbling down the stairs and took a comprehensive look at the lower ground. This one was about shoes. Or rather, slippers. The last ones Ben has halved were John's, Colin's father. We offered temporary replacement. John was a good sport about it. Right now the situation a bit icy. Colin loves his clogs. They're one item he cares about and should put away at night before going to bed, given past experiences with objects of all kinds: feather pillows (3), blankets (2), oranges, bread, just finished and ready to eat salads, pens, pins, screws, cushion buttons, rugs, pet brushes, plastic bags, plastic containers, pretty much anything that happens to be near his nose while he's waiting for us to appear from the upper floors where we please to hide at night, behind the dog metal gate which, of course, has been chewed on too.

Colin was not too upset. On the bright side it was maybe time for a new pair of such comfortable, foot imprint-on-the-insole kind of clogs. While making the second round of lattes, I realized that Ben's bark had awakened me from a dream where I was trying on a couple of exquisite summer, walk-on-the-water sandals, from the store a friend had just opened, or, rather, was trying to open soon.

By the time we got to the yoga factory the day had declared itself, soft and humid. In the driveway three poppies in full bloom said a cheerful hello, while the lilacs, already loosing the grapes of their youth, were sleeping in.

We carried our respective mats, a bit thicker and softer than yoga asceticism would require. Mine having been laid a few more times than Colin's, which is brand new. We have bought his in Montreal, a few months ago, when, after visiting with friends, we happened to stop by the Forum, on our way out of the city. Looking for pastries, as I usually am when we leave any city at all. We had decided to do yoga together at home. And what a good omen, that that yoga mat should come from a place Colin worshipped as a child. Since not much is left of that universe, but a bronze statue in the midst of what looks like a void waiting to be filled, derelict and sad.

The session, two hours long; the asanas responded to my description of Colin's more present and pressing aura of need: he is the one who carries three men on his shoulders, three male colleagues, who, irrespective of their material weight, may at times weigh quite heavy on his sleepless nights.

In spite of that, it was the figure of the child which played in my mind during our practice together. Within that space, I am usually in the presence of women. And since I do not know them, I try to be discreet and look in their direction as little as possible. It is a kind of privacy I appreciate in this group practice. With Colin though, of course, it felt very different. It is exhilarating to be doing something we had never done together before. Couples who have lived together for a long time know what I am speaking of. It is one of the secrets of a lasting couple, to invent new things to do, and, of course, new things to talk about. Not always easy. And I am not speaking of high degrees of danger, exoticism or eccentricity either. I know of women who would love to have their partners partake in their yoga practice. For the men, it is close to impossible to accede to this simple yet so meaningful demand. I do not pretend to know what makes it difficult for them. But I will admit it was with an extreme and grateful surprise that I heard Colin say yes. 'Do you accede to your spouse's demand, that you shall go with her once a week,  to practice yoga, in illness and in health? Yes, I do.' That's pretty much how it felt.

Of course I realized quite early that I would not be able to direct him in his practice at home, let alone both of us. Those are skills I would have yet to acquire.

Going back to the figure which playfully occupied me during this first session, the figure of the child. It appeared to me that this practice, at least in its beginning stages, has a lot to do with how children employ their bodies, manner which they are forced to renounce as they
become adults. And I doubt it is only a question of easy transposition. Making the names of the asanas accessible in English, as they say. The fact is, in yoga, one is brought to recall many of the positions one practiced naturally as a child. As Karen, our instructor, puts it so well, and often: whatever feels good, whatever feels right. It feels good to lay on your back and take hold of your feet, or toes, while bringing your knees close to your chest. It is rightfully called 'happy child', even if in translation or transposition only. It feels good to lay on your knees, face down, cheek on the mat, arms by the sides of your head, bum up. This bum up, face down, which we so rarely do just for fun, when not searching for an earring lost under the bed, where do you go to practice as a way of freeing yourself of whatever you carry on your shoulders? Where do you dare thread one arm under the other, while laying on your face and knees, bum up? Both our dogs, on the other paw, know all about it.

Children, dogs, cats, warriors, trees, bows and arrows, bridges, and yes, the corpse, all come to brighten your day. And there, in the aptly called yoga factory, you are allowed to make of the bum up, head down, arms hanging loose whichever way feels good, a purpose in itself. It was, of course, a special delight to have Colin there with me. His wide hockey player shoulders turning, slowly, to the left and then to the right, long, straight arms perfectly parallel to the ceiling, or to the sky, torso gracefully sustaining a lighter head, for once only attentive to the unhurried rhythm of his breath. Spine long, eyes gazing softly, stealing a glance in my direction now and then, like school children amused by their secret plan to shyly behave. 

And then we laid down for the last asana, that of the Shava. While Karen's voice was reciting all the places, along the body, which our breath should visit, embrace and release, a bird, maybe a robin, was chanting her own privilege outside. Clear and distinct bird calls addressed to the fortunate day. We answered Namaste in return. Somehow, it felt utterly right to do yoga in the country: barefooted, and attentive to our dog's early example of doing what feels good. Oh! that trustworthy destroyer of all those worldly, comfortable, material things!

May 20, mellow yellow

they call me mellow yellow

The other day, just before finishing this painting, I showed it to my cousin Stela who replied, nostalgically: "I wish we were having coffee together right now."

This still life is therefore about the pleasures of conversation while drinking coffee together. We bought two of these cups in 2003 on the Danforth. That Provence store has closed many years ago, yet the precious cups served faithfully and still accompany us in our most cherished morning ritual.

May 17, the invisible woman

A frequent and justified complaint of "women of a certain age" is the fact that, at some point in the maturing process, they become invisible. It is particularly the regret of those for whom looking good, being admired and courted, however innocently, was a customary experience of youth. Those who used, upon entering the proverbial room, to be taken note of and hopefully spoken to. In other words, those who neither enjoyed nor preferred the anonymity of being one of the crowd.

The day comes, for most of us, when entering a room, from the restaurant, to the Future Shop, to the garage, ceases to be a comfortable activity. Catching the eye of the waiter, of the sales person, of the mechanic, be they man or woman, becomes a challenge. After a few such trials, the woman undergoing them finally, painfully realizes she has entered the ranks of the invisible. It takes another few years to actually get used to this condition and thoroughly forget how things used to be. Fortunately this act of forgetting is quite thorough, a process of amnesia smoothing over the pleasures one secretly harbored when one was taken note of.

There is one parallel experience to that of having a remarkable or remarked exterior appearance. It is that of speaking with an accent. That is, speaking with some approximation the language of the land, and particularly of that land immigrants have somehow chosen to avoid. That is true especially if one is not a visible minority. For her the surprise of the addressee shows its full weight. Yet the comparison between striking appearance and accented speech stops here. For nothing pleasant can emanate from people who seem to suffer physically when exposed to words pronounced in a different manner than the one they are used to.

One of my aunts, whose 92 birthday is tomorrow, warned my father early. I was probably not yet 14 when she told my father his daughter liked to be looked at. Not that he needed warning. Curiously enough though, my father, the very soul of  Balkan paternal rigor, was not exactly displeased with this form of theatricality. While his right of veto was brought to bear upon most, if not all things a 14 year old girl would like to do, he was not against miniskirts, high platform shoes, light blue sunglasses which he himself procured for me on the black market. He took some pride in those jealous gazes coming in my direction from one and all. And since he allowed for so few liberties, I grabbed this one with both hands and run with it.

During my now customary visits to Toronto, I like to take the subway and people watch. The other day a woman let me know she liked my gloves. She then looked me over and said my glasses were to her liking also, as well as my skirt. Finally, the whole outfit agreed with her esthetic judgement. Had I done that on purpose? Yes, I said, although caught by surprise by a question which normally would have me burst out laughing. Of course I had done it on purpose. All right, she retorted, it was all right to do such things. Her meaning, I suppose, that it was all right to spend one's time thinking about matters of little import like these.

From the corner of my eye I appraised her after, trying to figure her out too. About my age, maybe a bit older, carefully but conservatively dressed. It is almost a rule, that I get compliments from conservatively attired women, those who let me know, one way or another, that they would like to take such liberties as I do with their outward appearance, but of course cannot. For serious people with problems on their mind, it is out of question.

A few minutes later, still intrigued, she came back asking where I had bought those gloves I was wearing. Brown with white polka dots, driving gloves. Was I using them for driving? Yes. They come from Boston. And the skirt? It is German. The glasses? They're French, but I bought them right here in Toronto. All these items come from somewhere, of course, it used to be a habit of mine, in the days when I was traveling, to buy certain things which would remind me of the pleasure of that particular voyage. (I will not say that particular conference, although that may be true too.) Right, she finished, while stepping out the door of the train, but Boston, which she had visited a long time ago, was a city she did not like. People there were not friendly, maybe because of ethnic rifts.

I refrained from analyzing this last remark and in the evening, looking at the events of the day, I texted Colin and asked why it was that women only declared their liking for my outward appearance and not men? Colin's answer: men were afraid such a gesture would be taken for an uncalled for advance.

The next day I took the train in the opposite direction. I was carrying some bags and when a seat presented itself I took it quickly. As soon as I sat down the man to my right looked me straight in the eye, smiled and said something, at the same time as I smiled back and excused myself, calling the bag I was carrying by its name: Leonidas chocolates. Because he was rather heavy set, I had automatically taken for granted that he, of the kind smile, would like chocolates.

Very soon though I realized his comment had to do with my glasses. I thanked him and he pursued: one has to acknowledge every day what one admires. In a beautiful turn of phrase I unfortunately cannot quite reproduce. I felt fortunate to be his object of admiration on this day and sat quiet and slightly mesmerized. He was reading a book on loan from the library. Was casually dressed and  did not have, as I said already, the body of an ambitious young man, but rather, of a middle aged who spends many hours either at a desk, or reading.

I could not not expose to him, in a few words, the other day's conundrum. That, insofar as chance encounters are concerned, for a long time now, and until I met him, it had been women only who had given me the gift of a compliment. He answered right away, as if prepared, and, with the same gentle yet quite more animated expression, said simply that men were cowards. And added that my smile was even more lovely than my glasses. After which his station came up, and we said good bye.

Yet, what felt particularly good in these ephemeral encounters was the fact that neither of these two strangers was surprised or befuddled to hear me speak as I do. They did not retreat in shock upon hearing my speech, as if too close to the mouth of a fire blower, reaction I have become accustomed to provoke here in the Hastings county. Neither were they confused by the riddle of my words. They understood what I said and were at ease with continuing the conversation, I dare say even regretful to abandon it, without asking those questions which people who do not befriend the immigrant species feel compelled to ask. Like for instance: how come, that after more than thirty years in Canada, you still have such a thick accent?

Let us say that the thick accent, and the unusual combination of disparate articles of clothing, belong together. It has been somewhat of an awakening, to meet these people who, in different ways, exercised their duty, compulsively or self-imposed, to express admiration when an object engaged them. I have wondered whether I myself could not follow the lesson of my unknown bookish friend, and try to do the same as consistently as my courage will allow me.