Packing to Move to the Unknown

I am packing to move in six months – or more.  I’m crazy.  I know.

I don’t even know where we’re going.  I mean, I know which city.  We plan to open our own business in a city closer to his young boys, from his previous marriage.  But I don’t know what our address will be.

But I still can’t bear it.  There is logic in packing now.

  1. At my current job, I can get many, many, excellent packing boxes for free.
  2. For the next six months, my husband will be picking me up after work every day, so I have a way to get these boxes home without annoying all the other commuters on a bus.  After six months, my husband will be moving away to start a business in another city, where he will live with is parents temporarily.  I may go with him immediately but, more likely, I will follow him in the subsequent months.  That means that, if I wait to pack, I’ll be bringing those bloody boxes home on the bus.
  3. My husband goes out to that future city every second week, to bring his boys for their weekend visit.  This is a 5 hour round-trip, meaning my husband drives 20-30 hours each month, barring summer holiday traffic, which adds an extra hour each way in the summer.  (We’re definitely moving.)  His parents live in the same city so he can start ferrying out our packed boxes to that new city over the next six months.  I don’t need all my tchotchkes, extra linens, or to even put up a Christmas tree this year.  Let’s move it on out.

But, logic aside, I am not invested in this beautiful little heavenly flat anymore.  I am still so thankful for it, but I know a journey awaits and I want to embark.  I stare at the end of the living room with it’s mound of packed throw cushions and sheet music and books and I say to my husband, “It’s like Christmas!!”

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Feeding Ted

I have a new way to be useful in life.

I feed Ted.

Ted is a man in his nineties.  He still wears his glasses, even though he “Can’t see a damned thing” and I have to holler in his ear every time the spoon heads towards his mouth.  “Open!”

He lives in a neighbourhood nursing home and they struggle to have enough volunteers to get the residents fed in decent time.  (Cold porridge is the worst – yuck!)  It’s especially tricky to get people who are able and willing to come in for breakfast time on a weekday.

I have the good fortune to be available and in the neighbourhood and, unlike so many of my peers who find it “gross”, I’m not uncomfortable feeding adults.

It’s intimate.  It’s forced intimacy between two strangers.  Ted is in a position of vulnerability and, honestly, so am I.  On the first day I wondered how I’d get so much soft and liquefied food to his mouth without making a mess all over his face (I worried less about the giant bib).  Today I joked with him that I’ve worked my way down to half a napkin instead of the four, sodden serviettes I went through on that first day.

But, as the days pass, I learn how to raise my voice in a still “conversational” tone.  I’ve learned what music Ted likes and we talk about the weather.  He can still feel the heat wave even though he hasn’t set foot outside in, possibly, years.  But he often asks me where he is.  He’s asked me where his teeth have gone.  When he’s left alone, before finally dozing off in his wheelchair, he may cry out, “Hello?  Help!  Where am I?  How do I get out of here?  Help me!”  Before lamenting, “Nobody cares.  Nobody cares.”

I love Ted.  He is a fellow human being with whom I have a unique connection.  We tread the same, dusty, well worn path from the cradle to the grave, Ted and I.  At half his age and having grown up in a different part of the city, the likelihood of my ever having met Ted is pretty slim.  The odds of my sharing such intimacies with him are even less likely.

I know people don’t fully understand that I am getting more out of this than he is – or at least, I think so.  It is such an honour, I feel, to be able to serve another human being, in their frailty, in such a practical way.

I am so grateful for this beautiful opportunity.

“Trying”

What,

Really,

is more beautiful than “Trying”?

I mean really trying.

Not just saying, “I’ll try.”

I mean, seeing someone “Succeed” is beautiful, yes.

But it’s beautiful because of the effort.

Because of the journey.  The story.

Because of the trying.

And what of the countless multitude

Trying and trying and trying

Day in and day out

For nothing?

Well – not “Nothing”.

For the right to have Hope.

Isn’t that something?

Isn’t that the most beautiful and terrible thing?

That’s the kind of “Trying” that I am learning to revere.

Womb-less

They took out my womb on Tuesday.

Sounds like the beginning of a terrible, ol’ style country and western song.

I got to keep my ovaries.  So I’ll still have great hair and be a horndog for awhile longer.  Glad about that.

Now I get another 7 weeks and 1 day off.  I’m interested in how that will be.

Tonight I wouldn’t say I feel the pain more acutely, but I am more aware of the wound than ever.  I feel as though I can feel how deep the wound is, which I’ve never been able to say before.  The whole area has just been a tender bruise.  But, tonight, I feel specifics.  I fear possibly feeling individual stitches.  Yick.  Anyhow, just very present to the incision.  Interesting.

Looking Up

I was actually kind of glad to be back to work today.  I haven’t quite gotten comfortable in this job yet, having only been here since November 28th and finding it SOOOOO different from what I’m used to in the industry.  Nevertheless, my cold has been mostly in check, without the need for doping up on over the counter meds, and it’s been a pretty good day.

Here are some things that made me happy today…

  1. Having my 23-year-old colleague tell me that any time I mention my husband, I seem like I am a young girl rather than a 45-year-old woman.
  2. Getting a seat on the subway on the way home from work.
  3. Seeing the smile on a client’s face when they got their hearing aids today.  He’s a homeless fellow and we had to get welfare coverage for his hearing aids but we did it!  I think he’s as happy that anybody gives a darn about him as he is about hearing well again.
  4. Earning some respect in my workplace.  It feels good.  Usually I go for wanting to be liked but, for some reason, my spidey senses are telling me to play it differently this time.  Respect will be key to my success in this new role.
  5. My hubby is giddy and playful today.  He’s in a good place.  I am so attracted to him when he’s happy.

Looking Up

It’s a New Year.  A clean slate.  As every day is, really.  But there is something profound about both this day and, for me, my own birthday.  They are both “New Years” and both feel full of promise for the future and mercy for the past – even the past as close as the night before.  All is forgiven and I can begin again.

I am thankful for that.  And what else?

  1. I am thankful that, as I lie here in my second-hand flanel sheets (bought from a thrift shop – I love flanel), coughing and sputtering all over myself until my head aches, that I have clean, cool running water a mere few steps away.  What a soothing balm over the last few days as I’ve succumbed to a dreadful cold.
  2. I am thankful that I am back in touch with my family.  I haven’t been able to say that for a few years.  I am thankful that my brother’s death, like his life, was not for nothing.  My step father always said that my brother was “the glue” or “The Godfather” than held our family together.  The tragic loss of him has certainly proved that statement true.  Out of respect for him, we’ve laid down our swords and are doing our best to simply love one another.
  3. I am thankful that I have a husband that is really second to none.  Our love transforms the others weaknesses into strengths.  Through my husbands eyes, I see all my previously perceived flaws and foibles as blessings and powers.  Through my eyes, my husbands suspicions that he is unique, special, and meant for something wonderful are all affirmed.  What more could one ask for?  (I just phoned him at his mom’s to read this to him  and he said, “That’s beautiful, baby.”  😀 )
  4. I am so, ridiculously thankful for books!  Books, books, books!  Biographies and fiction and self-help and spiritual books.  All of them.  I love, love, love to read books.  I have had a great year of books.  I wonder what I’ll read this year.
  5. I am thankful for my creativity, which I have pressed into more in my forties than I ever did before.  Probably for a couple of reasons.  First, I am less of a perfectionist than I was in my youth.  I don’t need to be the best painter, writer, drawer, sculptor, decorator, etc.  I just want to have some fun.  Second, I have had four years of stability, which is a record for me.  When you are with the same mate, living in the same place for awhile, you can afford to start accumulating brushes and paints and beads and papers and things and you can set them out for awhile while you work over days or weeks and it’s no big deal, because you’re not going to have any major relationship upheaval that means packing and purging things that are not necessitities and junking half formed projects and moving on to who knows where.

Overheard at Home: Nemeses

Overheard at home while watching Dwight play “Second Life” on “The Office”

“Do you think we’d ever meet in an RPG (role player game)?  Do you think we’d be drawn to each other like we were in real life?  I’ll bet, if we met, we wouldn’t even recognize each other.  In a virtual world we’d be extremes of ourselves that we’d never reveal in real life.  I’d as likely be your nemesis as your lover.  I’d rather be your nemesis than a stranger.  That’s for sure.  Just remember that if you ever think of breaking up with me.  Hehehehe…”

*FYI – Not actually “Psycho Ex-Girlfriend Material”

Looking Up

I used to keep a gratitude journal.  Every day.  For about five years.  A list of five things I am grateful for that day.  But it became a bit routine.  I felt I wasn’t putting my heart into it like I once did.  I wasn’t looking for things that were special in every day, so I could add them to the list.  It became 1) Roof over my head, 2) Clean drinking water, 3) Health, 4) Food in my belly, 5) That my family and friends also have numbers one thru four.

Zzzzzzzzzzzzzzzzz.

So, I stopped.

I have been through four jobs in 2016 – I, who tend to stay at a job until it doesn’t exist anymore.  I’ve gone from fat to fatter.  My depression and anxiety have been on the rise as my confidence has plummeted.  And I can’t help but wonder about the correlation to my giving up on a gratitude journal.  So, whether here or elsewhere, I am going to be keeping that daily list again.

  1. I am thankful that fatness sucks.  That my knees and back start to ache.  That I can’t sleep or breathe easily or comfortably.  I’m thankful for a body that gives me tons of signs that things are not okay.  So that I have no excuse to not make the right choices.  So that I have no way to delude myself when I’m not on the right track.
  2. I am thankful for this job.  It pays much better than such a job should pay.  I really lucked out.  Well – that’s not true.  I should take credit where credit is due.  I am a hard worker, super personable, well organized, and can rock this job.  Thank goodness that I am ending 2016 on this (career) note, rather than one of the earlier, dismal spots I was in.
  3. I am thankful for four days off work, two of them paid days off.  Even though I’ve spent quite a bit of that time sleeping or miserable, I’ve also spent some of it with family and creating (I’m making a totem pole out of paper mache and coffee cans).  A change is as good as a rest, so they say, and I have only a three day work week before my next three days off, one with pay.  Not so bad.  First world luxuries.
  4. I am thankful for Christmas music.  Honestly, even though we don’t do a tree, don’t do gifts, don’t do lights, don’t do much of anything for Christmas, the music is so special.  It hearkens back to my childhood.  It is comforting and encouraging and buoys up my spirit.
  5. I am thankful that it’s not too late to turn some things around.  I’ll never NOT have fatty liver disease, for example.  Once you’ve gone there, you can’t come back.  But I might avoid a heart attack.  It’s all still up in the air.  Like Scrooge after the visit of the Ghost of Christmas Future.  It’s not too late.

Black and Blue on Boxing Day

On Boxing Day, as my husband and his lovely boys have Christmas without me at my in-laws, I’ve had to turn all the radiators off to stop my chocolate and paint smattered oversized tee, stretched out nightie from sticking to my 200+ lb body.  I even had to open the windows.  At least one of them, wide.  It is 9 degrees Celsius outside.

Spring calls to me through winter.  “I’m here my darling.  The days have started getting longer.  I’m coming for you.  Come to meet me.  Come to meet me.  It will be dark for a long while yet.  And cold.  But you can start the long walk to meet me.  Shed your layers of winter blubber.  Hibernate a bit less and less each day.  Turn your weakness to strength and your lethargy to fleetness and, when we meet, we will rise together on the fragrant breeze of newfound hope and glide into the certainty of summer.  Come to me, though you won’t see or scent me for weeks hence.  Come to me with the faith that I will meet you, as I have always done.”

A bit about me…

I’m Caroline Miller.

I speak plainly about the things we’re not supposed to. Depression. Being broke. Anxiety. Bullshit. Being fat. But also I speak plainly about the feeling you get when you pick up an open bottle of dish soap and little, fairy-sized bubbles surprise you, gusting out, everywhere, to delight in rainbow globes by the cheap fluorescent tube light over the kitchen sink. I also speak plainly about how my husband is also my father and my brother and my best friend and my child and my protector and my spellbinder. I speak plainly about what is beautiful, without being bashful about it. And I speak plainly about what is ugly, without being bashful about that either. Or resentful. What is is what is. Hey Presto! Enlightenment.  Elusive and ever present.

Plain-speakers are vilified and deified in our topsy-turvy world, and I have no interest in either but, humbly, like a dumb animal to the slaughter, I will keep being a plain-speaker ‘til I die. Not because I am noble, but because I can’t help it. I’m not worthy of praise for not knuckling under. I’m just too clumsy and mulish to do so. A dangerous combination – both for me and for others who catch my notice.

Some may feel it wise to give a woman space, when she’s clearly having a breakdown.  A wide berth. But don’t look away too often or too long.  My song is your song.  Maybe in a different key.  But they all go together, our songs.  It’s up to us to just keep singing.