How I spent my summer vacation – the battles begin

 

Well Gentle Reader,

I told you about the trip home and promised to tell you the rest of the story. I am finally starting to make good on that promise. GenXers are all at that age when we face our ghosts through the end of our parents’ lives. I am not the first nor the last of the people I know to go through this and no two situations are the same. This is just mine.

and so we continue and bring Mom home...

I have finally arrived. It is a grey and miserable and the person with the key to the apartment is out shopping. I had a key to the building and left my suitcases with the neighbour as I unload a bit more and wait for them to return.

 

Tired, hungry, and needing to run errands and settle in before I go to meet with the hospital care coordinator tomorrow, I order some delivery food. Delivery is a luxury I can not do at home. I know confusing first I was calling Ontario home but now I am here Nova Scotia is home. Home is where the heart is they say but my heart is split. I am a child raised surrounded by green fields under thunderstorm skies in big cities. I have grown to love my ocean home too, but I do not have the rocks and pines for my roots or the Nor’easter winds under my wings like those born on the coast do. My whole life has been living in between worlds, daughter of immigrants and looking Caucasian but half of me was olive skinned and familiar with Arabic conversations. Now I live with one foot in the military and one in the civilian world but not completely a part of either.  

 

I called Mom and let her know I am finally here 3 days late and her credit card statement much heftier than it has been in years. She had a bad night early on and is miserable in the hospital. They are short staffed, and the room is cramped and dim. They have not given her a proper shower or brushed her false teeth in 9 days, and she wants to come home. She is spitting nails at them talking over her and not to her. It is definitely pneumonia, and it is aggravating her congestive heart failure but like most things wrong with her it is chronic pain and annoying but not killing her any time soon. She keeps saying she never thought she would live this long. She had a fever episode or bad reaction to something no way to know or maybe it was her witchy side sending her a message but one night while I was trying to get myself here, she had a waking dream full of hallucinations and all she kept saying was Amy is coming and she will get me out of here, she will rescue me. That is my job, the family pit-bull, I do the fighting, I solve the problems, I fix things.

The idea that anyone is telling her she can’t live alone anymore is unfathomable to her. I am standing by her bed trying to pay attention, but I misplaced my cell phone on the way out of her door and I am in a bit of mess trying to figure out a solution as I cannot log into work without it, and I really need what is on the SIM card not just a new phone. It is snowing outside, I had to borrow something of hers as my few bits of winter clothes were needing a wash from the trip making me fidgety as well. We got it settled that the meeting to release her would be the next day and she would have to hang in a bit longer. I went off in search of a new monitor so I could be set up to start work and had a nasty fight with the machine that releases you from hospital parking. Everything seemed to be a fight, and this was rapidly turning into a karmic bad joke or test I needed to pass. If it was a test, it was multiple choice, which have always been the bane of my existence, with no clear-cut right answer to any question.

 

Monitor bought, supplies laid in, especially the magic elixir of coffee, plans in place for what is to happen when, I can finally get a bit of rest before I get to armour up for the next battle. The occupational therapist was an awful woman and a bully. She had no business being in healthcare and I find it hard to believe none of her fellow employees had not reported her to HR for any kind of training related to being a decent human being like compassion or basic manners. I bit my tongue for as long as I could but when she directly scoffed at mother while simultaneously stripping the last of Mom’s dignity, I tossed her from the room with a blast of icy words and threat of formal complaint. I packed up the few things to come home the next afternoon armed with knowledge of how and when this would happen hoping I could get mother out of my vehicle at the other end without incident. We managed somehow although it was a bit of a feat and the coffees I picked up at the drive-thru mostly survived.

 

Safely in her recliner with a decent cup of tea and her tv remote in hand I went back to work for the remainder of the day. I had to hide her walker in the other room so I would not be dealing with any misadventures while I worked, and we seem to be getting off to a decent start. Once again, I was setting myself up for disappointment with my high hopes, but you take the good moments when you find them as they might not come around as often as you would like. She finally ate a decent supper for the first time in months, that is the other thing I do, I feed people. I am the family pit-bull and wishful chef. Somehow that dream slipped through my fingertips when life got in the way. I had to make a choice long ago. As always, I chose what was best for everyone but myself. Martyrdom was built into my genetic code. 

The doldroms and deja vu

The days began to follow one like the other with a routine developing. It was very much like caring for a large mouthy toddler. I had spent years learning to like my mother and she in return seeming to like me back and I was determined not to waste this time fighting with her. Previously I spent a summer caring for her after a heart attack, we had a couple of blow outs one of which I think shone a light on for her.

 

It did not change things completely, but the epiphany certainly had been the start of her understanding why I was the way I was and maybe, just maybe, a little less punishment and a little more appreciation came of it.

After that first day I did not have to brush her false teeth again until near the end and every morning I would make her breakfast, assist with her medications and testing her blood sugars, settle her in for a day of watching out the window in front of the tv. I would have lunch for her at noon, and supper as close to five as humanly possible. On the days I did not work there were errands to run and shopping to do. A PSW came every day to assist with things and fill in the records kept in the large white binder for the nurse or doctor when they came. Mondays and Wednesdays were shower days, every other Thursday was the cleaning lady who bustled around at mach 2 and did laundry. All of them were wonderful, some of them were pretty much family and she knew everything about them, their dogs, their gardens, their children, and other family. One of the PSW’s that had been with her since the beginning was very pregnant with twins and another, I ended up doing her taxes so she could get her provincial medication benefit and continue with her very, very, expensive medication.

 

Spring never did appear, we went from winter snow to tornado and heat warnings, humidity, and green leaves in the blink of the eye. Of course, the one aspect of spring was not skipped, and the budding of the trees put my allergies in over-drive while the chlorine in the water helped my eczema bloom as well. Living in Ontario was always a double-edged sword, my feet swell, my skin revolts, and my eyes run streams of muck. It did not stop me from spending some time in my happy place, the parks. Where she lives there are 3 wonderful parks along the river and I spent as much time as I could there to sooth my soul but it was not as much as my soul needed.

 

We would talk about the news, watch tv together in the evenings and I would help her get to bed each night. The antibiotics for the pneumonia had a nasty affect on her already tenuous gastrointestinal system. I found myself battling the sores she came home from hospital with, one refusing to heal and had flash backs to when my son was an infant. The pneumonia cleared as did the worst of diarrhea, but her strength was not returning. She was determined to get back to where she was, living on her own without constant care and send me back to my life. This idea was obvious to everyone else just a pipe dream and we could not dislodge it from her minds grasp. It was not long before she could not stand without assistance. Up until now I was just a helping hand to keep her stable as she forced her body to bring her to her feet. Now active lifting was required. She refused to use the lift built into her chair, thousands of dollars to have it to help her and yet she stubbornly refused the assistance not until she had no other choice.

 

She was the same with pain medication. After living most of her adult life with chronic pain she had learned to control it but that was not as easy to do now and really at this point fear of opioid addiction was ridiculous Tylenol was the limit of what she would take. It took a great deal of gentle pressure and pleading to get her to take any pain meds and understand this was her life now, there was no going back.

 

Nothing I said sunk in but when one of the other care givers, nurses, or doctor told her then it would - she hated hearing time and again I was right. I learned to hide the growing pain in my left shoulder and was careful not to blow out my right again. I never mentioned the tingling in my left-hand pinky and ring finger. I figured I would get to it later as it was not life threatening and what would we do if I ended up needing more then a few Tylenols myself?

It was bad enough to live with constant caution to not bring home covid to her thus limiting my ventures into the world more and more. Especially now I could not leave her for more then a couple of hours at a time as the water pills meant trips to the bathroom were frequent and her muscle control was all but gone. I could get an extra 45 minutes if the arrival of a PSW coincided with a bathroom trip just right but there were no guarantees they would be there exactly when expected. They were also my biggest option for some connection with the world too, so I looked forward to seeing them as much as she did now.

Time does not always fly 

Time flies when you are having fun and does not when you are not. I was living in a retirement Brigadoon that came out of the mist very early and faded back into the mist later then it should every evening. If I wanted any time to myself I had to be up even early (not likely as I am a creature of the night) or stay up even later. Easy at home but now I have the issue of a small apartment, all the inside doors always open, and even the tiniest light anywhere bothering her. If I went out on the balcony her open window was right there and I would hold my breath as I opened the door and screen then closed them again.

I had not lived this far up in a very long time, the view was beautiful especially at night. The practically perfect straight line of the horizon was not something we have in Nova Scotia. It was something I missed especially when there were fireworks. Living close to a water treatment plant I did not miss though. When the breeze blew from just the right angle, or the air was incredibly (neither happened often but enough) they aromas lofted up the hill to the balcony. Sewage and stagnant water from the evaporation pools hung in the forty degrees air dispersing through the extra 10 degrees of humidex and clung inside your nose. Luckily this was always followed by a shower (even mother nature felt filthy) or rain and a change in the breeze.

The green is greener in Ontario. Fields of milky emerald that rolled like waves in the breeze. Cool dark greens secreted in the trees and pale lime reflecting bright light from the acres of corn. All the colours seem more vivid and bright, sky and Lake Erie shores, sunsets, and velvet nights punctuated by stars. It inspired me to paint again. I needed something to be absorbed by the was mine as I was trapped in the place more and more now. I took art classes from the time I was little now I think about it. Weekends and summers I spent a great deal of time at the library art wing and later the Art Gallery on the river taking classes. I always threw myself into art class at school too every year. I was part of a great experiment in education back then, so I was lucky to get more and keep extras like art and music in grade school while all the other schools bereft of boomer children were downsizing or shutting down. High school I was incredible proud of my port folio and both my teachers the classically trained and the modern professional encouraged me to keep going. But like all good things that came to an end when life got in the way so, I revived it.

 

Some inexpensive water colours (more gouache than water colour) a cheap set of brushes and a pallete and I was back at it. I did not do a lot of water colour before, but I did do acrylic, so this worked out well. I eventually dug into my mother’s magic closet and dug out more items including her travel box / easel.
We call it the magic closet for a few reasons and one day I will tell you all about it. I found myself painting memories of Nova Scotia, flowers from the graveyard, and watching YouTube videos to remind myself all I had forgotten and learn more. Troubleshooting my frustrations and correcting my mistakes and mostly finding exercises to bring back my muscle memory in my hands, eye, creative brain.

And so Dear Reader,

I think it is time to stop here. I have some painting I would like to do and a few chores that really should not be avoided any longer. I will fill in more blanks later as I am able to get them down and coherent. Suffice it to say you should never complain about long boring periods of time. Find a way to fill it and appreciate the quiet because the tornado is coming, it always does.

First one in 35 years 

Motherhood, Mothers, Mother in Laws, Grandmothers

 And so Gentle Reader, we find ourselves once again with Mother’s Day rearing its head, testing our patience, and confusing our emotions. I have knowingly survived 52 years of any or all the above titled mothers to deal with. What a bizarre mind game it was/is.

 

Motherhood

That condition which you find yourself in whether you have given birth, adopted, simply taken in, or been adopted by another person in one of its various states of being, or have a pet.

Those loving people who dedicated themselves to you, or a pet, with unconditional love.

or

Simply found themselves in the state of motherhood and stayed present keeping you alive until you left.

 

Mothers

I am familiar with a few kinds of Mothers as we are all different.

 

Birth Mothers sacrifice their own identity and physical well being to bring you here as a person instead of the parasite you were inside of her. You were using up all her nutrition, brain capacity, and altering her body forever leaving scars in your wake before you came screaming into the harsh light.

While you were there everyone told her horror stories about death and pain and things that will never be the same in not a good way only to finish each story with “It is worth it” and no one believes completely.

 

Even before you are born your mother had to deal with her stomach being public property and every stranger trying to touch her/you. Anyone and everyone cooing and awing or staring trying to decide if she was just fat. She was no longer <insert name here>, she was now the “Little Mother” until she was simply Mom.  Her brain literally shrank and in some countries is considered legally insane until you are born. It is helpful if she has a murder in mind but otherwise not so much. She found herself stuffing awful things in her mouth to satisfy the weird desires masquerading as your nutritional needs which you hormonally demanded.

She thought of all these things over the next few years when you spat food at her, vomited and peed on her, developed rashes & injuries, and woke her up to the point of several years of sleep deprivation. She thought about how for those nine months almost a year of her life, her taste buds were bizarre, morning sickness, her squished and kicked bladder, hemorrhoids, stretch marks, and mostly how preventing sleep is used as a torture in places and it works or drives you mad. Some birth mothers also think about sitz baths and stiches in various places some very delicate and some very dangerous.

 

But now you are here, you may have been adopted, chosen from the litter, or inherited by a relative who is now your parent like or not, or ordered from the surrogate service. You are reeking havoc on the mothers and fathers that now have possession of you.

Fathers have their own day and their own issues many the same once you are a certain size and state of psychosis. Remember a skull is not even fully sealed never mind have a fully functioning frontal lobe for some time. Teenagers are all lizard brained while testing out new and scary personalities. They would rank more as sociopaths at that stage.

 

There are other kinds of mothers too and for them this day is very sad, and they avoid it. My heart goes out to those who have had a child die at any stage of life or motherhood. A parent should never bury a child, the only thing worse is to bury a spouse or partner, someone you have chosen to be with until death preferably your death, much, much, later in life.

Mothers who chose to give up a child to adoption are strong and rational and put themselves last in the decision, and always wonder, always. Mothers who have had an abortion are like this too and their reasons are all sound and good. Yes, they are mothers and yes, it is their business not yours.

Mothers of lost children never give up hope of finding them and are always terrified to find out their child is dead. As long as they are not found they are not dead just lost.

Foster mothers are important too, you are with them briefly or for a long time, you come with baggage and pain and fear often but no belongings.  They have photos and memory books, but they do not have a front row sit to the entire play that is your life.

My Mother 

I have talked to you about my mother before and she is in a category all her own. A conundrum of sorts, a puzzle never truly solved with secrets never known. Every girl struggles with their mother and every son has an adoration for her that becomes something quite amazing in adulthood.  Some girls become best friends with their mothers while some of us never stop feeling her eyes and hearing her voice even when she is not there, and it is not always good.
But I always revered her, and mothers’ day was never forgotten. It is in March in England and the tradition for our family was to give her a special fine china cup and saucer to add to the china-cabinet. I stopped doing this at a certain point and found new things that suited her far better and did not collect dust laden with memories of children lost. She however, made sure on my first mothers’ day I had a cup and saucer. Not fine china for the cabinet but holding a flower arrangement and the card read it was from my infant son.

 

Mother in Laws

They are gift that keeps on giving. Giving you back handed compliments and offers to help or teach you how to do something right, giving you surprises when something happens that feels sincere and maybe just maybe you have finally passed her tests.

As I said before daughters and sons have different relationship with their own mothers and mother in laws are a whole new ball game. That mother that made her daughter crazy all her life and still is source of pain will suddenly turn into a ravaging bear if anyone else but her causes her daughter pain in the slightest. That mother with the adoring son will test you for years and years, never sure you are good enough and always worried you will take her son away for good never to see him again. She is cunning and seems so sweet and helpless. All you can do is stand your ground, remember you have created a new family now that should come first and try your best to sympathise with her until the day (should it ever come) that she considers you one of her own.

 

I have had two mothers in law in my life, the first I will not discuss and the current I am happy to say we have reached détente. It was years in the making and is a delicate thing. It is nice to not feel so much like an orphan now my parents are dead, and I am happy we are at this point.

 

Grandmothers

Wow that is a strange bunch those grandmothers who have been there done that and lived to tell the tale. They fawn over grandchildren and sometime bring up pangs of envy and jealousy in the parents. I am an honourary grandmother and my title is crazy Grandma, so I am not confused with the other 2 bio-Grandmas. I have taken that remarkable boy into my heart and though I do not get to see him often anymore he is never far from me. He also has a brother now that I have never met but he is mine too whether he likes it or not.

 

 

There are other Mothers

I have not mentioned Stepmothers for a couple of reasons. Stepparents are either amazing people or horrid. Most would never realize they are a “step” parent because family is not about blood but how you treat each other. I have lot of examples to work with including a Step Monster of my own. I also have a father that was technically my “step” father but not to us.  He was the father of my heart and one of the last things he ever said to me was “Never let anyone tell you that you were not my daughter or I your father.” Some day I will tell you about him but not today, I have misted up with just the small bit here. Fifteen years since his death and miss him every day and mist up all over again when the memories are too close or vivid.

 

I am a birth mother, a gave a child up for adoption mother, a chose to end a pregnancy mother, an adopted by someone else’s kid a few times over mother, and an “I wish you were my mother” mother.
I was a single mother before I got married and I am an honouary Grandma now I also have pets that are just like children especially now my son has grown up and started his own life. I have friends that chose not to be a mother and that is okay too. For a long while I thought that being a mom was something I was supposed to be. I questioned if I became a mother for me really or other reasons. I am not sure I really was supposed to be a mom, but I took it seriously and did the best I could.
 

I must have done something right because I have a son that has good manners (including table) and a huge kind and giving heart. He is a good man, and he does the right thing even if that is not necessarily right in everyone’s opinion. He thinks for himself, and he questions things instead of blind faith. He also believes in Santa Claus because he knows Santa is simply the image that represents something far greater and can only truly be felt – the spirit of the season. He knows magic is just something science has not explained yet. He loves learning and values knowledge, truth, and facts. He is everything I ever wished for him to be and can only wish for more great things for him in the future.

He may have been a slow starter, but he has a long run ahead of him still and can catch up what he missed.

 

And so Gentle Reader no matter what kind of Mom you have or are or wish you were, you can still be a different kind if you open your heart. Everyone needs a mom; she doesn’t have to be the one you got by accident of your birth. She can be the one you chose, or you can be chosen. Just be the one who listens, does not judge, and knows the past is gone and the here and now matter most. I am also the kind of mom that feeds you full of food you love until you might burst – it is how I tend to express love. Find your language to express love and use it often.

Part II - First Monster Plants then flooding and embarrassment

 

Oh my Lord dear reader it was May a year ago when I promised you the rest of my first Nova Scotia gardening adventure. You must be terribly cross with me if you are even talking to me still.
I will attempt to woo you back with my promised sequel to the Rhododendron that ate Foxpoint.

Part II - Water features are not for starters

The one and only flower bed on the property was living mostly in shade, overgrown, and had the sump pump hose running through it. The hose would jerk and wiggle like an eel on occasion then you had to tromp through the garden to reattach it properly to the basement wall exit hole. It would vomit and belch ground water over whatever part of the lawn or driveway it was pointed at.

 

One sunny late spring day I worked up either enough energy or disgust to tackle it head on. With all my garden tools at hand, a chair to rest in, and some bottled water, I struck out to either revive or kill the garden bed. It certainly could not get any worse. I ripped out weeds, attempted to identify the plants that looked purposely planted and pondered the umpteen amazing finds beneath the surface.  There were 30 year old pop bottles, the original plastic pots some of the plants came in, plastic flowers very faded and mangled, mussel shells, beer caps, broken pottery, hard clay, sandy soil, vermiculite studded potting soil, degenerated red mulch, bulbs about to burst through into unknown plants, spiders the likes of which I had never seen, various curiosities in the form of insects, and the piece de resistance -black flies.

 

Now I am Canadian born but was never much of a camper so I had only been exposed to black flies in the legends and tales of the NFB, or late-night summer horror stories told by guests at BBQ’s. I knew of Northern Ontario black flies as big as hogs that would rip the meat off your bones and laugh as you went insane. All right, this may be a bit of an exaggeration but not to the people who have ever gone camping in Algonquin Park at the wrong time of year, that being when there is no snow.  But Maritime black flies are their evil cousin making the flesh-eating Ontario bird / insect seem like harmless sparrows. These nasty no-see-ums could get through the screen door when it was closed and hermetically sealed at the edges so you can imagine their delight at this silly Upper Canadian in shorts and a t-shirt exposing multitudes of fresh meat for the feasting.

 

I cleaned up the garden after a few days of work but the bugs got nastier with each progressing day. I divided the Hosta I dug up with several hacking downward strokes of the spade blade and unceremoniously dropped it into two new holes and replanted all the tiny bulbs that turned out to be flaming oriental lilies. I scavenged the lawn for all the violets and violas dotted around and scattered packets of mixed seeds for cutting and wildflowers. An epiphany suddenly struck me, the bright idea that I could build a make shift water feature that would put the sump pump to good use too.

 

You see there is one thing that grows better than anything else in Nova Scotia – rocks. I had big ones, small ones, gravelly ones, even boulders. I fitted them together as best I could in an artistic fashion trying to make it look as natural as possible and filling in the gaps with shovels of sand from the mysterious pile I had by the side of the house. It was my masterpiece and at the bottom a small empty pool waiting for the sump pump to fill it from cascading water burbling down the waterfall path I had built. The sump pump hose now securely hidden under a tunnel of rocks perched at the top, I settled in my chair for a break and waited. I imagined how the white violets and violas would look when they had filled in around the rocks, watercress crossed my mind and the mound of dirt that sloped away from my house partially planted and very lopsided suddenly in the bright sun looked like a garden from a glossy magazine. I do not sit still well and shook my head thinking I must have sunstroke with the ridiculous imaginings and check my watch to see how many hours had passed while I waited for the confounded pump to go off, it had been ten minutes.

 

Now I won’t say I am cheap, much preferring the word frugal but the dollar store people know me by name. That year I discovered another dollar store in a nook at the back of a plaza and they had more gardening ‘stuff’ than anyone else. I purchased four rolls of green edging just for this flowerbed and while I was waiting for the pump, I thought I should get back to work and put it in. I really had not been paying much attention to the edging and the waterfall / pool had been very spur of the moment so I got my first lesson in why you preplan everything in the garden. The end result of plans is a happier back, knees, arms, and all those muscles that you only use crawling around in the dirt winging it as you go. 

 

The edging was in tiny rolls that when released became giant snakes of unruly plastic that refused to stay put unless I held it there but my arms are not 25 feet long and I had not made a simple oval curve to the edge of the garden but had to have it dip in the middle didn’t I.  The edging had no feet or little spikes either so first I got a board and mallet and tried hammer it in a bit at a time. Well after about 6 feet the first foot popped out again and then came the hard clay area after was the lawn tightly bound with weeds so it was not getting hammered in at all. At least not with renting a large piece of equipment that would have shattered the edging long before I made a dent in the clay or weeds. Time for plan B, I got the edger and thought I could make a slot all the way round to slide it in. Jumping up and down on the edger furiously and toppling over repeatedly I realized I was not a good substitute for mechanical engineering and got down to dig with my trowel and pulled out the weeds. The narrow trench I dug was too wide at the top and seemed to further enlarge the garden considerable in some places the border became more irregular as I dug around the hardest places and it swerved back and forth but I do not like square edges or perfect geometric shapes in gardens so I decided this was even better. Except now the total linear length I needed of edging was shorter than the roll by a considerably amount. I would have to figure out how to join it at one side. Of course, there was still the edge of my waterfall to deal with, I had not planned on it originally and put it in before the edging and you can guess what came next - Yes, the rebuilding of the rock pile. If edging won’t go into clay, it was certainly not going into granite.

 

Of course, as I am putting the last of the rocks and sand back in place and I am standing dead aim in front of the hose the sump pump finally decides to go off. I had never really paid much attention to it before so I was quite surprised when after a small gurgling I was greeted with a thunderous splash of water forced up and out of a two inch hose and hitting me square in the thighs with ice cold water. I fell back and sitting on the lawn I watched as the water rushed over my rocks not even touching the top and forced rocks and sand out onto the lawn. My pool over-filling and the mud puddle around my butt growing. Up rooted violas floating along and my lovely pool full for a few minutes before it seeped away across the lawn and into dirt.  After a short, stunned, silence, I moved the hose to the other side of the garden and out onto a spot on the lawn. I decided on a dry rock waterfall and really wondered if water features were something I needed just yet. We have never seriously spoken of adding water features since. 

 

How I spent my summer vacation – again

 

 Today is August 23^rd and the summer is almost over. The solstice that marks the change in seasons will be here sooner then it seems, the reminders are already in the air. Everything is still tinted the emerald green of summer but not dappled with glints of pure sunshine now, most days are hazy and damp. Living on a coastline has an impending feeling of something coming over the horizon. Sunny days are appreciated but the Victorian ghost story of mist and mystery is the norm most of the time and it is creeping in.

 

Today also marks the beginning of the end of my summer adventure too. The estate sale people, ones I have never met or even talked to, just texts and photos, not even an email, are right now loading the mess of items and furniture I left behind to be carted off and sold. The last of my legacy, the things not included in the 3,000 pounds I could afford to bring back with me. I am sad and anxious and angry. I know that is a lot of ands and very bad form, but it is how I hear myself saying it sometimes out loud and sometimes in my head but always with the punctuated ands. I would have simply rented a UHaul and carted it all back to my basement, not the hoarder items we found, but the rest. I could have gone through things when my mind was quieter, when I was not frozen or frustrated. I should have already been home not halfway across the country on a misty coastline two years before now. The Navy found a way to make that impossible and so here I am with a pittance of things, the most important things I hope and waiting to see if an auction finds value in the rest.

 

There are many things I have no idea why she kept and there are many more that I would have liked to have kept. There were things I threw away not understanding the value of them until I found the other pieces of it in one of several different places or discovered someone had already tossed away parts not asking first. But they are just things, things can be replaced, things are not memories, holding them does not evoke the memory or hold the key to your past. Things just need to be dusted or should be used and enjoyed. I do not need more things to dust, I would not likely use them, and I did bring what gave me joy as well as things that bring me sorrow. If I discover that the sorrow never goes away, I will find a new home for those things too.

 

In the late spring of the year 2020 at the height of covid restrictions when the fear was new and the unknowns were many, I travelled half-way across the country armed with letters from a doctor and a padre and my determination to go take care of my mother after her heart attack. I also took my son and his key belongings, whatever we could cram into the SUV, and set off to take him to a new life and me to limbo.  He was hoping to go back to college and live somewhere that was not misty, grey, and isolated. He wanted to move away from medieval Canada and into the world again and so he should. He deserved to have a life of his own and chance to make it or mess it up where there are many more opportunities to do so. Some day I will tell you all about the trials and tribulations of being his very proud mother.

 

You see my mother was from the silent generation born in the spring of 1938 to a working-class family in England. In 1950 they came here to Canada with hopes and gumption to build a new life. My mother was the eldest of 3 girls that survived with 3 brothers that saw only briefly the world and past into the light. The family was always a matriarchy, boys were few and prized, girls were dutiful and plentiful. My mother was to be the next head of the family and as I was informed at a young age I would follow after her. Our own mini monarchy.

 

In the late spring of the year 2022 at the beginning of living with covid always in our lives I found myself on the same journey. My mother now 84, having lived with untreated breast cancer for the last 2 years was winding down and my employer was fine with me working remotely still from her home. She was still living alone but with daily PSW visits to help her shower and do daily things, a nurse popped in every couple of weeks and the doctor came by too as required. The cleaning lady was in every other Thursday and neighbours ran the odd errand for her. She had not left the house much since the I left late August of 2020 and not at all after her first covid vaccine. She had a stroke that left her with a walker and a few twitches in 2013, diverticulitis, arthritis, fibromyalgia, bursitis, bad knees, and insulin treated type 2 diabetes. She was tough as nails, stubborn as a mule, and could be as mean as sewer rat or as lovely as angel giving me all the more reason to believe the stories my Great Nan told me that we were descended from the Welsh Fae. But now she had pneumonia, and my planned trip to spend another summer with her was shifted from mid May to April 28^th in a rush out the door after a phone call received early one morning.

 

It took me a couple of days to get organized. I had to get my studded winter tires off the car as they are a no-no to have on soon and I was not going to buy new summer tires once I got there. This caused a chain reaction of events that made things far more complicated on my journey. I had to pack for a few days or weeks of winter slash spring and an Ontario summer of breathing soup humidity and heat, my work gear, and forgot any personal items to entertain myself. I passed off the incomplete items left from my secondary duties, forgot to grab any cash for the road, packed a few snacks and kissed my husband goodbye.

 

I steeled myself up and walked out to my loaded SUV a few hours after my husband came home from a 24-hour duty watch. I was on the road again. I love road trips, meandering along new paths to seek out curious things or end up in wonderful places at joyful events. This was not that kind of road trip. It was lonely even with being able to chat with husband and son and friends along the way by hands free phone when I was not in a dead zone. Being able to listen to only my choices of music between CDs and the rare decent radio station was company too. Every song an old friend of sorts that I belted out the words bopping along making passers by think I was looney.

 

Things were much easier this time, no barricades to traverse at provincial borders, a hotel room instead of sleeping in the car planned, no sharing my snacks with a passenger and the trip was so familiar I had made it countless times before. I did not even require google maps to natter at me until closer to Montreal. Easier should have been a warning sign as nothing ever seems to come easy for me. The universe always demands a price and this time the price was going to be high.

 

At my first stop for gas the interact system was not working for half the banks, and I hopped from station to station until I found one taking electronic payment. I fueled up, relieved my bladder, grabbed enough cash from the ATM for a tank of fuel, had a minor heart attack at the price of gas this trip, and got back on the TransCanada highway munching on crackers with chunks of ham and cheese. Feeling hopeful and positive I had the brilliant idea to gift the tickets I had to a Van Gogh experience to a lovely friend who really would get more then just a look at the art from it. The tickets were a birthday present from my husband and this little glitch of Mom’s pneumonia meant they would go to waste otherwise and I knew something good would come of her taking her daughter. Then the dashboard started lighting up like an evil jack o lantern.

 

First a couple of lights that might just mean a computer reset was in order or it spelled out doom and danger and dollars lots of dollars. I was in the middle of no where, past the point of turning back and late afternoon on a Friday. Trying not to panic I kept going as everything felt fine still and I was pretty comfortable driving the next 3 hours or so to my planned first stop. I had a hotel room and knew the area. For a woman alone on the road it would be safe.

Well one more stop for gas was in order so I did not arrive on fumes or get stuck in the middle of even more no where out of gas and that was when the other lights started to turn up. The computer did not reset, my worst fears came true, and the sensor was blown again. Not a huge deal a couple hundred dollars and an hour should take care of it BUT if I stopped anywhere not level the car could shut off and not restart until it was replaced as this sensor was linked to my ABS brakes, my traction control and my 4WD. I pushed on and got to my hotel that did not notice the late check in note and there was no room at the inn, and a big show at the local casino, and I had no idea if the car would start again – told you big price the universe wanted. Found a room at another motel, called a friend and had a freak out, ordered a pizza, started googling garages to no avail. Nothing was going to be open until Monday morning and with my luck they would all be booked solid. Saturday and Sunday were spent pacing and sleeping too much with a quick call to Mom in the hospital. The nurse assured me that they would not release her until I got there but mostly because she should no longer be living alone and that opened up a whole new world of thoughts in my head.

 

Monday morning, I found someplace first thing and they were great. They also found that my struts were rusted out and the mounts corroded meaning one pothole could have blown a hole through my car and left me dead or dying by the side of the road somewhere. Twelve hundred dollars and 3 hours later I was back on the road again. My cell phone was not picking up any service, I was alone unless I stopped to text as for some reason that still worked and two days behind schedule. I just kept driving. I stopped at a rest stop in Quebec and the coke machine was busted. I am a coke girl, it was so hot under glass in the sun of my travelling fish bowl and I was on my last ounce of mental fortitude. I was ready to admit defeat when the vendor arrived to fill the machines and with his little English and my worse high school French we had a brief animated chat that ended with him handing me a coke and his best wishes like a coca cola commercial come to life. Google maps all set up I headed back out to the highway.

 

Google maps lies, she is a bitch and she lies. I know I set it up for the toll bypass of Montreal and yet there is the only exit for it on my right 4 lanes over and now behind me with a dead stop and accident looming in front. I zipped over to the next exit before I was trapped and sat in an industrial park arguing with google maps. Back to it on my alternate route with it memorized this time and ignoring half the direction from google bitch I looped in and out of the old route practicing what I would say to US border agents if I ended up in New York. Luckily that was not necessary as I would likely still be in a holding cell if I had. The Ontario border crossed and fuel in my tank again along with a Timmies coffee in my hand I contacted the mother-in-law who lived 4 hours shy of my final destination. I considered pushing through to home, Toronto would be easier in the middle of the night, but I am not 20 as my body continually reminds me. I was still only almost healed from a blown right rotator cuff and my left shoulder was screaming at me in sympathy but never received any treatment as I had to rush out the door when I did.

 

It would have been 9 or 10 pm when I arrived, the time change it turns out was still in affect I was not over the QC/ON border only close. The weather alert was not snow and would likely miss me as I was travelling too. The signs along the highway all read clear sailing to each exit and google bitch was being quiet. Once again feeling the worst was over – not a good idea. Delays started popping up on the signs, 15 mins, 20 mins, 29 mins at exit 6 something or other. Google maps started trying to take me down an alternate route in the approaching dark into the wilds of nowhere which did not go well last time. So there I sat, in my SUV, in the approaching dark, with at least 200 tractor trailers stopped dead or creeping forward a few inches at a time. My delay getting longer and longer with each passing minute and the temperature doing odd things with sudden change from hot to cold then large intermittent drops of rain splattering the dust on my windshield. This is when I realize I never did replace the worn windshield wipers and the lightening flashed. Doom, I felt doom, but the single lane closure was over, and the highway opened up just as the skies did and a biblical torrent of rain and darkness erased everything but the taillights of 200 trucks.

 

Locked on to the taillights in front of me a headed from Kingston to Belleville. It is only 80 km to my turn off and then another 20 minutes of dark back country highway. I am already horribly late and not able to travel at full highway speeds with no sign of my biblical storm passing. Thankfully the rain stops at my turn off and google maps is no longer trying to kill or misdirect me, so I pull into my mother-in-law’s driveway in one piece. After a turkey sandwich and bending her poor ears I send her off to bed even though I am so wired for sound that I feel I will never sleep. I message some friends and vent a little and eventually sleep.

 

It is morning and I need to decide whether I creep out without waking her or wait for her to wake up. It is only 4 more hours to the end of this trip, so I wait. I have some breakfast and head on out the door only the have my guts start to churn in a foreboding manner. I make it to the main highway, fill the car, and commit an act in the gas station bathroom that deserved an apology note. Tim Horton’s and TransCanada with no more google maps required to the end in my sights. I few more frustrating and emotional moments but all in all it was not so bad from here on in.

 

It is not really the end it is truly the beginning of a long, long summer.

 Gentle Reader

Sorry I have been absent for so long.

My mother is ill and I can only be so many places at once both in my life and in my head. It is not easy to write or edit when you are required elsewhere often though out the day with no notice.

My family needed me,  for all the flaws we have they love me and I love them and I will always put them first.

I do have somethings on the back burner for you soon. A few humourous and a few serious. I think you can guess what things in the world caught my attention and have gotten under my skin.
If it is any consolation I found painting easier to survive interruptions and will share the first times I have put brush to paper in 26 years with you when I get back here again.

I will be gone for a little while longer but not too long

Enjoy Canada Day for me in the best bbq, fireworks, and beer kind of fashion

 See you soon

So that is how I got this way

Gentle Reader

If you really want to understand yourself go live with your parent again for a while.

Not visit from far away with a start and leave date in advance when everyone is on their best behaviour and can maintain it the whole time
Although I understand for every family the ratio of annoyance to self control is different but in mine the added factor of British descent weights our ratio very heavily to self control




I mean live in their house with their rules and stuff, never having control of the television until they are asleep and they wake early and stay up late and watch far too much weather channel.




I miss my stuff, I miss my routine, I miss my dust bunnies. I miss not be judged for being who I am. I like who I am. I am a triple dipped lollipop of crazy with a light dusting of psycho on a you can't live forever stick.
I have worked very hard to over come bad traits I developed and spent a lot of time trying to dig down to those roots and pull them out, chuck them in the trash bin, and start again. Some of those traits I liked and I kept and have served me well and faithfully in some of the hardest times. Some of them were not as good as they portrayed themselves to be, having some usefulness but also caused damage.

I suppose some people would link my bad traits to a few or all of the seven deadly sins. Pride, gluttony, sloth, covetousness, envy, lust, and wrath lots of wrath. After all why take responsibility for yourself when you can blame a demon for pushing you to sin and get a clean slate with a few Hail Mary's, a rosary, and dirty knees. Yes I was raised Catholic.




When you have been reduced to your teenage self again all the while actually a grown up with all your grown up responsibilities and know all the right social mores but are treated like a partially developed being that is less not equal to the other person you really see a side of yourself you likely buried.
When you are constantly interrupted and talked over and corrected only to be proven right with no apology you really get a good look at yourself as well.

Do you simply swallow it either with another glass of alcohol or a handful of tums? Do you eat it with an entire chocolate cake you might also throw up or simply savour the guilt? Do you suddenly find the need for pain killers well beyond the suggested max dose all day? Do you find a way to sleep though it and secretly wish you were not waking up?

GenX didn't have a mental health system, we barely had parents, but we did have a great love of trial and error. We learned to fix any problem, please every adult, keep our heads down and suck it up. We were all waiting for the day we could call the shots out in the open not sneaking around. For many of us we did our own parenting, there were a few guidelines set out for us no setting fires, stay out of the liquor cabinet, don't get pregnant, and be home by depending on your age sometime between the streetlights coming on and midnight (it increased incrementally as you successful completed another year of school). We didn't age, we didn't set goals beyond Saturday night, and we had zero expectations for our lives it seemed a waste of time.




If you have ever watched some of those 80's movies either slasher films at summer camp or rebellious going to dance anyway or the incredibly popular nerds triumph over jocks themes all had a suspicious lack of adults. The few adults that might be present were caricatures or the villain to be outsmarted and beaten. I am not sure if I should tell you this but they were far closer to documentaries than entertainment. Don't believe? Go watch the 2020 documentary Class Action Park directed by Seth Porges and Chris Charles Scott III.

I guess what I am trying to say gentle reader is it can open your eyes if they have not been already. Giving your power to someone is far easier than most realise. We do it every day unintentionally and when you are trapped in close quarters with the ultimate authority figure from your life, the person you are tied to from start to finish, and yes it even goes beyond their death and lasts until yours, that shield you built melts away and your power drains and you hate yourself for it.

Ever aha moment that made you better, stronger, helped your self worth turns against you into a pile of doubt and frustration and silence. The whispers in your brain say: Don't talk back, Respect your elders, What do you know you are just a child, Do as I say not as I do, Grow up stop crying, It is not like you broke a bone, Pull yourself up by your bootstraps and get on with it. They go on and on they are relentless all the adages and sage advise from wise elders that didn't have a clue where you were all day, who you were with or what you did. As long as they were not called to the school no police appeared on the doorstep and the house was still standing it was all fine. You just had to show up for school, get a passing grade at least, and only come in the house for meals and after dark. Worse case scenario there was always your room to hide in and live inside your mind thanks to books - we had access to the world through books - no internet.



I also realized how proud I am of the generation I had a hand in raising for not falling into the same trap. They are standing up to their jailers. The power brokers that won't raise the minimum wage but gouge the hell out of every necessity of life, prices rise, portfolios bulge, and the average person struggles while being fed excuse after excuse and being told "If you didn't buy a coffee everyday and learned to budget you would be fine - it is your fault"
We would have just put our heads down, swallowed our wrath and kept going. I guess we are to blame for the current state of things as much as anybody. We sang songs about not going to take it but we did, we took it. We settled for the hand me downs from the boomers, the leftovers, the scraps from their table and we lived in our dreams and self medicated our pain.
But not our kids they are saying NO and they will live in abject poverty if they have to but on their own terms. They would rather scrape by then live a soul sucking existence in worship of the almighty dollar. They know their worth and they are demanding it.



Try to remember you cannot be upset with how your offspring turns out if you took no part in raising them.



We lived where the wild things are catching frogs and climbing trees until puberty hit, then we were the wild things no fear, no hope, just surviving.
We survived well beyond our expectations and now we are a little lost and we keep recreating ourselves until we find the right fit. But deep inside we are still those fearless tinkerers, those trial and error fixers, we are unchaining ourselves from the please everyone keep your head down habits, we are not just surviving anymore we are learning to live like we once did, with wild abandon and insatiable appetites for adventure and joy.



Gorge yourself on life gentle reader
Until we next meet

My own personal groundhog day

Here I am again, somehow sucked back in time a few decades and no way out.

As you have guessed from the GenX I lived through the last time Russia (USSR then) threw a tantrum and got twitchy near the big red button. I lived through Roe vs Wade the first time. I lived through Reganomics and inflation just like we have right now. I also lived through my mother until I left home a little sooner than originally planned, slightly unexpectedly but it was a matter of personal survival.

If I wanted to survive as an individual entity I had to leave the cube. (For those of you that are not trekkies it is a Borg reference.)

That is right I gave up half my ability to earn an income, luckily I can keep the other half remotely, and drove 1990 kms again to come stay in  a two bedroom apartment to care for my elderly mother. This is not the first time and in spite how everyone was acting it doesn't look like it will be the last time either.
I suppose a little background might make this easier on you. I left home after finishing Grade 12. I could not force myself to do the last 4 courses required for my Grade 13. My mother was very adamant about the rules as long as I was in school it was one thing but not in school I was a tenant which is fair - she took 10 percent of each pay cheque. But I was not really a tenant as all the other rules of my mother's house still applied including the curfew and Victorian expectations of my overall existence. Do not confuse these rules with raising me that I was expected to do myself. So I went out into the world with my best friend and we had a wild ride.

The 70's I was old enough to know important things were going on but too young to fully understand the ramifications or have any control of anything. In my lifetime women fought for and eventually gained some ground for personal autonomy and financial rights.  The 70's were a time of huge change the US had Roe v Wade and we had Canadian Equal Credit Act.

Roe v Wade particularly strikes a chord with me, I am the poster child for pro choice. A teen pregnancy that chose adoption but was given the option for abortion, raised a son as a single parent starting in my late 20's, had an abortion, married late in life resulting in more procreation decisions and choices. The Canadian legalities around abortion are as clear as mud but far safer and deeper entrenched thanks to our Charter of Rights and Freedoms.

The 80's I lived in a two bedroom apartment with my mother and eventually a bungalow house with Mom and Dad (he was my step dad technically but that is another story - he was Dad).
My mother's best friend was also an immigrant to Canada but while my mother spent her childhood ducking German bombs "Aunt" Ilse was ducking Allied ones. Aunt Ilse told us of when the Berlin wall went up and one day she left Canada and returned to Germany - it was less than a year later the wall came down and she was there for that too - that always stuck with me.

I have been well off, middle class, on the edge of poverty, on welfare, and stable but teetering on the brink of financial disaster in my life. I have made bad choices, failed to see the future coming at me like a freight train, and lived for today because tomorrow was not promised. I know when I did it to myself or outside forces contributed to my current state. Currently it is not our fault, the US is in the death throws of serious change and the world is going along for the ride as the USA circles the drain. 

And so it begins again

I tend to live the existential existence of always being 20 something in my mind - because who wants to get old really? We are all going to die might as well enjoy what we have while we have it. But old is inevitable, bodies break down and heart conditions and cancers creep up on you and one day you find yourself driving 1990 kms to live again in a two bedroom apartment with your mother while Russia tries to recapture the good old days of the Soviet Union and a handful of very old very rich men in the US panic that they are finally losing control and try to stuff the genie back into the bottle with fear.

I did this once before - late April 2020 - while having a diagnostic test for cancer Mom decided to have a heart attack. So I packed up somethings, and drove across Covid ravaged Canada to come stay for 3 months. Unlike the stroke several years before I was told this time. Mom decided to tell everyone I didn't care so they were not allowed to let me know about the stroke. Like good little boy scouts the orders were obeyed. No one bothered to inquire as to why I was incommunicado for the most part - for all they new I was finally dead, took that plunge, or had disappeared inside my mind and never came back out. But I sure got an earful about how awful I was. We do not acknowledge or discuss weakness in my family especially if it does not involve x rays or diagnostic tests.

This trip was not the same as the last in so many ways. First off, turns out it could have been prevented. Secondly it was forced to move up from a planned trip by two weeks on zero notice. Thirdly the universe tried to hold me back and I didn't listen. 
I quickly packed a few things trying to figure out how to be prepared for winter, spring, and summer weather all in the same day that would eventually turn into an Ontario summer with the least amount of items and from what currently fit after 2 years of covid house arrest and eating. For those of you that have never been to Ontario in summer it means breathing soup for days on end and being basted in sweat like a roasting turkey.

My husband had duty watch the day before I was to leave so gone for 24 hours and it left me to deal with it all on my own. Not a big problem but certainly not something I was as used to anymore. The mechanic fell down on the job, yes he changed my studded tires out for the summer ones but failed to notice my shocks rotted through. In addition, some guy waiting on his own car being attended to decided to help out with mine. I never said anything, my mind was not at its best and that was the tire behind which the sensor controlling my ABS and traction control linked to my hilltop start and 4WD drive failed at the point of no turning back.

Half the banks had issues with their systems the day I left and I forgot to grab any cash. My first stop for gas 3 hours and 294 km into this journey was cash only. So I hopped to the next one and prayed a little.  They had a different system and with a full tank, cash in my purse, and feeling much better I set off on what should have been an easy 4 hour drive to my first rest stop.

Nope that is when the sensor lit up my dashboard, first ABS and then traction control. Not the first time one of these sensors failed so I was partially prepared after all it might just need a computer reset. The other things were not going off and it still felt okay, the lights were solid not flashing and I had road side assistance. Hope springs eternal as they say and I was already beyond civilization approaching 4 pm on a Saturday in the middle of nowhere NB. Hope was all I had going for me. Watching my gas I realized my final destination was going to be rolled into on fumes so best stop one last time. That is when the hilltop assist start and the 4WD drive decided to inform me they were no longer available until I got them a new sensor. Well no turning back now onwards I go watching for the lights to start flashing and I get to my hotel.

I did not take my bags in right away - not sure why but that feeling was there so I listened. Sure as fate no room at the inn. My late check in was missed my room was gone and I was possibly screwed. Limping along I did get to a hotel that would take me in. 
After a small panic slash frustration attack and personal pity party I got some food and made a plan A and a plan B. If you do not have a plan B then you really never had a plan A my Dad always taught me. Well there was nothing in the way of a mechanic available Sunday so extending my stay another day and sleeping pretty much all of Sunday I got up twitchy and called mechanics. The Gods and Goddesses smiled on me, I checked out and carefully drove to the mechanic who after 3.5 hours and $1,200 got me back on the road. He noticed the shocks and yes it was that sensor and I can't thank him enough.

Back on the road and cell phone refusing to pick up a tower for a call but strangely allowing me to text I decided to top up the gas tank and hit the road and periodically try my phone until it got its act together. I was in QC and I had faithfully confirmed 3 times that google maps was using the toll road around Montreal. I was feeling much better and glad I had decided not to push through with lights on my dashboard only to die by the side of the highway in a foreign province. The hospital had confirmed that they would keep Mom until I got there to dig a hole big enough for her. Yes it is a joke and yes it was bantered about between me and the hospital and no I did not dig it.

Well we are approaching where I should be exiting for the toll road and a quick glance at google maps makes me think something is not right. I look up to see auto route 30 Ontario sign - the only exit from previous experience - slide by 3 lanes to my right and dead stop traffic ahead. Insert several foul words here. I jump off, possible scaring a few drivers behind me, into an industrial park and have a fight with google maps. Eventually I do get to my toll road - farther along then I would have liked and after getting an interesting tour of a part of Montreal I have never seen while narrowly escaping a trip to see US border patrol and explaining no I do not have a passport and no I had not intention of trying to enter NY state and trust me I really dislike the thought of being in your country send me back now.

You can take the girl out of Ontario but

As I cross the QC / ON border a wave of relief washes over me. I stop in familiar Bainsville at the ever popular Enroute for a timmies, some gas and a chance to get the circulation in my ass back. I am rejuvenated and thinking I could get the rest of the way at this point sometime after midnite is a great time to go through Toronto. I have only been driving for 6 or 7 hours at this point and I only have 6 more hours to go. Better judgement stepped in and I texted my mother in law - I am only 3.5 hours away google maps says can I stay with you tonite? I should be there 9:30 or 10:30 at the latest.

Yeah 3.5 hours - google maps lies - but that is not news to me at this point and yet I still believed her.

I am cheerfully driving along enjoying the drastic difference between a have and a have not province, drinking in the colours and smells of an agricultural province instead of one made of rocks and trees and crashing ocean waves. The constant signs informing me traffic is moving well to exit whatever and knowing I am in the home stretch of what feels like the longest trip I have ever taken. But google starts to chatter about optional routes and the electronic signs are warning of delays ahead 28 minutes at exit 666, then 29 minutes, 31 minutes and it is dusk soon to be dark and we come to a stop.

Just me and some 200 or so tractor trailors and the odd car sitting and occasionally rolling forward for 45 minutes until we squeeze 1 by 1 through a very short span of highway down to one lane. Well I am going to be a little later than planned but still not bad I gave a big window with that hour or did I? I am in a different time zone now and the clock in the car is still ADT or AST whichever one you end up in when you spring forward, google is what ever time she feels being at the moment, and I have completely lost track of when I started anything never mind how long it has been. The smattering of rain didn't last and the end of lane reduction is in sight so we are good. At least I think so.

The severe weather warning was about to be no longer a warning but an event. Lightening pulsed in the sky which opened into a torrential downpour like you only get in Ontario when the temperatures are starting to rise. I really should have made sure those new windshield wipers I ordered in December made it onto the car.  The highway also opened up but all I can see is black and taillights. No idea where the road meets the shoulder and barely any idea which lane or lanes I am in. Eighty-five kms of following the taillights and passing the paranoid at less than average highway speeds puts me at my turn off well past my expected arrival time. The skies clear and I am now careening down a county highway around curves and without signs or much in the way of landmarks in the pitch dark to a place I have never driven to and only been a passenger twice before. Found it.

My poor mother in law she was getting worried and sleepy and I show up wired for sound and stressed out. She feeds me a turkey sandwich and listens to my babbling before I insist she go to bed at 1 am. I finally drift off by 2 am. In the morning I am up at 7 and know I need to hit the road but I don't want to sneak out the door leaving a note or wake her up so I wait. She is up in a bit makes me breakfast and I know I am behind schedule but part of me wanted to stay where I was, it is peaceful and lovely and there are horses.

I gas up at the 401, good old familiar 401, and my gastro intestinal system commits a crime in a PetroCan washroom. I really should send them an apology note. A spin thru the timmies drive thru and I am on my way. Thinking Toronto and the construction are going to leave me stuck crawling along for horrid expanses of travel I came prepared with snacks and beverages but not too much beverage as there are no convenient places to stop and pee from New Castle to Cambridge. But I am home and the Gods and Goddesses are still smiling and I breeze thru to Cambridge for some gas, a quick change of  shirt and the revival of blood flow to my tush.  

I am not far from the end, I have found a decent radio station, the transports are spaced out now, and the landmarks familiar to the point of evoking emotional responses. This was my stomping grounds for a few decades, I have literally driven some of these roads in my sleep. I pull in and my parking spot is still there, I grab a couple bags and head off to get my apartment key. Everything should be easy peasey right? Nope my keys are with a neighbour who went shopping I can get inot the building I have that key but the apartment key is at Walmart. The superintendent is no where to be found, and I am running out of adrenaline, did I mention it suddenly started snowing?

I do get in eventually and unpacked, I ordered delivery and got some rest. Still lots to do and an appointment at hospital tomorrow.

It is going to be a long summer but it might not be as bad as it feels. On my journey so far I have encountered the kindness of strangers that you only read about in dusty old southern novels and plays. The waitress that broke covid protocol to hand me a box of kleenex, the fellow travelers that offered good wishes and thoughts on mechanics, the vending machine service man that handed me a coke from the broken machine - no charge, the neighbour that let me leave my things inside his door while I hunted down my key, the food delivery men that were company to a lonely traveler if only for a minute or two it means a lot when you know the faster they work the more income they make (been there done that).

I know I am missing so many I met along the way but more than anything there were a couple of people that have no reason to care, they are co workers technically, but have become so much more and they checked in and listened and made me feel not so alone in the world.

My husband was there on the phone too, but as a Navy wife with far too many long deployments and operational gremlin incidents under my belt, I am grateful for that but it is not the same. We are a team that functions as well apart as together and it is how we are designed - to never have to count on each other except in the knowledge that I will keep our lives intact until he gets home and he will do everything he can to get home and not worry about us while he is doing his job. This reverse deployment where he stays home and I am away is like that.

So Gentle Reader I have bent your ear long enough
I got here in one piece
and so my endless repetitive days soon really begin

Until next week