LOGG # 110 OUR PARENTS WERE RIGHT AFTER ALL

I was reminded today of what my husband, a rebel in his own life, sadly said years ago when we were in a crises- "parents are always right after all"  As I advance in years I realize more and more an indigestible truth-he was right- parents are always right. I look back over my varied life and my many mistakes and find that many of their shibboleths that I tried to tear down in my youth were right after all. Many very old sayings were often repeated to me by my parents and teachers and they still resonate in my ears as I have a feeling they still do to the young of today. These are some examples of these shibboleths repeated to me in my perceptive youth that I remember trying very hard to ignore -"A penny saved is a penny earned" groan-"A stitch in time saves nine"-"a rolling stone gathers no moss"-who wants moss anyway? "early to bed early to rise" "the early bird gets the worm"???? who wants to eat worms? You can see I was a rebellious youth -and a lazy one. The ones I ignored most of all were the ones for healthy living-"always sleep at least eight hours at night;eat regular meals; breakfast is the most important meal of the day and -another groan-porridge is good for you." In my younger days I was a nurse who favoured odd hours to facilitate my lifestyle.  I was also an artist in my spare hours and as we all know artists lead irregular lives to be able to create so I ignored these words of wisdom too. I ,as you all know, have just  spent a fair amount of time in hospitals as a patient and hospitals are the epitome of good parenthood. Regular meals regular exercise and regular sleeping hours are written in stone but above all is the serving of porridge every morning. As with everything else I did in rehab I agreed to this custom too and every morning, like everyone else, ate my porridge-in my previous life a horrid substance and learned to like it.This is a bit scary as I don't want to completely capitulate to conventional wisdom. Nonetheless here I am on my own -nary a parent in sight- eating porridge every day. I hate to say this but I am feeling healthier and I think I am losing some ounces because of this-I am always optimistic. Am I suggesting that we should always listen to parents, that parents are always right? That the young especially should do so? No of course not! The proper way for them to live is to do just what I did-mostly ignore the wisdom of their parents, make many glorious mistakes, be humbled by them, learn from them thereby creating their own unique life. What the world does not need, especially now, is "cookie cutter" offspring.As the French ,bless their unique hearts say- "vive la differance" So dear readers ,capitulate sometimes, acknowledge the wisdom of your elders sometimes, but always remain true to your unique selves and above all never waste time on regretting past mistakes- they are your true teachers and now listen to your wise blogger  and always eat your porridge-- I can't believe I just said that!

ODE TO ABERDEEN # 2 AND A NICELY TURNED ANKLE

I am happy to report I have been promoted to 100% weight bearing -my broken ankle is mending beautifully and resembles the ankle it once was and I am grateful. The loss of the ability to use my ankle due to  breakage was devastating but what hurt as much was the appearance  of my new ankle. I have always been pleased with my ankles-having what was called in Mid Victorian Era "a finely turned ankle" and I am  sorry to confess that I was shamelessly mourning this loss. My ankle was grotesquely swollen , the foot badly formed,the shin and calf bruised in many colours and the skin scaly. My nicely turned ankle was no more.The Victorians knew what they were about when they emphasized the ankles- There was nothing more provocative than watching an elegant lady descending from a carriage,lifting her skirts a few inches and exposing a finely turned ankle.This turned heads.Indeed exposure of ankles and legs was so powerful that it started the practice of covering chair legs in material and the covering of -horror-piano legs. Every era has a different idea of what is sexually provocative. We all know what the emphasis was in the 1950's and the less said about that the better. The sixties was all about  mini skirts and the "leg men" were in heaven watching those long limbed British girls on Barnaby street in London. The emphasis in the eighties was on long luxurious hair being provocatively flung about  and of course the midriff and belly button were worshiped in the nineties   but the Victorians had all these eras beat and the best part is that a finely turned ankle remains a finely turned  ankle even with the passing of years-so now you know why I mourned the loss of my fine ankle and was so pleased to see it finely turned again.This blogg is not about ankles really-this was just to draw you in. The real reason is my promise to write my Ode to Aberdeen #2- not an ode but a prose of praise. The praise is for the clients or residents of Aberdeen.The whole time I was there I was awed at the resilience and  spirit of the human being. The average age of the residents was about eighty five-ranging from sixties to a fine lady at a hundred and one. Most were in their late eighties-usually active before disaster struck. The main conversation at table was about the homes they left and, because of the nearness of Christmas-of Christmas past and wishes to get home in time for Christmas present. One could see the knowledge in their eyes that they may not make it but none the less a brave front was put on and cheerfulness presided-very much as if we were indeed on a cruise. It was impressive to see the way everyone helped each other to overcome their disabilities-assisting at mealtime or helping to push the wheelchairs of the more challenged. There was always the possibility that one would not improve and would land up as a permanent resident. In the first week, a resident in a wheelchair asked me what had happened and after telling her I asked the same question-she said  "I broke my hip. It was a beautiful day with sunshine and I just wanted to go for a walk  with my walker and fell and broke my hip. That night in the hospital I fell out of bed and also broke my shoulder. That is why I am here". I was shocked and asked her how long ago this had happened and my blood ran cold when she said "Two years ago-" then as she wheeled away-she said  wistfully"It was such a beautiful day and all I wanted to do was go for a little walk." This then was the unspoken fear and was the impetus for all of us to improve. Every day most turned up for physio and exercises in spite of tiredness or pain or just old age and the bantering and good spirits belied the fact of suffering or doubt and even pride as we fumbled and  tried to follow the physiotherapist. The other thing that impressed me was the over stimulation we were bombarded with-the bright lights , the noise -never being alone-we were in four bed rooms-and the constant interaction with others. Yet I rarely witnessed confrontation  and bad temper.Good humour and politeness was common. The most heartening was the lack of envy as some of us moved ahead to walkers and more independence. The fortunate ones were always greeted with encouraging applause and smiles and not envy.  When I realized I would be home before Christmas I tried to downplay this news but of course there were few secrets at Aberdeen and it was heartwarming to hear the well wishes from everyone as I left. The last thing I want to talk about was my respect for Blackie. Blackie was a scruffy black cat that lived at the rear entrance  of Aberdeen in a three story wooden house complete with heater, steps leading to the next two floors and penthouse. The whole place was festooned with Christmas lights and nativity scene on the balcony.As I exited I was greeted by the sight of my son-in-law standing on a rickety upturned bucket and stringing more lights. Blackie's owner -in wheelchair -told me he had spent over seventy dollars on decorations.Blackie distainfully paced before his house =not impressed.Everyone in the Aberdeen tried to find a way to meet Blackie who with his master has been living there for years.

Blogg # 108-SILVER LININGS AND ODE TO ABERDEEN

Today is finally cloudy and warmer.  I see from my window the frost has disappeared off the wood pile-a nostalgic reminder of my youth on the farm-and there is no blinding sun or blazing white Mt. Baker anymore but there is a silver lining where the  grey sea and  the mountains meet that is beautiful and there are soft lowering grey clouds in the sky. The weather has changed. Festivities are over, people are back at work and I am finally alone-so I can see how well I manage on my own. I made my own breakfast-oatmeal and a piece of dry toast-I am trying to not gain weight and even warmed up left over coffee. I have noticed I feel more vulnerable than before the accident so am being very careful. I also am thinking about the future- how I will change my own living quarters to make it less cluttered when I go home and wondering in trepidation how I will manage there. The vulnerability also extends to feeling I am being  a nuisance here -cluttering up their space with wheelchair and walkers--and also missing contact and conversation with other people. It is interesting that though I love my family and we talk about many things,I cannot forget my role as "Mother or Grandmother" with all that implies,so I am always in that persona. I miss talking to Etta and the other inmates in the rehab-funnily enough -makes it clear that a good place for our sunset years may be in our own place or with other adults and friends .hmmmnnn.  To stop thinking on these negative lines, I started reading Umberto Eco's "The Island of the day before"- it is about a man shipwrecked in the 17th century-it is very fantastical with frightening and strange things which I usually can enjoy but in my vulnerable state I don't think it is wise to continue reading it now. I will choose something lighter and more grounded-maybe a murder mystery. Feeling vulnerable is not a  good way to start the new year. I had better stop  and do my exercises and some drawing-maybe draw the woodpile. As you can see, dear readers, I have progressed well in my rehabilitation and am no longer in the Aberdeen but instead am with my family in their  wheel chair accessible  home and am lucky and happy to be here but surprisingly keep looking back fondly to Aberdeen- hence the "ODE to Aberdeen." Of course I am not a poet-and know it well but will praise it in prose. First one will be to the staff-a very dedicated one-ranging from skilled physiotherapists to nurses, care workers, kitchen and cleaning staff.  They were always cheerful, ready to help us with our needs and we were often needy. I observed them in action for two months and did not hear one impatient word or action in spite of the fact that we often were impatient. These healthy young persons were especially kind in the mornings as they woke us, helped with washing and dressing ourselves,helped us select which clothes we wanted to wear and making sure our hair is attractively combed. One male care worker even used to slip us a wake up coffee while we were washing-he won our hearts. He also looked especially good in the shorts that the male nurses wear. The physiotherapists were skilled and very innovative in solving the real problems we gave them with our various injuries and our other  various disabilities,and the nurses and care workers showed great skill as they handled the various equipment that helped mobilize us. It was always touching to see one of them in the evening cradling one of the oldest permanent residents and gently coaxing her with a few spoonfuls of yogurt for her evening snack. Best of all though was their honest encouragement as we improved-to see their faces light up,giving us thumb up signs as they pass us in the hall as we make our first tentative  steps. The day a resident reaches the desired goal of going home the air is festive as various members of the staff come to wish good luck often with hugs. Also there is a tinge of sadness as  farewells are exchanged for this is the end of an  intense time with much closeness and intimacy.

BLOGG #107 WILL THERE BE A ROMANCE ON THE L.A.P. ABERDEEN ?

When I was a young woman, my friend and I sailed to Europe on an ocean liner.. We sailed out of Montreal down the mighty St Lawrence  at the first spring ice break-up-in April. It was an exciting and hearty and embracing trip.
it took  a week and we certainly enjoyed ourselves toughing it out on the stormy spring sea. As you know-those of you who have been on a ship- the ship resembles a micro cosmos.This fact automatically makes behaviors follow a certain pattern. One has to be reasonably friendly and reasonably polite and there is no doubt that shipboard behavior follows these rules if you want a good trip. The first meal is the crucial meal and the table you are assigned to and table mates with you will reflect the success of your  life on board. Very quickly everyone takes on a persona. There is a lot of speculation, and overt observation of  behaviors and attire. Friendships are cemented, cliques developed  and couples watched for budding romances.As friendships and romances deepen, promises are made to always keep in touch and addresses exchanged which are rarely kept. .Where am I going with this? Frankly I am not sure except that I increasingly am beginning to feel a vivid Deja vieu, a feeling I am on an ocean liner again. The similarities are there. We are confined in a specific space-limited by our challenged mobility -so no escape. We all start on this journey  with an accident, and our destination is all the same-" going home reasonably independent." We are dependent on the Captain of this ship who is the surgeon and the physio-first mate - who have the power to give us "bathroom privileges and other basic needs and the key to freedom-a "pass" outside and eventually  going home. We are assigned to a table-wined  [well not really wined] and dined and all our needs met by a cheerful dedicated staff who are ,poor things , on the same voyage-really very much like stewards on an ocean liner. Great efforts are made to be polite and accommodating under a rather difficult situation. Meal times in particular are trying and a sense of humour essential as our peculiarities are exposed-some of us talk too much-sometimes me-some of us are in ill humour and cross-sometimes me and sometimes some of us try to be the life of the table-also sometimes me-and of course sometimes some of us are seductive with the male staff-never me but definitley"J "who flirts outrageously with the cute male nurses in their shorts and nice long legs..What is the matter with me and everyone else is what I ask myself, exhausted at the end of each meal! Friendships are made and always speculations of an "Aberdinian" romance. A bit of a stretch of the imagination of course as this is the "senior section" and we also all are maimed in one way or another- but romance is romance.A few evenings ago at dusk  while the big storm was raging outside, I wheeled myself  hard up against the window and for a long time watched the lucky pedestrians struggling against the wind and rain.Another inmate in a wheelchair did the same and we both looked and wished to be out there. Then he spoke and talked about his youth when the Aberdeen did not exist and this was "his back yard"-his house was on the ridge opposite and we reminisced as people our age do.Finally we stopped and just looked with longing at the freedom of the pedestrians, wishing for those days when we walked with freedom -a long  mutual communicative moment - a typical "Aberdinian"  spark of what-romance?? well- at least a mutual bond of wistfulness. Sorry-this is the best I can think up about romance on the HMS Aberdeen-and it is more than enough.

Blogg # 107 MY CHRISTMAS GIFT TO YOU

It is the 25th of November, one month before Christmas and here is my Christmas gift.:  "Dreams do really come true" and I have proof of it in my own recent experience. My last blogg "The Bath" was all about my experience with having a bath in Rehab where I am residing at this time. I have had several comments about it , the best from a "wise cracking "reader who said it was good but I should be less literal and make the "Bathlady into something more exciting -maybe a Eunuch'. "Right "I said "in my dreams." this Monday-bath day-I was on the bed with my Star war Boot off doing my ankle exercises when I happened to glance up and saw this handsome young man in surgical greens looking at me with an expectant look on his face. "Yes?" I inquired thinking doctor ,nurse, physio or expert Starwar boot technician. "I am here to give you your bath" he said. Flustered I said I was sorry I forgot it was bathMonday-and asked for a nurse to put on my boot. He calmly said not to worry we had lots of time and wheeled me to the Bath. As he was wrapping my leg with the boot in a plastic bag,I asked him if he was part of the "Bathteam" 'Oh no" he replied." Amy the official bathlady is off  ill. I was called in to take her place.  I am temporary and this is my first day here." I was shocked "You mean this is your first day on the job and they threw you into the Bath room? How many baths do you have to do?" He said there were six but the first two refused . One woman said he was young enough to be his son.-Note: no one on this floor is young enough to have a son-grandson more likely -typical-we will lie about our age.After my boot was wrapped, I was transferred to the high thrown-like commode chair in my nuddies again-sucking in my abdominal muscles as I was wheeled into the shower-we will be vain even under the most ludicrous situations. Once there , I could hear the poor man fumbling through the galoshes, mumbling these are all ladies boots ! Finally galoshed , he entered the shower and hesitated. I took charge. "We start at the top, you shampoo my hair then you hand me the soap and cloth and you are in charge of the shower. This worked fine and I was soon clean and cocooned in a warm flannel sheet. Dry, warm and dressed-I dress quickly can "clock in" in a minute and a half easily- I thanked him and he prettily thanked me and said he was glad I was his first. With a straight face I smiled and with much sangfroid and some relief we wheeled back to my room. In bed I again contemplated on my many and varied experiences and then smiled to myself "What do you know, dreams do come true-no need for fantasy and not a eunuch in site!" 

BLOGG # 106 THE BATH

"The Bath "is one of the favourite themes of artists-both male and female-though admittedly with different aesthetics-the female artists concentrating on mother -child themes -the male artists not so much.. The two main artists that come to mind are of course Degas with his  female bathers voluptiously rendered in glowing pastels contemplatingly washing  in a shallow pan of water an inch deep, or Bonnard's compulsive jewel like paintings of his wife in her bathtub. This is not what this blogg is about.
Two days after my arrival at LAP  rehab center where I am now due to a broken ankle, I was approached by a caregiver in galoshes who said "Hi -I am your bathlady"and looking down at her clipboard said "yes, Monday -Monday at 3pm I will give you your bath"I nodded and said thank you wonderingly .How does one have a bath wearing a bandage three times my entire leg? however I was learning to not question and have faith. Actually with this very capable bathlady one just would not question anything. The next Monday at precisely 3pm , the galosh lady arrived and briskly whisked me to the "Bath Room" . This was a big warm room ,windowless and painted a glowing warm yellow to make it appear warm-it isn't-.In the middle of the room was the bathtub. It was huge impressive and I must say voluptuous.It was gleaming white enamel,tilted up like a boat  and not unlike a 1950's white cadilac convertible.. It had bristling things hanging about it -obviously gadgets to help physically challenged bathers-like me. "O my god " I gasped."Am I going in that?" Of course I wasn't. I was going to be showered in a big corner alcove. First I was stripped , my huge bandaged leg bundled in a plastic bag, then I was firmly and I mean firmly seated on a commode type chair in my nuddies ,told not to move a muscle and wheeled into this alcove where gowned , galoshed and gloved , the bathlady promptly washed me from the tip of my head to my toes. All this time she talked about her hitchhiking  tour in Europe during the seventies ,occasionally interspersed with brisk instructions to lift an arm  etc. I then was moved back into the chilly room and  wrapped in four or five warm towels. Heaven! Then dried, buffed and polished and in clean clothes I was whisked back into my room. This then has been one of the more interesting experiences of my life and so bemused ,I snuggled down in my bed and thought to myself "there are more things in life to experience than can be imagined -Vast is the life we live"

BLOGG # 105 FELLED BY A COMPOST PAIL

If you are living in Victoria or really anywhere in Canada you probably are familiar with the little plastic recycling pail with the biodegradable bag in which you place your compost. The trouble with this new addition is that it doesn't really fit in one's kitchen. It is always in the way and sometimes in sheer frustration one puts it on the floor which is what I did--and that is why I tripped over it and fell.We all are are aware we live with a thin thread connecting us to life and that it can snap off in an instant.Poets constantly remind us of that fact. However the snapping of this fine thread  we presume is usually caused by something dramatic-Terrorist bombing;caught in crossfire bullets etc-certainly I did. What I did not expect was the mundane method I chose. Somehow falling over a bucket lacked elan..  "how pathetic " my nurse said "Change the story, say you fell over a male stripper."  But the truth is all I did was kick the compost bucket and fell- fell like a bowling pin, bouncing and ricocheting around my tiny hallway  until twisting painfully I landed on the floor with a bad broken ankle. The amazing thing is not only did I "kick the bucket" literally but nearly kicked it metaphorically as was explained to me by my  exhausted anaesthetist and my handsome surgeon who said he aged ten years during my surgery.  The problem ,a, rare one, was because of my larynx clamping. My survival I owed to the skill of the anaesthetist. It is disconcerting to hear this explained to me the day after surgery as I felt hale and hearty and somehow it didn't feel real. However what did feel real was a little voice inside me that whispered :A reprieve Laurie -a second chance.  I am now in a rehab .center called LAP . I have yet to find out what that means. The best explanation is from our comedic male nurse who said it meant Los Angeles Police Force-well why not --My life in the past three weeks have been a roller coaster ride so Los Angeles police force sounds just fine.How do I feel about this? I don't know and am too busy recuperating  to care.I share my room with three other mates all in different stages of recovery. I am next to a wonderful huge window overlooking a garden. A delicate tree with lace like branches sparsely covered with autumn leaves ranging from gold to bronze flutter in the breezes. I have been gifted another autumn-my favourite season. Yesterday while I was watching the clouds scudding by a rainbow appeared . It arched across the the entire sky and filled my window, brilliantly lit with all the rainbow colours and I could swear I could see the "pot of gold" at the end of the rainbow. So how do I feel? Grateful.