The Ninth Life

My cat died tonight. He was 17. He had been mine for 16 1/2 years.

The way it happened was all of a sudden. He'd always been in good health. I guess that's usually the best way to go, they say.

I was playing with my son this evening in our front room and I heard my cat fall. I called out to him even though I know he has been deaf the last couple of years. At first I thought he was upstairs but when I discovered him, he was lying at the bottom of the stairs having what looked like an epileptic fit. All four limbs were flailing in different directions and his head was spasming like he was being electrocuted by some invisible cable. My first instinct, of course, was to pick him up and that's just what I did. He continued to flail and make biting movements with his mouth, jerk and spasm in my arms. I wrapped him in a blanket and held him until his body started to slow its movements. His head finally calmed, he started frothing at the mouth a bit and his tongue stuck out involuntarily. But the staccato of spasms gradually ceased until he lay still in my arms, something he has rarely voluntarily done in all the years I've had him.

I called the local animal hospital which, ironically (or not), was the same place I held my golden retriever when he died 16 years ago now. In fact, I ended up tonight in the same room with my cat when he was given his final injection. I felt as though my old dog was waiting there on the other side, my claddagh ring in his mouth, ready to guide this cat to my other kitty who passed away three years ago in June of 2007. They were both very close. Only about a year apart in age.

Life is so strange. We recently moved back to this area and ended up mere blocks away from where I first found this little abandoned, feral kitten. Actually, my twin sister found him. (Thank you, thank you, thank you, sis!) She had been visiting the duplex where I lived and we were painting my bedroom when she spied him outside the second story window. I called the Humane Society to see if anyone had reported missing a tabby kitten. I already had one cat and hadn't planned to have another, but they got along like a house on fire so I kept him.

My head is so full tonight of all the memories I have of him. My heart is full of them. Even in his dotage, he was so patient that I introduced a baby (of all things!) into the last year or so of his life. He was never declawed and had plenty of opportunity (and reason, likely) to protect himself from tail being pulled or ears being tweaked. But he would just strut patiently away from my son as though nothing had happened.

What comes to mind the most are the nights I would talk to him those months following the end of my marriage in January of 2007, especially once my first cat died the following May. He was my sole companion out there in our remote, rural farmhouse. I felt so thankful for his company and his love and affection. It was a lonesome time and a pretty damn emotional year or two that followed.

I think people who've never had a pet sometimes can't fully comprehend how much they become members of your family. How they are sometimes like your "children" (especially when you don't have any children). And my two cats and my dog were very much that for me for many years when I needed little ones to mother and love in that way.

I realized tonight, in conversation with my brother-in-law, that my cat who died today was only born a couple of blocks from here. Maybe he'd sensed that he had come full circle. That he was "home" again. Maybe he felt it was time.

I am very glad I was home when it happened. That I could hold him during the scariest moment of his life. He didn't know he was having a stroke. He didn't know what was happening. The vet explained that one pupil was dilated and the other wasn't. That he had lost function on one side of his body. She said we could wait a day to see how he does, but that he might have other seizures and, having witnessed him go through one today, there was no way in hell I wanted to risk him suffering that again. They left me alone with him for a few minutes and then returned and I held him while they gave him the shot to put him to sleep. They warned me if there is a struggle, as often happens, they would stop the injection and perhaps try another spot. I nodded. They asked me to hold onto the top of his body. I held him very gently. His little paws were crossed over my fingers and I cradled his tiny head in my right hand. He didn't move a muscle while they injected him and they both gasped quietly and said, "Wow, he is so sweet." Even in death, he was a gentleman. So patient and calm. That's how I knew he was telling me it was the right decision. He was ready to go.

Still, it rips your heart open. This is it for me. I know down the road I plan to get a puppy for my son, a companion of his own. Maybe when he's around 7 or 8 years old. But this guy is the last cat I will ever have. The two cats I had, I just can't imagine finding two better than them. I've always been a dog person and I guess I got lucky twice. My luck just isn't always THAT good. Murphy's Law tends to rule the day.

But I have to tell you. This morning. Uncanny. He must have known this would be his last day. When I came downstairs he was lying on the ottoman and turned to look at me. And he looked so beautiful curled up there, I grabbed my camera and took some shots of him.

Now, anyone who's ever photographed animals will tell you it's almost impossible to get a clear, focused shot. They turn their head in one or their tail twitches in another or they start to jump off the couch. They usually end up a complete blur. But he just sat there and let me take some lovely shots of him and then he looked me right in the eye, straight into the lens. Like he knew. Maybe he was saying goodbye and wanted me to have some proper keepsakes of him.

I didn't know they would be the last shots I would take of him. I want to share them with you. Here he is: Setanta.

For weeks now I've been complaining to anyone within earshot that there has not been enough snow to my liking and finally today the skies opened up and the white stuff came down. For good this time. To stay. On the drive home from the vet clinic they were falling as big and heavily as my tears. It's as if he made sure this would happen today. A goodbye gift to comfort me. A balm to my grief. To be blanketed in this way. Pristine, white snow covering everything. A clean slate. A new beginning. A final, perfect farewell.

Goodbye, my furry little guy. Thank you for being such a great cat! Thanks for being so g-d chatty. I loved that you were so talkative, especially when I was otherwise surrounded by silence a good part of the time (even during my marriage). I cherish the years we had on our very own out there on the farm. Just you and me. Thanks for making the good times over the years greater and the hard times easier.

And thanks for being so lovely and patient with my wee Sonshine. I know you were happy for me that I finally had a human baby to mother.

I know Brandy and Zosia are with you now and you're playing and all four limbs are working okay where you are and you can see good as new and you can hear just perfectly, again.

I hope, wherever you are now, you hear this:
I love you and I will miss you. Lots.

xo

The Stronger Sex

Tonight the streets are nearly empty as I stroll him through the shortcut behind the nearby funeral home. We just miss the green light because my feet refuse to do more than shuffle today. This is the time of month I feel so damned sorry for myself, moreso for the little man who wonders why his mama is just not up to par for a few days each month. My cycle began on Friday, the 12th anniversary of the due date of my first pregnancy. I try to imagine having a 12 year old running around me right now. Wow. That would be kinda neato.

The thought inspires a brief smile and peek far above to glimpse twinkling stars and think on my lost babies. Not really lost to me since I hold them close within my heart still. He kicks his legs along with the rhythm of the wheels as they hit the sidewalk cracks. We're on our way to return a late film rental. I was not sure I'd venture out tonight. It's minus 6 celcius and we are completely bundled though Mama cannot walk at her usual fast pace tonight. A pause as I bite my lip against the searing pain of the cramp and accompanying clot which nearly cripple me and we resume the stroll again. Today proved vastly difficult to get out of bed. I think back to before I had him when I would down some tylenol 3s with a glass of water and lie supine in bed with hot water bottle pressed against my insides on these days. Just knock myself out entirely against the pain of it.

No longer can I afford such luxury when it hits. And because I am nursing, no meds either. The entire weekend I move as though under water and he looks at me curiously. What's wrong, Mama? Why aren't you laughing, tickling and giving me spacerocket rides on your feet to swing me above your tummy? Not today, angel. In a few days...

We get home and I bathe him to warm his toes and fingers. He smiles up at me while I read him bedtime stories and cuddle him for his bottlefeed. He does not fight sleep tonight. Perhaps he can sense that I need the break and for this, I am thankful.

Downstairs I begin to tidy. From above my desk, my great-grandmother eyes me, a baby in her lap. She was a teacher who eventually went blind. She had birthed 10 or 11 children, the last 3 during her blindness. My own grandmother, the aforementioned baby, raised a large brood of her own children in Depression-era Ireland. The sink fills as I glance over at the photo of my mother at 17. I consider my own life and how easy I have it. So this line is the core from which I gather my own strength to get through the sorry-ass "hardship" I endure once a month? On the other side of the world, women do almost all the labour while the men sit under trees, drink beer and watch them haul water on their heads, firewood on their backs, children at their hips.

A calendar hangs near the sink and I realize tomorrow is December 6th. Twenty-one years have passed since the massacre at École Polytechnique in Montreal, where a gunman separated the men from the women in an engineering class and shot only the women. Only the women. Because he had applied to the programme himself and was turned down. Because he wondered why women should be allowed to enter a predominantly male programme and he could not? The men in the classroom were asked to leave and they all left. They were young and this man had a gun. A rifle. They had to have heard the shots from outside the classroom, down the hallway as they exited. I wonder how they feel about what happened. I wonder what it is they suffer at having survived the ordeal. Do they suffer? Knowing it was their gender that saved them? I wonder more about the women who were lost. The disbelief, the realization as the first woman is shot that this is it. Their whole lives ahead of them and this bastard is gunning them down.

Tears hit the dishwater and I ask myself just what the fuck do I have to complain about? Cramps? I am alive. I breathe. I have lived through my 30s, am experiencing my 40s. I have known the Joy of loving one Great Love in my life. I have had the pleasure of much laughter and other loves and lovers since. The incomparable ecstasy of carrying a child in my womb. Of giving birth. I have been blessed with motherhood. I work a job I enjoy with good pay and great benefits. I own a beautiful home in which to raise my son. These women had yet to live such wondrous moments in their lives.

I will never forget the day they were killed. That I was the same age as some of them at the time. I recall trying to imagine back then, at 22, having my own life end in such a tragic and hateful way. But I couldn't imagine it. I still cannot at 43.

This guy may have murdered these women, but he was so wrong. We are not the weaker sex. Not only can we do the same work as men do, but no one can destroy our ability to do so even by paying us less, never mind killing us. We can do anything. We are women. We will still defeat any sexist agenda. We will outlive it, even if we are dead. Our names will be read aloud and people will remember us. Young women capable of anything. We are women.

We will not take a rifle and execute others. Such acts are of pure cowardice. We are stronger than that. We can survive even the death rained upon us. We are women.

We can knit and we can do engineering. We can bake pies and calculate Pi algorithms. We can change diapers and policies. We can run classrooms and countries. We can give birth and we can choose not to. We are women. We have the right and the smarts.

I drain the sink. Inside my lower back, two imaginary clenched fists twist its muscles along with my ovaries. But I clean these rooms before I hit the hay. I whisper a small prayer of thanks for having that privilege. For being born a girl. For being the woman I am in the country to which I was born. I am lucky. I am strong. I am woman. Hear me roar, even as I yawn and climb the stairs slowly.

And before I ascend to bath and bed myself, I sit here at this computer and write. And I speak aloud the names of the 14 women whose lives were taken that day in 1989. I light a candle and gather strength from their wisdom, their smiles and all they accomplished in their young lives before they were taken so untimely and tragically from their families, their loves. From us all.

Anne-Marie Edward, 21
Anne-Marie Lemay, 27
Annie St-Arneault, 23
Annie Turcotte, 21
Barbara Daigneault, 22
Barbara Maria Klueznick, 31
Geneviève Bergeron, 21
Hélène Colgan, 23
Maud Haviernick, 29
Maryse Laganière, 25
Maryse Leclair, 23
Nathalie Croteau, 23
Sonia Pelletier, 28
Michele Richard, 21

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Apparently the link I'd included with some bio information is not working properly so I am copying and pasting the bios I found here:

Who They Were

Anne-Marie Edward, 21, was a first year student in chemical engineering. She loved outdoor sports like skiing, diving and riding and was always surrounded with friends.

Anne-Marie Lemay, 27, was a fourth year student in mechanical engineering.

Annie St-Arneault, 23, was a mechanical engineering student from La Tuque, Que., a Laurentian pulp and paper town in the upper St-Maurice river valley. She lived in a small apartment in Montreal. Her friends considered her a fine student. She was killed as she sat listening to a presentation in her last class before graduation. She had a job interview with Alcan Aluminium scheduled for the following day. She had talked about eventually getting married to the man who had been her boyfriend since she was a teenager.

Annie Turcotte, 21, was in her first year student in engineering materials. She lived with her brother in a small apartment near the university. She was described as gentle and athletic - she was a diver and a swimmer. She went into engineering so she could one day help improve the environment.

Barbara Daigneault, 22, was to graduate at the end of the year. She was a teaching assistant for her father Pierre Daigneault, a mechanical engineering professor with the city's other French-language engineering school at the University of Quebec at Montreal.

Barbara Maria Klueznick, 31, was a first-year nursing student. She arrived in Montreal from Poland with her husband in 1987.

Geneviève Bergeron, 21, was a second year scholarship student in civil engineering who could easily have become a musician instead of an engineer. Her friends and family described her as a happy person. On the last day of her life, Genevieve had gone to the school to work on a project with her friends. She played the clarinet and sang in a professional choir. In her spare time she played basketball and swam.

Hélène Colgan, 23, was in her final year of mechanical engineering and planned to take her Master’s degree. She had three job offers and was leaning towards accepting one from a company based near Toronto.

Maud Haviernick, 29, was a second year student in engineering materials, a branch of metallurgy, and a graduate in environmental design from the University of Quebec at Montreal.

Maryse Laganière, 25, was the only non-student killed. She worked in the budget department of the Ecole Polytechnique. She had recently married.

Maryse Leclair, 23, in fourth-year metallurgy, had a year to go before graduation and was one of the top students in the school. She acted in plays in junior college. She was the first victim whose name was known and she was found by her father, Montreal police Lieut. Pierre Leclair.

Nathalie Croteau, 23, was in her final year of mechanical engineering and planned to take a two-week vacation in Cancun, Mexico, with Hélène Colgan at the end of the month.

Sonia Pelletier, 28, was the head of her class and the pride of St-Ulric, Que., her remote birthplace in the Gaspe peninsula. She had five sisters and two brothers. She was to graduate the next day in mechanical engineering and had a job interview lined up for the following week. She was awarded a degree posthumously.

Michele Richard, 21, of Montreal, was in second-year engineering materials. She was presenting a paper with Haviernick when she was killed.
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Music: Annie Lennox, Sisters are Doin' It for Themselves

Listen

The third night in our new home, I hear the police siren. Or an ambulance. Fire truck, maybe. Though, I think I can differentiate. That it took three days surprises me.

Two weeks pass before the patter of mouse in the walls conjures a smirk. Guess if you move from one farmhouse to another, even if it's from a rural to an urban setting, there's no escaping the little creatures. Particularly not as the trees strip themselves bare. We all seek warmth once that happens.

Admittedly, I haven't heard him since.

Tonight is the first night I miss my old farmhouse. Not because of the mouse that kept me company there on and off. Nor because I wish I were back there. I love where we now reside. It's 'cause rain is falling as I lie in bed and type this. My son snores softly in the next room, oblivious to the storm stirring outside. Water droplets hit the roof as hard as they can, but see, this roof isn't made of tin. I sigh.

The wind howls like an injured wolf. In their frames, my bubbled glass rattles. Three or four days ago it was 13 degrees celcius here. A balmy day for late November and highly unusual. Moreso because Vancouver, which generally prides itself as the warmer climate, has been inundated with snow the past week. Mother Nature flipped her eggtimer upside down and reversed the status quo for the moment.

Is that my recycling bouncing all over the front porch? I'm afraid to check in case I get clocked by a can of Guinness. My uncle would have said there are worse ways to die than that, even if it's empty of black gold. My eyes jump to the ceiling as the roof moans. I tell myself hurricanes don't happen in the winter. Of course, in the winter, what happens are snowsqualls. And that is what the weather calls for tonight. That old witch's got one wicked courier service and she's delivering right on time.

One sound I never heard lying in my former abode is car wheels splashing through rain puddles as they pass. Hail showers against the glass, as though some giant is wandering through the streets and hurling tiny pebbles at the second-story windows of homes.

I think about Dorothy. At least I have some red footwear if the house is lifted up into the eye of some tornado. I've traded my rural wellies for something a tad more civilized. Still, I wonder where we'd land?

The tin roof I mourn. Crickets, too. But one sound erases any regret I may feel (and I don't feel much at all about having left my rural habitat). It's one I haven't heard for a decade: the train whistle. My new home is close enough to tracks that when that whistle blows, its haunting notes reach through the panes and caress my cheek, wipe any tears away, touch my lips. Close my lids.

I am lulled to sleep as the train rolls through town and its wheels meet the small space that divides each separate rail. Cli-clack. Cli-clack. Cli-clack.

My grandfather on my father's side drove trains all around Ireland. The love of them is in my blood, I guess. Passed down through the genes. Trains are the sound of home to me. As though it's my heart the engineer opens and shovels coal into, stoking the flames higher. Despite hail, sleet, snowsquall, mice, we are safe. We are cozy. We are home now. Finally, my body surrenders to slumber.

"Goodnight," whisper the train wheels as they kiss the steel.

"Sleep tight, sleep tight, sleep tight. So long..."

Goodnight.

Music: Gordon Lightfoot, Canadian Railroad Trilogy

Savage Breast

A friend of mine constantly astounds me by posting music I fall in love with immediately. This morning, for instance, I learn that snow is falling in Vancouver and I open facebook and this person has posted, once again, an amazing band I've never heard. I give the song a listen and am flooded with feeling. Feelings. I cry and I can't tell you if it's from sorrow or joy. But likely it's both. For me, they tend to emote simultaneously.

And moments like that are few and far between these days. I mean, Life is busy, but in my heart I know they're few and far between because I try not to go there anymore these days. To open that part of myself and let those feelings flood me the way they do. The way they are doing right now.

Just, occasionally, I cannot help it if I listen to some song. It only takes one little song sometimes. Music has such power.

The day after we moved, I bought my son a wooden xylophone. For his first birthday, I bought him a little drum. I want to surround him with instruments as he's growing so that if he's in any way inclined, maybe he will take a real interest in it. He already shows great interest. One of the playlists I created months ago is simply called Spring. Either the songs have something to do with that season or they evoke the season for me. The first song in the playlist is by an amazing artist called Sufjan Stevens. It's got a long title: Concerning the UFO Landing Near Highland, Illinois.

wings of desire

Well, just about every time I start that playlist and Sufjan's song begins, my son beams the widest smile imaginable. Suddenly he stops whatever he is doing. He looks at me and bares all of his teeth and he has at least 12 pearly whites now. Unbelievable. What he does then is he bends his knees a little and he starts to bob up and down and after he bobs up and down for a bit, he begins to sway his head from side to side like he's a jazz musician. Sometimes, swear to God, he closes his eyes. He REALLY gets into it. He dances through the whole song like he's in a trance.

This particular tune never lets me down. He rarely fusses in the car, but when he does begin to feel a bit restless I switch to this playlist and as soon as that piano begins, his lips unfurl and his eyes twinkle and his feet begin flopping around. It's almost as though he gives me a little wink when I turn my head to look at him. He understands that when I put this song on, what I'm saying is, "I love you more than the moon. More than the smell of cedar, the crackle of woodfires. More than an ocean full of water." He totally gets that. And so he beams at me. As if to say, "I love ya right back, mama." An unusual connection exists between the songs of this particular artist and this baby boy of mine for some reason. Has existed from the very beginning. Maybe his fetal hearing attuned itself that first morning my iPod played and he fell in love with the music, too. I especially love that this is the song that has caught my son's heart. "In the spirit of three stars," sings Sufjan. And my own heart catches in my throat. I think of the three stars out there, my three little babies I've lost. One in '98. One in 2003. And my son's twin. His twin. Two years ago October. I have always thought of them as stars. My son's siblings shining up there in the sky watching over him. "Incarnation," sings Sufjan, "three stars, delivering signs and dusting from their eyes."

What is it about music, hey? Why do I carry this crazed gene that just can't get enough of it? Especially when I took music lessons. As a young girl, I laboured through them. Not once were they easy for me! Still to this day, I have trouble reading music. I couldn't tell you which note was what if someone played one for me. But maybe that's why I can't get enough of it. It is something I covet. I turn green with envy when I hear a band play amazing music. I wish I had their incredible talent. Often, when I hear a song I fall in love with, I do wish I were getting up on stage and singing that song, fretting that guitar. I know I'm not alone there, though I don't sing in the shower. I sing a lot to my son, however. For some crazy reason, he loves when I sing to him. (Thank Gawwwd because most of the time I suck at it. But his face lights up when I sing to him. Maybe he's tone deaf.)

The other night, I put him to bed and descend the stairs to tidy up and emitting from the second floor is this endless giggling. I can hear him chatting to his bear. You oughta see this bear. A very dear friend gifted him with it and it's bigger than him. Every night he wraps his arms around this bear and snuggles with it. And the other night, the two of them would not shut up. Constant squeals of delight and low mumblings. Then silence. I guess, the two of them must have decided it was time to sleep. They stop whispering and drift off to slumberland. It's not all that strange to talk to bears is my point.

It's Saturday night. 2:00 am. Okay, okay. Sunday morning. I just finished trying to catch up on the third season of Mad Men. And I wanted to write something. I wanted to write an email. But I can't. I just can't. It's harder for me than reading music. A gazillion times harder than finding Middle C. (For me.)

So I sit here writing this because it's all I've got. Right now. It's the only thing I can communicate with at 2:00am. On a Saturday night. Early on a Sunday morning. I hope someone out there can hear me.

Here's what I want to convey. It's a message.

The song I heard today made me smile and cry. As I listened the image I got was of a bear running through the forest. It's hungry. Not a black bear. The coat is brown. It's a grizzly. But it's not full grown yet. It's a grizzly because it's out West somewhere. Somewhere still pristine. As pristine as you can get. And its paws hit this stream and suddenly it stops. It tilts its head. Its nostrils widen. The small, beady eyes try to focus as best they can. There's a message coming through. In the form of a song. It flies through the forest. Through the wind in the leaves of the trees. Over the mountains. The bear listens and the pump in its heart opens and shuts, opens and shuts as it ingests each note. Its ears perk. The notes shoot into its blood and sinew and get sucked into its ventricles like heroin.

In my mind's eye, I can see through the shaggy coat for a moment to the pomegranate red of the heart in his chest beating wildly and a camera zooms to the slow motion drops of water sliding off the bear's hide then begins to speed through the trees and, just as suddenly, takes another slow-mo circuitous path around a second bear halted with head tilted. The tongue has stopped lolling. The mouth shuts in concentration. The camera again races off in a maze of tree trunks to a third set of black button eyes, ears straining, nostrils flaring. Then up, up, up through the trees, flying backwards through the leaves and fir and cones, the camera pulls above the tree line and from this great height one can see tiny, red, glowing hearts burning in savage breasts as every bear stops to listen. They beat simultaneously, dotted like campfires all over the mountains. Each bear frozen in its path, yearning to decipher the message.

Someone is pretending to forget...

Listen...

Oh, and on that note. Here's another song. It's not for the grizzly. But I send it out West, over the Rockies, through the forests and down Main St. where I know for a fact that flakes can fall big as your fist. Plummeting much more slowly than the heart of a bear or anyone's.

Mine, for instance.

Music: Message to Bears, Found You and You're Safe
This post dedicated to Ciara over at Milkmoon

Visionquest

When I enter the recovery room, I know instinctively the hysterical howling from the back corner is his. A nurse attempts to soothe him as I rush over. The first thing I notice is the blood seeping from his right nostril. They tell me to remove my coat, to sit in the rocker. I reach for him and he opens his eyes slightly, tiny slits to check that I'm finally here. His little hand reaches up to the tiny bump of skin just beneath my chin. It's a spot his fingers constantly seek and caress. In the dark of early morning, the bump assures him the person holding him is his mama. I fumble at the clasp of my bra. He is crying so hard, his mouth has trouble focusing on the nipple.  It closes and then opens in complaint again before trying to suck. Another howl interrupts my attempt at nursing. He will not be consoled so easily. Not after this. This betrayal.

The sobs do not let up for a good half hour. 40 minutes. He weeps uncontrollably. "How could I let them take him away?" his sobs shout.  "How could I let them stick him with needles?" they demand. They accuse me in no uncertain terms. "How could I let them put him under? And how could I not be there when he woke up from surgery?"

Daily annoyance.

I rock, rock, rock the damn rocker like I'm riding a bucking bronco. Finally, he begins to calm. This is the day I've been dreading forever. It's not his fault. Entirely my decision that he has undergone surgery. His blocked tear duct was supposed to mend itself by the time he turned a year old. The doctors showed me how to push the creamy goop out of his eye, in the hopes of healing without surgery. But at 18 months, he still awoke with the lid crusted closed, puss weeping out of the duct all day. His little hands perpetually rubbing it such that his eyelid became raw and red. I decided to pursue the alternative option: minor surgery.

Before surgery...

I know it was the right decision, but no one described to me the feeling of watching them walk him away from me to the operating room on his own, oblivious of what lies ahead. Strangers taking him. No one told me how the seconds would feel like hours sitting there in the waiting room. No one told me how fear increases exponentially along with the terrors of one's imagination: what if they give him too much anaesthetic? Would he die? Could they accidentally blind him? Stupid, irrational fears flying through his mama's head while he is unconscious. I almost cannot breathe sitting there alone drinking cold coffee. Not caring that the sandwich I packed is now stale, tasteless. Who can eat? Why did I do this to him? I am a cruel, thoughtless mommy to make him go in there alone so young and have them strap him down. Stick him with needles. Maybe we should have waited...

This moment, I can honestly say, is perhaps the first time since before he was born I have felt so acutely the absence of a spouse. I accept I'm a single parent. I don't think about it much. Generally, I don't have time to dwell on it. I just handle it. There's no self-pity involved or anything. It was my decision to pursue motherhood on my own. I'm a strong person. I'm his rock. But this moment. Sitting here in the waiting room. I am a puddle. Powerless. Vulnerable. How I long for a hand to hold mine at this moment, to reassure me. To comfort me. To share the burden of missing him, worrying over him. I'm a wreck. A total fucking mess, sitting here. What have I done to my poor little boy making such a huge decision on his behalf?

His hysteria when I arrive in recovery only exacerbates my guilt.

After an hour we are transferred to another recovery room and I lie back on the hospital bed as he clings to me, his sobs starting to slow, to quieten. Gradually they become softer, more infrequent, as exhaustion and stress surrender to slumber. He curls his body as close to mine as he possibly can and the catches in breath finally morph to tiny, purring snores. We lie there for another hour before I gently remove the hospital's striped pajamas and dress him for the stroll home.

Post surgery. Finally asleep.

His nose continues to bleed, a normal symptom of this particular surgery. He is drowsy walking around the kitchen. Still unstable, like a drunken sailor, weaving around the legs of the table. But he is smiling and giggling, giddy to be home again.

This is the first time his right eye has been clear since he was born. I note that his eyelashes are shorter on that lid. They have not had the chance to spread and grow as long and lush as those on the left eyelid. Perhaps now they'll have their chance to bloom.

Tonight I let him fall asleep in my bed, intent on assuring him I won't abandon him anytime soon again.

The next morning he wakes. His right nostril is crusted with blood, but his right eye is clear and his little fingers touch it momentarily in surprise. He realizes he does not need to finger the crust from his lashes. He opens both eyes no problem. He can see. All the stress of the previous day is worth it somehow.

I look deep into his irises, smile and say, "hi." He repeats it back to me. This is the first time ever he says "hi" back. It is as though he is acknowledging that this is the first moment he feels fully present. He can see out of both eyes. He is invincible. "Hi," he whispers shyly, smiling up at me. As if to say, "I see you now. You're my mama. Hi!"

My throat catches. "Gimme a kiss," I say. He throws his arms round my neck and touches his forehead to my lips. The blood from his nostril marks my breast. It's territorial.

"You are mine," it says.
"Don't leave me again, Mama," it says.
It says, "I forgive you."
"You made the right decision."
"Thank you," it says.

My lips form those two words, too, as they kiss the top of his pate.

"Thank you," they whisper.

Thank you, thank you, thank you.

Clean pair of eyes.



Music: David Gray, A Clean Pair of Eyes

Remembrance

The other night was the first baby-free night out I'd had in maybe five months or more. A friend and I caught Royal Wood, in a much more intimate venue this time, right around the corner from where I now reside. Walkable, in fact, though I had to drive my car so that I could drop off and pick up my son at my parents' place.

I managed to walk part of the way. The night was crisp with nary a wisp o' wind so it felt a lot warmer than is usual for November. And let's just say my body temperature increased considerably once inside as not only Mr. Wood was clad in his trademark suit, but three other gentleman graced the stage similarly ensembled. Yum yum yum.

Majestic

Now I am not the kind of gal who generally goes for a man in a suit. Honest. The kind of men who have won my heart have been, let's just say, a tad more casually clad. And that's an understatement. But there is a certain era of fashion I am enamoured with and it stretches from the 1930s through the 1940s. When women wore garters and men wore suspenders. There was just so much support back then, garment-wise. Maybe Casablanca is too damn hard for me to watch without my heart bleeding all over the damn place, but when a man dresses in that way, in such a way that evokes that era and makes you think of the past, of history, of a more romantic time. Well, that just makes my knees weak. He wouldn't even have to sing as beautifully as Royal does, so the fact that Mr. Wood has such dulcet tones. Well. You get the picture. It's enough to make a girl swoon. And I just don't get the chance to swoon very often of late. So I grab 'em when I can get 'em.

Part of the fun of the night, besides the exceptionally fine company I kept, was the fact that I became rebellious. And by that I mean, I brought my new Canon Rebel 2Ti with me and snapped away. It's one of a few fancy-ass gadgets I have purchased since moving. Once again, I'm having a lot of fun with photography, a near-perfect (though not quite) method of prolonging the memory of a moment. I'd missed a few months there due to the breakdown of an old camera I'd been using. It wasn't even my camera but one that my sister had graciously leant to me. Thankfully the Camera Gods have since smiled candidly upon me.

And thankfully the venue was so cozy that I was able to get up close and personal for some shots. In all honesty, I was thankful to have the distraction of the camera in my hands, the distraction of my friend and our chatter. Because sometimes the lyrics Royal sings are, as my ol' pal e.e. would describe, words "i cannot touch because they are too near."

Arousing not only the suspicion of the neighbours

And a few times, I admit, I weakened, along with my knees. And I listened a little too attentively to what he was singing (and I'm sure the G&T I was drinking didn't help matters), but the tears started flowing and I had to excuse myself to powder my nose.

See, remembrance isn't always joyful. It isn't always fun or funny. It's sometimes like the quick jab of an extremely sharp dagger. Right under the breastbone. In and out like lightning sometimes. Other times it ain't so quick. It can linger and haunt. It can feel like surgeon's hands exposing parts of your insides during some kind of intense, 8-hour operation while you are definitely not under. It can be, sometimes. Excruciating. In its clarity. And thoroughness.

Thankfully Royal's voice is soothing. Compassionate. Humble. And maybe these qualities are what is also evoking certain memories for you of Some Other. Whatever. My point is, remembering isn't always pleasant or painless. And sometimes, really, it's not supposed to be. Sometimes, compared to the kind of pain suffered by those who fought wars long before we lived, remembering is the very least we can do. Literally.

This morning at the cenotaph

After the concert, driving across town to get my baby boy, I turned on the radio. The CBC was repeating a broadcast of Stuart Mclean's most recent Remembrance Day episode of The Vinyl Cafe. It was close to midnight so I only caught the last bit of it. He was reading from a story written by a CBC listener. A young man named Chris Erwin. About Chris' trip to France with his family. How he had miraculously been able to locate the proper reed with which to play his bagpipes at the memorial at Vimy Ridge. And then, as Stuart finished reading this incredibly moving story, he introduced its author, Chris, who was waiting in the wings and had begun to warm up his bagpipes which he then slowly proceeded to play. The lament he played was The Flowers of the Forest which is the song that is apparently always played once wreaths are laid on every Remembrance Day.

I had just turned the corner near my parents' home and I had to pull the car over because my vision had blurred with tears. When I wiped my lashes, what I made out in the mist and cold of the night were three words lit up in the parking lot of the school beside which I'd parked.



Indeed.

My heart flooded with memories. Some of people I'd met. People I'd known, now gone. People I'd loved, not in the least forgotten. People who were absolute strangers to me who had moved me in some way or other.

I began to think about war. The World Wars were not so far removed from me. My grandparents and parents had lived through each of them. Had survived them. I thought about my parents' era. The 30s. The 40s. Maybe the reason that time seems so romantic is not because of films like Casablanca. Rather, films like Casablanca exist because what is romantic from that time is that everyone KNEW life was PRECIOUS. That any day could be your last one. Literally. No one living then needed that spelled out for them. So people squeezed in every emotion they could into the seconds they breathed, the steps they danced, the food they chewed and swallowed. The scripts they wrote. The celluloid they shot. The love they made. Each action was savoured and cherished.

When the bagpipes ended, I thought about that scene in Jeunet's A Very Long Engagement. It is the moment Mathilde is hoisted and carried on shoulders through the long, waving ocean of grass that had been such a desolate, barren scene of battle not so long before. I remembered sitting in the dark of the cinema when that scene begins and how it quite simply took my breath away. It is the absolute balm of that grass. The vibrancy, the verdancy of its new life. The hope of it. You cannot fathom that this green and peaceful place had been that same small patch of land where so many lives had been lost.

Regrowth of soil. Of spirit.

And I thought, whatever wounds we carry, war- and otherwise, may we all know such peace in our hearts. May we all stand in long grass and remember what was sacrificed in order to wade through it. To feel its blades caress our thighs. And not the barbs of wire it once sprouted.

Peace to you all.

Music: Royal Wood: Thinking About

All Hallows Eve

Life has been crazy but a good crazy. A better crazy than the preceding months which had stress piled on top of the crazy. Though there are days. There are days. The other day he was teething again. Pretty sure it was a molar this time because he wailed and wailed almost non-stop, almost all day. There was no consoling him. Every little thing irked him. Every little thing set him off. As a devoted parent, you do your very utmost to soothe, to comfort - you try everything: bottle, boob, tickling, cookie, boob again, sippy cup this time? This book? That elephant? This wooden xylophone? Hug. Hug. Hug. Hug. Kiss. Kiss. Wail. Wail. Let's go for a stroll!!!!

You want to cry right along with them when there is nothing that consoles them. But you can't. Maybe you do once they're asleep. Maybe late at night. Maybe you feel so knackered and unsure of yourself, so tired and sad about feeling you failed that day to make him smile, to stop the tears. Maybe you send an e-mail you shouldn't. One you feel sorry 'bout. A weak moment you hope can be forgiven...

Sometimes being a single parent on the challenging days makes you question if you are always doing the right thing, if you are making the right decisions, the best ones. There is no second parent to assure you so you just cross your fingers and hope you're doing your best. Late at night, maybe doubt slips in. Fear. Exhaustion. Worry. Grief. Loneliness. In my heart, I know that no day is bad enough I could EVER regret my decision to pursue motherhood. I would never trade this in for anything. Truly, I gladly take the hard days right along with the easy ones. I feel like a heel because I know no matter how hard my hard days are, others on the planet are experiencing REAL hardship elsewhere. What do I have to complain about at the end of the day? Absolutely nothing. I am blessed. So very blessed.

Thankfully the next day dawns and he is giggling when he first awakens. You whisper little prayers of thanks to gods you don't even believe in but maybe should. What a relief to see him so happy again, his usual self!

This week we get in the car and drive to buy a pumpkin out near where we used to live and I carve it (my first one since a little kid myself) and we dress up in costumes expecting hordes and hordes of trick-or-treaters. Only 12 kids actually brave the snow (yes, it snowed) and make the rounds and we have so much leftover candy, it's ridonculous. But what a treat to have kids come to our front door all decked out! To be in a neighbourhood! I hadn't had hallowe'en trick-or-treaters in a decade when I lived rurally. We had a lot of fun and our first trick-or-treaters were very special cousins to my Sonshine.

November 1st begins the Celtic New Year. The Festival of Samhain. And so we begin a new year in a new home all our own. Let's hope the next year brings less tears, much less stress, lots more laughter and joy!

Happy New Year, everyone! Enjoy the haunted pics below...

hitting pumpkin jackpot

dollar fitty for prime punkin 

don't be scared, come watch mommy carve the pumpkin!


oops. mommy broke the knife. merde.

hey! she has teeth, just like me!

hmmm. let's see. could I possibly be cuter? uh. nope.

mama, stop chasing me round the island!

grownup treats for the parents

a little kitten familiar for his witchy mama

these should last until Easter.  2012.

glow best in the dark...