A dog abroad a year's Blog

She has a soft heart and the biggest glasses this side of Tootsie.

She would give you the shirt off her back, and toaster, and towels, and sheets, and lamps, and mugs, and crock pot, and yes even a waffle maker.

She straddles that fine line between hoarder and philanthropist.

If you are helping her clean her house, you might say hoarder. If you were moving out and need to set up your first home you would say philanthropist.

Towels, sheets, pots and pans, a slow cooker, mixer, serving spoons, and an afghan were just a few of her contributions to my home. This weekend I got a waffle maker.

When I was 16 and diagnosed with cancer she gave me much more. I mentioned in passing how good her cinnamon buns were. A dozen delivered the next day. When mouth sores broke and nausea fought to see who could be the most irritating, a slushie mug and a case of ginger-ale appeared. You won’t understand how your hair insulates your body until you wake up to pee every time your bedroom gets cool. Bam. Homemade flannel nightcaps appeared.

Most of all she loves. Neighbourhood kids and dogs, nieces, nephews, grandkids, great grandkids, great nieces and nephews, friends, and just folks walking by are greeted by her quick, Chiclet studded grin.

Don’t think she does have her edge. She’s been known to lock her husband outside for coming home late and drunk after a night out with the boys. In her hands a frying pan can be an cooking utensil or a weapon. And I dare you to try and move something in her living room or clean up her kitchen. Ask her daughter about that.

She’s tough as well. I’ve seen her gut fish, clean chickens, and butcher pigs and cows.

She taught me many lessons. Be quick to laugh. Be slow to cry. Forgive faster than you anger. If you have a quick tongue make it funny so it doesn’t seem as mean.

The things she learned from me are not as positive. Cancer is scary. You will feel sick. There are no guarantees. It doesn’t matter how many people are around you, you are alone in it.

So when you offer to help her and she’s too frightened to let you in….

It’s my fault, but not really.

I am not a glass half empty girl. My single status doesn’t often make me sad.

Sure it would be nice to share my life with someone. And yes, the thought of growing old alone is a bit scary. Regular nookie would be kinda nice as well.

But, there are no guarantees in life. Having a partner doesn’t mean you won’t end up alone. People in relationships can be lonely. And I know married couples who don’t get that much nookie. 

There are good things about being alone. You don’t have to compromise on what colour you paint the living room. Toilet paper over or under? Your choice. Left side, right side, or smack in the middle, the bed is all yours. Popcorn for dinner? Ok.

But right now, this day, this moment, here. I miss having a man in my life.

Why now you ask? 

I need someone to clean out the mouse carcass from the trap that just snapped.

I wish you had met him.

He made amazing pancakes.

In ’74, when my dad was on strike, we lived in his Richmond back yard. I can’t remember what we did for showers or a bathroom. I can remember climbing trees, jumping ditches, and watching stars. We were two adults, a princess, a gaggle of kids, a tent, and tent trailer on an acreage in Richmond.

There was a horse, a moat, a princess and a draw bridge. The moat and draw bridge might have been a ditch and wooden driveway, but the horse was real. I was 8 so I’m keeping the princess thing also.

Uncle Bob made his pancake batter at night. In the morning he would fire up the Aga and start flipping. His buckwheat pancakes were amazing. I thought pancake making skills were genetic. My grandmother, his sister, made great pancakes as well.

It’s not a genetically inherited skill. I do not make great pancakes.

I think there’s a mall where the Richmond house used to stand.

He loved science and all that it offers the world. That didn’t stop him from embracing the beauty of the unknown. He had his hair cut and the minerals analyzed. He was accupressured, accupunctured, purified and detoxified.

He believed in aliens and transcendental meditation.

White Rock. He had a black light room in the basement. He would lay in his meditation chair, listen to trippy music, and contemplate the universe glowing on the ceiling. Later I would realize that pan flute music is not considered trippy.

14-year-old me thought it was awesome.

When chemo, bone marrows, lumbar punctures and nausea seemed insurmountable he taught me to meditate.

Take a moment acknowledge the IV, the nausea, acknowledge the discomfort. Now breath. Start relaxing your hair let that feeling move down your body.

Breath. 10. 9. 8…3.2.1. Now fly.

He coached me.

- Your falling asleep, a pillow talking boy would say to me later in life. 

- No I’m not.

- I can feel your body relaxing in waves.

- Really.

I was surprised. Some things stay with you I guess.

There was a party when I graduated from high school.

I bought a dress and got my first post-cancer haircut. Bob and Ev drove 650 km to join the celebrations.

We danced.

Well, he danced. I hung on. He moved like Fred Astaire.

He was the first person who allowed me to question faith. When I was diagnosed with Cancer, at 14  people, prayed for me, prayed over me, laid hands on my, and gave crystals and other talisman.

- Randomness. He said and hugged me.

He showed me a person could be strong, and good and not believe.

Even though he was in his nineties, the phone call was unexpected.

An undetected stroke, a fall and an unrecoverable brain injury.

Secretly I believed he would live forever.

I am lost. Usually I hang out with Treena. She’s not that organized and needs me quite desperately.

She keeps t0-co notes, phone numbers, meeting minutes & messy doodles in me.

I thought I was important to her. But, then on March 12th, she put me down.

I hung out in the the lunch room with her and then we set off to take some pictures of products on the shop floor.

We hung out in the clothing department, took pictures of children’s clothing, and even admired the Freedom to Read display.

But I never made it back to her desk.  So, if your hanging out at the UBC Bookstore and see me lying about please let Treena know.  You will be able to tell if it’s me even if she didn’t put her name inside my cover because she insists on writing in port and purple ink.