#365: Learning from Loss

Last week was hard.

This past Wednesday, we lost Bruce's colleague Gerald Adams to pancreatic cancer.  We had been blindsided when we learned of his illness because, of course, we knew the outcome.  Such a diagnosis was not one that could be argued with or negotiated. Gerald did have wonderful hospice care and an amazing, supportive, loving family so in that sense, I suppose, he died a "good" if inevitable death.  But it is all so sad. He was such a lovely man.

Then on Friday we attended the funeral of Janet Wardlaw -- Bruce's former dean (and, incidentally, the first female dean at the U of G).   For the last 15 years she was also our regular companion at the Kitchener Waterloo Symphony.

When I learned that Janet was in the hospital as the result of a fall at Christmas, I was aghast. I did argue. Janet couldn't possibly fall!  How could that happen? (I have to admit that I felt somewhat betrayed.  Janet, how could you?  And I am not alone-- others have sheepishly confessed to having the same initial reaction.)

Because Janet really did seem invincible. She was a role model for her younger friends; we all wanted to be just like her, perpetually youthful and active.   She went swimming several times a week.  She walked downtown. She was so fit that I never once thought to suggest that we take the elevator to our second-balcony symphony seats!  She kept her brain fit playing Bridge and Scrabble and serving on many committees where her intelligence and administrative skills were highly valued.  An international traveller, she always seemed to be going to the States to see former students and colleagues, or to Europe with tour groups from her church.  Even last September as the symphony season recommenced, we asked the usual question, "Janet where did you go this summer?" She told us that she hadn't intended to go away, but that friends or family had talked her into this or that adventure. Friends were always asking her to go along on trips because she was the best possible company -- agreeable, upbeat, curious, and energetic. She was also very sensible, even pragmatic.  Perhaps she developed this habit as a single woman, although I prefer to think that decisiveness was in her nature.  Nevertheless, it was a lesson to us all when, at 80, she sold her beautiful two-storey stone house with its lovely garden and moved into a nearby condo.  Physically she had no need to move and she admitted it.  But she had decided that it was time.  "Less bother eventually for my nieces and nephews" is how she explained it."

When I read Janet's obituary I learned even more about this remarkable woman, including her actual age. I came across the phrase, "Janet Wardlaw in her 90th year..."  . 

What?

A few months ago I had a conversation about death and age with "Hetty" one of my retirement home readers.   Hetty has had a bad year -- two bouts of cancer along with the usual surgeries and radiation. Just as she was between procedures, I visited her and remarked on a bouquet of her favourite yellow roses.  The blooms looked a little droopy, but they had been very pretty when fresh. "Well, Nancy", she observed, "that is the way of the world.  Flowers die.  Old ladies die."  She wasn't being gloomy -- she was telling it like it is because she wasn't really sure I had it all figured out. Hetty knows me so well.

 Janet, how could you?    

But I think I now understand my astonished reaction to Janet's death.  I just never thought of her as OLD.

Of course, Hetty was right.  "Old ladies" of 89 do die, but if they are like Janet they will be well and healthy right up to the finish line.

Janet, forgive me. In your 90th year, you betrayed no-one.  Ever the educator, you were still teaching us about life--and death--even as you left us.  And we won't forget.

#364: Christmas Stress

Two days to go, and Christmas is in hand.   I am not freaking out. The tree is up, most of the presents have been wrapped, and I know what we are eating on Christmas Eve and on Christmas Day.  I have even managed to contract out a lot of the cooking to my clever son-in-law. 

I won’t say that the run-up to Christmas 2013 has been completely without stress, but the anxiety has certainly been manageable.  Perhaps my standards are slipping as I age.  Perhaps I simply have more time in retirement for Christmas prep.  Whatever it is, I like it.  I like it so much that I even envision a future, as I move into my 70's, in which the weight of Christmas responsibility is light as an angel's wing.  A true Christmas miracle. 

Then again...

As I entertained this sanguine fantasy, I made pre-Christmas visits to my female readers at the retirement home where I am volunteer librarian/book fairy.  That is when I realized that I would never, ever get off the Christmas treadmill.

For the last couple of weeks the ladies have asked me the same question:  Are you all ready for Christmas?  And I have assured them that I still had lots to do, but that I would be ready or at least done by December 25.  They nodded with understanding. They knew all about Christmas pressure.  So many cards to write!  (This was no fantasy – I could see addressed envelopes waiting to be mailed.)  I also admitted that the sweater I was making for my grandson was still unfinished.  Just one more sleeve to knit!  “Oh", sympathized Ethel, “I know.  I still have to knit the neck on my son’s pullover and I don’t think I have enough wool.  Don't bring me books until the New Year. I won't have much time to read!  ”

To Irene, I sheepishly confessed that at 69, I still “do” stockings for my daughters and their partners.  “Yes”, she agreed, ”and it gets harder to find nice little stocking presents when you can’t get out much.”  90-year old Irene, it seems, is still filling a stocking from Santa for her daughter Marilyn. (I've met this Marilyn and she is easily my age.  We've even discussed the challenges of retirement.) 

***

I guess it would be weird if I went out this January and bought 20 years' worth of stocking stuffers for 4 people and then squirreled the treats and trinkets away.  What do you think?  Totally weird?

Or completely brilliant!

Because now that I know my future, I am sorely tempted.

#363: Anniversaries: The Bitter and the Sweet

November 22.

Now there is a date to conjure with, especially for those of us who vividly recall the events of 50 years ago.

Such was power of the Kennedy mystique, that even out on the Canadian prairies we were shocked to learn of the news from Dallas.  It was a 9/11 moment for my generation. (And for the record, I was having lunch in a U of A classroom with my friend Alexis Dryburgh when another student burst through the door shouting “Kennedy’s been shot!"  It is a testimony to the significance of the pronouncement that I do not remember what I was wearing.)

But, powerful as this memory is, I would not likely have commented on the 50-year anniversary except that falls on a much happier occasion: my grandson Erik’s birthday.  Our busy little boy is one year old today.

We won’t be there to celebrate, nor do I think his parents are planning a birthday extravaganza.  The little guy had his big moment a few days ago when he and a group of year-old friends participated in an over-the-top shared 1st birthday experience—a cake smash. 

I had no idea what this entailed, but it is apparently the coming thing for 1^st birthdays.  The ingredients are simple: one or more babies clad for cake combat (diapers and not much else) and an iced cake (nothing too special because this cake is destined for a bad end).  The instructions are equally basic: put the babies on the floor with the cake and let the smashing to begin. 

That is the way a cake smash is supposed to unfold.  But there is no accounting for baby behaviour; at Erik’s event most of the birthday celebrants were not terribly interested in the cake, and the mothers, chagrined at this turn of events, had to demonstrate technique.

Curious Erik, however, apparently needed no such urging.  He was covered in cake in short order, to my daughter’s dismay. (Jenny says she felt somewhat embarrassed by his enthusiasm.  She had been a bit iffy about the cake smash from the get-go.  She didn’t even take photos.)

I thought about this shared birthday party on Wednesday when I went out with my ladies’ hiking group.  One of the members had very much enjoyed a 75^th birthday planned by her grandchildren.  “There were kid games and kid food!  It was a hoot”, she enthused.

I was 19 when Kennedy died so I have a significant birthday this coming January, and I can’t help but think Erik should be the party planner.  We would have a cake smash of course!  I can imagine the scene: Nancy and her age mates (I could invite my entire book group) attacking a supermarket sheet cake emblazoned with an appropriate message: 70 SUCKS!

Take that, symbolic representation of my aging mind and body!  SMASH! SMASH! SMASH!    

Aaaah, but could we do it?  Could we wantonly waste food and create a sticky mess that someone would have to clean up?  I don’t think so.  We are, after all, children of the 60’s.  We still hold on to Kennedy values.

What would Jackie do?

I rest my case.

#362: Adios Espana

Hola!

We are now home and up to our armpits in laundry, but I'm posting a few pictures and observations about our trip on my travel blog, The Reluctant Retiree Abroad. Here is the first entry.

#361: Travel Time

Being retired has nothing to do with feeling ready for a trip. It just means that you have more time to worry about what you are forgetting.

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#360: Training for Spain

Being retired and all, I supposedly have a ton of time to prepare for our upcoming trip.  And I have been doing a bit, both mentally and physically.  I want to know something about our destination and I would like to have a few basic Spanish phrases at the ready.   I also need to be fit enough for the hiking part of the holiday -- 12 days and 90+ kilometres in the Picos de Europa. It would be so embarrassing to be carried off the trail on a stretcher.

Reading about must-see Madrid, Bilbao and Granada is easy enough, but language acquisition at my age is a hard slog. When faced with a list of Rick Steeve's essential Spanish phrases, it is all too easy to plead neuron overload.  Desperate for a break, I heed the siren call of clean towels heaped on our bed.  Fold me, fold me, fold me they plead, and suddenly that seems like an excellent idea.

But hiking -- that is a different sort of training altogether.  Hiking is a no-excuses activity.

Ten kilometres into today's walk on the Bruce Trail (the closest thing we have to picos in southern Ontario) we discovered that we had miscalculated the distance.  Oops. We still had 5 more kilometres to go, 5 more kilometres of rocky trail, heat and mosquitoes.  But stopping was not an option.  We could either spend the night under a tree or trudge on.  Because the only way to finish a hike is to just finish.  It is that simple. Today's hiking-inspired life lesson: if you want to reach your destination, you need to keep going. And that is what we did.

Now if only I could apply that philosophy to every aspect of my training for Spain.....

#359: ¿Habla Usted Espagnol?

So here I am with a hundred things to do before we leave for Spain. Make that ciento.  Where shall I begin?  Oh. I'll think I'll clean the bathroom. And the bedroom.  I can't stand a messy bedroom.

I feel like my 19-year-old self during exam week. Must clean my room. I simply can't study in an untidy space!

It appears that 50 years of growing-up haven't made a dent. Now I have all the time in the world but I still have a talent for procrastination.

At this rate I had better concentrate on one useful phrase: yo non hablo Espagnol.  I think I am going to need it.