January 29, 2011
The sun came up again today.
It just keeps doing that, no matter how much pain we're in.
Amazing.
I don't even know how to begin to describe Kathryn's memorial service.
Beautiful.
Loving.
Celebratory.
Closure.
Release.
Heartwrenching.
And while all of this is certainly true, there really are no words to describe what happened during the standing room only gathering of family and friends who were there because they knew and loved Kathryn and Jerry or because they knew and loved members of either family, but maybe not Kat or Jer.
Absolutely astounding.
Jerry was overwhelmed by the sheer number of people who attended.
We sat together in the front and held the same pose throughout the service: together, hands clasped, my arm around his shaking shoulders.
Our cousin, who married Jer and Kat eleven years ago conducted the memorial service, providing strength we didn't have and solace we desperately needed.
Cousins are great.
Mer and Em put together a collection of photos, including ones of Jer and Kat's wedding and of a trip to our cousin Kelly's.
Having Kelly and Aurora's watch over us only made the family circle more complete.
In addition to all the family members who wanted to be there and couldn't. . .our Aunt Pat, Aunt Zita, Great Aunt Edna, cousins and cousins and more cousins. . . .
Weather, however, cannot stem the swelling tides of love that transcends all storms and borders and distances.
We felt our cousin Kathy's love, along with her daughter's, Kajsa from Sweden.
Mum and Dad were side by side at the end of the row, like sentries preventing us slipping off the chairs and into who knows where.
Stephen was on my other side, and probably has bruises today from my clutching his hand, needing him to hold me to reality.
The girls were directly behind us, Em passing tissues and putting her arms around us from behind, Mer to reach out and comfort Jer in the short time I had to leave him to do my reading.
Keith manned the music, hiding behind the console and flowers, keeping his grief to himself.
I'm waiting for when he is finally able to let his guard down.
And I'll be there when it does.
How Jer was able to put together such a beautiful service in the midst of the unbearable pain and grief he was experiencing astonishes me.
He had her favourite songs played, 9,000 Days, My Beloved Wife, Ophelia, Everybody Hurts. . . .
Each one a connection to a piece of Kat and Jer.
Afterwards, people surrounded Jer to share their love and pain with him.
He is still marveling at how loved Kat was by everyone who knew her.
Stephen, me, Kat's best friend Lorraine and the kids sat in front of the food and wine and talked until around 7.00 pm when the box of wine was empty and Mer and Keith a little wobbly.
Lorraine knew so much about Kat that we didn't.
Had memories we needed to hear.
We even laughed.
A lot.
And then we cried some more and wondered how we were going to get through the next days, knowing we would, somehow.
We have no choice.
It will happen whether we want it to or not, whether we're ready or not.
Life does go on.
And there's too much evidence to deny that.
Title Lyric: Suzanne by Leonard Cohen
Saturday, January 29, 2011
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Although I ain't really been myself at all. . .
January 27, 2011
Yesterday I hit a wall.
After deluding myself into thinking that I was doing very well.
Organizing, planning, doing, being busy. . . .
I thought that I was handling things.
But yesterday I hit a wall.
Most of yesterday was spent in my bed, staring at the mirror above Stephen's dresser.
Just laying there.
Staring.
Mind taking me to dark places in my head.
Places I don't often go because I don't like them, and once there, it's hard for me to get back out.
Stephen was in and out of the house running errands.
Oil and filter change for the car.
Pictures for Friday.
New black pants for Jer, who hadn't had five minutes to even think of those kinds of things.
Picking up dry cleaning.
While I laid in my bed, thinking.
Staring.
Thinking.
Eventually I did get up.
I did some work.
Mer called, wanting to come over, feeling lost and alone.
And then I realized that everyone would be at home at dinner time and I'd better do something about it.
A dear friend had brought us a pot of homemade vegetable soup and a lovely loaf of multigrain bread, I had cooked some chicken breasts a couple of days ago, and along with some low fat Swiss cheese we had a nice, family, homecooked meal.
The kids were the kids, with their usual mealtime shenanigans, and it felt for a few moments like the world was normal again.
The impending storm, worse for the area where Jerry lives, meant that we had to meet with him yesterday.
We were supposed to go to him, but with the errands and the car, it was around 6.45 before Stephen got home.
We arranged to meet Jer in Oromocto.
He had things he wanted to give us for Friday.
We had things he needed for Friday.
It was the first time the kids had seen their Uncle, and it was a sight to see the three of them embrace him at the same time, surrounding him in a blanket of kid-to-Uncle-love so desperately needed right now.
Today will be spent trying to write something for tomorrow.
I don't trust myself to wing it.
I don't even know if I'll be able to get anything comprehensible out.
But I have to try.
For Kat.
For Jer.
Title Lyric: Hit the Wall by Sweatshop Union
Yesterday I hit a wall.
After deluding myself into thinking that I was doing very well.
Organizing, planning, doing, being busy. . . .
I thought that I was handling things.
But yesterday I hit a wall.
Most of yesterday was spent in my bed, staring at the mirror above Stephen's dresser.
Just laying there.
Staring.
Mind taking me to dark places in my head.
Places I don't often go because I don't like them, and once there, it's hard for me to get back out.
Stephen was in and out of the house running errands.
Oil and filter change for the car.
Pictures for Friday.
New black pants for Jer, who hadn't had five minutes to even think of those kinds of things.
Picking up dry cleaning.
While I laid in my bed, thinking.
Staring.
Thinking.
Eventually I did get up.
I did some work.
Mer called, wanting to come over, feeling lost and alone.
And then I realized that everyone would be at home at dinner time and I'd better do something about it.
A dear friend had brought us a pot of homemade vegetable soup and a lovely loaf of multigrain bread, I had cooked some chicken breasts a couple of days ago, and along with some low fat Swiss cheese we had a nice, family, homecooked meal.
The kids were the kids, with their usual mealtime shenanigans, and it felt for a few moments like the world was normal again.
The impending storm, worse for the area where Jerry lives, meant that we had to meet with him yesterday.
We were supposed to go to him, but with the errands and the car, it was around 6.45 before Stephen got home.
We arranged to meet Jer in Oromocto.
He had things he wanted to give us for Friday.
We had things he needed for Friday.
It was the first time the kids had seen their Uncle, and it was a sight to see the three of them embrace him at the same time, surrounding him in a blanket of kid-to-Uncle-love so desperately needed right now.
Today will be spent trying to write something for tomorrow.
I don't trust myself to wing it.
I don't even know if I'll be able to get anything comprehensible out.
But I have to try.
For Kat.
For Jer.
Title Lyric: Hit the Wall by Sweatshop Union
Wednesday, January 26, 2011
It's all messed up but we'll survive. . . .
January 26, 2011
Well, I woke up this morning.
Took Keith to his 10.30 class.
Checked my mail, collected assignments, copied things for my advanced methods class.
Things keep moving forward.
It's weird.
Because you think everything should just stop.
Every morning I call my brother and he says, "Day. . ."
I know that death is a natural part of life.
But there is something so horrifically unfair about all of this.
I'm angry that she was taken away by something so insidious, so rare, so malevolent.
That in spite of all the technological and medical advances we've made, we still can't make time speed up or slow down.
Or stop.
Or that rare disorders take so long to diagnose.
None of this makes sense to me.
Maybe it isn't supposed to.
Perhaps I am just trying, again, to place reason and order on the unreasonable and disorderly.
Wouldn't be the first time.
Queen of reason. . .that's me.
Yesterday was about making arrangements.
Memorial service.
Flowers.
Catering.
Photos.
Memory book.
I was glad to have something to do. . .I needed something to do.
Jerry and Kathryn's friends have been phenomenal.
Don't think that Stephen and I are doing all the work and planning alone because we certainly are not.
I don't think we even could.
Everybody is pitching in, and somehow we're all co-ordinating.
My dad has offered to take care of a couple of things, too.
Mum feels powerless. I keep telling her that being there for Jerry on Friday is the most important thing she can do.
It's what he needs.
His mother.
My brother wrote Kathryn's obituary.
I don't know how he did it.
I really don't.
As usual, he did a beautiful job.
Always the one with words, my brother.
CLARKE, KATHRYN Unexpectedly at home, after a yearlong illness, KATHRYN ANNE CLARKE (Nielsen) passed away on January 23, 2011 at age forty-five. Born in Plaster Rock, NB, on November 06, 1965, Kathryn spent her formative years in Saint John, NB, Ottawa, ON, and Fredericton, NB. A twice graduate from St. Thomas University earning Bachelor’s Degrees in Sociology and Social Work, Kathryn spent her entire career fiercely advocating for the disenfranchised, last being employed with the Department of Social Development in Saint John, NB. The care and attentiveness she afforded her clients was only surpassed by the profound adoration and dedication so unconditionally shared with her family and friends. She is survived by her loving husband, Jerry Alexander Clarke, of Kiersteadville, New Brunswick, in addition to devoted puppies Namaste and Geronimo, and cats Kissy and Jamie. Kathryn is also survived by her mother, Ms. Marlene Nielsen (Thorne), of Lincoln, New Brunswick, Father, Mr. Harry Nielsen, of White Rock, British Columbia, brother, Mr. Paul Nielsen, of Fredericton, NB, Father in Law, Mr. Jerry Stanfield Clarke, of Haneytown, NB, Mother in Law, Mrs. Janet Clarke (Flemming), of Fredericton, NB, Sister in Law, Dr. Dawne Clarke-Pidwysocky, of Fredericton, NB, Brother in Law, Mr. Stephen Pidwysocky, of Fredericton, NB, nieces Meredyth Van Every and Emily Van Every, and nephew, Keith Van Every, all of Fredericton, NB. She is also survived by several aunts, uncles, cousins, friends and colleagues. In 2010, Kathryn was predeceased by canine companions Muwin and Cherokee, and feline companion Willow. A Memorial Ceremony will be conducted on Friday, January 28, 2011, at Holy Cross House located on the St. Thomas University Campus. Officiating will be Reverend Sarah Palmater. In lieu of flowers, donations may be made to the American Behcet’s Disease Association: www.behcets.com.
The wedding picture made me realize how much this disease had taken from Kat.
Along with her dignity and sense of self worth.
The chemo, the steroids, the grocery shopping bag of meds she had to take with her everywhere she went.
The agonizing pain of her body turning against her.
A mutiny.
But. . . .
She retained her sense of humour.
We used to kid about her getting a disease that typically targets middle aged men from the Middle East.
How it ever found its way to a 40 something white girl from Atlantic Canada.
And how it would have to be Kat.
We would laugh.
Then cry.
But we did laugh.
And that was what was important.
Title Lyric: Life by Our Lady Peace
Well, I woke up this morning.
Took Keith to his 10.30 class.
Checked my mail, collected assignments, copied things for my advanced methods class.
Things keep moving forward.
It's weird.
Because you think everything should just stop.
Every morning I call my brother and he says, "Day. . ."
I know that death is a natural part of life.
But there is something so horrifically unfair about all of this.
I'm angry that she was taken away by something so insidious, so rare, so malevolent.
That in spite of all the technological and medical advances we've made, we still can't make time speed up or slow down.
Or stop.
Or that rare disorders take so long to diagnose.
None of this makes sense to me.
Maybe it isn't supposed to.
Perhaps I am just trying, again, to place reason and order on the unreasonable and disorderly.
Wouldn't be the first time.
Queen of reason. . .that's me.
Yesterday was about making arrangements.
Memorial service.
Flowers.
Catering.
Photos.
Memory book.
I was glad to have something to do. . .I needed something to do.
Jerry and Kathryn's friends have been phenomenal.
Don't think that Stephen and I are doing all the work and planning alone because we certainly are not.
I don't think we even could.
Everybody is pitching in, and somehow we're all co-ordinating.
My dad has offered to take care of a couple of things, too.
Mum feels powerless. I keep telling her that being there for Jerry on Friday is the most important thing she can do.
It's what he needs.
His mother.
My brother wrote Kathryn's obituary.
I don't know how he did it.
I really don't.
As usual, he did a beautiful job.
Always the one with words, my brother.
 |
| Kat on her wedding day. |
The wedding picture made me realize how much this disease had taken from Kat.
Along with her dignity and sense of self worth.
The chemo, the steroids, the grocery shopping bag of meds she had to take with her everywhere she went.
The agonizing pain of her body turning against her.
A mutiny.
But. . . .
She retained her sense of humour.
We used to kid about her getting a disease that typically targets middle aged men from the Middle East.
How it ever found its way to a 40 something white girl from Atlantic Canada.
And how it would have to be Kat.
We would laugh.
Then cry.
But we did laugh.
And that was what was important.
Title Lyric: Life by Our Lady Peace
Tuesday, January 25, 2011
What's your plan, my plan is pain. When will you leave, I'll never go away.
January 25, 2011
I can't understand how time keeps moving.
How come it hasn't stopped.
How, in spite of everything that is happening, I'm still going through the motions.
Getting things done.
Somehow I am able to get up, take the dogs out, feed them, make coffee, eat cereal.
Make phone calls, answer emails.
When all I want to do is crawl into bed, to the very bottom, and stay there until I wake up and realize this is all the worst dream I've ever had.
I'm amazed at my brother's strength.
He just keeps going.
Saying things like, "write the obituary" and "plan the memorial service."
If things were reversed I wouldn't be able to remember my own name.
But I'm so worried about him.
There aren't words for this feeling.
Awful, perhaps, but that doesn't even scratch the surface.
Never were two people more meant to be together than my brother and Kathryn.
Soul mates.
I know people use that term all the time, but with Jer and Kat, it was the case.
They were in sync with one another.
Knew how one another felt.
Two parts of a whole.
Jer hasn't just lost his wife, his life partner, he's lost a huge part of himself.
And I don't know how he'll function as a half.
Can people do that?
Yesterday we took him to run errands.
Get his mail, cash cheques, get groceries.
More than anything, I just wanted to spend some time with him.
Look at him.
Hug him.
Talk with him.
Make sure he had something to eat.
Something to drink.
The little things.
Because right now those seem to be the hardest to deal with.
The hardest to do.
We took his suit jacket to the dry cleaners.
Doesn't seem like much.
But it's better than nothing, I suppose.
Busy work.
Today. . . . .
Much harder.
Funeral home.
Making decisions.
He said we didn't have to come.
I couldn't live with myself if I didn't.
Let my little brother do the hardest thing he's ever done alone?
Not ever.
No matter what.
No matter how hard.
Title Lyric: Pain by Elton John
I can't understand how time keeps moving.
How come it hasn't stopped.
How, in spite of everything that is happening, I'm still going through the motions.
Getting things done.
Somehow I am able to get up, take the dogs out, feed them, make coffee, eat cereal.
Make phone calls, answer emails.
When all I want to do is crawl into bed, to the very bottom, and stay there until I wake up and realize this is all the worst dream I've ever had.
I'm amazed at my brother's strength.
He just keeps going.
Saying things like, "write the obituary" and "plan the memorial service."
If things were reversed I wouldn't be able to remember my own name.
But I'm so worried about him.
There aren't words for this feeling.
Awful, perhaps, but that doesn't even scratch the surface.
Never were two people more meant to be together than my brother and Kathryn.
Soul mates.
I know people use that term all the time, but with Jer and Kat, it was the case.
They were in sync with one another.
Knew how one another felt.
Two parts of a whole.
Jer hasn't just lost his wife, his life partner, he's lost a huge part of himself.
And I don't know how he'll function as a half.
Can people do that?
Yesterday we took him to run errands.
Get his mail, cash cheques, get groceries.
More than anything, I just wanted to spend some time with him.
Look at him.
Hug him.
Talk with him.
Make sure he had something to eat.
Something to drink.
The little things.
Because right now those seem to be the hardest to deal with.
The hardest to do.
We took his suit jacket to the dry cleaners.
Doesn't seem like much.
But it's better than nothing, I suppose.
Busy work.
Today. . . . .
Much harder.
Funeral home.
Making decisions.
He said we didn't have to come.
I couldn't live with myself if I didn't.
Let my little brother do the hardest thing he's ever done alone?
Not ever.
No matter what.
No matter how hard.
Title Lyric: Pain by Elton John
Monday, January 24, 2011
But we persevere, God gives us hope. But we still fear what we don't know.
January 24, 2011
Kathryn passed away yesterday morning.
No matter how often I say it in my mind, on the phone, out loud, write it, I can't seem to get it into my head that she is really not with us anymore.
My brother had been trying to get me all morning, but I'm sick with a stupid cold and didn't even hear the phone until 11.30.
He said, "She's gone."
At first I didn't understand what he meant. I thought he was telling me that she had gone back to the hospital.
Then he clarified.
My response was to tell him I had a cold and I couldn't go to him.
And then I think I stood in Stephen's office, by the telephone for a long time.
Just standing there.
Until Stephen made me lie down.
I was trying to figure out what my brother was trying to tell me.
What he had told me.
For some reason, I just didn't understand.
And then this thought came to me: my brother's wife is dead.
Next, the tears.
The shock.
They have been my constant companions.
The realization that I told my brother I wasn't coming to him hit me next.
I leaped out of bed and called him, sobbing, telling him I'd be there as fast as I could.
And I still don't know what possessed me to tell him I wasn't coming.
I did what I could yesterday.
Most of which was sitting with him, Stephen, my dad and my brother's best friend.
The house was so quiet.
I kept expecting Kat to come out of the kitchen, or from upstairs.
The dogs were thrilled with the company.
If they hadn't been there, I don't know what I would have done with my hands.
I washed dishes and made coffee and tea.
Took out the garbage.
But there wasn't much else to do.
Today we will go back to my brother and take him into Saint John to do some of the things he has to do.
I don't know what they are, but I know he isn't going to do them on his own.
I'm at such a loss about what else to do.
The grief comes in waves.
One moment I think I'm okay.
And then next I'm flooded with such loss it seems more than I can bear.
I don't know what this week will be like, but I do know that it won't be easy and being there for my brother is my primary task.
God, give us strength.
We are so going to need it.
Title Lyric: A Dustland Fairytale by The Killers
Kathryn passed away yesterday morning.
No matter how often I say it in my mind, on the phone, out loud, write it, I can't seem to get it into my head that she is really not with us anymore.
My brother had been trying to get me all morning, but I'm sick with a stupid cold and didn't even hear the phone until 11.30.
He said, "She's gone."
At first I didn't understand what he meant. I thought he was telling me that she had gone back to the hospital.
Then he clarified.
My response was to tell him I had a cold and I couldn't go to him.
And then I think I stood in Stephen's office, by the telephone for a long time.
Just standing there.
Until Stephen made me lie down.
I was trying to figure out what my brother was trying to tell me.
What he had told me.
For some reason, I just didn't understand.
And then this thought came to me: my brother's wife is dead.
Next, the tears.
The shock.
They have been my constant companions.
The realization that I told my brother I wasn't coming to him hit me next.
I leaped out of bed and called him, sobbing, telling him I'd be there as fast as I could.
And I still don't know what possessed me to tell him I wasn't coming.
I did what I could yesterday.
Most of which was sitting with him, Stephen, my dad and my brother's best friend.
The house was so quiet.
I kept expecting Kat to come out of the kitchen, or from upstairs.
The dogs were thrilled with the company.
If they hadn't been there, I don't know what I would have done with my hands.
I washed dishes and made coffee and tea.
Took out the garbage.
But there wasn't much else to do.
Today we will go back to my brother and take him into Saint John to do some of the things he has to do.
I don't know what they are, but I know he isn't going to do them on his own.
I'm at such a loss about what else to do.
The grief comes in waves.
One moment I think I'm okay.
And then next I'm flooded with such loss it seems more than I can bear.
I don't know what this week will be like, but I do know that it won't be easy and being there for my brother is my primary task.
We are so going to need it.
Title Lyric: A Dustland Fairytale by The Killers
Sunday, January 23, 2011
Clean the bathroom and wash the toilet. . . .
January 23, 2011
Sick.
Again.
Feeling as if I'd just been through this experience.
Oh wait!
I did.
November.
Horrible mess.
Took forever to get over.
And here we are again.
Thanks Pookie.
I love that you take our family motto, "we share everything" to heart.
But you don't have to.
Really.
In fact, I'd rather you didn't, if it isn't too much trouble.
Consequently, last night was awful.
Dozing, but no deep, muchly needed sleep.
Weird dreams about hospitals underneath gas pumps and cleaning out my grandmother's house but it wasn't my grandmother's house even though I thought it was and there were students in it complaining about the assignments I'd given them, and I was worried because I had no way home.
Stephen, snoring.
And we already know how much fun THAT is.
Frankie, whining to get on the bed.
Goblet-of-the-collar-bell running in and out of our room, with her cement-boots-cum-feet crashing and banging throughout the house, jumping on and off the bed, suckling Stephen's ear and then, like a furry, cranky, always-PMSing superhero, flying off to create even more mayhem.
On nights like these, I feel like I'm sleeping in a zoo.
Except a zoo would be quieter.
I did manage, however, to contribute (albeit minimally) to the maintenance of our humble homestead.
Stephen and I shovelled the driveway.
We went to Victory for our weekly chicken and veggie fare.
And I cleaned the bathroom.
Pause (dramatic if you like).
Yes. Me, the undomestic-diva-who-thinks-housecleaning-is-all-academic cleaned the bathroom.
My motivation.
Guilt.
Stephen is running all over the place dropping kids off, taking dogs for long runs, fetching the-nighttime-meds-that-don't-work. . . .
The least I could do was clean the bathroom.
A chore I detest and loathe under the best of health conditions.
Nonetheless, as soon as Stephen and the kids departed for the theater, I collected up the bathroom cleaning supplies, and shut myself in the can.
Because nothing makes an already-detestable chore more difficult than the inclusion of Frankie and Tikka.
And Goblet.
And Reilley.
All of whom would have been in the bathroom squeezing themselves onto toilet seats and into the bathtub faster than I could I say,
"Out. OUT. You're not needed in here at this moment in time. I appreciate the thought, but really, this is something I must do on my own. But thanks for the thought."
Constantly amazed, am I, that the one room in the house that facilitates cleaning is the room that gets dirty the fastest.
And the worst.
Gross.
I HATE cleaning the bathroom.
Partly because I never know what I'll find in there.
I often think crime scene investigators, or SOCOs if your British, would have a field day in our bathroom.
Along with Kim and Aggie.
Cleaning the bathroom is actually the easy part.
Preparing the bathroom for cleaning. . . . .
That is an entirely different story.
The removal of all accessories and products from all surfaces, sink, bathtub, back of toilet, always reveals that at least half of said I-must-have-or-I'll-be-ugly-and-dirty-for-the-remainder-of-my-natural-life products are, shockingly. . .
EMPTY!!!!!!
And yet they sit on the already-not-enough-space surfaces like saucy squatters.
Not enough shampoo or conditioner to bathe a nit, but they claim their bathroom space with pride.
Once I've sorted the legitimate renters from the squatters, its time to move on to the sink.
All of Em's facial cleaning products, toothpaste, melatonin bottles, handcreams, razors, shaving creams. . .
Removed, assessed for fullness, put on the floor because there is no other place to put them.
And then.
The ceramic toothbrush holder.
Toothbrushes removed.
Bottom of toothbrush holder assessed.
Toothbrush holder in dishwasher asap.
Bath mat.
Will not be discussed, but let's be thankful for strong bathroom cleaning products.
Checking the hairtrap in the tub reveals a conglomeration of long hair (and possibly other hairs that I do not wish to contemplate), shampoo, shaving cream, soap and conditioner that, if given an electrical charge, would jump to live creating a creature only the original Power Rangers could bring down.
Once everything has been assessed, allocated it's place in the useability continuum, and all bathroom surfaces laid bare, then, the cleaning can commence.
The scrubbing, wiping, spraying. . . .
Scalding hot water to remove all globs of gunk and goo. . .
Toilet brushes scrubbing in a frenzy because we all know that men miss.
A lot.
The melodies and harmonies of whining dogs and wailing kitties create the background score for this horror short.
And then. . .
A fresh smelling, bacteria free, squatter empty bathroom.
Good for another week.
Before it starts
All.
Over.
Again.
Hopefully next week my companions the Malevolent Seven Dwarves, Mucus, Phlegm, Coughing, Hacking, Sneezing, Fever, and Sore Throat will have left for sunnier climes.
Title Lyric: Housecleaning by Mavado
Sick.
Again.
Feeling as if I'd just been through this experience.
Oh wait!
I did.
November.
Horrible mess.
Took forever to get over.
And here we are again.
Thanks Pookie.
I love that you take our family motto, "we share everything" to heart.
But you don't have to.
Really.
In fact, I'd rather you didn't, if it isn't too much trouble.
Consequently, last night was awful.
Dozing, but no deep, muchly needed sleep.
Weird dreams about hospitals underneath gas pumps and cleaning out my grandmother's house but it wasn't my grandmother's house even though I thought it was and there were students in it complaining about the assignments I'd given them, and I was worried because I had no way home.
Stephen, snoring.
And we already know how much fun THAT is.
Frankie, whining to get on the bed.
Goblet-of-the-collar-bell running in and out of our room, with her cement-boots-cum-feet crashing and banging throughout the house, jumping on and off the bed, suckling Stephen's ear and then, like a furry, cranky, always-PMSing superhero, flying off to create even more mayhem.
On nights like these, I feel like I'm sleeping in a zoo.
Except a zoo would be quieter.
I did manage, however, to contribute (albeit minimally) to the maintenance of our humble homestead.
Stephen and I shovelled the driveway.
We went to Victory for our weekly chicken and veggie fare.
And I cleaned the bathroom.
Pause (dramatic if you like).
Yes. Me, the undomestic-diva-who-thinks-housecleaning-is-all-academic cleaned the bathroom.
My motivation.
Guilt.
Stephen is running all over the place dropping kids off, taking dogs for long runs, fetching the-nighttime-meds-that-don't-work. . . .
The least I could do was clean the bathroom.
A chore I detest and loathe under the best of health conditions.
Nonetheless, as soon as Stephen and the kids departed for the theater, I collected up the bathroom cleaning supplies, and shut myself in the can.
Because nothing makes an already-detestable chore more difficult than the inclusion of Frankie and Tikka.
And Goblet.
And Reilley.
All of whom would have been in the bathroom squeezing themselves onto toilet seats and into the bathtub faster than I could I say,
"Out. OUT. You're not needed in here at this moment in time. I appreciate the thought, but really, this is something I must do on my own. But thanks for the thought."
Constantly amazed, am I, that the one room in the house that facilitates cleaning is the room that gets dirty the fastest.
And the worst.
Gross.
I HATE cleaning the bathroom.
Partly because I never know what I'll find in there.
I often think crime scene investigators, or SOCOs if your British, would have a field day in our bathroom.
Along with Kim and Aggie.
Cleaning the bathroom is actually the easy part.
Preparing the bathroom for cleaning. . . . .
That is an entirely different story.
The removal of all accessories and products from all surfaces, sink, bathtub, back of toilet, always reveals that at least half of said I-must-have-or-I'll-be-ugly-and-dirty-for-the-remainder-of-my-natural-life products are, shockingly. . .
EMPTY!!!!!!
And yet they sit on the already-not-enough-space surfaces like saucy squatters.
Not enough shampoo or conditioner to bathe a nit, but they claim their bathroom space with pride.
Once I've sorted the legitimate renters from the squatters, its time to move on to the sink.
All of Em's facial cleaning products, toothpaste, melatonin bottles, handcreams, razors, shaving creams. . .
Removed, assessed for fullness, put on the floor because there is no other place to put them.
And then.
The ceramic toothbrush holder.
Toothbrushes removed.
Bottom of toothbrush holder assessed.
Toothbrush holder in dishwasher asap.
Bath mat.
Will not be discussed, but let's be thankful for strong bathroom cleaning products.
Checking the hairtrap in the tub reveals a conglomeration of long hair (and possibly other hairs that I do not wish to contemplate), shampoo, shaving cream, soap and conditioner that, if given an electrical charge, would jump to live creating a creature only the original Power Rangers could bring down.
Once everything has been assessed, allocated it's place in the useability continuum, and all bathroom surfaces laid bare, then, the cleaning can commence.
The scrubbing, wiping, spraying. . . .
Scalding hot water to remove all globs of gunk and goo. . .
Toilet brushes scrubbing in a frenzy because we all know that men miss.
A lot.
The melodies and harmonies of whining dogs and wailing kitties create the background score for this horror short.
And then. . .
A fresh smelling, bacteria free, squatter empty bathroom.
Good for another week.
Before it starts
All.
Over.
Again.
Hopefully next week my companions the Malevolent Seven Dwarves, Mucus, Phlegm, Coughing, Hacking, Sneezing, Fever, and Sore Throat will have left for sunnier climes.
Title Lyric: Housecleaning by Mavado
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