I'm carrying a heavy load. . . .

February 5, 2011


In spite of my predictions for a better day yesterday, it was not to be.

Two steps forward, one step back.

Yesterday was the latter.

Taught my class, came home, slept until 3.30, ate something, back to bed until 6.00.

Not to sleep.

To cry.






I've done things in my life I'm not proud of.

Lots of them.

Too many for one blog, alone.

Of them, I think the way I treated Kathryn has to be at the top of the list.

This is hard for me to talk about.

Because it throws kleig lights onto the less admirable parts of my personality.

My being.

Forces me to see those parts of myself I'd like to delude myself into thinking don't exist.

I'm not going into great detail, however, I will share what a I read at Kathryn's memorial service, as an explanation.

Know that in the last few months, though, I had started the process of making amends.

I just thought I'd have more time to show Kat the love and compassion she deserved.

My reading, my mea culpa as it were:



Jerry often referred to himself as the man who was loved too much.


Not a bad thing, in theory, but in practice being loved by two strong, fierce, independent and sometimes opinionated women was not an easy thing for Jer.

Or anyone else for that matter.

Kathryn and I were often at laugerheads when it came to Jerry.

Both believing we knew what was best.

Me not willing to accept or recognize that Jerry had found his soulmate and this wasn’t anything I needed to be worried about.

Or threatened by.

Kathryn never gave up hope that one day I would trust and accept that she would look after my baby brother as good as. . .

. . .okay, much better than, I could.

She never gave up believing that I would recognize how good she was for him.

And to him.

The strength of her belief in what could happen, in the good, characterizes Kathryn.

She saw people for who they were, and who they could become.

And had no problem telling you if you were perhaps, as in my case, stuck betwixt and between.

Kathryn was more patient and caring with me than I ever deserved.

Being the recipient of such love, warmth, strength and generosity has only made me a more caring, understanding and loving person.

During our last conversation, Kathryn took my hands in hers, looked me in the eye, and asked me to take care of my brother for her when she was gone.

I will.

I’ll never care or love him as well, as strongly, or as fiercely as you did Kat.

But I’ll try.




Everyday I carry a load of guilt so heavy, I wonder how I will manage.

And some days I don't, so I lay down in order to bear it.

Stephen reminds me of all the work I did to let Kat know how much I loved her and cared for her.

That she had forgiven me.

But I have not forgiven myself for treating her so badly.

For allowing a part of me to exist that had no reason to exist.

That part is gone.

And I will never allow it to return.

But I am still going to have to live with the repercussions of how I treated Kat.

That is my load, my responsibility.

No matter what anyone else says.






So, some days will be better than others.

Maybe today will be one of the better days.

We're taking Tikka to the vet, and Mer to get groceries.

Imagine which one will be more difficult.

We desperately need groceries.

Dinner with Mum at the nursing home.

Snowstorm tonight and tomorrow.

20-30 cm.

Because life does go on, no matter how heavy the load.



Title Lyric: Heavy Load by Fraser/Rodgers

Change clothes and go. . .

February 4, 2011


Last evening we had a wonderful surprise.

Just as I was making the finishing touches for supper, a car pulled in our driveway.

Jerry.

He said he got in his car and just started driving, ending at our house.

That was perfectly fine with me.

Set another place at the table, because there has never been a night yet where, if someone showed up, we couldn't feed them.

There is always enough.

Mer was with us, having completely run out of clean clothes, so the laundry machines were chugging away in the basement attempting to make a dent in the 5 garbage bags of laundry we transported to the house.

Em was sent home from school yesterday for being so congested she had to breathe through her ears.

Keith wasn't working or at Mer's because she was at our place.

And she wasn't going to make him supper.

It was a full house on a Thursday night.

THAT is what family is about.

And when you include Keith standing in front of our fridge, arms stretched outward, telling Mer she's not going to eat everything in our house cause then he'll starve. . . .

. . .things almost seem normal.






A couple of days ago, the day of the Frankie-barf-a-thon, I returned from work feeling the same way I feel every evening when I come home from work.

Exhausted.

As soon as I remove my winter gear, hang it up, put on my slippers all while trying to avoid stepping on the prancing canines at my feet, I go upstairs and change into my jammies.

Usually accompanied by the prancing, leaping, cavorting puppies.

Much like the bathroom, getting dressed, at least for me, is never a solo activity.

For some unknown reason, Frankie and Tikka have this urge to accompany me on my daily transformation from work-Dawne to Mummy.

Fine.

I haven't struck either of them blind by the sight of my semi-self so I figure we're okay.

The other night, however, in the middle of my transformation, Reilley pushes through the half closed bedroom door.

Takes one look at me in my state of semi-dress and vomits.

And then promptly leaves the room.

Now, I realize I do not, nor will I ever, possess the body of such lovely women as Megan Fox or Jennifer Lopez.

I'm closer to Dawn French, or Roseanne whateverherlastnameisrightnow.

But vomiting at the sight of my semi-dressed self seems a bit extreme.

At least in my opinion.

Plus I had to clean up the vomit before Frankie ate it.

Nice.

From now on, I'm closing the bedroom door.






This week has been difficult.

But, I did all of the things I was supposed to do.

Teach my classes.

Meet with students.

Write reference letters.

A task I understand is necessary, nonetheless, one I do not particularly enjoy.

Get the Faculty Fund application administration started.

I'm the Chair of the Faculty Fund Committee.

Actually, right now I am the committee.

The only thing I can't seem to get myself to do is mark assignments.

And resume data collection.

Those are my tasks for today and tomorrow.

I have to.

Because more assignments will be coming in today, meaning the pile of unmarked assignments will only get higher and higher, like Jack's beanstalk, unless I take the axe to them.

And the data analysis has to be completed because I'm supposed to be giving a paper about this data in May and writing hasn't even started yet.

So, I have to get back into my groove.

Whether I want to or not.

Today is back to the Community Kitchen.

Taking Mer grocery shopping.

Perhaps squeezing in a much needed nap sometime between coming home after my class, marking and data analysis, and going to the kitchen.

The new normal, a phrase coined by a friend.

Forced new normal is closer to the truth.

But a sense of normality nonetheless.



Title Lyric: Change Clothes by Jay-Z 

Oh, I'm a sock that's dirty. . . .

February 3, 2011


Most mornings here are challenging.

Crabby people nagging me about other crabby people.

Me trying to maintain a peaceful equilibrium, believing that a day started with peace and calm is always better than a day started with kvetching and turmoil.

But there is always the unknown variable.

The one that is typically not even on my horizon of awareness.

Nor a blip on my radar of regard.

Yesterday morning, already challenging because Em had to actually leave the house and go to school and Stephen had his 9 am class, the unknown variable reared its ugly head, a reminder that no matter how much I think I have things under control, I really don't.






Frankie.

The unknown variable.

More specifically his front and back ends.

Blowing like Mt. Vesuvius.

The first team to go out on the field was vomit.

They were particularly aggressive.

I literally got out of bed to puddles of puppy puke dotting the landscape of our 1970s goldenrod carpet, a trail from bed to closet.

A trail I had to negotiate to get to my closet for the usual morning game of "What Shall I Wear Today?"

And the stench.

I somehow made it to the laundry basket on the other side of the room, and immediately started hauling out the dirty towels.

This was no job for flimsy paper towel.

In fact, I would have loved to see one of those tv commercial mothers stroll into my upstairs with her perfectly coiffed hair, sensible yet attractive clothes, makeup artfully applied, carrying in her recently manicured hands a roll of Bounty paper towel, the "bigger, quicker pickerupper" to tackle the technicolor yawn on my bedroom floor.

Instead, it was me, in my zebra stripped flannel pjs throwing towels hither and yon like Wile. E. Coyote would toss black holes of escape in the old Bugs Bunny cartoons.

Except for me there was no escaping.

Not the stench, not the reek, not the directives from Stephen sitting up in our bed providing an unneeded and unwanted commentary to my cleaning activities.

And Frankie wondering where he was going to put the next pile.







This was just the beginning.

Or rather, the middle.

Because apparently there was a pile of putrescent poo on the rubber boot tray last evening, found by Stephen while I was upstairs happily taking up residence in the Land of Nod.

A fact I was apprised of while running amid the piles of puke.

The rest of the morning was a combination of trying to get ready for the day while keeping several eyes on Frankie.

Waiting for the next outburst.

Nothing else happened during the time between cleaning and leaving.

At least nothing I had to deal with.

Stephen. . .

Let's just say he had a rough day.

A very rough day.






But in between the remainder of Stephen's story is a small interlude.

Involving Keith.

Who strolled in yesterday morning at 6.15.

We arrived at work.

He did his usual removal of his shoes to curl up in the big blue comfy chair in Mum's office for a couple hours' snooze time before his class.

As he was removing his shoes, he noticed odd, brown stains on his socks.

Stains that were not on his socks when he donned those socks on this feet that very morning.

Stains that carried with them a rather pungent odor.

Of shit.

It would seem that in between the puking and our leaving, there was a brief, but powerful bout of doggie diarrhea that landed squarely in Keith's shoes.

Imagine how he reacted, hungover, tired, to the sight to shitty socks.

What could I do?

Give him my socks and slip into the nylon knee highs that were in my desk drawer, that's what I could do.

And that's what I did.

Keith grabbed Kleenex and started scrubbing out the insides of his shoes.

Which, mysteriously, carried no trace of doggie doo doo.

Leaving how the shit adhered to Keith's socks a mystery.

And one I just do not care to unravel, thank you very much.

Stephen comes into my office after his one and only class yesterday, and asks me how come my office stinks of dog shit.

I point to the bag.

Tell him the story.

He, of course, laughs so hard he has tears streaming down his face.

For which I made him take the bag home.

There's enough crap (pardon the pun) in my office as it is.






Stephen arrived home from his one and only class yesterday at around 11.00.

When he opened the door, the shit stench just about knocked him off the front step.

Wary, full of trepidation, he ventured into the kitchen, fearful and unfortunately all-to-knowledgeable regarding the source of the stink.

It would appear that our Frankie, having exhausted the stores in his stomach, had decided it was time for the back team to come out on the playing field.

And did they ever.

There was even splatter all over the wall behind his crate.

Not to mention the inside of his crate.

Stephen said it was reminiscent of the Frankie-shit-all-over-Tikka-in-the-back-of-the-car-during-the-vacation-from-hell-this-past-summer incident.

Except, mercifully, there was no splattering of Tikka this time.

Small mercies, right?






Stephen spent the rest of the morning and into the afternoon cleaning up after Mt. Frankie

All of Frankie's bedding had to be washed, as did the numerous puke-soaked towels from upstairs.

Carpets scrubbed.

Walls washed.

Frankie feeling so ashamed of himself Stephen had to sit with him numerous time to comfort him and remind him that we were not angry with him.

The source of his blowup has yet to be determined.

Although there are some suspects.

Em's bedroom.

Something I have to address and am dreading with every fibre of my being.

The recycling, a former veritable playground for Frankie in those stolen, alone moments in the basement.

Regardless, it was most unavoidable, a fact that has not escaped Stephen.

And one he has ensured hasn't been overlooked by me.




Frankie was back to his usual self by last evening.

Eating and drinking heartily.

Cavorting with Tikka.

Cavorting at the cats.

Whatever malady that had beset him in the morning had run it's course.

All over the house.

But it was over.

Hallellujah.





Whatever today brings, it can't be worse than puke puddles and shitty socks.

At least I hope not.

Because I have no idea what worse would look like.

Nor do I want to find out.



Title Lyric: I'm A Sock That's Dirty by BRAK

Found a photo of our memory. . .

February 2, 2011



Em has to go back to school this morning.

I can sympathize with how she's feeling. . .the not wanting to go, the worries over trying to get back into the routine.

But she has to go, because I have to go.

Having said that, we are supposed to be getting 25 cms of snow today, so she is getting out two hours early.

I teach until 5.30. It's a once a week class. Only if the university closes will I not hold class.

Meaning I'll be holding class, because the university almost never closes.

And then lashing Frankie and Tikka to a sled to take me home.

I should arrive at my front door sometime before June.






Yesterday was fine.

Went to my classes, did what I was supposed to do.

But my heart wasn't in it, if I'm to be honest. 

Stephen brought me home at 2.30, much earlier than I'm ever home during the week.

Easing back into the swing of things seems to be a good strategy for me.

Em was home, so we watched cooking shows on the Food Network for a little while, before I made supper.

Tuesdays are Stephen's busiest day, as he teaches until 10.00 pm.  He came home at 5.30  and supper was ready and on the table.

Such a June Cleaver moment for me!

All I needed were my heels and pearls.

Although, if Stephen came home to me wearing a dress with an apron, heels and pearls adorning my Rubenesque physique, I think he'd commit me.






Last week I had to go through old pictures of our family for Kat's memorial.

I wanted pictures of her looking happy and well.

I didn't anticipate the pleasure those pictures would bring.

Many of them were of Kathryn and Jerry's wedding.

A shot of the Clarke Clan, for example, when my mother was somewhat healthier.

And my hair was somewhat shorter.

But at least is wasn't blonde.

A beautiful ceremony, with a lot of kid participation.

And some interesting pics ensued.

Keep in mind this was eleven years ago: Mer was 10, Keith was 8 1/2, and Em was 6.

Even then, their personalities were shining through.

Emmy the "I-Don't-Want-To-Have-My-Picture-Taken!"

To Emmy-I'll-Smile-Because-Mummy-Is-Making-Me-Laugh

Pookie of the Pillow

However, there was one picture that brought tears of laughter and mirth to my eyes. Em and I were hysterical when we saw this one. . .we laughed so hard we couldn't breathe.

Mer.

The Cool.

The Suave.

In a week of tears, this interlude of laughter went a long, long way.

I have an 8x10 of this picture.

One day, it will come in very, very handy.

I then looked through pictures of mine and Stephen's wedding.

And found this one. 

Another reminder of how fast the kids have grown up and how much I wish I could go back in time.

How lovely my family is.

And how skinny Pookie's become.

I'll have to do something about that.

Title Lyric: Pictures by Ne-Yo

People fight to stay alive every day, Cause they know, life is worth more than worries, Make the best of it. . .

January 31, 2011



Just got back from walking the dogs.

I can't remember the last time I was out with them.

Meaning its been too long.

And now I remember what I missed.

The walking was good, necessary, cathartic.

Fresh air in my lungs, runny nose, the crunch of snow under my boots.



It was cold, but the sky was blue and the sun was out, so I didn't seem to bothered by it.

Plus, I was so bundled up that I was barely able to sit in the car.

Stephen was worried I might have to lay down in the back seat.

Two long sleeve shirts, a zip up sweater, long johns, my orange pants, two pairs of socks, my winter coat, two scarves, one of Stephen's hats because I don't own one of my own, two pairs of gloves and my old winter boots.

I'm surprised I could walk at all.

Stephen was surprised I was there.

Me, too.





Best of all, though, was watching Frankie and Tikka.

How they enjoy the simple pleasure of being outside, running around, leaping, hopping, sniffing, stopping every. five. seconds. for their ablutions. 

Snow on their muzzles. 

Their attempts to wander into the woods even though they know they're not supposed to.

Meeting up with other dogs, and seeing energy emanating in waves from Frankie while he runs with them, burning off all that excess juice.

Tikka and Frank have also had a rough week.

Mummy home, but in bed with the blinds down, Daddy in and out of the house running errands, Emmy on the couch watching tv, or at the very least looking at it.

Or Mummy and Daddy gone for long periods of time, only to return home smelling of Uncle and two dogs they haven't met yet.

Knowing only that they have not been outside anywhere near enough, and that they desperately want to be.

Need to be.

And it all came out this afternoon.

Thankfully.

Because keeping those two in the house for too long makes life miserable for ALL of us.

Garbage and recycling aren't safe.

Cats fear for their lives, knowing the second they make eye contact with Frankie, the chase is on.

Whether they want to be chased or not.

Kitty crunchies become the snack of the day.

Letting them run, wearing them out, means that Frankie spends the evening on the loveseat, comfortable and happy, even moving over if I want to sit there.

Tikka will move from couch to floor and back to couch again until she feels its time for me to get myself to bed.

Then the pawing and whining starts and continues with the expectation that I'll get fed up and move upstairs.

Somehow that doesn't seem to be a problem lately.

Now staying out of bed. . . .

That's a different story.






Tomorrow, however, all will change.

Up at 5.30, on campus by 8.00, class at 10.00.

I expect that the panic in my 2103 class is palpable.

Em is still home, as her second term doesn't start until Wednesday.

This morning was my trial run.

Up at 8.00.

A modified version of my morning routine.

I had my Simply for Life meeting this morning.

I was a little worried about my romp with the peanut butter macaroons.

A long, extended romp.

Of epic proportions.

Still, another 3.6 pounds have gone, making the total 40.8.

The weight, the walk, in part, is motivated by the realization that having a life to live is not something I should take for granted.

Because you never know what's going to happen.

Meaning that I need to live this life the best way I can, and treat myself as nicely as I can.

Exercise.

Eating well.

Trying to achieve balance.

Moving forward.

And remembering to be thankful for each day I'm with the people I love, doing something I'm good at (at least some of the time).

Cause you just never know what's gonna happen.

Ever.





Title Lyric: Celebrate Life by Lucky Dube

Going through the motions, going through the motions, go, go go. . . .

January 30, 2011



Yesterday started the same as the last several.

Bed, up, dogs, breakfast, blog, bed.

And there for a long time.

Staring.

Thinking.

Grieving.







Until Stephen reminded me that I had promised my mother I would have dinner with her.

As I do every Saturday evening.

That vaguely smells of routine.

I hauled myself up and got dressed.

Took two kids to work, picked up one, and was, as usual, pushing the clock.

That strongly smells of routine.

Too strongly if you ask me.

I hate the rushing to get the kids to work routine.

Hate it.

Because no matter how hard I try, there is always something that prevents us from getting them there on time.

And yesterday that something was me.

Partially me.

But at least the tension and the arguing felt normal.

In retrospect, everyone was at fault.

A convergence of unfortunate events.

And yet they got to work, Stephen, Em and I got to the nursing home, ate hot dogs and potato salad, visited with Mum.

Routine.

Normal.

Going through the motions.

Guess its time to start.






After the nursing home, and Victory where Stephen wanted beets for borscht, Em and I went to the movies.

Em has suffered from serious maternal neglect this week.

That happens when you're mother is in bed and has no sense of time going by.

So when she asked me to go to the movies with her, I knew I had to.

Not just because I hadn't been the best mother in the past week, but because, again, it was about going through the motions.

Em knows her Mum, and the movie as carrot stick is always going to work.

Especially when she told me what movie.

127 Hours.

There were fears that it wouldn't come to our theater, as some good movies usually don't.

Therefore when Em asked if I wanted to go to the movies, AND see 127 Hours she knew that I'd go.

Plus, Stephen thought I should go meaning I was feeling a bit ganged up on.

I was glad that I went, spent time with Em.

A very good film, a celebration of life, of all that is important to live for.

Stephen picked us up when the movie ended.

Dogs in the back of the car, their silhouettes welcoming and loving.

Always happy to see me.

Stephen wearing my apron underneath his coat, the car smelling like the herbs and flavours of homemade borscht.

Stephen forgetting he was wearing the apron underneath his coat.

Routine.







Today we're going to Quaker meeting and then to visit with my brother for a while.

See how he's doing.

Tomorrow, back to Simply for Life, and then work.

The eating has been challenging.

After the memorial service was the worst.

Peanut butter macaroons.

Never have I encountered such a glorious concoction when I most needed it.

Keep your alcohol.

Give me my peanut butter and sugar and I can party all night long.

But I seem to have eating, at least, back under control.

Work.

I suspect my students are wondering how things will work with a week's absence.

Assignments, when are they due?

Are we still having that midterm?

How long has it been since I watered my plants?

Routine.

Going through the motions.








Routine.

Going through the motions.

Doing what I have to do, when I have to do it, until it starts to feel natural again.

And it will feel natural and normal again.

It's inevitable.

And I don't have the energy to fight it.

Easier to just give in and be an adult.

Going through the motions.



Title Lyric: Going Through the Motions by McFly