Time and Tide

I like to tell my children two facts to dazzle them with proof of my advancing years:

1. I was born (slightly) before humans went to the moon, and;

2. Three-quarters of my life (and most of its most significant events) came before social media. 

Of these two facts, it’s the latter that my kids find most shocking, because a life without social media — without a digital trail of your every move, just a click away— feels more alien to them than a trip to space.

Most of the hard proof of my existence is analog, not digital. It’s photos and memorabilia, and it’s scarce and scattered. It’s shoved, out of order, into photo albums and shoeboxes and slide carousels. It’s hidden in cupboards and cabinets and basements. It’s gathering dust in mysterious undeveloped rolls of film in a junk drawer. It’s falling out of yearbooks, along with pressed flowers and notes whose importance I’ve forgotten (although they were important enough for 16-year-old me to keep them forever, certain that middle-aged me would remember and be impressed). 

It’s easy to ignore analog memories. Don’t want to think about it? Don’t look at it. Hide that photo. Pack away the yearbook. If I don’t think of them, the memories stay hidden and unconfronted. Many exist nowhere but in my mind. And memories, I’m all too aware, are tenuous things. Keep them hidden too long, and they may well fade or get lost forever…much like an old Polaroid fades, its image slipping away.

The digital world, though, doesn’t let things slip away. We trip over the memories it throws in our path, unbidden and out of context. It’s not the shoebox hidden under the bed; it’s Pandora’s Box opened in front of the world.

I was reminded of this last week when Facebook showed me what I was doing eleven years ago. Memories from that far back don’t usually pop up in my timeline; back in my early social media days, I didn’t post much, unless it was something really important. And this had been important: my parents’ 50th wedding anniversary. We’d spent it at White Point Beach Resort on Nova Scotia’s south shore. The early October days had been warm enough for my kids, then just two and four, to play in the ocean. My parents happily spent hours with them on the beach, sharing stories and making memories. 

The picture that popped up in my timeline was sweet: a photo of the two most important females in my life — my mother and my daughter — walking on the sand, backs to the camera, marching purposefully toward an adventure. In this photo, Daisy is a lively little strawberry-blond girl whose biggest problem in life is figuring out which Disney princess is her favourite. She is walking next to my mother: a tall, vibrant redhead, intently telling Daisy stories and secrets.

The photo took my breath away. It took me by the shoulders and forced me to acknowledge how much things have changed in eleven years. When it popped into my timeline, I’d just returned from visiting my parents for their 61st wedding anniversary. When I visit my mother these days, I note the repetition, the lost memories, the uncertain questions about how old Daisy and Puck are and what they are doing. I notice that my parents’ house is not as well cared for as it used to be, and that my mother doesn’t want to leave the house, at all. I see that the brilliant red hair is faded to silver-streaked copper.  I note all these things, but I hold them at arms-length. I don’t’ look at them too closely. She is, I tell myself, 81. We are all getting older. That’s all it is. Nothing has changed, so much.

But this photo. More than anything in the last five years, it’s forced me to look at what’s happened to her – to us. Even more than that time, five years ago, when my parents were going away and she showed up at my house with twelve loaves of half-eaten, partly-moldy bread for ‘safekeeping’. Even more than two Christmases ago, when she gave 12-year-old Daisy a size 4T sweater.  Even more than the several times she’s confused me with her late sister-in-law, calling me by her name and giving me the cold shoulder because they never got along well.

This photo forces me to look at the before and after. I am jolted by the realization of how much she’s failed in just eleven years, how quickly dementia has pulled at the threads of both her mental and physical self, loosening the weave that held her together. She is a faded Polaroid of who she once was. I am struck by how willfully I haven’t looked at it.

I show the photo to Daisy, asking her if she remembers that day. She cocks her head to the side and thinks.

‘I remember getting in bed with Nana and Papa early in the morning,” she tells me. “Papa was snoring. But Nana told me stories. She told me the story of little Red Riding Hood.”

I smile, picturing my redheads sharing that story in the dawn hours.

Daisy wrinkles her nose at the photo. “I was all in pink,” she says. “I was such a girly-girl.”

Daisy sees little in common with the tiny girl on the beach. She doesn’t like pink anymore. She’s known for a while that she’d rather find a princess than a prince. She barely recognizes herself in the photo. I, though, see her, still. I will always recognize her, as my soul recognized her’s the first time I held her and looked into her eyes. She’s the same, though grown. The photo shows her walking eagerly toward adventure. She’s well on the path, now.

Daisy doesn’t recognize my mother, either. She doesn’t really remember a time when my mother was lively and ready to go for walks and adventures. She only remembers the more fragile, uncertain grandmother.

My mother, too, is still there, although it’s harder to recognize her. As the bright red hair fades, I feel her essence is fading, too. Who she was in this photo is disappearing like a footprint in the sand. It’s only the memories that will preserve the way she was. I’ve been hesitant to look at those memories. I see now that I have to look and to remember before it all fades – before time and tide shift it all, and rub it out altogether.

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Grey sky. Bright leaves.

Are you as exhausted as me?

This week has been HARD. I should know to stay away from the news. But I couldn’t. I kept watching, even while a sexual assault survivor was mocked, the whole world became more hostile, and anger and pain seeped out of every social media channel I checked into.

I felt frayed. Every cell in me felt shrill, like I was screaming from deep inside and no one could hear me (or no one would listen). My eyes burned with tears that wouldn’t fall. My head ached. I think a lot of women felt like that, this week. 

That would have been more than enough, frankly. But I was also struggling personally this week. I had a child in crisis (not the usual child, either) and felt like a failure as a parent. I had a mother who couldn’t remember that I’d called already, who hinted I was a failure as a daughter. I was trying to move on from a job I’d left, with suggestions that I hadn’t done enough.

Messages of failure, all around.

I wanted to crawl into my bed and hide. But I couldn’t. My husband was away, my kids needed me, and life had to go on. I had to be the adult, even though I felt like I’d failed at being an adult.

By mid-week, I felt alone. I felt unloved. I felt (as many of us do) tired of fighting the same fight, over and over again. I felt lost. I had nothing more to give.

What pulled me through? Not self-care. Not bubble baths or meditation. This was beyond that, frankly.

What pulled me through was other people, and gratitude. Messages of love, all around.

All it took were a few messages. A few people who checked in to see how I was doing. People I haven’t heard from in a long time, but who, I was so happy to know, still thought about me. 

Never underestimate the power that has.

If you are thinking about someone, tell them. A simple email or text asking someone how they’re doing can make all the difference in the world to someone who feels alone and is struggling. It’s those delicate but strong little spider webs of connection that can hold us in place. I needed to know, this week, that someone saw me; that someone heard me. I needed to know, this week, that someone thought about me fondly. I needed to know I mattered.

Knowing that other people care about us can help us to care for ourselves. These messages of care lit a match in my darkness. They showed me I wasn’t alone, and that there was a path in front of me. They pulled me to my feet and gave me the energy to keep going.

I often hear it said that we can’t be loved until we love ourselves. There is truth in that, to be sure. But love doesn’t happen in a vacuum. We need to know we matter. We need to know there is a place for us, and that someone sees us. Connection is a huge determinant of health. None of us can do this journey alone.

That doesn’t mean having a huge friends list or a non-stop social life. It can mean a connection to one or two people who really see you. It means connecting to people who see your value and your flaws and care for you, just the same. It means connection to people who, ultimately, allow you to not be strong or have a perfect image all the time. This gives us permission to not be strong all the time. Sometimes, like this week, we just can’t.

It’s Thanksgiving, and all through this rotten week, I was also reminded that I’m supposed to be grateful. It sounds trite when you’re feeling really low, but finding even small, mundane things to be grateful for can help make the flame that lights our way a little brighter. Even with all the crap in the world and in my life, there is still gratitude:

I’m grateful that my kids are able and willing to open up to me about what they’re experiencing.

I’m grateful for new beginnings.

I’m grateful for the courage to revisit paths that are important to me but that I’ve strayed from. I’m also grateful for the courage to step onto a completely new, somewhat surprising and completely different path — one I’m going to travel simply because it can bring others joy.

I’m grateful for my cats.

I’m grateful for friends, especially those I thought I’d lost.

I’m grateful for the brilliantly coloured leaves that flare against this morning’s grey sky, reminding me that there is hope in the bleakest moments, and that change can be beautiful.

What are you giving thanks for?

Cold milk, warm cookies, & magic.

Every evening after supper, my son and I take the dog for a walk. And every evening on our walk, we have the same conversation – one of us will ask the other, “If you were at Disney right now, what would you be doing?”

No matter how hard his day was at school, or how intense his anxiety and depression, talking about Disney brightens Puck’s mood. His face animates as he tells me which park he’d be in, and which ride or attraction he’d visit. We talk about which restaurants we’d go to, and which treats we wish we could eat right now (Mickey bars and Mickey waffles are two of our favourites). We imagine which resort we’d be staying at, in which type of room. We even reminisce fondly about the Orlando airport, or the beautiful boat ride from Port Orleans French Quarters to Disney Springs. By the time the walk is over, we’re both feeling happier and have planned out a whole day’s activities for a vacation we aren’t even planning to take any time soon. And we’ll do it all over again the next night.

IMG_0170Yes, we are one of *those* families. We’ve been to Disney – a lot. We’ve been on a Disney cruise. We’ve gone on other vacations as a family, too, but it’s Disney that holds our hearts.  I’ve been fortunate to travel a fair bit. I’ve been (and lived) from coast to coast in Canada, and I’ve traveled throughout the United States. I’ve traveled to several islands in the Caribbean, and several countries in Europe. But it’s Disney that we keep returning to as a family. Some people don’t get it, and question why we go back over and over. It certainly wasn’t what I had planned. I was going to show my kids the whole world. But for us, Disney provides a dependable happiness and a retreat from reality that we haven’t found anywhere else. The rest of the world can wait. We’re searching for a world of magic.

Don’t get me wrong: my history of vacationing at Disney is not one of perfect family time or unbridled joy. We are not the happy family you see in commercials. Each trip has come with its own challenges, but also lessons. As a teen, I traveled with a mother who actually didn’t like Disney at all, and a father who wasn’t keen on most rides. I learned to appreciate everything else the parks have to offer. My first trip with children of my own was as an extended family. At the time, my father-in-law was in the early stages of dementia and was confused and prone to getting lost. My mother-in-law was recovering from a hip replacement but in her typical no-nonsense fashion, refused any help. I learned to slow down and not try to do everything. 

Other trips have been planned to balance my daughter’s “let’s do everything!” style with the ups and downs of Puck’s constellation of challenges. Sometimes, sounds were a problem for him, so we learned which attractions or places to avoid. On other trips, it was the crowds, so we learned where to watch fireworks in a less intense setting.

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Tinkerbell and Daisy in a deep fairy discussion.

Although we used a travel agent for our first two trips, I quickly became an expert at doing the planning on my own, focussing on my family’s special needs. I learned what Disney had available to help us, and created detailed itineraries that helped Puck understand what was going to happen each day, while still giving us the flexibility to have fun. I learned how to help Daisy do the things that would make magical memories while keeping Puck happy and calm.

We go back because even though Disney can be a non-stop, intense destination, it actually does a lot to cater to families like ours. Never was this more clear than on our last trip. My father-in-law’s dementia has worsened to the point where it is impossible for him and my mother-in-law to travel on their own. We knew it would be hard, but we wanted to take one last big trip together, as a family. 

I was so hesitant. I knew caring for him and my mother-in-law (who is game for anything, although frailer than she’d admit) on a cruise and then at Walt Disney World was going to be a challenge. On top of that, we had our own kids to think about – including Puck, who would turn 12 on the trip, and who had been having a terrible year with clinical depression and anxiety. I honestly didn’t know what to expect. Even though a dear friend and Disney travel specialist helped plan the details of the trip for us, I had very low expectations.

We didn’t get off to a good start. Puck’s anxiety about leaving his routine kicked in at the airport, and he was in the bathroom being sick right up until our flight boarded. My father-in-law had no idea why we were on a plane or where we were going. We spent the five hours of travel explaining to him, every ten minutes or so, that we were all going on a vacation together. 

Everyone was tense.  I was sure we’d made a big mistake.

We were leaving on a cruise the next day. But first, we’d have a night at a Disney resort. We got settled in our rooms and headed to the Magic Kingdom for the evening. My father-in-law had been agitated and confused, asking repeatedly where we were. Puck was weak and anxious from being sick and was popping ginger tablets like candy. The rest of us were tired and a bit defeated, feeling certain the trip was going to be a disaster. 

But when we got off the bus, got everyone through security, and walked onto Main Street, everything changed.

My father-in-law stopped and stared at the castle in the distance. “Oh!” he said, a big smile spreading across his face. “We’re at Disney!”. And he proceeded to tell us stories from visits 40 years earlier, when he’d gone there with his young children. He could remember those trips in detail, and while sitting on Pirates of the Caribbean, he marveled at how things were just as he’d remembered. He grabbed Puck’s arm and said, “Oh, the jail scene with the dog is coming up next!”

He couldn’t remember how we got to Florida or why, exactly, we were there, but somehow, he remembered what scene was coming up in a ride he hadn’t been on in years. He was smiling and relaxed and having fun — something that happens too little, these days. 

Puck, too, changed as soon as we were in the Magic Kingdom. The anxiety melted as he saw familiar sites he loves. Puck’s challenges make him a bit less mature than his age would suggest, but that doesn’t matter at Disney. Everyone – even me, who was just turning 49 — can be a child. There is no pressure to be mature, and no one judges you for acting like an excited child. He can act younger than his age. I (a grown woman) can get excited to the point of tears over hugging Eeyore. It’s all good.

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You’re never too old to hug Pooh bear.

Later that night, when we got back to our resort, my father-in-law wanted a ‘bed snack’. We went to the quick service restaurant, and my mother-in-law chose some cookies for him. At the cash register, my father-in-law became distraught: he couldn’t eat cookies without milk, he wailed. He was on the verge of tears. My mother-in-law panicked; she didn’t know where the milk was, and she couldn’t leave my father-in-law to go look. She was worried about him making a scene, and not being able to calm him down. The cashier came to the rescue.

“Of course you need milk!” she assured him. “You can’t eat cookies without milk! Let me get you some.” 

My mother-in-law was fretting, though, because she hadn’t brought enough cash for milk (and didn’t understand she could charge things to her room).  The cashier waved off her concern.

“Don’t worry about the milk,” she told her. “It’s a gift from Mickey. He wants Mister to enjoy his milk and cookies.”

When my mother-in-law told me this,  we both cried. She didn’t remember the name of the cashier, so I went to the front desk and thanked asked them to thank the restaurant staff for their kindness.

When we got on the cruise, warm cookies and a glass of milk were magically brought to my in-laws’ room every night at bedtime. Screen Shot 2018-09-29 at 11.52.44 AM.png

THAT’s why we keep going back to Disney. 

Yes, it can be a crazy, overwhelming place, but even for a family like ours (with proper planning) it can be the best vacation you’ve ever had, with people who work so hard to make magic for you. For families like mine — with parents exhausted from trying to manage and micro-manage every detail of the day, who have come to expect that people will not understand, will judge, or will let you down — this is amazing. That’s why my son and I talk about it every night when we’re walking the dog. It’s an escape, to be sure, but it’s also familiar and warm. It’s a place where burdened adults can be children, even just for a while, and where children who sometimes don’t feel confident can discover they are actually brave enough to ride Splash Mountain. 

Even though we talk and plan every day, it’s not likely we’ll be going back anytime soon (our finances don’t stretch to that, at the moment). But still, we dream. We talk. I help other people plan their vacations and live vicariously through them. In fact, I’ve actually thought about becoming a Disney vacation planner, so that I can help other families with special needs realize that spending time together on such a trip is not logistically impossible. I’ve done a lot of work in my life to improve services for people with special needs and mental health issues on a policy level. Maybe I could also create some magic for people at a family level. 

Families like mine need some cold milk, warm cookies, and a heaping serving of magic to keep going. Really, these days, we all do.

Put on Your Oxygen Mask

In past years, working in an air-conditioned office while the kids were in summer camps and organized activities, I kept summer at arm’s-length. Summer was a thing that happened on weekends, or on a patio with a gin and tonic after 6 pm. It was scheduled into my tidy and organized days and didn’t infringe on my 9-5 world.

For the past few summers, I’ve worked from home. The heat and proximity to the garden or ocean throw a veil of innate laziness over even my busiest days. I bring my laptop outside and work in the sun. I have meetings on coffee shop patios. I go to the cottage and sit on the dock while I write. Time slows to a crawl. The kids roam around like feral animals, spending days in their pyjamas and emerging only to forage for snacks. All structure is gone. The world condenses into hazy thoughts, blooms of honeysuckle, and quiet bird song.

This lack of structure worked for me, in the past. This year, though, I’m struggling. I’ve spent the past week being, basically, a lump. I’ve tried and failed to muster the energy to make it though my growing to-do list. I start ten different things, but at the end of the day stare at a blank computer screen. I am horrified by the dirt in the corners of the bathrooms, but have no energy to do anything about it. I drink too much coffee. I spend a lot of time staring at honeybees and wondering how such small, fuzzy creatures get the energy to do bee stuff all day.

I have run out of oxygen.

Puck wants to be a pilot. He’s obsessed with airplanes. And one of the first things you hear on a plane is the warning that in case of emergency, put your own oxygen mask on before helping anyone else.

My plane has been in a nosedive all year, and I have not put my oxygen mask.

One thing I’ve learned in my 48 years on this planet is that there is always ‘stuff’. There are jobs to do, bills to pay, relationships to navigate, fix, or leave. To be an adult is to tread water in a sea of stuff. For me, though, this year’s stuff has been dragging me under. I’ve questioned my own life-choices, and dealt with job uncertainty. I’ve spent sleepless nights worrying about Puck, and whether he will ever be okay. I’ve stayed with him through months of missed school and rounds of testing and medical appointments. I’ve been stabbed by guilt from not being with my parents more often as my mother’s memory slips away and my dad struggles to cope.  I’ve worried that I’m not doing enough to live up to whatever notion of ‘success’ society tells me I should attain today.

I realize now that I’ve dealt with it all by just diving into that deep pool of stuff — holding my breath, and not wearing a lifejacket. It’s been months since I came up for air. Only now that the pace has slowed — no school, fewer appointments, less anxiety, less structure — can I feel the shortness of breath, the heaviness in my very bones.

I am going under.Read More »

Always something there to remind me.

My 13 year-old daughter decided to clean her bedroom last weekend. Yes, this happens so seldom that it’s worth writing about.

For a year or so, her room has reflected her own internal transformation: artifacts of little girl fantasy bumping up against young teen reality. Tinkerbell and Barbie coexisting uneasily with algebra tests and bras.

I’d been telling her for months that she needed to clean her room. I’d intended only that she straighten things up. It was her own decision to do such a radical purge. (I like to see this as a successful change management strategy: I got her to think it was her idea, and she fully embraced it). She wanted to make space for the new parts of her life, and to hide the immature remnants that embarrass her now. She wasn’t just cleaning a room. She was curating an identity; translating the changes she’s been navigating as a middle schooler into her own surroundings.

She grabbed boxes and recycling bags and got ready to purge. I sat on the edge of her bed and got ready to save.Read More »

Don’t think about it. Just eat it.

My father eats gross things. Head cheese. Liver. Fried baloney. I never tried the first two. Baloney, however, was a lunch staple at our house, especially if my mum wasn’t home and Dad was in charge of feeding me. I didn’t like it, but I’d eat it, because I liked hanging out with my dad, and enjoyed the knowledge  that we were eating something my mother wouldn’t approve of.

I recall one day, standing next to him at the stove and reading the label on the tube-shaped slab of baloney. Dad slapped my hand away from it.

“Don’t think about it what’s in it,” he warned. “Just eat it.”Read More »