Slipping Away at Christmas

City streets are piled with snow and sidewalks slick with ice as I make my way to the nursing home. I learn that another resident has passed away just before Christmas. I did not know him very well but certainly saw him around. This seems to happen every year, people checking out of this life before the holidays. Maybe celebrations on the Other Side are more fun… and maybe there are others there who beckon.

My mother manages to eat her lunch today, chewing slowly. She opens her eyes for a split second and recognizes me. The rest of my visit, she remains with eyes closed, unable to process the images around her. All the same, she makes the effort to answer my questions with a "Yeah" or a "No." She tells me she is okay.

Part of her has slipped away – I can see it on her face. Peaceful now. As long as she is not in pain, I am glad to be with her. Seeing her lose all her functioning has been the most difficult thing in my life. Yet she is 88 years old, has lived with Alzheimer’s Disease for the last 9 and it is almost time to go.

I have never found goodbyes easy but there is a finality to physical death that makes it twice as hard. I believe she will continue to exist in another dimension and will probably try to let me know that she is okay. That’s all the reassurance I need.

Right now every moment is precious because I never know which breath will be her last. And Christmas songs, with all the nostalgia they bring, have never sounded so bittersweet.

Footprints in the Sand

The sun has barely risen over rooftops on the beach – yet several footprints are already scattered across the sand. Some run in the same direction as mine as I walk south.

The crashing of the surf and the cries of gulls fill my senses. A small white tern dives into the waves for breakfast as a rosy glow steals across the sky.

I’m glad for every day on the Gulf, where it’s warm and sunny. St. Pete Beach in winter is one of my favourite spots. The evening news brings more stories of snow and ice storms lashing across Canada and the USA. Apart from a tropical escape, what brings me here this time around is setting research for my novel. Today I catalogue names and descriptions of hotels and other landmarks along the beach. A grueling task but I’m up to the challenge!

By noon the footprints have multiplied, crisscrossing the sand at random. The tide rushes in now and obliterates many of them.

It strikes me that our lives are just as fleeting. How many have gone before us? How many will follow? The only lasting impression we can make, it seems, is in the hearts and minds of those we leave behind.

(written Dec. 7, 2007)

Brick by Brick

A few months ago I awakened to the sound of bulldozers and tractors. A condo building, three storeys high, is going up across the street from me. This morning I listen to the tap-tapping of hammers as brick layers work on an entire side of the building. The process involves precision tools, bricks, mortar, heaters and plastic sheeting to keep out the cold. A wall the colour of faded autumn leaves is starting to emerge. In future I will see this wall when I look out my living room window, along with the faces of my new neighbours.

I have been dreading the construction, expecting to be inconvenienced by the noise and the mess. Yet every day I feel a tinge of excitement as I witness the progress. It is growing into a pretty structure with gables, white French doors and windows, and balconies which will be a tight squeeze for even two.

My novel, too, is progressing now beyond the first draft. A whole new dimension is pushing the story outwards, giving my main characters challenges which I have not foreseen. I look forward to writing out the scenes in my next draft and letting the story deepen. Not unlike the brick layers with their careful measurements, I am testing plot lines for balance and fit before laying down words.

I find it interesting how outside events often parallel what is going on in our lives. All we need to do is pay attention!

Bursting Walls Between Us

On my way home from an author reading, I follow a patch-work path of dry autumn leaves. The leaves crumble beneath my feet. Soon they will scatter to the four winds. They remind me how fragile we really are.

The reading was from The Glass Seed by Eileen Delehanty Pearkes. Her title alludes to the growth that can take place when the walls encasing us are suddenly burst open. She experienced such a release when relating to her mother and nurturing her through a lengthy illness. My own mother has succumbed to the same disease, Alzheimer’s, over the last nine years. As painful as it’s been to witness her loss of autonomy and basic functioning, I appreciate the bonds we forged.

I walk briskly, anxious to escape the cold. The street is quiet at this hour; most people safe behind closed doors, in for the night. High above, a bulbous moon shines its ethereal light. The author’s words echo behind me, “When we could no longer speak to each other, we communicated through the heart.”

Perhaps this is the purest form of connection – being together in silence. Because when we get right down to it, love is much bigger than words.

The Running Track

Early this morning, in the cold, I see a solitary figure doing laps around the track near my home. Nothing unusual about that. Except this is an elderly man using a cane as he walks at a steady clip.

Montreal has an aging population. Many people get around with the help of canes, walkers or electric chairs. What makes this man remarkable is his refusal to be hampered by his limitations. He’s out there doing laps while others are still in bed.

Our bodies love to move; it’s what they were designed for. Working out boosts our sense of well-being, reduces stress and promotes good health. It also keeps us mentally alert. The hardest part is getting started.

For years now I make exercise a priority. I satisfy my love of nature when I walk along the St. Lawrence River or cycle outdoors several hours a week. I also practice yoga for balance, flexibility and strength. I can’t avoid growing older but I CAN do something about the shape I’m in.

What about you?

Coffee, Anyone?

I sit in my favourite café in downtown Montreal, listening to the sound of bulldozers and tractors. The street is still under siege as construction workers lay new pipes and widen the sidewalks. I try to pick up the thread of music playing indoors but the singer is drowned out by the cacophony outside. Surprising that anyone else is here – but there are dozens of customers drinking lattés as they tap on keyboards or flip through papers. A few, like me, write in lined journals.

What you find here at 3:30 p.m. on a Wednesday afternoon are usually students, the self-employed or the retired. We are each in our private worlds, focusing on the material in front of us as the aroma of freshly ground coffee beans wafts by. Our heads lift periodically to watch the human traffic streaming past the window.

The voices around me are a mixture of English, French, male and female - talking, laughing, telling stories. Friends meeting friends. A middle-aged woman wanders in alone, carrying a backpack. She heads straight for the desserts – an array of breads, cookies and cakes, mostly chocolate. I skirted temptation by ordering a blueberry scone with green tea. By the time I demolish the scone, my appetite is sated. The young dark-haired man across from me sips from his cup the same moment as me.

People aren’t so different from birds. We flock together. Even if we’re not connected, we like to observe, to be where the action is. As a writer I can’t afford to be isolated. I need to witness human behaviour first-hand – and hopefully to get inspired.

A fluffy flower seed twirls through the open window and past my table, air-borne by the breeze. It too seeks fertile ground. Maybe neither of us will find it in the remaining hours before sunset, but at least we’re here.

Do You Believe in Love?

As I walk along the river this afternoon, enjoying the colourful autumn leaves, I see a white-haired couple. The man’s arm is thrown around the woman’s shoulders and they speak softly together. Laugh.

After feeding a horde of hungry ducks, I start back home. I meet the same two people, who have also reversed direction. They step aside to let me pass but instead I slow to their pace. They exude contentment and perfect ease with each other and the world. They are also in their 80s and have been married 65 years.

We chat as we stroll in the sunshine. Talking about the past, they tease each other. Flirt. The details of their lives seem ordinary enough – met at the YMCA, had three children, nine grandchildren. He supported her for twenty years as she raised a family; then she entered the workforce. “Everyone loved her,” he says, meaning her co-workers. “And who wouldn’t?” His eyes sparkle as he gazes at her.

She says she had nine brothers and sisters. I ask if they are still around. She says yes, looking confused as he gently reminds her that they have passed on.

In these days of soaring divorce rates and break ups, I find myself moved. Doug and Mary have the kind of love people yearn for when they mention “soul mates.” As a romance writer, I need to believe that love can endure. Today I have living proof.