silver foxes

At some time I had bought my mother a Richard Simmon's tape -- Richard Simmons and the Silver Foxes. She never used it and I think scoffed at me when I originally purchased it for her, an exercise video for seniors.

During her last months I would go out and inline skate whenever I was able to, a necessary release to keep stress at bay and an attempt to gain positive momentum. During her last weeks I could not leave her alone, and feeling the need to destress even more, I pulled out the Silver Foxes video.

I had managed to keep my legs and cardio in shape, but my upper body and arms were, and are, pathetic. The Silver Foxes circa 1986 were the parents of famous celebrities; they included Sal Pacino (you can see where Al got a lot of his charisma from), Harry Hoffman -- father of Dustin, Jacqueline Stallone -- mother to Rocky, Pauline Fawcett -- mother to Farrah, and Richard's mother Shirley. Richard Simmons is pretty funny at any time.

Though my mother had never shown any interest in this video before, she found it quite humourous now. I'm not sure if it was the Silver Foxes in their pastel workout suits, the women with their hands covered in rings, their hair lacquered to a sheen; the men, especially Sal, lookin' kinda good, and Richard of course being Richard -- or if it was me, finding these very basic, low-impact routines a strettttccccchhhhhh.

It seemed to be a combination of all of the above. She was quite taken with the whole routine, and thought I should do it every day. Well, I didn't do it every day.

But, I did it today. I've been sitting at a computer too much, sitting reading too much, and have been feeling my body wither around me. Who better than the Silver Foxes to gently awaken my non-existent shoulder muscles?

Have to build up slowly so I can attempt "Sweatin' to the Oldies - 2."

dying at home

I realize my last post may have been difficult to read. I apologize if this topic is one people don't want to read about. But, writing about it is a way of putting it in perspective for me.

Taking care of a person, being there for them when they are near death, is hard. Especially if it is someone you love. It is hard to see them in pain, hard to accept that they will not recover from the next progression of the disease. It is relentless.

But I want to make it clear that my mother's death from advanced colon cancer, except for a cruel last week and a half, was monitored and eased with exquisite professional care. Doctors are for the most part too pre-occupied to deal compassionately with patients anymore. Well, at least that has been a predominant experience of mine. But I have nothing but the highest respect for the home-care nurses and the hospice staff, both doctors and nurses.

Coming in and out of the home, checking on emotional needs as well as physical, being there and caring long after their shifts had ended: hospice nurses, home-care nurses, therapists, social workers. Sometimes a day would be a constant rotation of people coming in and out, each staying for an hour, providing a wonderful continuity of care from day to day and week to week.

People would rotate, probably as a professional sanity precaution, I suppose. But their records and communications were always top-notch, and they often laughed and put us at ease.

Pain medication has come a long way. Though my mother had a cancer that should have caused her great pain, the hospice doctors were expert at providing her with a thoughtful combination of drugs that enabled her to have a quality of life none of us had thought was possible. For three months she was able to get out and about. With awe, we would wonder "where has the pain gone?", but not want to know and just very, very thankful for its absence, always aware of the darkness lurking.

She was not bedbound until the last two weeks. Those last weeks were simply horrible. Things fell apart and pain control got lost, not fully settled again until her last two days. And those were the times we wondered if she would be better in a hospital. She wondered too. But we also heard first-hand horror stories of people suffering unattended, even in hospice in the hospital.

When she died, it was after midnight, in her home, and my brothers and I had been with her all day, and were going to be there the next day. It was the second night we had an overnight nurse provided to us, after a weekend on my own where I had slept little, if at all.

It was late September, and the weather was lovely. I often thought it was good that she was dying in the summer and not the winter. She was able to get outside. We were able to bring the outdoors in. There was fresh fruit and raspberries, her favourite. She could sit on the couch and look out her front window. When the bed was brought in, it was set up in the livingroom. Life's small moments: birds warbling outside, her dog paddling around on the floor, the grandchildren singing her a song.

She lived well, up until her death, and she died at home.

plate tectonics

geology 101:
PLATE TECTONICS -- a theory in geology: the lithosphere of the earth is divided into a small number of plates which float on and travel independently over the mantle and much of the earth's seismic activity occurs at the boundaries of these plates -- compare CONTINENTAL DRIFT

This post is not about the federal election taking place on Monday, though it could be. It is about the shifts that have occurred in my life.

Yesterday I handed in my last assignment regarding my internship, and well, that means I have completed my journalism degree at Ryerson University.

When I began this journey over two years ago, my plan was to do this for myself and then return home to Windsor to care for my mother in her senior years. She had been struck with a cerebral aneurysm when she was 47 and I was 24. Over the years I had helped her as she moved forward and overcame many of the obstacles in front of her. But though she was in a good place in her early 70s, I knew her capabilities would begin to decline with advancing age. So school was something I was doing for myself. My plan was to return to Windsor and hopefully use my new skills in a community newspaper.

But during the first months of school, doctors diagnosed my mother with colon cancer. After surgery, the diagnosis was positive and optimistic. In May of the following year they told us it had spread to her liver.

So I returned home and helped her die. Dying at home is what she wanted, and what we (my brothers and I), wanted for her. But caretakers take heed; it is a hard, hard thing of which to be a part. I was basically living in a hospital and expected to administer medications and make decisions I was not trained to make. The home nurses were sent from God, administering the care and medical attention that we had long ago stopped receiving from doctors. But they were only there a few times during the week, preparing the medication for the caretaker to administer.

I returned to school the following January, after taking three months following my mother's death to close up her house and prepare it for sale. In April, my father went into hospice in Florida and two weeks later passed away. He had been sick and in pain for almost a decade, but he fought like mad not to go. He involved my stepmother and me in bizarre plans to escape. Eventually he gave in to the medicated relief from pain.

Then I was back in Toronto, now looking like my permanent home. It is strange to go back to my hometown in Windsor and not have my childhood home in the family. Even as an adult, one is set adrift. My father's home too, outside of Detroit is being sold. Things that were always, and are no longer.

Now I am done school, and I face a future full of possibilities. So many plausible and implausible scenarios, that I have to sort and speculate as to where I am and where I am going. Everything has shifted, connections fractured and lost. But it feels like the shifting is done, the ground has stopped moving, and I can see the lay of the land.

I hope to stay in Toronto for a few years if I can. I like the city and see it as full of opportunity. But there is also a part of me that feels the world beckoning. It is a world given to me by all the love and support I have had in my life, and I think, it will be a strong world. Even the earth moves.

'the best of french canada'

I am late discovering 'the best of French Canada' on CBC, after the National update on Monday nights. Very late -- maybe by a couple of years.

But better late than never, a mantra I heartily commend. By accident, as I've been working afternoons, and settling down to watch my taped shows just before midnight, not once -- but twice -- have I come across the excellent 2001 television series La Vie, la vie from la belle province. After some calculations, the half-hour series, which originally ran for two seasons, appears to be on its last six episodes, two episodes being shown each Monday night.

So, if you are intrigued, check it out, even though it is almost finished its run. I don't know if they'll start it again, but apparently it is also available on DVD. The show does run with subtitles, or otherwise I would be lost.

I am sorry mon francais est trop mauvais. I would so love to be bilingual, and fluently so. My basic high school French helps me stumble through some readings, but I'm hopeless when it's spoken. My high school Latin, which I'm sure they don't teach anymore, has been more of a help to me in piecing meaning out of latin-based languages. It's a rocky road.

But I digress. Trying to read the CBC-Radio French descriptions of La Vie, la vie has made me realize how little French I know. Watching the program makes me want to understand it.

The show could be described as a Gallic version of Friends, but only in the most superficial way, in that its protaganists are thirty-somethings stumbling through their lives and relationships. The show is defined as a drama, which definition, in the four episodes I've seen, I would have to disagree with. It's funny, witty, original, three-dimensional and insightful. The characters are well-realized and recognizable, and flawed.

I was drawn by the inner conflicts of the women, as they mused over the losses, as well as the gains, created by the women's movement. This is excellent television. Some of the best I have ever seen. I have to watch more of it with a discerning eye, but there is something about its colour and the way it is lit, that is sparkling and vivid.

C'est excellent!

flip flop

How deep do my convictions go? Well, on some issues, apparently not very deep.

After my righteous tirade against unpaid internships yesterday, I can say, if this particular internship at this particular time is offered to me, I will take it.

It would fit in nicely into the four-month slot before my hoped-for paid summer internship -- somewhere. Because I am just finishing school, this may be the only time an unpaid internship makes sense. I won't be paying them, as I have been in school, and will be learning, getting experience to place on my resume, and be making welcome contacts. So, there are pluses.

Better than sitting at home not working.

I don't know if an unpaid internship expects you to stick around if a paying job comes along. In that situation, they would have precious little to back their case.

Blowin' in the breeze . . .

work for free

I was so excited this morning to receive an e-mail from a former instructor about an internship opportunity at a national magazine.

Until, on further research, I found it is an unpaid internship.

Curses on unpaid internships! Do I apply? I probably will in order to get my resume out there, but after two years of schooling, I need to think more practically. Unpaid internships are fine as part of your schooling (though money would be fine there as well), but are a crapshoot otherwise.

And, I refer to my blogging 'practice' on my resume, but so be it. Look at my experience and desire and ability to contribute, and please pay me a wage.

Amen.