Opting for Fake Flowers

My dear friend P came by for a visit today with her scrappin' toys and taught me all about fake flowers.  I love her so much for making the trip that I even cleaned for her, and made her a cake. Honestly, I thought of cancelling a few times this week.  Painting to be done, a self-pity sniffle, laundry, shopping, it was all almost the priority.

And in other corners of the house, I have planted my first seeds in hopes that someday the snow will end and I will be able to plant again.  My retired neighbour has already swept her lawn, edged her beds and pruned hedges.  I just had a nap.

I have painted the house top to bottom, gotten a part in Mamma Mia, earned a spot in the Canada-wide education summit Unplug'd in August, been granted admission to the Masters in Ed program I wanted, and still it's just not enough.  I even have a new pair of red shoes.  I've often thought of February as the long, dark, teatime of the soul....but April?  This is just ridiculous.

So I owed myself today.  A day to play with our cool stuff making fake flowers, while none will grow outside.

three fake flowers

Breaking the Archetype

I'm going through something, dear readers.  I don't know what it is but if I could draw a picture of myself, it would be like suddenly noticing that I'm developing another limb that has superpowers.  Oh yeah, and I had another birthday.  Birthdays always seem to root out the revolution in me.

This week, my dear friend K lost her husband who was just 44 years old, sudden heart attack brought on, probably, by the stress of trying to recover from a serious fracture incurred during a ski accident 2 weeks earlier.  Totally freakish.  17 years of marriage over in an instant.  At first I just watched her in shock at the threshold of grieving, and she was just so beautiful oscillating between emotions.  And part of me is envious because she gets to start over and recreate herself all over again.  The same way that I'm envious of Libya and Egypt. It's going to take such work to get through this period of time, but I fundamentally believe that K and Libya and Egypt will morph into something better.

I feel like I've spent the last decade devoting myself to procreation, which has literally sapped my energy to the core.  I said out loud that I regret the whole thing.  Of course, I turn to my right and see my Max, who just gets more interesting and lovable every day, and immediately regret that.  A wise man, who I live with, pointed out (perhaps with a touch of envy himself) that I'm emerging from a whole decade of learning what it means to be a woman, that I have to try on the biology of motherhood, because my body dictates that.  I've learned that women can put themselves through hell and back trying to claim that identity.

I've never been one to play with dolls or dream of my wedding.  I do love to dabble in the domestic arts of sewing, scrapbooking, cooking, gardening and repainting the house.  I look lovely in dresses and lousy in jeans. I do hospital corners when I make the bed.  But the vacuum cleaner that resides in my home and I do not have a relationship.  I don't even think I've ever turned it on.    

A man, who I respect, asked politely how many children I have.  I told him one.  And there was a lingering look of questions then.  Whether it's paranoia or not, I think there's some truth that men (perhaps of a certain generation) expect that women will make children their priority.  As you know I've really really tried, but now I'm offended and I can't fully explain why.  How dare you assume that I want that for myself?  How dare you assume that I could have as many children as I want?  Why the hell are we talking about the status of my womb when I just want to talk about how your decisions are affecting my work environment?

A young woman on the radio called upon to represent her generation on International Woman's Day and she basically said that the day is now a misnomer.  That we don't need a women's day anymore because we're equal, it's a non-issue.  If we want to, we could just have a people's day.  It makes no difference if I tell her she's wrong because she's going to have to live through the next two decades of her life in order to understand how naive her statement is.  We are different, because our biology dictates that we are the child carriers and child bearers and the breastfeeders....to have that amount of energy go into pregnancy and childbirth and those first few months of symbiosis is uniquely feminine.

I miss it.

Is this what a mid-life crisis feels like?  I may be turning into a crone, because I've tried virgin, and mother and I'm not flexible enough to be a whore, and I don't think there are any more after that.  Somehow that is just not a satisfactory list of choices.  I wish I'd tried that whole doula thing while I had the chance.

So I'm breaking the motherhood archetype.  Don't ask me how, but I'm going to both be a fantastic parent, and a phenomenal educator.  I will politely decline the question next time I'm asked.

A message of hope

Some of my favourite people lately have been asking how I'm doing.  Some lovely women in my life suggested maybe we should plan a Red Tent day.  Apparently that's a girl day but with a twist.  You know I'm trying really hard to just move on.  I've read that formalizing a ceremony can help, but I'm not there yet.

Instead I'm applying this month to start my Master's in Education online through the University of Alberta.  That's huge for me because I've never wanted to keep going in my studies before and suddenly, as a teacher-librarian, I can't get enough and I want to read and research and write.  The program is unique in Canada as it has a teacher-librarian focus, and the advisors say on average it takes 4 years to complete.  I'd start in July this year.

I'm also going to audition next week for the first time in about 15 years.  The local community theatre group is doing "Mamma Mia" and I can't imagine a better time.  If you know Max, then you know that this was the first movie he memorized every word to, so it feels serendipitous that it should be the play they're doing this year.

Of course I'm terrified but I'm tired of being scared.  For the first time in a long time, I feel like I'm putting the me part of me first.  I want to just go for it.  

Vacancy

The Guest



At one time
You appeared wanting me
With no pride
but no regret
I rejected you
Precisely
Securely
and I cried when you left.


You came again
Just a visit
I was ready for you this time
But you insisted on leaving
You played with the idea
Of staying
I feel that I almost had you convinced
But now you're gone
And I cried again.


I invite you to return
Officially
Bring your friends
I'll build a home here for you
And carry you to term.



I wrote this in 2003 right after my first miscarriage.  The difference is that I'm really wrestling this time with trying again.  It is so emotionally devestating.  I feel old and dried up and ready to give up.

On the other hand...
When I was little and at Sunday school, the minister in his Irish brogue, told me the tale about a man being stranded on an island and he prayed to be rescued.  A helicopter came by and said "Hey buddy, jump aboard". The man said "No thanks, God will save me." 

Is Isis the fertility clinic my helicopter?  Do I try again one more time?

On Tuesday I go for a BETA blood test (P will be happy about that) that's to make sure there's no pregnancy hormone still.  Then an internal ultrasound to make sure everything is gone and then a follow-up appointment with Dr. Jong.  He told me that miscarriages are really hard on him too but he tries to think of them as a positive sign that the pregnancy is possible.  Maybe it's a sign that I should reconsider.

Farewell to our little brown dog.

So to top off this hellbound week, we made the decision to have Freya, our dachshund, euthanized on Saturday.  We've actually been emotionally missing her since mid-July as she just came back from a pee break holding one foot up.  Then it became two and we thought she had injured the second by overcompensating for the first.  And then the injury switched feet and we knew something wasn't right.  The x-ray showed nothing obvious except some yucky bladderstones and a bladder infection which we treated for a month.  The next step was an MRI at the University of Guelph in the thousands of dollars.  Our wise vet said that there was no sense going for the MRI if we weren't going to go for the expensive surgery as a result.  Well after spending all our money moving to Elora this year, we didn't have the means or the will to do this.  We tried Prednisone, a drug that I've taken for my arthralgia, and it made an immediate difference for about 2 weeks and then she became a lump again.  We have literally been carrying her outside to the grass and helping her to get into position to pee, and then bringing her back inside again all summer long.  Finally, we tried some heavy pain killers this week, but they just put her in a trance.  She was forgetting to even indicate that she needed to go outside, and Tim found her on more than one occasion lying in a puddle of her own urine.  Finally, I knew I had to make the decision.  I think Tim knew it was coming long before I was ready to admit it, but we decided that her life was no longer of any quality.  Whether it was a spinal injury or a stroke or some kind of tumour pressing on nerves, we'll never know.

On Saturday morning, we dug up a flowering tree from our front yard, and dug a new bed for it in the backyard.  The procedure took all of 10 seconds.  I still can't believe how quickly it happened.  An IV was inserted into her paw and then she was given an overdose of anaesthetic.  Her heartbeat stopped without even a whimper.  Freya's body is buried under the hydrangea tree, with a blue Rose of Sharon and an autumn-blooming sedum. The September blooms will always remind me of her.

I miss her cuddly little personality and her strange Easter island begging stance.  I miss her greeting me at the door after a hard day and I miss taking her for walks. The time that we really began to depend on each other was when Tim was at teacher's college at Nipissing in North Bay.  I was living in an apartment with Freya in Erin and teaching English in Brampton.  Freya and I walked twice a day and cuddled all night.  After work, I would often Skype Tim, and whenever Freya heard his voice, she would start to cry and howl.  So adorable.  She has always had the same reaction to anyone in our clan...my parents or Tim's parents, anyone who has ever puppy-sat for us. 

Freya is Thor's wife...a very grand name for a very small dog...the reason we have the word Friday is that it's Freya's day.  Freya was a gift to my husband for his birthday right after our first miscarriage.  This week she will always remind me of my second.