Pride and prejudice

Iphis texted me earlier this week.  He wanted to drop by our house for a meal.

- Neat! I responded.  - Are you in town for Canada Day or for Pride?

- For Pride! I don't celebrate Canada Day.  What are you up to on Wednesday?

- Younger daughter and the Resident Fan Boy usually hit the library on Tuesdays, but, because of that holiday you don't celebrate (clutching my pearls, which makes it *really* difficult to text), they'll probably do it Wednesday -- unless you have a really exciting suggestion for lunch....

- I know, the scandal!  Not liking nationalism and big crowds of loud strangers!?! I could do dinner Wednesday. 

I agree to the Wednesday dinner, but think to myself:  Nationalism and big crowds of loud strangers?  Isn't that a description of Pride?

The bear went over the parking lot

Across the street from our ground-level condo, we have had a front-row view of the dismantling of the strange stone structure with a window, which has been decaying for about two years, below an ancient house set on the rocks above.

Four years ago, I launched myself into the night, the Resident Fan Boy in pursuit, when I got a Lifeline call that Demeter had fallen.  As I fled past the stone whatever-it-was - some sort of garage, or storage room?, I could hear a dog barking at me from within.  (Demeter was bruised, but okay.)

Back in the present, I decided to remind myself how the structure had looked, so went to the "Street View" in Google Maps, noticing that the most recent update is November 2022, the first update since spring of 2017, which means that the photographic record of our neighbourhood now postdate our return to Victoria in late 2017, and our move to the condo in September 2019.

After refreshing my memory on how things had looked across the street from us, I wheeled the viewer around and gazed at our patio window, wondering if someone was sitting on the couch that November morning in 2022 - I could tell it was morning, by the angle of the weak autumn sunlight.  The leaves were also autumnal, lots still in the trees, and plenty on the damp sidewalk.  I "virtually" slipped down a side street, had a look at Moka House on Cook Street, then up the hill back to Fairfield Road, to look toward Demeter's building.

Then I saw a familiar figure on the sidewalk.  It was me, facing west, and evidently on the way to set up my mother's breakfast.  I was clearly standing stock-still, off to the right, in the driveway of a 1912 manor, waiting for an older gentleman to scuff through the leaves and pass me.

That was me in pandemic mode, always pulling off the sidewalk to keep the six-foot gap between other pedestrians and me.

I checked my journals, and realised three things:  the sidewalks were dampened for the first time since late spring as we'd had a long drought, lasting well into late October.  I'd just had my first cataract procedure - the reason for my sunglasses, even on a slightly overcast early morning. I had not yet fallen:  I'd hit the pavement around the corner on November 25th, and in this capture, I'd not yet switched to my winter coat.  So this was early November.  Six or seven weeks before I caught COVID, along with Demeter and younger daughter.  I stood on the sidewalk, planning Christmas, no idea of how challenging it was going to be.  But that's true of any time.

This is my second Street View capture.  The last time was in Ottawa, a May about ten years ago.  I saw the Google van with its tower camera that time, while trudging east, across the supermarket parking lot, clutching two cloth bags containing the makings of younger daughter's birthday cake.  I looked up the location later.  I looked remarkably like a bear.

It's really hard to hate anyone when you know what they've lived through

 I had my flu shot today. It's a doozy. It's driven me briefly to my bed.

This song by Dawes was released in 2018, deep in the midst of Trump's America, but it's about more than that. A perfect state of grace is difficult to achieve in the best of times.

Or the worst of times. 

Muggy comfort

Heading through the amber-tinged streets this morning, I turned and saw the all-too-familiar blazing copper penny - for those of you who remember pennies - rising above the buildings.

Victoria has been largely spared the smoke from distant forest fires this summer, so much so that an editor, writing climate-change advice for the Times-Colonist earlier this week, reminded us of the "smoky skies over Victoria a few years back".  I guess he forgot about last September, when the smoke from California, Oregon, and Washington State clumped over Victoria for several days, turning the sun into a merciless, cold, silver disc, and hiking the air quality scale to "10+".  We were never given the actual number, but the air pollution was worse than that which plagues Beijing.

The air quality this time is a "moderate risk" 4; it was 6 yesterday evening.  It's a kind of cold comfort (well, muggy, anyway) that we are grateful to not be Beijing.

Or under a heat dome.  Seven weeks ago, I noticed the cat, splayed on the windowsill of our north-facing bedroom at 7 am.  Never a good sign.

It was a bit like the analogy of the boiling frog - each day, for about three days, it was a little bit hotter, so the night-time was not long enough to cool off, and we'd start each morning at a higher temperature, with a white-hot sun rising into the pitiless light-blue sky.

It was as if Hades had stalked us to the west coast:  the Ottawa-like social isolation brought on by the pandemic, and now, an Ottawa summer humidex in the mid 40's -- unheard of in Victoria. Butchart Gardens closed.  The University of Victoria closed.  Smaller businesses closed after midday.

On our wedding anniversary, I went to escort Demeter back to our place, and was smote by the heat whenever I stepped out of the shade.  It's a short walk, but my mother is 91, and using a walker.  We daren't jaywalk, so we had to make the loop to cross at the signals.  Demeter balanced an old-fashioned coolie hat on her head.  I learned later that, at that time, the temperature - not the humidex, but the actual temperature - was 39 degrees Celsius.  At 6 pm.  On Fairfield Road.  Eight blocks from the ocean.

Nope.  I'll take the blazing penny over a dome, any day.

Slipping through the fingers

Sometimes, the image comes unbidden to my mind's eye.

It's a white hand in the half-light, fingers curved slightly and clawing.

It's Demeter's hand. Oh gawd. Oh gawd.

Demeter fell.  This was twenty weeks ago, and I still get blindsided by flashbacks.

We were nearly home, so nearly home, walking back from one of her medical appointments as the weakened sun dipped towards the horizon in mid-January.  Demeter was plodding along with her walker, stopping to rest her tired shoulders.  I suggested she might like to rest in the bus shelter that we were passing.  I had kept close to her shoulder during the walk, but now she stepped beyond me, aiming for the resting place. 

It seemed to happen in slow motion.  These things do, I guess.

Her walker seemed to glide out of her grasp.  And she reached out in a straight incline, and her body crashed into the pavement, seeming to bounce slightly, her left arm stretched out above her head. And I saw her left eyebrow blowing up like a slate-grey balloon.

And she wouldn't answer me.

And her eyes were wide, staring, and white.

People gathered, giving advice:

"Leave her."

"Get her on her side."

As I bent over her, her hands, white and grasping, reached out in staccato.  As I turned to answer somebody, I felt her fingers digging into the backs of my legs.

Someone called 911.  I fumbled for my phone:  "No, I know you've called, but I have to get my husband.." And I couldn't get my phone to work; I called Demeter's landline by mistake.  Later, I turned on her answering machine, and heard the nightmarish babble of voices, with my voice saying, "She's not responding; she's not responding..."  I meant my mother lying on the pavement, not answering me, staring blankly.

I managed to reach the Resident Fan Boy, struggling to describe where we were - so close to home, only two blocks away.  Someone, seeing my confusion, gave me the address and cross streets.

I stood behind Demeter, who insisted on sitting up, so I could support her back.  She said something was pressing down on her head; I realized it was me, bending over.  I straightened up, as the ambulance arrived, followed shortly by the Resident Fan Boy, who had strode up a back street.

The paramedics thought she had broken her arm, but changed their minds as they examined her.  It was a dislocated shoulder.  "Why am I going to hospital?" Demeter asked as they bundled her away.  They explained, and re-emerging to ask me about medications, told me that she had asked again.

I know something about brain injury.  I watched numbly as the red lights whirled and flashed, realizing I couldn't go with her, in this time of pandemic, or even visit.

The RFB and I dropped off her walker, purse, and coat at her apartment.  At home, I made phone-calls.  

I shook for two hours.

That was twenty weeks ago.  The shape of our daily lives has changed.  Demeter was home in three days, and slowly finding ways to claw back her prized independence.

Her neighbour across the hall had a fall about a month ago and spent three weeks in hospital, as his mailbox remained unemptied.  The mum of a friend up-Island fell before Christmas, breaking an already replaced hip, plus three breaks below the knee.  There was talk of amputation, and she's still in a wheelchair.

Demeter is now doing short walks around the block on her own.  I go in to prepare her meals and do her laundry.  Things could be a lot worse - and probably will be, at some point.  

Not yet.

But this is why I haven't written in a while.

2020 hindsight

 

Oh, people are longing to be shot of 2020. 

"2021 has got to be an improvement," they say. 

I say, "Shhhhhhhh!"

Actually, things could be so much worse.

A couple of years back, there was an article at the end of what was being described as "the worst year ever" -  I think it was 2018; what happened then, anyway?  I can't remember.  Anyway, the article listed about half a dozen years that were infinitely worse.

This article isn't the one I saw (the other one had horrific illustrations), but apparently 536 AD wins, hands down.  As I recall, the year the Black Death reached its peak (about 1351), and 1942, when the Nazi killing machine was really hitting its stride and the war was looking bleak for the Allies, were also in the list. Not to mention 1918 and 1919, when something like 50 million people died from influenza.

Our best hope?  That, as bad as 2020 was (ie. not that bad in the grand scale of things), 2021 will be better.  My New Year's wish remains much the same as always, but rather more fervent this evening: the best possible outcome for as many as possible.  Also, that I do no harm -- maybe even some good.

Goodbye, you strange, unloved year.  Sleep with your annual siblings.  Live only in our memories, so that we learn from you.

Instead of sheep

I've actually been sleeping quite well. Early on, when this country-shutting-down business began, I'd wake up, hoping I'd imagined it, but, for the most part, I drift off easily.

Should it ever become a problem beyond the occasional Valerian, I could always take Bing Crosby's advice and count my blessings. I have a baker's dozen, at least.

1) I am at home with all the comforts thereof, enough food, and a safe place to sleep.

2) I am with my family, including both daughters, and we all are, at the time of writing, comfortable and healthy. I get the occasional uneasiness when I'm stuffy, sneezy, or head-achy, but opening a window usually is enough.

3) We have electricity and WiFi.

4) Demeter is a two-minute stroll (a one-minute panicked dash) away, and she is reasonably comfortable and very healthy.

5) I can still venture forth and get things for my family and particularly Demeter.

6) We are on a beautiful (unusually quiet) street, and our windows afford views of flower beds, trees, and, up until recently, a steadily diminishing number of passersby -- also the occasional delinquent deer. It's spring, something at which Victoria excels.

7) I am actually hearing more from friends than usual, due to, no doubt, their own senses of isolation, but heck, I'll take it.

8) Marie Phillips, due to her own sense of isolation, is blogging again. I'll take it!

9) These days, we have free access to theatre and ballet, courtesy of the Globe, the National Theatre, and the Royal Opera House, among other sources.

10) I have opportunities to pursue family research, my go-to mental health activity in the best of times and the worst of times. I just demolished a major brick wall in the Resident Fan Boy's side of the family tree a couple of days ago. I did lose some sleep over that - due to excitement. Don't say it.

11) We still have access to take-out from several of our favourite eateries, which we support for entirely selfish reasons.

12) Miraculously, some of my favourite shops are offering limited, and very personalized, service: book stores, stationers, hosery... It's my bounden duty to help keep them open, right? And I'm shopping local.

13) I'm not in Hades. Sorry. It had to be said.

Too bad, Greenland

 About a week ago, someone got ticked off at a block party in a suburb of Toronto and shot some people.  A few days later someone else decided a midnight movie premiere in Colorado would be a great place for target practice.  Elsewhere in the news, there's a crisis in Syria, and a truly frightening and sudden ice melt in Greenland.  Both these stories and many others have repercussions for the entire globe, but pages and pages, and hours and hours of news coverage are being devoted to these violent suburban incidents.

I'm not belittling their impact on hundreds of people, the relatives and loved ones of the slain, wounded and yes, even the murderers.  However, I don't think the obsessive attention to these events benefits anybody and indeed, increases the likelihood of more murders.  Why?  Because, judging from the number of hit "reality" TV shows, everyone wants to be famous, and blowing a bunch of people away (unless you happen to be in Syria) seems a really efficient way to do this.  Take a gander on this item from British journalist and screenwriter Charlie Brooker.  

Now, personally, I find Brooker's sarcastic comments a tad redundant, but I think the recommendations to the media made starting at the 1:42 mark in this video by forensic psychiatrist Park Dietz are worth repeating, particularly #2 (and I'd add "Avoid mentioning the name of the killer whenever possible."):

1.  "Don't start the story with the sirens blaring."
2.  "Don't have photographs of the killer."
3.  "Don't make this 24/7 coverage."
4.  "Do everything you can not to make the body count the lead story."
5.  "Don't make the killer some kind of anti-hero."
6.  "Do localize this story to the affected community and make it as boring as possible in every other market . .  . ."

How likely are newspapers and news programmes likely to take this advice?  The answer is in the sixth point.  We're talking about a market.  They're selling this as news and we are gobbling it up.

Too bad, Greenland.

A soupçon of perspective

A footnote to the events of last week which have curtailed my blogging somewhat: When the Resident Fan Boy finally was admitted to the Neurology Ward after 24 hours in Emergency, he had a room-mate who had recently been transferred from Intensive Care. He was a young man, late teens or early twenties, who had been thrashed at a Hallowe'en party. I never actually saw him, as the curtains were drawn around his bed. All I could see and hear were his family's and his pregnant girlfriend's family's comings and goings, plus the occasional expletives. The girlfriend's mum came out to apologize, and I assured her I'd heard worse. When the family left for a dinner break, the RFB and and I continued to chat. Every few minutes, the young man would ask us to be quiet. He wasn't rude, but it was smack in the middle of visiting hours, and I'm afraid I flipped a bird in the direction of the curtains. It wasn't until later that I realized that the young man had no idea of what time it was, and that for all he knew, the Resident Fan Boy and I were gabbing late into the night.

For the remainder of his brief stay, my husband had quite a few exchanges with his neighbour, usually en route to the washroom:
"Did my family come to see me last night?"
"Yes, they did."
(Fifteen minutes later.)
"Did my family come to see me last night?"
"Yes, they were all here."
"Did they speak to me?"

When the Resident Fan Boy was safely home in the bosom of his own family, we often spoke of this and shook our heads at how bad it could have been for us, and wondered what the future held for a father-to-be whose short-term memory had been beaten out of him. We mulled over this until last Thursday. That's when his obituary appeared.