Being seen

I may have mentioned that, as I navigated my way around during my seventeen long years in Hades, strangers rarely addressed me.  

This was probably due to two factors:  1) Ontarians are a bit on the reserved side; 2) I was female and over forty.  I noticed, with some amusement, that, when I was walking somewhere with either daughter,  men, particularly fellows of my vintage or older, would approach and ask directions of my daughter, rather like I wasn't there.

As I've also mentioned, people in Victoria do talk to me, even young men, who, on the whole, greet me cordially. It's not deep, but it's pleasant.  I feel visible again.

When I go to the coffee shop, I'm still visible, but, because I have journals and pens spread across the table, I'm rarely approached.  I'm occasionally asked if I'm a writer, and I issue a brief and (I hope) polite denial, knowing that there are actual writers within hearing.

I arrive fairly early in the morning, when most of the clientele are male.  They enjoy calling pleasantries and questions to the baristas. The young women respond warmly, never letting on that most of these fellows are the same age as their fathers and grandfathers.  It's harmless.

Over to my left, three Billy Connolly clones are gathered around a table, chatting amiably about tools and rat infestations - a hazard of living in Victoria. None of them have Scottish accents.

The real Billy Connolly

Across the way, a young fellow with a beard is interacting with his laptop, a Bluetooth glowing in his ear, luckily for us -- and him. I think people who watch sports, television programmes, or gawd help us, music videos without earbuds in coffee shops should be strung up.  Or do you think I'm being too harsh?

Tight in a corner, a middle-aged guy is talking to a woman.  It might be a date, or a meeting.  He's describing his career, using words like "passionate" and "balance" which seem to be the early 21's century's versions of "meaningful".  She's not saying much.  To give him his due, he does ask her the occasional question.

Over to my right, a stranger clad in a woollen poncho greets me cheerily and volubly, somewhat to my confusion.  (This never happened in Hades: the greeting from a stranger - especially to a non-youthful non-barista - or the poncho.)  He's from Saltspring Island, which I could have guessed. It turns out the reason he's calling over to me if that he thought he heard me tell the staff that I'm from Saltspring.

'I don't think so," I tell him.  "Because I'm not!"

He thinks this is funny.  Very chatty.  Very Saltpringy.  He's feeling homesick, he says.

I tell him about my husband's birthday, and he says it makes him happy when older people celebrate birthdays, "because they've worked harder for it".  He could take a page from the baristas' diplomatic code, but I take no offence when none is intended.  

"It's actually pretty simple," I smile.  "You don't die."

He thinks that's pretty funny, too.  Give him time.

A blazing penny for your thoughts

It's cool and overcast, just before 9 am PDT on a Sunday morning in Cook Street Village. As I hurry down the hill under the ancient chestnuts, the sun is a penny rising on my left, promising to eventually burn off the sea mist.

A younger woman waiting for her chai latte examines the newspaper clipping of today's horoscope which dangles from the counter.

"I don't like her," I say cheerfully, nodding toward the photo of the astrologist, "She hates Tauruses." (As indeed she seems to; in yesterday's paper, she promised me increased stress and rarely has a nice thing in store for us Bulls.) Chai Lady behaves as if I have not spoken, or even if I'm not standing right next to her. Possibly not from around here. Or shy. Or deaf. Or determined not to acknowledge a lowly drinker of mocha lattes. I stop making mental excuses for her and find my favourite table.

This is my one chance this summer to sit by myself on the veranda of the Moka House, an independent coffee shop which has flourished defiantly to spite the Starbucks across the street.

Our eight-week house-sit has turned into a see-saw affair. You may have guessed this by the infrequency of my posting, but giving my recent posting history, maybe it's not all that evident.

Oh, the home-owners are nice enough people, but as far as I can figure, they're that most dangerous combination: scattered control freaks. I'd go into more detail, but I've just learned they want us back in the house tonight (yes, we've been out --- it's a long story...), which means I have access to a reasonably quick computer (unlike my dear mama's dial-up), which means I can try my admittedly hare-brained scheme of attempting NaBloPoMo again. My hostess, for want of a better word, has sworn we have the house until August 31st. Given recent events, which I'll go into later (maybe), I'm pretty damned cautious about this. However, for now, let's pretend that I'll have the house-sit for the entire month of August and therefore can attempt to post in the blog every day. Keep your fingers crossed.

I sip my mocha latte and watch the comings and goings along Cook Street. If I were out here an hour later, I'd see the occasional older lady dressed for one of the several churches along Quadra Street. (I doubt Chai Lady would answer them either.) However, it's 9:15 on a Sunday morning, so I see a different class of worshipper, dog-walkers, ear-budded joggers and brisk pedestrians. And coffee and chai sippers, of course, attending service uneasily side by side in this funky coffee shop.

I see them all very well. That's when I notice that two of the most ancient chestnuts of all have been removed since I was last here, replaced by a hopeful adolescent sapling all strapped up and supported and surrounded by baby shrubs. What will be missing this time next year?

Gotta go. I can see the amber lights of the blazing penny sun reflected in the parked cars. It's actually trying to put out some heat. Someone may be missing me by now. Have you? I do hope so...

The sisterhood

Today, I feel a little more invisible than usual. It's time for my annual ophthalmology appointment, so I've left off the makeup and am wearing glasses. I could get depressed about looking less appealing than usual, but, heck, I'm over thirty-five. Nobody looks at me anyway. It's not all bad; I've discovered that I can cry in public -- no one notices.

Invisibility doesn't just come from failing to be young. Having a special needs child can make you vanish into the scenery more effectively than Harry Potter's magic cloak. I've discussed this with other "special needs mums". One of them described chatting with another mum while waiting outside the school for her son on the autism spectrum. A woman walked up to the other mum and arranged a play date between their respective children. It was as if my friend were not standing there. She tells me this is a regular occurrence. No one ever approaches to make a play date with her son.

I believe her. I'd been at that school for eight years: four with neuro-typical (albeit gifted) older daughter and four with PDD-NOS younger daughter. I was visible and included the first four; invisible and excluded the second four, even though I was at the school every day -- exactly like my daughters.

Actually, invisibility has its own blessings, because the only time you become visible with a special needs child is when there's a problem. One of our national papers here in Canada is The Globe and Mail which, for the past fifteen years or so, has had a feature called "Facts and Arguments", a daily essay submitted by a G&M reader. Not long ago, a heart-breaking piece appeared, written by a special needs mum who is on that still-hopeful-not-yet-exhausted opening edge of seeing her child through school. In an effort to help classmates and their parents understand about her son, who is living with Down's Syndrome, she wrote a letter and the teacher distributed it to the class families. She was approached by a parent who said she was "surprised at the letter" then asked (wait for it) why this mother had not had prenatal testing. This gentle mother managed a polite response, stumbled to her car and spent the rest of the morning crying:

What I should have asked the mom in the playground was, “What if your daughter was in a car accident tomorrow and had a brain injury? Would you love her any less?”

Oh, darlin', I've been there too, leaning unseen against a tree in the little park below the school, gasping and weeping. For myself, what I long to ask those other parents with neuro-typical children is this: "Do you really think that your child's strengths and gifts are your doing? Do you really think that my child's disabilities are my doing? Because, dear people, all it takes is an illness or an accident. Then you can be in my little club."

I have a secret name for my little club. I call it The Sisterhood. I realize that dads are in this too, but it's the mums that I encounter. Have you ever heard of "gaydar"? I'm reasonably certain that there's a similar sort of sense between special needs mums because ever since I came to Hades (mere months after younger daughter was first "identified"), the only true connections I seem to have made have been with others in The Sisterhood, and there's usually been an attraction of sorts, even before we learn about each other's children. Like any club, we have our own sort of competitions; a meeting over coffee includes support, sympathy, and the underlying gauging of whose life is more challenging and whose child is more, or less, challenged. I usually seem to lose in the first category and win in the second, and feel that the other Sister leaves thinking her child is making better progress than mine.

It's a service I provide.

We share our frustrations over therapy, teachers, bone-headed comments (see above), bullying....

Oh yes, bullying. Sometimes it seems our kids are invisible and that's when they fall through the cracks of the school system, but our kids are different, not a desirable thing in school culture and that makes them highly visible targets.

Not long ago, this article appeared in our local paper, about a boy from Alma, Québec, which is about 600 kilometres (a bit less than 400 miles) from Hades. He's been missing for over a year and the events leading up to his disappearance were uncomfortably familiar.

It was sadness for him and his mother (one of The Sisterhood) that had me riding in the bus, listening to Kate Rusby:
Winter comes around,
And he knows he is homeward bound,
His heartbeat is the only sound he's known,

He once lost his way,
He knows now that was yesterday,
He fell down on his knees to pray for home.

We'll sing to the morning,
We'll sing till the bells they sound,
We'll sing till the wandering soul is found.

He's found his way at last,
With each turn a new bond was cast,
His friends now hold him steady fast and true.

With peace in his eyes,
The fear now is a pain in the skies,
With friends near he sees only skies of blue

It's clearer every day,
He knows now he is here to stay,
He cares not why he went away so long.

He's found where he belongs,
He know he's been here all along,
He is smiling as he joins his friends in song.

We'll sing to the morning,
We'll sing till the bells they sound,
We'll sing till the wandering soul is found.

And there it is -- all our invisible hopes and dreams for these children who were sent to us. Pipe-dreams, perhaps, but it's what we hold on to.

Oh, my Sisters. This song is for you and them.

You know, this doesn't help my invisibility issues at all....

The Resident Fan Boy asked me to meet him for lunch today. He says it's somewhat of a feather in one's cap to meet one's spouse for lunch. I assume this is because this is a rare occurrence in Ottawa, where one's spouse is, no doubt, busy drafting motions, or making presentations. Not his spouse, of course, which is why I'd be free.

He suggested a new eatery in the Byward Market where we could feast on entrées served on tiny plates, and drink free-trade coffees with our "creamsicle crèmes brulées". So, at the appointed time, I arrived at his building which, being a government institution, has heavy security. I phoned up to his office, was greeted joyfully, and took my seat in the recess by the door, waiting for him to come down from his office.

In record time, he appeared and approached the security guards, waving a bank card which he'd found on the floor of the cafeteria that morning. An attractive blond lady came through the door, and he smiled at her in a startled way and handed her the card. As I rose to put on my coat, she turned and walked out the door, and my husband fell into step with her chatting genially. I stood and watched as the blond headed left toward Rideau Street and my husband strode off down Sussex Drive.

It'll come to him, I thought. I wonder how long it will take?