Wordless Wednesday:That's one big dust bunny

Or is it an Ewok? Who put the Ewok head under my couch? Isn't my mom's dog the cutest?
Seriously.

Good vibrations

Comfort means different things to different people. For me, comfort is going to bed with a book. For my mother, it's a 10-Motor Full-Body Massage Mat from Dr. Scholls.

My mother and I look alike and sound alike, but what we consider relaxing is quite different. Maybe it's because she's plagued with insomnia that she finds the gadgets so wonderful. There's the foot-jacuzzi, the wax bather for hands and feet, the mini-beads automatic neck massager and the Homedic backrest with shiatsu massage...

For me, the problem with this stuff is that you have to sit down to enjoy them. Aside from work, where I type seated at a desk for eight hours a day, or the the stolen 20 minutes at a time that I use to type on this blog (and re-design my website for a future launch--stay tuned!), I don't sit.

I have three couches in my house and I sit on one of them maybe once a week for a couple of hours to watch a movie with the kids on Fridays. The rest of the time, it's cleaning, or cleaning and helping with homework or taking the kids to the park or chauffeuring to lessons.

I'm afraid to sit down for fear that a week will go by and I won't notice. If I stop moving, I might like it too much, so I dare not. Or, maybe I'll get BORED and that would be VERY BAD.

I realize that this level of frenetic activity might not be healthy, but my mother set the bar high. Her pace was frantic with single-parenting four kids, one of whom severely disabled, while working full time. In comparison, my life is leisurely.

My theory is that because Mom was so completely time starved, she bought comfort in the form of books, ice cream, hand cream and all these relaxation gizmos. I figure her reasoning is: I bought it, so therefore I'm relaxed. This makes as much sense as my propensity for buying closet organizers and considering myself instantly organized.

It's also like a host of other people who buy expensive home fitness equipment only to use them as pricey laundry drying racks.

So, I lay down on the buzzing mat and all kinds of bad jokes started coming to mind.

"See Patti, for the price of a medium pizza, you can have this warming all over massage every day."

It was loud and the vibrations made my nose itch.

"Here, try it while sitting on a chair," she insisted. You'd think she was making commission on this thing. "What do you think?"

When I spoke, the mat made my voice quiver like I was driving over a washboard road in a dirty jeep.

Dad came over to see what all the fuss was about. They've been divorced for more than 20 years, but they carpooled for the visit.

"Lou, it's your turn," she said. He tried it out. Even though they're not married he does what he's told. He tried the prone and sitting version.

"Well, what's your favourite position, Lou?" my mother asked. "The floor or the chair?"

Then he started wiggling his eyebrows.

"GACK!" I said. "I'm outta here."

They laughed and laughed. That was enough relaxation for me.

Give bad feelings the boot

Retail therapy is a fine complement to dynamic cycle-therapy, I've found.

Before my Mallorcan adventure, I was contemplating intense psychotherapy and some pharmacological helpers to combat anxiety brought on by grief and years of unrelenting stress.

But now I'm cured! I figure with all the money I saved in psychiatrist fees, I could do this trip annually until 2050, but my husband doesn't agree.

Let's see how long the good feelings last. Souvenirs can be a great spirit booster. So here's a little tour of my keepsakes.

Footwear

Mallorca: the olives, the bread, the aioli, the footwear! Oh yeah, the cycling and bike stores are pretty awesome too.

First, THE BOOTS:

These babies are suede and high. I'm close to six-feet tall in these suckers.

Of course, I'll never be taller than my gorgeous 6'2" sister, who wears heels to boot. (I think these boots are nicer than hers, but don't tell her. Shhhhhh).

Next are the whore shoes:

Look how well I balance on one foot. I'm doing tree pose in this photo.

The fashionistas in the office assure me they're not whorish at all. Wear them with jeans, I've been told.

Casual sandals from the Camper outlet:

Try not to look too closely at the veins. These feet look like they belong to a transvestite weightlifter. Not that there's anything wrong with that.

These are my comfortable shoes, but I won't wear them on my Home Depot shopping trips with my friend Susan. Staff there always mistake us for a couple and I'm the man. Not that there's anything wrong with that either.

Cycling wear

Next up is my cycling fashion series. My only concern is that these up the flashy factor, which might raise people's expectations in the speed department. Oh well, I'm stylish, but slow. Sue me.

This is my favourite, favourite cycling acquisition:

Good thing this isn't a scratch-and-sniff picture. You'd fall over. Maggie doesn't mind though.

It has a nice fleecy inside and I'm utterly charmed by the pinkness of it. Great for chilly days. I've worn this five days in a row on commutes. Oli held his nose while he took this picture.

Flashy jacket:

The light, bright Ca'n Nadal jacket. This jacket is how I recognize fellow Mallorcan tripsters on cycling rides in the Gatineau Park.

I think everyone who does this trip buys one of these. It's wind resistant and it folds up teenie weenie. Perfect for your jersey pocket and you still have room to stuff in your portable IV kit and pint of EPO-infused blood for those really long rides.

Trip jersey:

Lori's arm warmers are a perfect match for this gorgeous jersey. She really should just hand 'em over.

These jerseys were given to all trip participants. I love the design and the fit. This is the best fitting jersey I've ever worn. But that could be because I buy cheap-ass jerseys as a rule and not expensive nice ones like this.

Trip fleece:

The fact that the fleece matches Jen's and my eyes is an added bonus. Photo by William Fu.

Great for post-ride hanging around or dress-down days at the office. I love how this fleece is fitted. Again, this jacket was given to trip participants. Love it.

Whoever said money can't buy happiness was wrong. WRONG.

Shoulda got on that bus

Me (in pink) while I was still smiling and heading for Cap de Formentor. That's Tracy behind me playing charades with the photographer. Photo by William Fu.

In a state of utter depletion on a thin ribbon of highway between Alcudia and Cala D'Or, Mallorca I learned a lot about restraint, humility, privilege and gratitude.

But it's easier to be philosophical in hindsight. At the time, I wanted to get off my bike and throw it at the pace leader, but I didn't for a number of reasons:

1. I really like his wife and very much wanted to remain friends with her.

2. The last functioning rational neurons in my brain recognized that this impulse was ridiculous and would cause me a lot of problems later. See #1.

3. He was too far in front to hit.

We were about 100 km into a 140-km ride. We had ridden a 60 km mountain stretch from Alcudia to Cap de Formentor to a soaring lighthouse overlooking the northernmost point of Mallorca.

I made huge progress. The downhills, which had scared the bejeezus out of me days earlier, were exhilarating, even with their paucity of guard rails and sniper winds that threatened to blow me off course. The uphills were protracted and grinding, but I had granny to help me out.

Our bus was waiting for us at the municipal sports centre where bikes would be loaded and riders who wanted a lift could be conveyed in comfort back to the hotel.

I had thought I'd take the bus, but after hearing that so many people would be riding the mostly-flat, wind-assisted 80 km back at an "easy pace", I thought what the hell?

Hell indeed. In the first 20 km, I knew I was in trouble, I downed a sports gel (and I hate those), some dried fruit and glugged water.

"Ease up!" I yelled. The pace slowed for two minutes and then resumed. All I kept thinking was, shoulda got on that bus, shoulda got on that bus...

I got quieter and quieter. Brad, one of the riders in our group, knew I was getting into trouble.

"So, what was your favourite subject in high school," he asked?

"History," I said and we spoke of our areas of interest. For me, The Great War. For him, World War II and Rommel's North African battlefront to be precise.

I knew he was trying to keep me from lapsing into bitter silence. As I faltered more, he started pushing me uphill.

On a gradual uphill, I dropped off the group like a rock, crying quietly behind my sunglasses. I couldn't even pretend to hold on anymore.

Then, Lori swooped in and offered to lead me back at a slower pace. I didn't want to stop for coffee or beer or anything for fear I wouldn't get back on my bike. As we cleaved off the group, we were joined by Jen who felt it would be easier for me to draft off the two of them.

And I made it. My nursing team: Lori, Nadia, Jen and Brad, kept me at a pizza joint near the hotel and jammed Coca Cola and water into me, refusing to let me crawl home and sob in the corner.

In my hotel room, my friend Susan served me hot, sweet milky tea and brought me food, while I huddled, shivering under the blankets.

It was difficult and embarrassing, hitting the wall like that, but it was a privilege to suffer because I overdid it on a bike trip. I have two friends facing cancer and a husband with serious heart issues. I know that now, but at the time my thoughts were pretty infantile.

And I'm grateful to the people who helped me out and to the other cyclists who later shared their tales of hitting the wall or "bonking" on long rides.

And the pace leader? Well, he's my friend, too. The way I look at it is that it's flattering to have him think I could go that fast. But my aerobic base kind of sucks and I probably should have gotten on that bus.

But I'm glad I didn't because now I can say that I've ridden 140 km in one day.

Random thoughts on cycling in Mallorca

Jennifer (left) and I relishing a downhill during our mountain ride from Calvia to Galilea in Mallorca, Spain. Photo by William Fu.

Can't find 'em? Grind 'em
This was the advice I heard on Day 1 of the trip to Mallorca when a fellow rider was clunking through a gear switch. I rarely had this trouble, but the idea is to keep peddling and fiddling with the levers until the chain lands where it's supposed to. Don't hit the brakes on a group ride or you could be sporting someone else's front wheel where the sun don't shine. Painful and not very fashionable.

Quality time with granny
Riding in the mountains is where I spent this quality time. Faced with switchback climbs 5-7 km long, I put my bike in the easiest of gears (A.K.A the granny gear) and slowly and anaerobically, ground my way to the top.

Shammy time versus growing mushrooms
Shammy time refers to training time on the bike. The shammy, of course, refers to the padding in bike shorts. Shammy time is not to be confused with "growing mushrooms". The latter saying refers to the predilection for sitting around in one's cycling wear, post-ride and drinking. I'm not confessing to anything, but they called me Portobello. I'm just sayin'.

Tending my private garden
I like the garden imagery over the mushroom one, so this is my preferred alternative saying to growing mushrooms.

Sharks and dolphins
Sharks were the fast riders on the trip. These riders are the type who do repeat hills on 5km mountain climbs and can, amazingly enough, drink until 2 a.m. or later and get up and do it all over again. Freaks (I mean that in the nicest possible way). Some sharks can easily swim among the dolphins and laugh, talk and take long unshark-like coffee breaks during rides. These riders may be sharks, but they have the heart of a dolphin.

Dolphins get the job done, but more slowly and with greater appreciation for the landscape. Conversation abounds during dolphin rides and dolphins have been known to stop and shop, carrying their loot back on their bikes to the hotel. I'm a dolphin.

How do you spell your last name?
If you're the photographer who took the picture above, you have the pleasure of telling everyone, "Eff you". William Fu grew up in China and came to Canada years ago. When he was asked this question, he responded honestly and his questioner responded with "Eff you too." Great story.

Salad is for sissies
I didn't eat much salad on this trip. I always reached for the more calorie-dense options. When I'm going to be climbing my heart out, it's bacon and egg sandwiches and chocolate croissants. You can take your muesli and your celery and shove it.

Cross-training
I supplemented all the cycling with running sprints through airports on the journey to and from Mallorca. The consensus among the riders was that Frankfurt was the longest run. We all booked our flights separately, but we all had the mad dash through Frankfurt in common. It must have been a couple of kilometres at least.

The return trip for me also involved running through the Geneva airport and Dulles in Washington. My poor fellow travellers. I lost my deodorant the day of my return and I arrived for my flights in the nick of time, sweating and stinking of aoli from our last feast. I made it, but my luggage didn't. Luckily, I packed my sexy new boots in my carry-on. I'd include a picture of the boots, but my camera is currently in Belgium. Long story.

You only get one ass; take care of it

I'm riding Stevens Impala racing bike, with aluminum frame and carbon front fork. Sweet wheels. But am now regretting my ill-advised decision to not bring my own bike seat.

My husband urged me to but I thought, too heavy. Won´t pack it. But when you´re on a cycling trip in a distant country, it´s always a good idea to bring your own saddle.

So the seat on my fancy rental racing bike is sleek, but on a long ride it's like a slow enema. We did 90 km today and my legs are fine, but um...not the rest.

Halfway through the ride past orange groves and beautiful adobe homes, all I could think about was getting off that seat.

"So, who's going to pull the seat out of my ass, so I can sit down and have coffee," I asked?

No takers. Not a very supportive group. And the group leader said, "I'm not your gynecologist, but I'll take a look."

Roy, a fellow cyclist and 60-year-old lawyer from Philidephia said, "Actually, what you mean is proctologist."

Then I had to start with the proctologist jokes. They told me to shut up.

We had cafe con leche and sat in a beautiful courtyard, kibbitzed and then headed back. The towns are uniformly cute with one- and two-story clay structures with green shutters, courtyards, narrow streets and wonderfully indulgent drivers.

Verdant fields are surrounded by low stone walls and this route was rolling.

I left my husband a panicked message to drop my seat off with a fellow Ottawan who was flying to join the group tomorrow. Here's hoping she got the message.

If not, I will be visitng the bike shop. Soonish.

After dinner, I watched families dancing a traditional Mallorcan dance in the hotel courtyard. The footwork was intricate and the rhythms they clacked out on their castenets were rapidfire.

I watched grandparents dancing with their grandchildren, teenagers and married couples dancing the same dance to the same song over and over and I smiled until my face hurt.

Very important words: "Plantago ovata"

Dear Mom,

Sorry I didn't have a chance to call you before I left. I was in a bit of a lather packing. Putting together my cornucopia of stomach and headache medications was quite time consuming.

I´ve been looking forward to this trip for weeks, but waiting in the airport I was a nervous wreck. What if I got my days mixed up and I missed my flight? I could hear the imaginary loudspeaker in my head announcing, "Paging passenger Patricia Murphy. This is your last chance to board Flight 826 for Frankfurt. You're never going to live this down."

Actually, that would be a great opening scene for a murder mystery. The passenger missed her flight because she shat herself dead in the bathroom after eating a ham and cheese sandwich that contained poisoned brie. A very complicated ham sandwich indeed.

A lot of things trigger my"trick" stomach, as you know. And I worried (further worsening my absominal distress), that I'd be stuck in the middle seat of the middle row just as my bowels turned to water.

It's funny that I worry so much about my stomach and not in-flight mechanical issues. Which brings me to my next story.

Good news, I got an aisle seat in the middle row and it was looking for a whie there that the middle seat in our row of three would be unoccupied. So, I started having fantasies that I'd be able to throw my various and sundry things into that space for storage.

Alas, a harried young man arrived just before the safety announcemnts started.

As we taxied down the runway, he said he was held up by security. "They searched everything!" he said.

Poor guy. Non-caucasion and you get targeted, I thought. But then, so do some other elements. My mother-in-law always gets the special treatment coming back from Mexico, I told him, commiserating. It seems that single women "of a certain age" travelling to Latin America are on the drug mule profile.

He smiled. "Well, another reason is that I´m going home for a visit to Jeddah. That's in Saudi Arabia."

Oh yes, well...

"What are you doing in Ottawa?"

"I´m studying electrical engineering," he said. After that, he disappeared to the bathroom for a very long time.

I sat there thinking.

When he returned we spoke some more. He was very charming and outgoing and even though I try to be open minded about things, I made a point of mentioning my daughters and my husband as often as possible.

But, after dinner, I had other worries.

I had three bites of the salad after our onflight meal and then realized it contained beans and corn. Very bad. Then I broke out into a sweat. Even after spending a king's ransom at Shoppers'Drug Mart, I forgot the Immodium and the Metamucil.

But, at the farmacia in Palma de Mallorca airport, the pharmacist looked up Metamucil in her book and smilingly produced a box of Plantago ovata. All is good.

Your loving daughter,
Patti

Grandma always said...

During tough times, I often think of what my mom, Aunt Kathy and grandma would say. Neither Grandma nor Aunt Kathy is with us anymore, but if I need a refresher, I can always give my mom or cousin Steph a call.

Below are a few of these classic sayings with my more modern interpretation. "Kind" and "gracious" are two words that come to mind when I think of these women. How my mother ended up with such crass daughters is beyond me.

The italics are my explanation for each adage.

Turn your sails. Stop obsessing about that thing you're obsessing about because you're wearing a groove into your brain.

Anger is like an acid that dissolves the container it's in. Stop swimming in the shit. You're just making yourself sick.

Resentment is like eating rat poison and expecting someone else to die. See above.

Anyone can have a normal mother. My neuroses are preparing you for the real world.

Put a good face on it. Play along and try to avoid doing or saying something you'll have to apologize for later. There's nothing worse than having to apologize to an arsehole.

Don't take it out of your hide. Stop beating yourself up.

Let sleeping dogs lie. For god's sake, why are you waking a sleeping baby to feed her?!

Only offer one excuse for opting out of something. If you have more than one, even if they're legitimate, you look like a liar. You have the right to NOT explain yourself. The less said the better.

Better to ask for forgiveness than permission. Just do it and deal later.

If you have nothing nice to say, then don't say anything at all. Shut up, bitch.

And that's where I'll end this.

What about you? What are the family sayings that pop into your head?

Wordless Wednesday: Ahoy there, Sleepy!

Who said an eyepatch and a pantyhose cap can't be sleepwear?

I'll have the français fries

I don't parlez-vous
But hubby and the children do
And they pulled me through

We had a family getaway to Montreal this past weekend to kick off March Break. It was a relief to escape the home front even for only 48 hours.

The girls were so excited. We've never been tourists before. We usually visit relatives or stay home. Getting out of town where you know no one is very liberating, provided you set your expectations sufficiently low when traveling with children.

And what's a hotel stay without...

A thorough mattress examination.

Wear your glasses and use a flashlight. In an earlier post, I wrote about dealing with bed bugs. The goal here is to avoid, avoid avoid. If you see any evidence, then quietly ask for another room. But the Holiday Inn in Longeuil passed the test. However, we stored our luggage under the sink in the bathroom, just in case.

The girls were thrilled with the pool, but when the manager mentioned the pool opened at 5:30 a.m., I could've decked him.

As it turned out, it wasn't thoughts of the pool that awakened my little 7-year-old, it was the coffeemaker that got her heart racing at 5 a.m.

Lying there in that twilight between sleeping and waking, I felt I was being watched. I opened my eyes and it was a blue-eyed cyclopse staring at me.

"Mommy, do you want coffee? I could make you a coffee," she asked, hopeful of a yes.

"It's too early."

And that was it. Every 10 minutes the question was repeated. I know when to throw in the towel, or at least when to throw it into a bag.

At 6:30 a.m., the swimsuit-clad girls and I headed to the pool. At least it wasn't 5:30 a.m.

Yes, the hot tub can be relaxing at ANY hour.

After the buffet breakfast of français toast and Fruit Loops, it was off to the Biodome.

I loved this outing; next time though I'll sign us up for the insectarium and the botanical gardens too.

We saw:

A nice porcupine.

Although, when I look at the above picture all I can think about is how I need to get my roots touched up.

A duck with a facial tumour.

It's not a tumour! Actually, this bony deposit on its head is how the duck stays in constant communication with the mothership.

Penguins! Loved the penguins.

If you squint very carefully and touch your nose to the screen, you'll see the penguins behind Elder Daughter (back) Younger Daughter.

Although, after watching that terrible new Robin Williams and John Travolta movie, Old Dogs, in the hotel room that night, we realized how fierce and dangerous penguins can be.

After that we were off to...

Mont Royal for the lookout shot.

On the short jaunt to the lookout, there was an owner with a Great Dane in front of us. It was a male (the dog, I mean). It was hard to miss, with those furry balls bouncing and jiggling in front of us.

I had a Kelly Oxford moment, remembering her Tweet about this, I said to my husband, "Put some underwear on that dog."

We were giggling through our noses quite a bit.

"Ew! What's that onion-shaped thing hanging from the dog's butt?" asked Younger.

"Why, those are the dog's testicles," replied Oli, channeling his inner science teacher.

"Yuuuuck," said Elder.

It was a learning moment.

I think my husband's going to patent jocks for dogs and then we can retire early and travel the world, knowing we've saved future pedestrians from views of unfettered dog balls.

Can I have my brain back now? Please?

I feel that I should be reading all kinds of self-help books about grief and had a couple suggested to me--The Year of Magical Thinking and The Mourner's Dance. Thing is, I can't read very well and I can barely write because the adrenaline is gone. I feel like I have a family of squirrels nesting in my cranium.

In addition to my inability to read or write coherently, I can't follow conversations well. At all. I'm a visual learner. I need pictures and I need to actually do what I need to learn. I can't follow verbal information unless I can run the meeting or take over the conversation with questions. I'm always like that. Now, I feel like I'm under water when people are talking.

When people write about depression, they often talk about going to a dark place. But my place isn't all dark, it's kind of stupid really. It's a foggy, stupid place.

Also, I have the attention span of a gnat. But that's been a problem since I had children. Actually, having children was the time the first couple of squirrels moved in, ate some grey matter and replaced it with fluffy nesting material.

I decided I'd make up my own stages of grief. A couple of them are mine, but a couple are the real thing. Can you tell which is which?

1. Anger - Did a post on this. Nuff said.
2. Projectile vomiting - Did a post on this too.
3. Seeking a geographical cure - Since most accidents happen close to home, let's move. Now! But, since packing up my family and moving us all to Sudbury is impractical, I signed up for a cycling trip to Spain in April. See also #4.
4. Retail therapy - Superficiality is the balm for my soul: bought stuff, have become an avid reader of People magazine because the story lines are easy to follow, actually started whitening my teeth with those Crest White Strips in my drawer and now do the occasional mud mask. And yet, I'm not watching the Oscar's? Why? Too hard to follow. Too many names and title thingies.
   
5. Bitterness - Don't feel there's much of a point to being optimistic. Especially when I think back to New Year's Eve when my husband and I clinked our glasses together and said 2010 would be "a good year". What were we thinking? Am now so negative that I figure if my plane to Spain doesn't crash, I'll probably get hit by a car while riding around Mallorca on the fancy rental racing bike.
6. Depletion - Not feeling resilient. Dealing with my brother in law's death, my husband's heart failure and various house woes, including bed bugs over the past five or six years has me running on empty.
   

Need a plan, Stan. Maybe the answer isn't meditation--it's medication. Oh, what a difference one tiny letter makes.

Speaking of typos, my own personal favourite occurred a while back when I accidentally ended a work e-mail with "Retards" instead of "Regards" and no one noticed.

A brother's tribute

My husband's eulogy for his older brother was the most beautiful tribute I've ever heard or read. He has given me permission to print it here. First, a little background.

I've often said that Simon and Oli looked like a photo negative. Both strikingly similar in height and good looks, but one light and one dark. Simon took to every motorized sport going--snowmobiling, four wheeling, boating, motorbiking; whereas his brother embraced the motorless ones--running, biking, skiing, swimming, rock climbing, windsurfing, canoeing...

Simon was bold and loud, a true Ottawa Valley lad; Oli introspective and soft spoken. The picture below, sums up their relationship, the light above, the dark below. Simon would jump into things and Oli would go along too, but he always had his brother's back.

Note: The names of our daughters have been removed for privacy reasons.

Simon: A life so fully lived

How can it summarize a life lived so fully, the life of my brother, your friend, your son, in just a few minutes? I can't. But I can tell you about some of the important people in Simon's life.

Simon was extremely loyal to all of these people. He lit up a room with his smile and his booming voice: "Hey, what's goin' on?"

Jeff and Tom, you guys are like brothers to Simon. Jeff, you guys talked several times a day. Your family--Julie, Cindy, Charles and Ellen--you all meant so much to Si over the years. Julie, so many good times.

Tom, how many times did you rebuild that damned sled?

Lex, how he loved coming down to the Bay to relax, fish a bit and chat a lot. I haven't forgotten about the minnows for life (Simon installed a furnace for Lex shortly before he died and said he'd take payment in the form of bait. Lex operates a bait, tackle and ice hut business on the side).

Peter whose couch Simon slept on through much of high school--the weekends anyway. Sharing tea around your family's table the next morning.

Wheels, you are The Country Man. Imagine you, working for the city.

David, (I offer) thanks to you and your family for taking Si under your wing with the hunt camp. He loved going up there so much!

The Baskin Family--Tom, you recognized Simon's incredible capacity for work. And of course, his love of cash. Alma, Mark and Bruce, you all believed in and brought out the best in Si.

Dad and Liz, so many gourmet dinners over the years. Dad, your love and pride in the man Simon had become. And the Pathfinder "Chili" you gave Si. He put more miles on that in the last few months than I put on in a year.

My darling daughters, who helped Uncle Si's tender loving heart to shine through. Younger daughter, I'm sure that you will remember the chemistry set and the cuddles. You swarmed him with, "Uncle Si! Uncle Si!" when he came to visit.

Elder daughter, how you absolutely adore your uncle. When Si came back from out west, I remember you dancing for him to the song, "Cowboy take me away". You are so brave. (She choreographed and performed a dance to Dixie Chicks' Easy Silence as part of the funeral service moments before).

Patti my darling wife, you always included Si and made him feel so welcome in our home.

Mum, who loves every fibre of Simon's being. Who stuck with him, bailed him out. Who managed to convince our young entrepreneur to go to college. You introduced him to Mexico and the hammock. Oh, I know how much you will miss him.

Oh Si, you are so worthy of our love. I will miss you so much. We all will miss you so much! You will continue to be in our heads and in our hearts. Brother, my love for you is unconditional.

Now that the hard part has been said, Lex, you know those minnows? I was thinking we should start a memorial fishing tournament. Can I share my free minnows with everyone?

What's a funeral without gastroenteritis 5 days later?

Currently, in this house our physical health matches our internal turmoil. There's a word for that, but I can't remember what it is. I want to say onomatapoeia and not type it because then I'll have to doublecheck its spelling and it's wrong.

Younger daughter was stricken last night and elder daughter is contorting over the commode every 20 minutes or so. Poor thing.

So, in addition to sadness and compassion, a little dose of gastro-bug was given during the visitation and funeral for my husband's brother. Normally, this kind of sickness makes me angry, but I've already been dealing with monumental anger issues since Simon died.

I've surrendered to the vomiting.

Nothing keeps one as grounded as vomit. So, my grief-stricken-zombie state has been replaced with frantic mopping, head holding and frequent "poor, poor baby". My poor older sickling is now producing only water and bile and I would do anything to spare her. I can't, so I think of mothers all over the world who watch over their seriously (cholera or typhoid) sick children and I send them my compassion. I'll try and keep the gastroenteritis to myself though.

Taking care of my stricken sicklings has me hopping and motivated. Motivated to clean all the toilets in the house, especially the one off the master bedroom.

I figure that in the next 24 to 48 hours, when I'm kneeling at the porcelain altar myself, I don't want to be contemplating the shit stains. Know what I'm saying? And that thought made me smile. Shit is also quite grounding.

Time to get out of Dodge -- and I don't mean my Caravan

I'm still knee-deep in anger and self-pity. But I often think of my beloved Aunt Kathy, who always said, "No one gets a free pass through life."

She would know. She was a palliative care nurse in Sudbury--one of the best. She and her colleague were killed by a transport truck while en route to their patients in 2001. She was a beautiful person and is still so sorely missed.

I thought about Aunt Kathy a lot this past hellish week when we had to go and identify my brother in law at the hospital after his fatal snowmobile crash. Every step of this awful journey I've thought of Aunt Kathy's husband, children, mother, brother and sister (my mother), and what they went through eight and a half years ago.

I think my uncle knew that and that's why he and his youngest son came to Ottawa for the funeral to be with us. And why his daughter sent me gourmet homemade lasagna and his friend made my favourite cookies and fudge and why my parents and sister and her family came and supported us so completely.

The kindness of others is humbling. I feel so grateful for that kindness, but it makes me cry.

And then I get angry again. I know it's irrational and many people have it much worse, but right now, all I can think is that Ottawa has done us no favours. It's just been a litany of bullshit, sickness and now, death.

If I were Jewish, I would think all this hardship was a divine message to move to the Holy Land. But I'm not. I'm not religious at all. I wish I were, but I can't suspend my disbelief.

I’m thinking the message here is that “it’s time to get out of Dodge.” This is what's known as "seeking the geographical cure".

But my mother says that you can’t outrun tragedy. It always finds you. I wish tragedy was blind, deaf and crippled, so I could stand half a chance on the run from it.

Where would we go? Sudbury. That’s where my people are. But we won’t. Lack of employment opportunities “up North”, better medical care in Ottawa, and my husband's parents and some pretty terrific friends are what hold us here.

Loss

Are you looking for advice on how to cope with loss? If so, have you found any? Because you're not going to find it here.

Right now, I'm in the "FURY" stage of loss and this is what's sustaining me. I know I'll pay for this rage later, but now it's a fire in my gut that propels me through the planning stages.

Monday night, my husband and I learned that his brother was in a fatal snowmobile crash. Simon was the "fatal" part of that collision. I'm furious at the waste of it all.

The investigation into the crash is ongoing and I hate to think of my loved one undergoing an autopsy, but in accidents you don't have much choice.

When Simon heard his snow machine engine roar and felt the wind buffeting his helmet, he couldn't know what was in store for him and the other party when he chose that time and place to ride. He couldn't know the profound pain to which he was exposing the hearts of those who loved him. He was probably thinking that it was a lovely evening for a ride on the river.

I don't know what he was thinking. But you know what I'm thinking? I'm thinking that I'm never going to forget the sight and sound of my husband weeping over his brother's body in that Shawville, Quebec hospital. Or the sound of his mother's scream through the phone when she heard the news.

I'm thinking of how tanned Simon's skin was from his recent trip to Mexico and how he looked like he was sleeping. I'm thinking of how the only injury I could see was the scab on his giant callused hand he got from doing some sort of engine repair. In fact, I remember him gingerly washing that hand when he was over for dinner the week before.

I'm thinking that when my daughters learn about the pain of loss, it should be the loss of a very elderly relative whose time had come and not their beloved Uncle Si.

I'm thinking of how much my husband loves his brother.

I'm thinking of his mother and father and how outliving a child is the worse thing that can happen to a person. Ever.

I'm thinking of the 10-year-old boy who witnessed the crash, his father's and Simon's injuries and went for help.

But you know what I really want to think? I want to think that in his final moments, Simon knew how much he was loved and how much we would miss him.

Two faces of endurance

I used to consider myself an endurance athlete, but I don't make the grade now when I look around at all these adventurers and ultra-marathoners like Meagan McGrath and Ray Zahab.

I'm more of a lunch-time warrior these days, but I've been doing distance events since I was 14 years old: road races, cross-country ski races and "tours", and bike commuting with the very occasional "century ride" thrown in (usually the metric one).

The adventures of McGrath, a woman from my native land, Sudbury, Ontario caught my eye. Recently, she skied 1,1oo km solo to reach the South Pole, battling a chest infection and suffering from bruises sustained from tumbling into a crevasse. This is just one of her many epic journeys. The world's five tallest peaks are next on her list.

It's important for women to achieve in the physical and intellectual realms.

We should challenge the stereotypes that we are slaves to PMS or menopause, hate our bodies and are terrible at math. Women like McGrath are proof that we are capable of great feats of strength, endurance and single mindedness (beyond owning the latest Prada handbag).

Now, I'm going to risk condemnation and present to you another, more traditional face of endurance of the more stereotypical female variety.

That face is my mother. She is now retired, but you never retire from motherhood. She had four children. I'm the eldest. Her youngest daughter, my sister Liz, has a constellation of physical, cognitive and mental health problems that are covered under a catch-all medical term called 22q11 and she's at the severe end of the spectrum. My dad, while a good man, was largely absent through much of our childhood and battled his own demons. My parents eventually divorced.

My mother would be the first to tell you that she had a great support system in her parents, sister and brother and their families. She also took great pleasure from the simple things in life like the perfect ice cream cone on a hot day, or a good book on a quiet night, or her waterbed with wave control and heat massage (remember the 80s?).

But she carried tremendous burdens. She taught high school, took care of us and listened to our trite little tales of childhood woe with close attention, while acting as my sister's case manager and cheerleader. Her "free time" was a cup of coffee between 6 a.m. and 6:30 a.m. and 20 minutes of reading before bed.

Mom made Liz's home-time physical and speech therapy a game for all of us. We'd take turns rolling Liz on the exercise ball to get her to lift her head, holding up cue cards to teach her to read, and later, maintaining a phonetic dictionary on her computer so her voice synthesizer would pronounce words properly. Interestingly enough, the voice she often picked for herself was called "Justin", who spoke with a plummy British accent.

But the toll all this has taken on my mother's own health is apparent. The exhaustion sneaks up on her and can knock her flat from time to time.

I won't lie and say that having a child in my life like Liz is completely wonderful and inspirational. From what I saw, it was crushing, frightening and exhausting. But when you live with someone like Liz for whom the most mundane task takes a world of effort, the word "can't" doesn't mean very much. If you can walk, why not run? If you can work, then work freaking hard.

In some ways, living with Liz made me compassionate toward others and in other ways, it made me more callous. Liz struggled and struggled until she "got it". Often, I see others giving many excuses for not following through. I'll listen once or twice, but after that I tune out. This is how I see it: Figure out what you want to do, make a plan and then do it. Just shut up and do it. Or just shut up.

Mom never had much time for herself and I wonder about the life she might have lived, if she had more opportunities to pursue her own interests. For her, it always seemed to be "nose to the grindstone".

In my less-than-charitable moments (and I had plenty of those) when I saw another opportunity pass her by, I'd often say to my mother, "No one likes martrys; that's why they're dead."

Sometimes while growing up and even now, I'd get resentful because my mother couldn't spend much time with me or her grandchildren because the needs of her child were so great.

But now that I have children of my own, I often wonder if my decisions would have been any different if faced with similar circumstances.

Sure you can do prenatal screening and terminate if tests revealed disabilities that you didn't want to deal with. And believe me, I took every test that was offered. But what about those cases where children have strokes, suffer horrible accidents or suffer from terrible diseases after they're born? You'd step up, wouldn't you? I'd like to think so, but I don't think I'd handle the problems with as much kindness and strength as my mother did.

Now 30, my sister's health and function is declining and her care is too much for my mother. I'm not willing to take that burden on. Liz is in a home for adults with disabilities, but her care is always on my mother's mind. Mom and Dad visit Liz as much as possible and Mom tries to make Liz's home visits enjoyable.

I wouldn't call my mother a saint because she hates that. To her, she was just doing what had to be done. This is your child and how could you not take care of her?

She got worn down and worn out, but kindness and laughter are what I think about most when I think of my mother. Mom might not be able to catch me on the run, on a bike or on a pair of skis, but she's a far better mother than I'll ever be.

These days, when I read about epic feats like Meghan McGrath's or Ray Zahab's, I can't help but think that sometimes the toughest journey is not skiing 1,000 kilometres across a frozen tundra, pulling a sled, it's staying put for a thousand weeks and doing what needs to be done.

Losers can always learn

Hard times are instructional. What's the point of going through hell if you're not going to get something out of it? And I don't mean an opportunity for one-upmanship, the ever popular, "You think THAT's hard? Oh yeah???"

My older daughter plays soccer and I always tell her that we learn more from losing than winning. And as a frequent loser, I know what I'm talking about.

What do you really learn about good times anyway? Nothing. You just enjoy them. And here's another point about crappy times, without them we'd find it difficult to recognize the good ones. And here's another thing, what's "good" and "bad" changes, depending on where you're sitting.

With that in mind, I thought I'd outline what I've learned from some of our tribulations, starting with the most serious, and then ending with the bugs. Bugs are always on my mind and (more frequently than I'd like) on my head.

1. Heart failure:

• Every improvement counts, no matter how small.
• Things aren't always as dire as they sound at first.
• Someone should rename this condition in order to reduce the panic level among patients and their families.
• Young, healthy people get sick every day and everywhere.
• Waiting for the sky to fall is not living.
• Don't wait for retirement to really live.
• You can't live every day like your last. It's exhausting, especially if you could live another 20 years or so.
• When to push through and when to give in. It's not true that quitters never win. Go easy on yourself.
  
• When people offer to help, take it and tell them what they can do.
• Check your life insurance as soon as you have children. We never topped up my husband's and now, no one will insure him. What you get from the workplace is better than nothing, but less than you'd need if you died while your children were young. On the upside, my husband doesn't have to hire a food taster because he knows that he's worth more to me alive than dead. (He knows I'm kidding, right? I truly adore that man.)
  

2. Home renovations:

• Always get references, not just a quote. Cheaper is not necessarily better.
• If it's a big reno, like...say...a roof, consider hiring a home inspector to check the work. This can also prevent...say...rain in your basement in the event that the roofer skipped the important step of replacing the surface that was removed.
  
• Things always cost more than you think.

3. Buying and selling a home:

• Can you renovate and be happy?
• What you want versus what you need.
• Get a home inspection and fix the big problems before you sell.
• Sometimes going through lawyers is harder. Keep the lines of communication open between both parties, if possible.
• Get a long range forecast and if a tornado will be hitting your house in the foreseeable future, move. NOW.

4. Bugs:

• Gratitude: For having a washer and a dryer. If I was doing laundry on a rock by the river, I would have keeled over before the bugs did. On the other hand...
• Simplicity: If I was doing laundry on a rock by the river, we'd only have 1.5 outfits each and it wouldn't have taken as long. Pare your stuff down regularly.
• Reality check: No one dies from bed bugs (but you do go itchy-crazy).
• Don't accept used clothing or furniture unless you can poach, boil, immerse or freeze it. On that note, winter is a good time to get used stuff. Leave it outside for a while, preferably when it's a day like today and it's -33C with the windchill.
  
• If someone is getting weird rashes for no apparent reason, it could be bed bugs (I got hives, my husband didn't have any reaction and one of my daughters looked like she was thrown into an Iron Maiden).
• Get a canine inspection. Really. They now have dogs trained to sniff out bed bugs. There's a fella in Ottawa who does this through his company. It's money well spent. My daughter was getting a weird rash on her back in the fall and I was starting to hyperventilate. We got Patrick to come over with his dog Miley and we passed the sniff test. Whew.
• Check hotel rooms for signs of bed bugs before you flop.

What about you? What sort of trials have you been through and what sort of wisdom would you like to share?

Progress is approaching

I jumped right in and took the Meditating in Everyday Life course at the Shambhala Centre in December. I’m still a bit hit-and-miss on this meditation thing. See, now I should be meditating, but I’m writing instead.

I’ve made two important discoveries as I sit still (every second day) and struggle through five minutes of solitude.

I like to:

1. Stay very, very busy…
2. To run away from writing about stuff I care about because investing yourself in writing is scary.

Just ask Penelope Trunk, who uses squirm-inducing honesty about her personal life--marriage, parenthood, divorce, dating, pending marriage, end of the relationship--and links that to career advice--risk-taking, Asperger’s at work, family businesses.

As part of this meditation course, we’re encouraged to do readings in various Buddhist texts. But in our reminder e-mail, we’re reminded that we don’t HAVE to do the readings. These are Buddhists, remember? What are they going to do if you don’t do your homework? Look extra compassionately at you? Be super kind and forgiving?

For me, sitting still is like trying to sit through a hurricane. When I sit, I have:

• imaginary fights in my head with family members and co-workers
• find fantastic success in the publishing world
• win the lottery
• watch my life fall apart
• rebuild from the ashes, and
• wonder when I’ll get around to using those Crest Whitestrips that are sitting in my drawer

The readings from this course tell us that by meditating we can find our own “divine goodness”.

Ouch! I think I just blew my ganglia on that one.

That just seems so radical to a Catholic raised on original sin.

Just shut up and be still for a while and you’ll find out that you’re just fine. Of course, I’m paraphrasing here.

But I like this idea. I really like it.

The problem is that I’m feeling more snarly and irritated since I started. This is common, apparently. The meditation masters liken the early stages to sitting under a waterfall.

Well I’ve gone over the edge, my canoe is in pieces and I’m being smashed to bits.

It’s very tiring lugging this thought machine around. I’m managing about five seconds of mental silence every second day and it's not enough.

So, now I’m trying to write. And in doing so, I’m running away from meditating.

As my friend Helen likes to say, “Progress is approaching.” She tells me that this quote might be from someone literary, but I'm too lazy to look it up and Helen is too scattered. She also says that the "H" in ADHD stands for "Helen".

Paranoid 3: Betting our hedge

The roof of our former house narrowly missed the car across the street. Photo by: Jennifer Oberhammer

Looking back over the past five less-than-stellar years has me thinking about luck. Most of us think in terms of bad luck and good luck.

I don't think it's that simple. There's good-great luck and there's good-could-have-been-much-worse luck.

An example of the former is having the winning lottery numbers. When I think of the latter, I think of a scenario like this:

A woman gets dragged under a bus for a mile or so and then is set upon by a pack of feral dogs, but is still alive. The newscaster reports that she's in a medically induced coma while awaiting a donor for a full-body skin transplant. The cop featured on the five-second sound bite says, "That's one lucky little lady."

I'd say that's my kind of luck, but I'm luckier because I have all my skin--and teeth. And we got out of there, by the skin of our teeth.

So far, I've recounted major house damage and then heart damage. Then, there were the scabies-that-turned-out-to-be bed bugs and the therapeutic demolition job.

Next up we have real estate snafus, lice and a tornado. But there I go again, rushing things.

When I left off, we were engaged in a full out war against bed bugs. For months, we watched each other carefully for any rashes or bite-like lesions. I felt like a scout for the porn industry: "Take your clothes off and stand over here." And that was just for guests.

And the nightmares! In the dead of night, I'd go from a twitchy prone position to standing with all the bedding in my hands and the light on in 1.2 seconds. It wasn't long before Oli stopped asking what I was doing. He'd just wait until I was good and ready to hand the sheets back.

Bed bugs and beyond

After a year, we were in the clear. Not one to just sit back and enjoy some free time, I started advocating to move. I wanted to live in a house where I didn't have so many bad memories. Not that all memories were bad. I'd brought home my two (colicky) infants from the hospital to that--. Yeah, now that you mention it, there weren't a lot of good memories, plus we were running out of room to store all the sports equipment we couldn't use, now that we were parents.

I found the perfect place, just blocks away. We put an offer on the house and it was accepted. In a divine stroke of luck, acquaintances expressed interest in our place.

But of course, when your last name is Murphy, things rarely work out the way you think they will. After we signed off on our home inspection, our inspector's "just-in-case insulation test" for asbestos came back positive. I wanted out of that purchase in a big, bad way. But the vendors were really great about it and got it removed and replaced, largely at their expense.

The home inspection on our place didn't go so well either and we had to pay for some big expenses there.

What's a life event without bugs? This time it was lice and all of us were afflicted. The treatment and the moving stress had me flirting with female-pattern baldness.

Hegemony (Phonetics: Hedge-eh-money)

The universe wasn't done with us yet though. The purchaser's lawyer had hedge issues with our place.

Our hedge's proximity to a property line had our sale teetering on the edge of oblivion. It was the most confounding situation and I can't get into details here because I fear angering the gods of property and libel law.

Our legal fees quadrupled, while my mental faculties halved.

My and Oli's parents swooped in as I unraveled. I could neither eat nor sleep because I felt so responsible for our impending financial ruin.

In the midst of all this, there were layoffs at work and I was called to an unscheduled meeting. As I walked down the hall, pondering rules for filing bankruptcy, I was ushered into the "survivors'" meeting and I almost fainted with relief.

Hedge-ectomy

Our lawyer hit on a solution at the 11th hour, which involved a night-time visit with a chainsaw and a headlamp. Oli's hedge removal was masterful. When he was done, there was no evidence that a 12-foot hedge had ever been there.

It really did work out in the end. I loved our new house from the first, but I could tell that my husband was a bit "meh" about the cost, the big mortgage and stress of the move.

But five months later, he developed a whole new appreciation for our abode.

The April after we moved in, a tornado stampeded through the old neighbourhood and tore the roof clean off our former house and deposited it in the middle of the road.

I'm sure the neighbours across the road were cursing us for upping the "R" value of the roof insulation because it looked like their giant maple tree was part of a pink ribbon campaign.

I felt so badly for our purchasers; what a beginning for their new home. I thought a fresh start would change the luck of the place. They've recently moved back in and much like us, I'm sure they have a whole new appreciation for home insurance.

That house could really do with a dose of good luck. An end to the bad luck would be a good start.

Now, I feel pressure behind my right eye. I wonder if it's a tumour.

I've sent money; now what?

A country in a mess has been hurled into the abyss.

Money is pouring into aid agencies in the wake of Haiti's earthquake and everyone makes a point of mentioning the catastrophe in appropriately grim and muted tones, so that we can say we thought about it today.

Then we pick our favourite registered charity to donate to, so we'll feel better and settle back into our easy, comfortable lives where our biggest struggles concern self-fulfillment, offspring micromanagement and worry about stupid shit like "do these pants make me look fat?"

These are things that, for the most part, we have control over, but our level of obsession would indicate otherwise. Worry over stupid shit is a privilege and I'm grateful for those worries.

Angst over Haiti is another matter. Aside from writing cheques, what can we really do? It's not practical to jump on a plane and join in the efforts. And last I checked, I didn't see much of a need for technical writers in Port au Prince. Best not get in the way there and leave the real work to others, I guess.

So, now what?

Hopefully that will become clear in the coming weeks.

On another note, last night I heard that Canadians had raised over $24 million in 24 hours and the government has pledged to match those funds. But it's unclear of how much of that will qualify for matching government funds.

Here are a few links to charities collecting for Haiti relief:

Canadian Red Cross

UNICEF Canada

Oxfam Canada

Health Partners International Canada

Plan Canada

Paranoid Part 2: Scabies seem appealing

If there was a theme for this litany of misfortune, it’s this: We all have a sliding scale of what we’re willing to accept or deal with. For example, I remember thinking (at a time before I had children) that dealing with lice seemed the worst thing ever.


In my mid-20s, I was a reporter at a small daily paper and I ended up doing a whole series on lice outbreaks at this particular school—an assignment that had me scratching my head and shuddering with revulsion.

The fun and frolics of 2007 made lice seems like a vacation. But here I am, jumping ahead of myself.

My last post ended with my husband adjusting to the reality of heart failure because the heart damage from his viral infection became permanent.

But there were improvements. He managed to work half-time, an effort that required him to sleep all afternoon.

Then, my contract wasn’t renewed. I got a full-time job offer from a company that I contracted for, but they were bought out by a U.S. firm and a hiring freeze was instituted.

I had a cushion, so we were fine at first. Though eventually, the funds dwindled and mild panic started to set in.

Then, I landed my current position at a medium-sized high-tech company. Whew.

It was a steep learning curve, but I was keen. Running out of your emergency funds is very motivating.

Could the hives be scabies?

Shortly thereafter, I developed hives on my arms and I joked with my co-workers that I was allergic to my job. I started a food journal to see if there was a correlation to the number of hives I had each day and what I ate.

The hives continued. Benedryl became my close personal friend.

Then, my children started getting hives. Off to the doctor we went.

“Hives aren’t contagious,” she said. “It looks like scabies to me.”

Scabies! It just sounded gross and when she told me that they were mites that burrow into the skin and lay eggs, I was nostalgic for lice.

Filling the prescription was a laugh a minute. The pharmacist, an enthusiastic East Indian fellow who seemed to be used to dealing with the hearing impaired, told me loudly how the pesticide was to be applied from “the neck down--avoiding the genitals, of course—for the most successful removal of scabies.”

In my peripheral vision, I could see everyone near the counter take one big step back.

Home I went for The Great Family Pesticide Rubdown. Then, all sheets and clothes went into the washer/dryer on the “boil”/”roast” cycle.

We were cured—for about a week and the marks came back.

The treatments were so hard on my asthmatic daughter. She was pale and wheezing and I wasn’t going to do another treatment no matter what.

I was crying on the phone to my friend Susan, who, recalling bed bug horror stories from her grandmother, told me to look for evidence of bed bugs.

Sleep tight; don't let the evil motherf#$%ers bite

“Are there small specks of blood on the sheets,” she asked?

Yes.

“Do you see little black specks?”

Yes.

“Can you see the bugs? They’re like apple seeds in size and colour.”

No.

I checked the mattresses and not one was found.

“Check the box springs.”

Holy Mother of God! It was a colony. Several colonies. It was a bed bug New World in my house!

I had an answer. I was elated for one day and then I found out that they are incredibly hard to get rid of. If you miss just one pregnant female in your pest control efforts, you’re screwed. Adults can survive up to a year without a blood feed and females lay one or more eggs a day.

I was pining for scabies.

So, we were plunged into a (new) hell. Actually, I think I was the most plagued by this special kind of six-legged crazy. My husband kept his perspective. After all, he felt that after his heart troubles, this was bad but not that bad. For me, it was my tipping point into full-blown anxiety, which was further fuelled by insomnia.

We purged like crazy. It’s amazing how quickly you can declutter when you assess everything as a current or potential bug habitat. Ironically, before this whole drama, we had a blog entry from Penelope Trunk posted in our kitchen, called “5 steps to taming materialism” in which she described her own family’s experience with bed bugs.

It was a reminder of our pledge to have a small house but big adventures. What a load of crap that goal turned out to be. I tore that off the wall.

Because of my daughter’s asthma and her earlier exposure to harsh chemicals from the home refinishing and then the “scabies” treatment, we decided on the pesticide-free approach and worked with Evergreen Pest Control.

Of course, the plumbing goes to hell

It took herculean efforts of vacuuming and cleaning and caulking every baseboard, electrical outlet, everything. My friend Susan came over and helped out. She caulked and then parked herself in the backyard to steam clean the pieces of furniture that we decided to keep. What a hero. I wouldn’t have set foot in the place if I were her. Of course, her husband made her strip on the porch before entering her home. Lucky neighbours.

I even inspected my neighbour’s house because we were attached by a wall and the six-legged devil spawn can follow a wire or crack into another dwelling. The neighbour was in the clear.

For weeks, I cleaned for four or five hours a night (after returning home from work), until the sweat dripped off my head and exploded onto the floor. I’m sure all this was very slimming.

By day, I was a mild-mannered tech writer; by evening a panicky, maniacal cleaning woman.

And the laundry! Everything that was washed had to be run through again. And in keeping with our stroke of luck, our basement flooded.

The plumber ran a camera through the pipe and called us over to see how “not good” it looked. The drain vomited chunks of rusted out pipe and dirt when he pulled the cable out.

The old cast iron main sewer line rotted away and had to be replaced. This required chipping a channel through the cement floor in the laundry room and garage. Cost: $7,500.

Our garage floor was old and cracked, so we opted for replacement rather than patching.

But none of the companies we contacted wanted to dispose or remove the remaining concrete. Demolition sounded so appealing. My husband wasn’t well enough to do it, but I sure could. I rented a drill from Home Depot and tore out that concrete all by my-damn-self.

And I loved it. Even now, when things seem to be going badly, I fantasize about jackhammers and crowbars.

See also:

Part 3: Betting our hedge

Just because the universe is out to get me, doesn’t mean I’m paranoid (Part 1)

I do have a tendency to wallow in negativity, but I’m hoping that discovering my own divine goodness will change all that. Meditation is supposed to be the vehicle to get me there, but it's stalled on the Lazy Highway at the junction of Excess and Sleeplessness at the moment.

I’m staring down the end of 2009 and wondering what 2010 has in store for me. An attitude adjustment would be a good move for me in 2010.

But before I go that route, I’m going to wallow in negativity one more time and then flush. (Actually, this is such a long post, that I may cut it into two or three posts).

If I had tunnel vision, I would be inclined to say that the last five years were a complete write-off. There were tough times and there were (paltry) good times. I should add a disclaimer of sorts saying: "I'm aware that I'm very fortunate to be born into the time and circumstances I'm in."

But since this is my last (multi-part) wallow, I’m going to highlight the low points for my reading audience. Right off the bat, I have to say that sometimes when things really suck they can be funny later. But some things just keep right on sucking.

Roof and heart: 2005/6

We returned home from our Christmas holidays to a terrible smell. I thought that perhaps we forgot to take the garbage out, but that wasn’t it.

When I walked into our living room, the ceiling was hanging down. The roofer took that old roof off, but didn’t get around to putting the new roof on and it rained while we were away.

This house was a three storey semi-detached home with a flat roof. I was home when they were removing the tar and gravel. I had assumed they were putting on the membrane to replace it, but they didn’t. Lacking a 50-foot ladder, I couldn’t confirm this. That was my mistake.

We spent the next seven weeks in a depressing little furnished apartment while the roofer’s insurance company and our insurance company funded the replacement of all of our ceilings and the floor refinishing and replacement. Thank heavens for insurance. We paid for the actual roof replacement when it was done and had our home inspector verify it.

The night we moved back in, my older daughter, who was four at the time, vomited all over her room from the overwhelming smell of varnish. My younger daughter, who was two (and who is the melded reincarnation of a goat and a science geek), wrote on some walls, broke into her sister’s piggy bank and dropped coins down the vents to give it that lived-in look. There. Perfect.

About six weeks later, my 37-year-old husband walked gingerly down the stairs from the office, where he had been entering his students’ marks.

He was clutching his chest.

“I have crushing chest pain. Can hardly breathe.”

Following the ambulance carrying my husband was surreal. This is something that happens to other people. All I kept thinking was: How could he have a heart attack? He’s a sub-three-hour marathoner, non-smoker and has the healthiest diet of anyone I know.

At the hospital, they ran tests and kept him overnight.

When I returned home where my neighbour and friend was minding my children, he told me that my older daughter’s asthma was acting up, so he gave her the “puffer”. A father himself to children with allergies, he was adept in assessing these things and administering her puffer.

I took her temperature and it was 104F. Not up to another trip to the emergency, but not feeling very tired, I gave her some ibuprophen, propped her up on me and administered salbutamol in intervals for what remained of the night.

I fetched Oli the next day. Tests revealed that he hadn’t had a heart attack. We were so relieved and regarded his followup tests with the internist as a precautionary measure.

Oli laughed and joked with the technicians as he sailed through the stress test. It was inconceivable that he’d fail the test. He returned home ebullient, but very tired. Hours later, the doctor called him up and said he wanted to see him first thing in his office.

That was our introduction the term peri-myocarditis. The doctor figured that it was brought on by a virus Oli had two or three weeks prior. Oli was over the bug, but just couldn’t shake the fatigue. But he didn’t let that stop him from riding his bike to work (in February), working out, coaching the basketball team and participating in exercise labs with his Grade 12 physiology students.

The pain he felt that night was from sudden swelling of the heart muscle (myocardium) and its membrane (pericardium).

Looking back now, I feel that this situation may have arisen from another factor in addition to the virus, and that’s chemical. We moved back into our home in winter time after the floors had been sanded and varnished and the walls re-painted. It’s not practical to keep the windows open for long periods of time when its -20C.

Lucky for us that we live in a place where we can access a heart-specialty hospital. Oli was put in the care of a cardiologist at the Ottawa Heart Institute.

And so went the rounds of tests and appointments. During this time, my daughter’s asthma was poorly controlled, and it seemed that when I wasn’t going to the heart institute or emergency with my husband, I was at the family doctor’s or the emergency department of the Children’s Hospital for Eastern Ontario with my daughter.

Oli was exhausted and grey and slept a lot. I worked, went to appointments and did as much as I could around the house. The girls went to daycare, as they had before. This tore at my husband, who felt that while he was home, he should at least be able to take care of his children. Not possible with his level of illness.

I remember Halloween that year. Oli was too weak to take the girls out, so he gave out candy—seated on a chair on our porch because he was too weak to stand up.

Happy Valentine’s Day—welcome to heart failure

Valentine’s Day 2006 was another low point. My husband's cardiologist, during an earlier appointment said that he was referring my husband to a "colleague". That actual reason is hazy but it was something like "making sure all the bases are covered."

Our appointment was Valentine's Day and when we arrived to meet our new doctor we found out that he was a HEART FAILURE AND TRANSPLANT SPECIALIST and we were there because Oli's heart damage was looking permanent.

Those were more frightening times. Our doctor was very reassuring, but still, Oli was trying to adjust to the fact that he couldn't trust his heart.

His heart was something he took for granted before. Now it thumped ineffectively like a big water balloon in his chest. Irregular heart rhythms woke him in the night and he was plagued with constant chest pain. At least his function wasn't so bad that he was on the transplant list.

Eventually, Oli felt well enough to teach one class a day, and so he did. He walked when he felt well enough and rested a lot. He spent every waking moment cuddling his little girls, fearful that he wouldn't be around to see them grow up.

Watching him go through that made me feel powerless. What's the saying about wishes being fishes? I wished that if he couldn't magically be cured, that I could at least hand him my heart and say, "Why don't we share and alternate weeks?"

See also:

Part 2: Scabies seem appealing

Part 3: Betting our Hedge