Hallowe'en

I'm scared. Like, I really didn't think she was going to really have something. Every time she says, "Oh man, that one felt like death" I figure, "Ok, gramma had a bad cold." Not to patronize her, but she always jumped back. So she calls me on my birthday to tell me exactly that, she couldn't make it because she was so sick. So I told her exactly what I think: It's okay gramma, you don't have to come all the way here to wish me happy birthday. It's okay. It was that bad? That's alright. I had an okay day, but I was at work. Actually a bunch of people at work got me gifts. Yes, thank you for the card it meant a lot. Okay gramma, feel better.

The last time my gramma ever spoke to me was over the phone. In all likelihood, the last time gramma will ever speak to me will have been over the phone. The next weekend my dad dropped by her house, doing one of those things that people take for granted and think "isn't too important," he saw a sale on sardines at the local grocery store, so he picked up some for her to bring over. Coupons: Coupons are the reason my dad found her before it was too late. Coupons are why the stroke was not fatal. Gramma's neighbours are really nice and visit her all the time, but who knows if they would have been overly concerned to hear nothing from her apartment. I don't even want to visualize what it was like for my dad to see her there on the couch, unable.

The first time I visited her I thought to myself, over the last few years, I might have built some sort of a stomach for matters of mortality. I really haven't. I'm poised on the phone, poised in social interaction, poised intellectually, but faced with the idea of the end I'm very scared. I've really recently been feeling extra scared and this is part and parcel. I don't know what to say. The first time I saw her in the hospital she had lost all use of the right side of her body and her ability to speak. She was coming in and out of cogency and not necessarily on time. There was a brain hemorrhage that accompanied her stroke which has really dampened hopes of a quick turnaround. Then for one moment when my brother and I approached her and said "Hey Gramma it's your boys." She looked my brother and then me dead in the eyes. When she looked at me, I knew she saw me. I knew it. I felt that distinct feeling you get when you look into the eyes of a human being. Then her eyes watered, but nothing else emotive seemed to follow, and what felt so much like a communicative connection seemed very mechanical. So it started to feel more like when you look into the eyes of a cat; she knew someone was there and it made her feel a certain way. Then she kind of looked left I guess, and then at her wrist. That's when I broke. Very quickly I wasn't talking to gramma anymore.

I've learned of myself that I'm much better speaking about than speaking to. I know how to personalize a conversation but my comfort level is still conversations about. Recently I've noticed that my friends are finding this to be a point of difficulty with me. They don't know how to talk to me. They don't know what I want to hear, so they'd rather just try and tell me what they think I need to hear. So it's something new to work on. It's easiest to work on this with Gramma now, because I can't even really talk to gramma, for the most part I have to talk at her. Which is how the first day felt. All I could do was speak at gramma, and that pained me horribly. Growing up, the idea of speaking at someone or something seemed so pathetic and juvenile. 'Don't you know she isn't listening? Why are you wasting your breath? That doll is not real, you might as well keep those words inside.' Talking at someone seemed either ignorant or rude. Then again, I'm probably the biggest hypocrit in this respect, because I talk at myself all the time. Out loud (it's embarrassing) and well, even here, on this blog. So I ought to be good at talking at people.

Well today is her birthday. She caught an infection and had to be re-hospitalized, so it wasn't the best birthday. My mom had even bought balloons and stuff to take to the home. Oh well. We went to go talk to her and, blessing in disguise, the policies of emerg is that only one person can visit at a time. So I was given the chance to talk at her one-on-one. I think I did well. There was one part where I said, "Well looks like they got you set up well here" and she put her eyebrows together with a look of almost alarm, and I completed her thought "yea, well as good as they can set you up, right? haha" And then she kinda moved her head to the side affirmatively, like, "Bingo." I told her that I got a new job, and that I start tomorrow, and the nurse was here to change her drip, and that Khary's coming in next, and some other stuff. I really forgot how old she was, so it was great that the nurse came in and had her chart. I was always thinking to record this day and now I can. I still feel like she can stabalize to a degree in time, which is a small mercy to hold on to, so I'm happy to say that today is not the day on which Hyacinth O'Gilvie was born. There is no need for eulogistic references. No, today is Gramma Maggie's 87th birthday. And even though I was sick earlier this week, I got to see her. So for that I am blessed.

On long weekends

In the haze of busy work weeks, most of which spill into the brainspace we hope to keep for more important things than work, I tend to forget what outside feels like.

I forget what the world outside my office feels like. When I talk to my fellow yuppies during our scheduled sitdowns after work, every 3 weeks or so, I forget that not every organization operates with as much or as little bureaucracy as does mine. I make a point not to use acronyms or industry talk when I get into my own stories, but to be frank I'm the only one who pays that consideration. Whether we admit it or not, people love having a job that other people don't understand, that is the definition of importance. Right? Myself included, I only make the effort to be universally descriptive because I have dreams of being the world's court jester.

I forget what life is like outside of the business world. Meeting up with my friends who are doctors, lawyers, students, teachers, nurses, and other fields that are less directly corporate, I forget that not only am I a small fish in a large pond, but that there are many rivers to cross between my pond and theirs. And what's more, I'm going to have to master the waves of this pond if I hope one day to make it to the ocean. I'm happy that my pond is large enough to teach me the ropes. Some of my friends tell me they could never handle my waves, which is my latest reason to smile.

Most importantly, I forget what life is like outside. You know, where things grow and bugs exist and there are all sorts of quiet sounds that only get loud when you pay close attention. Outside is normally despair. Actually, I'll be less dramatic. Outside is normally obligation: What must be done in order to get to my car, the restaurant, the office, the beach, my game, her house, home. I hardly appreciate the warmth of the sun on the 401! When oh how the glory of the sun is magnified by the warm reflective asphalt, and my warm absorbant black car interior. I must say I spend many hours a week actually rebuking the majesty of the holy sun. But today, sitting on my deck and reading a book of my choice in my backyard I decided to protect my face from the sun, after giving it some time, with the bookface. A sudden crisp cool came over my skin and I felt a certain relaxation you can't experience indoors.

To everyone who can relate to my rat race, I have only one thing to share from my experience from this long weekend. Relaxation isn't when your mind can turn off, it is when your mind can turn on. I'm happy to say I wrote this entire note outside on my deck. Special thanks to my Blackberry as well.

On superficial attention to sadness

Somewhere along the line I made the point to stop telling people that I'm sad. I realized that in my case saying that I'm sad is a lot like telling people 'I am wearing a blue shirt.' First of all it shows, quite clearly. It's not even ambiguously blue, my sadness. More importantly, saying my shirt is blue doesn't really engender any real meaningful discussions about the nature of my shirt.

Most people can only really respond with a sort of uncomfortable laughter. A chuckle, followed by, "...and so?". No, it makes no sense to state the obvious about my shirt. All I can really hope is that someone asks, "So where did you get your sadness?" or "How much did your sadness cost you?" Or in my special tailored case, because I've invested more heavily into my appearance than what lies beneath, I often hope someone remarks, "I must say, you wear your sadness very well, it fits you well."

Again, my shirts are tailored so I can never really tell people what their true origins were, who knows, so I end up telling people "Well this sadness I just picked up last week. The sadness I was wearing yesterday is old, from a purchase I made last year."

As for the price, luckily there is no price or discernible barcode in my store of dignity, so I used to assume each shirt was relatively expensive until I made my way to the register. The last few shirts I purchased were a real drag. So I've become very cost sensitive, pre-purchase.'

As for the fit, well with all fabrics there is a cost per square inch. If I lost some weight I think my next shirt wouldn't cost me so much pain.