Stress and the human mind

Yesterday in the street I heard the familiar sound of a diesel vehicle approaching behind me; a mid-sized vehicle, like a small bus, a large pickup ... or an ambulance. I looked around sharply, because that's a sound that runs a chilly finger down my spine.

I've talked about my father's stroke and disability in this post. I explained that during his last eight years of life he faced difficulties including being confined to a wheelchair without the use of one side of his body. I briefly mentioned his cancer, surgeries, appointments, and loss of sight.

For all those medical issues, he had to travel by ambulance because the receiving hospitals did not have the correct patient lift which was required in order to move him from his wheelchair to a stretcher or operating room table and back again. And in some cases he would not have been able to return to the wheelchair anyway; his paralysis even on a good day caused him to list to one side - or, worse, to the front - and after surgeries he was safer and more comfortable lying down.

I didn't keep track of all the ambulance trips he had to make - although I could dig through my files and count the invoices he had to pay - but I do know that he had two cancer surgeries, two cataract surgeries, and one hand surgery in those eight years. He also had numerous abdominal ultrasounds (for an aortic aneurysm) and echocardiograms (heart ultrasounds), regular cancer checkups, several hospitalizations for pneumonia, eye appointments, CT scans, lung x-rays, specialist visits, and on and on and on. I accompanied him on all of these appointments except if I was sick or recovering from surgery myself, either travelling with him as a family member in the front of the ambulance, or meeting him in the ambulance bay of the hospital as he arrived, staying with him through his treatment, and seeing him off as he left to return to the nursing home.

I got to know the distinctive sound of an ambulance engine very, very well. And because of the stress involved each and every time, it wore a sore spot in my mind and my chest. Those occasions were stressful for him, and thus for me. And, now, for a little while on every occasion that I am exposed to that sound, the soreness returns, along with new pain from the sorrow at the reminder that my father is gone.

How much worse it must be for those who have experienced extreme stresses - of war, of inner-city violence, of childhood abuse, of horrors of any kind. I cannot know how it feels, because I have never experienced those things, but I can imagine. It is only in a small, limited way, but still ... I can imagine.

And I can start to understand.

Spring Snowstorm

I've had to start using comments moderation - sorry, folks. But never fear: I generally check in every day, and I'll publish your comments then.


Remember Spring is a Fickle Thing three days ago?

Crocuses were showing, grass was bare.

Look what happened yesterday:

And by the time I went for my afternoon walk today, it had melted on the bottom layer because the ground was heating up from the sun, but the top layer was still fluffy snow - which meant that instead of stepping into fresh snow and creating this kind of footprint:

sometimes I stepped into snow that looked exactly the same but created this kind of footprint:

That's very wet there. Like walking in an inch of rain. If rain could pile up into a vertical inch.

Yes, I was wearing boots. But not rain boots. Probably should have been wearing rain boots.

In contrast, the streets were bare, because most of the snow was plowed off in the morning and then the sun melted all the bits left behind. There were a few puddles as a result, and that made for some interesting sights, like this reflection of a tree ...

So clear you can see the blue sky!

Further along, the snow was piled up on my favourite bench ...

Utilitarian, but comfy.

... and my not-so-favourite bench ...

Picturesque, but those slats - ouch.

and made a clean white background for the railings to throw their shadows on at the look-off shelter:

The crows were having a convention, or maybe a concert - it was hard to tell but it sure was noisy:

This rock wall made a nice contrast to the snow:

Beauty everywhere. And when it melts, there will still be beauty everywhere. I feel incredibly lucky to have so much nature at my doorstep.

Spring is a Fickle Thing

Early April is unpredictable in these parts. One day it's cold and snowy; the next, the snow melts again and it feels like May. Sometimes the temperature swing happens in a matter of a few hours. Sometimes the frigid and the balmy happen at the exact same time, with wind that's cold to walk into, and sunlight putting out real warmth .

I went for a walk on one of those days not long ago, and pwetty nearwey fwoze my wips - while working up a sweat under my jacket. I had my hood up, then down; gloves on, then off. It was a weird day.

The snow that had fallen was mostly melted - but this was what all the trees along the walking trail looked like:

The only snow on this - and all the other trees - was on the north side of the trunk.

This was happening, too:

See the ice on the tips of the branches (left and slightly right of center of photo)? Many of the branches I saw had those little icy nodules on their very ends.

The sun was warm enough to melt ice and snow, but only where it could get directly at them. In shady areas and where the ice was thicker, the cold was winning.

Lucky for us, the little garden in the front of our house gets direct sunlight all day long, and so I'm happy to report that we now have these:

 

 

Not many, and not open, but they're there. One of fickle spring's better things.

Have a good weekend, my friends. And for my overseas friends - a good Sunday and Monday.

What's In A Name? Sometimes, A Little Too Much ...

If you've ever had a pet, how did you figure out what to name it?

I have no imagination at all when it comes to finding a suitable name, but thanks to the internet I know how clever other people can be. A very short search brought me Goober Mcfatkins, Lord Chubby Pruneface, Rosie Picklebottom, and Schnitzeltooth for dogs, and Dusty Mop, Edward Scissor Paws, Piffington, and Toby Turbo for cats (all from this website). And these plays on the words cat, kitten and purr: Catapult, Catastrophe, Catatonic, Kitkat, Kitty Kitty Bang Bang, Purrfect, and Purrkins, as well as Flufferton, Tiddybombom and Spaz (found here). I have known cats named Him and Her, as well as a dog named Bear. And there are lots of simpler names like Fluffy or King, and the whole spectrum of human names, and finally there are those generic names we use for every cat or dog we come across, like Kitty or Pup.

It's that last category that I decided to draw from when our newest cat, a stray, showed no signs of moving on to someone else's home (someone with a better imagination, I suspect). I spent most of my time calling her "sweetie", so I thought, why not just name her that? It made me feel sensible and competent to always be able to remember my cat's name, very unlike the feeling I've gotten at other times such as when I addressed my son by my own name.

So "Sweetie" she became.

Then I took her to the vet for her first checkup. We got registered by owner name and pet name. No problem. Sat down to wait. Finally an older male vet entered the waiting area and bellowed the cat's name. Sweetie! There was nothing to do but stand up and go in. It didn't faze the vet - I'm sure he's heard worse - but my embarrassment level was a little high.

I spent several days after that agonizing over a new name, and finally Sweetie officially became Lulu - four letters, two identical syllables - should be easy to remember, right? - and completely unremarkable for future visits to the vet. Gotta say I still can't remember it half the time, and revert to "Sweetie".


Tell me, how did you decide on a name or names for your pet(s), past or present or both?

Sweetie may look laid back ... and possibly overfed ...

... but she's a total ninja at hiding in gift bags and hogging the computer.

Donkey Turns English Teacher, Just For Today. Wait, Why Are You Running Away??

April is National Poetry Month in Canada and the United States. I think it should be in every country, but having it in most of North America is not too shabby a start.

If you live in either country, you would only be doing your patriotic duty by writing a poem in the comments. And if you don't live in either country, that's no excuse. You should write one, too. It doesn't need to be long - Ogden Nash could pack a lot into two lines and so can you. Here's one of my favourites from Mr. Nash:

Fleas

Adam
Had 'em.

There now, isn't that easy? Go on now, give it a try. Rhyming, not rhyming, limerick, haiku, ode, sonnet, ballad, free verse   - anything goes!

And just to show you that quality does not matter, I offer from my personal writing vault this clunker from 2010, back when I first heard of National Poetry Month. You will notice that it is written in free verse. In other words, just like talking. See! YOU could do that, too. (Apologies to Robert Frost. I do love his poetry.)

~~~~~~~~~~

Reply to The Pasture
   - by Procrastinating Donkey

Some experts think that Robert Frost wrote deep poetry.

I honestly can't see it.

Even if they ARE experts.

I still can't see it.

In fact, I see other things when I read this Robert Frost poem:

 The Pasture 

I'm going out to clean the pasture spring;  

I'll only stop to rake the leaves away

(And wait to watch the water clear, I may):
I sha'n't be gone long. You come too.

I'm going out to fetch the little calf
That's standing by the mother. It's so young,
It totters when she licks it with her tongue.
I sha'n't be gone long. You come too.

Now.
Why would the writer
(Who is widely agreed to be a farmer)
Want a little calf?
Because he's going to turn it into veal, that's why.
He's not going to cuddle it.
He's not going to shoe it or milk it.
He's not going to bathe it or brush it or clip its hooves.
He's not going to teach it to sing or play checkers.
It's time for veal chops.
You know it's true.
That poem is far from a tender scene, if you ask me.
It's a horror story, for mom and the little guy.
No, I don't wish to "come too", Mr. Farmer.
Back off with your horrific invitation, eh.

~~~~~~~~~~

(I'm not sure why this poem took the turn it did, but I do hope it is clear that I wrote it tongue-in-cheek.)

Your turn. And if you really don't want to write a poem, but you'd like to take part, you could share a bit of poetry you had to memorize as a child, or a song lyric that speaks to you. Doesn't need to be the whole thing; a line or two will be quite fine. Thank you for reading and playing along, and I hope class did not traumatize you too badly.

Looking Up, Part 3

(A scheduling glitch - code for "still learning" - means this post did not go live at the planned time. But here it is, straggling in the door with rumpled clothes and hair all askew ...)

Today's photos are ones that I was surprised to have turn out as well as they did. I'm trying to learn how to better use my point-and-shoot digital camera, so I've been taking all kinds of different shots to see what happens. I used to love to take photographs with our 35mm film (non-digital) camera. We had several different lenses which made it easier to take good ones. Alas, I'm back to beginner status. It's definitely better than using the Kodak Instamatic I used as a teenager, because of the zoom function and different automatic settings like close-up and landscape, and because I don't have to pay for developing ten times as many photos as actually turn out. But it definitely has limitations.

Regardless, I was happy to get these shots.

Two crows in a wood:

In another month, this will be a leafy, shady spot for these souls to hide. There was no hiding on this day, however, and after only two photos, they flew off, protesting loudly.

A few streets further along, a different crow, and a completely different reaction:

This guy was drinking out of a puddle, which doesn't seem all that pleasant - and didn't seem to care that I was there.

Finally there was this:

To get all of the trunk of this tree in the picture, I would have had to lie down in someone's front yard, with traffic passing in the adjacent street. Because I don't like to make a spectacle of myself, I did not do that. Trust me when I say this is a very tall tree. I almost fell over from looking up. Remember, old-ish people plus falling over equals possibility of injury. I like my bones unbroken and my head unconcussed. I could not keep looking up and waiting for some birds to decide to pose up there. Ergo, no birds in this tree. Just lots and lots and lots of tree.

Special treat tomorrow! Although that may depend on your definition of treat, I suppose ...

Looking Up, Part 2

Another day, another walk, more trees. Will the fun never stop? This time not all the trees are trees, though. And there are birds involved, too.

I know! Better hang onto your chair.

Let's start here:

I love the graceful twisting branches on this big old tree. And see that object right there in the centre? You're right, it IS pretty hard to see, so I'll just tell you: it's another crow. Not one of the neighbours, though, unless he/she followed me.
 
And here is a former tree, also known as a utility pole:

I could hear this gull - he was very loud! - but I couldn't see him at first. He blended in well with the pole and the sky. I think he was asking if I had any fries or burgers or doughnuts in my pocket for his dinner. Judging from his tone, he was used to getting what he wanted.  I picked up the pace to get away from his stern looks.

After that, I went looking for bluejays. On my walk the day before, there were a half a dozen in every other tree, calling out in their twangy, metallic voices, begging to have their pictures taken. Now they were nowhere to be found. Probably at a bluejay party somewhere, snickering over inattentive photographers and natural consequences and stuff.

So here's a photo nicked from Wikipedia, because they had a lovely one:

I truly hope Wikipedia doesn't mind me using their photo. If they do, they only need to say so, and I will remove it, and apologize sincerely from the bottom of my donkey heart.

 
Isn't he handsome? He's in the Corvid family, like the crow, which is something I didn't know until the past year.

Something I've known for quite awhile, in contrast, is that bluejays love to hide peanuts. For many years, our exterior Christmas decorations included a fake garland wound over and around the front porch railing. Every year without fail, when I took that garland down, I would find peanuts hidden under it. To truly appreciate this story, you must know that our decorations never went up before December 20 and came down by January 1. That doesn't seem like a lot of time for a bird to check out the new "evergreen growth" on our rail, decide to hide food in it, and actually get around to doing it. Maybe that's just my procrastinator's nature speaking. I always felt bad disturbing the peanuts, but I'm pretty sure the jays were hiding them all over the place, so it was probably okay.

More trees and more birds tomorrow, which will exhaust my small store of photos and cause me to move on to another topic. No updates yet on the crows who are moving in next door. Perhaps they have finished framing up the nest and are waiting for the drywallers to show up. If you've ever had a house built or a reno done, you'll know just how that feels.

Donkey Thinks a Deep Thought

Yesterday I was driving home from the mall, when this song by BRIIA came on the radio. The song is called "Fake It 'Til You Make It", in case you don't care to follow links.

Some of the bloggers whom I visit regularly may know from my breadcrumb trail of comments that my father passed away last summer. He had a serious stroke in 2007, which paralyzed him on one side of his body for the remaining eight years of his life.

The stroke changed my father's life almost completely. He went from being an active, outdoor-loving man to being confined to a wheelchair. He was dependent on others for some of his most basic needs. My life changed too. Suddenly I had not just my own responsibilities as a wife and mother and part-time employee and cat servant, but also the overseeing of all my dad's affairs - finances, wardrobe, appointments, disposition of his home - and I also took on the occupation of chief companion.

Dad spent seven months in the hospital waiting for a bed in a nursing home to become available. I visited him daily during those months, often twice a day, to help him eat and shave and wash and pass the time -  trying in some small way to help him cope with the sudden and devastating change in his life.

But Dad was definitely an optimist. He dreamed of getting back to his old abilities and his old life. And I got to see a side of him I hadn't seen before. Or maybe it was a product of the stroke; there can often be a reduction in inhibitions in stroke survivors. Whatever the catalyst, he blossomed from a quiet man into a sociable and gregarious person. He loved visits from ... anyone, really, as long as they didn't stay too long or say stupid things. (But aren't we all apt to get impatient with those kinds of people?)

We soon noticed there was a regular visitor to the hospital wards, a middle-aged man who made the rounds every few days, stopping to chat with each patient for just a few moments. He was friendly and upbeat and you couldn't help but feel better by the time he left. He joked about the nurses. He joked about the food. He asked each person how their day was going. His favourite expression was "Fake it 'til you make it, eh?!" and Dad always agreed. Because what else can you do in a situation like that? But he put words to it. His words gave us a life preserver to hang on to, in those early days of uncertainty. His presence gave us warmth for the cold reality we faced as time went by. His matter-of-fact cheer gave us a few moments of normalcy in the hospital routine.

Dad never did "make it" in his definition of the words. To him, "making it" meant being able to walk again. He was paralyzed to the end of his life. But he kept faking it, almost every day. Being upbeat when he didn't feel like it. Being helpful to others despite often being the one most in need of help himself. Being brave on the outside to cover up the fears on the inside - fear of cancer, of surgery, of loss of sight, of the final sleep.

But even though he never walked again, he "made it" in a different way. He made the most of what he had left in his life. He kept in touch with all the family and friends he could, even when he had to have the phone held to his ear for him. He made new friends at the nursing home with his warmth and humour. Either his radio or his TV was on most of every day, and he could tell you the latest news and what the weather was supposed to do, who had died and who'd been born and who'd been elected. He knew how to wring the most from every moment. And he continued to be a loving father when I needed a listener or a word of encouragement, even as our positions of parent and child seemed to have been reversed in so many other ways.

Some people say that faking it until you make it is a stupid way to handle adversity. They say you can't fake it. There's no point in faking it. Feel all the feels. If you feel terrible, let it all hang out. In some cases, for some reasons, and at some times, I agree. But sometimes - and the trick is to know when those times are - you can get pretty far by faking your way through. I've seen it done, and done well.

How about you? Tell me your story of adversity, or of good advice in the face of it.