Beautiful Cynicism III

Animals, both wild and domesticated, have been a huge part of my life since I was a wee lass. Growing up in the boonies on Vancouver Island sort of sealed that fate: aside from my family’s own herd of critters, there were the minx, deer, bears, and cougars who roamed out back. (Not content to remain in the background, these creatures were often found rummaging in the foliage or scouting out our more tame feathered and furry friends right in the backyard, not just on the outskirts of our property.)

In addition to the beautiful yet at times deadly wild beasts I encountered on a fairly regular basis, we had our own team of non-human animals to contend with: chickens, pheasants, homing pigeons, mourning doves, rabbits, canaries, budgies, fish, and, of course, a dog. Each day consisted of a myriad of chores; early in the morning, long before school started, I could be found running about the backyard in my red rubber boots feeding everybody, refreshing the many water pails, opening the coop so the chickens could spend the day in their yard… After school was the time to collect eggs and pick fresh veggies from the garden for dinner – but most of all it was playtime. I used to play hide and seek with our Airedale Terrier, I picked up and talked to each of my chickens, I sang to the canaries, I took the dwarf bunnies inside to run around the house.

In later years, a move to a more urban centre dictated an end to the “farming” way of life. My animal experience was reduced to a single dog – a lap dog, at that – which was quite an adjustment. But she was a sweetheart and we had a lovely life together, right up until her death 2 years ago.

Now, still in the city and facing the reality of an unbelievable (to my eyes) shortage of pet-friendly apartments, yet not being able to bear being without animals for any longer, I had to venture out of my comfort zone. My mind turned to small, caged critters, suitable for small spaces and less likely to raise the ire of anti-animal apartment landlords. Ferret? Cute and sociable, but perhaps too sociable: I wouldn’t have enough time to spend with him. Rabbit? Been there, done that, but whilst the rabbits of my youth lived in cages, they were outdoors, and I took the animals out to play in the grass or in the house every day; a life spent mostly in a cage in an apartment just seemed sad to me. Gerbil, hamster, rat, mouse? All adorable (yes, even the rat). The only experience with rodents that I had had was with Rudolph and Dopey, lovable honorary Polish gerbils. I wasn’t against the idea of a rodent. Guinea pig? A definite contender: I always wanted one as a child. Sugar glider? Very cute, exotic, expensive, tiny: I was worried I’d somehow break it.

Aujourd’hui est un jour important dans la vie de la Cynique: c’est l’anniversaire de la naissance de sa mère!

J’ai choisi cette photo parce que je l’aime: ma mère est souriante, belle, sans souci. Elle est entouré par son amoureux, mon oncle, et mon neveu. La photo a été prise pendant la fête de l’Action de grâce, en octobre; ce n’est qu’un petit moment de bonheur, préservé par la photographie.

Ma petite Aunt Mary, la femme d’un des frères de mon grand-père, s’est éteinte ce matin. Je viens de découvrir ce triste nouvelle dans un mail écrit par ma mère. Mary et Alec étaient la seule famille du côté de ma mère qui habitaient sur l’île de Vancouver, à part de nous. Ils étaient à Nanaimo, une heure de ma ville natale, et on s’est vu souvent. Mary était très petite, plus petite que moi, avec des grands yeux bleus et des cheveux roux fines. Elle sentait des roses et des menthes anglaises. Elle était très “correcte”, très British; elle ne parlait pas beaucoup, mais avait un sourire permanente sur les lèvres, et avait un tout petit rire adorable. Je ne me souveins plus de son âge, mais elle était malade ces dernières années et donc ne pouvait pas voyager. Son mari, mon grand-oncle, est malade aussi, et ils étaient ensemble pendant longtemps… je ne sais pas comment il va supporter cette perte.

Elle s’appelle Sella, et elle habite à Malawi avec ses parents et ses frères et soeurs. Elle ne sait pas écrire, mais elle aime dessiner, et dit qu’elle adore la musique.

Vision Mondiale, l’organisation qui aide le village de Sella, l’appelle un “enfant de l’espoir”; c’est-à-dire, un enfant qui vit dans une région à prévalence élevée de VIH et le sida. Sella a été identifié comme “vulnérable” par sa communauté, et a besoin de l’aide en sus de l’aide ordinaire fourni par l’organisation.

The first Monday of October is Thanksgiving in my country. First celebrated here in 1799 in the provinces of the colony of Lower Canada (before the country officially existed), it was originally established to “signal victory over our enemy and for the manifold and inestimable blessings which our Kingdoms and Provinces have received and daily continue to receive”; in 1957 this was changed to the less imperialistic “for general thanksgiving to Almighty God for the blessings with which the people of Canada have been favoured”, which is the definition that remains in place to this day.

L’action de grâces est une de mes fêtes préférées de l’année, et je ne sais pas trop pourquoi. Généralement on ne fait pas grand chose: la famille et les amis se réunissent pour manger, rire, et partager des histoires. Il n’y a pas de symboles, pas de cadeaux, pas de rituels – et peut-être ce n’est que cette simplicité qui m’attire. Dehors il fait froid, mais on est confortable dans la maison chaude. On prépare un grand repas, on boit du bon vin, on chante ensemble. C’est un ambiance très convivial.

My own personal Thanksgiving dinner is a little different than the standard WASP meal of turkey and cranberry sauce (or the standard Ukrainian feast of turkey, meatballs, baked ham, and 8437 other assorted cuts of meat); the centrepiece of my meal is always my Tofurkey. (I know it sounds ridiculous to most meat-eaters, but while the name may be goofy, I promise the product is delicious!) Entirely vegan, this soy-based roast is something I wait for all year long, and makes this weekend that much more special. Egalement, cela s’accorde bien avec une autre “fête” qui prend place ce weekend: l’anniversaire de ma végétarisme. Je suis pas peu fière de dire que cette année fait 13 ans que je ne mange plus la viande. Et peut-être cela est une autre raison pour laquelle l’Action de grâces est important à moi – car c’était pendant le dîner de cette fête, il y a 13 ans, que j’ai découvert que j’étais bien capable de me nourrir sans du viande, et d’être hautement satisfait avec ce que je mangeais. (Et la suite, tout le monde la connaît… )

I remember Aunt Mildred as an infrequent but constant person in my life. She lived in a small apartment in Vancouver up until just a few years ago, insisting on living independently for as long as was possible. My mother and I would stop and visit, sometimes staying for a day or two, on our way to and from summer holidays. Aunt Mildred was a stubborn old bird with a sharp tongue and even sharper wit. The table beside her armchair was always piled high with stacks of crossword puzzles and tabloids, and she enjoyed passing the days crocheting in front of the telly, cursing at the actors in bad American soap operas. When she was still mobile, she walked several blocks to the corner store every morning to buy her daily newspapers. She was fiercely independent and proud, undoubtedly necessarily so due to the years spent in the orphanage, where her father left her after his wife abandoned the family. (The boys, he deftly handled with a certain cruelty, but he had no idea what to do with a daughter: so he simply abandoned her, as her mother had.) It was only years later that she was finally reunited with her brothers. I don’t think she ever saw my great-grandfather again; she didn’t like to talk about that part of her life. Instead, she counselled me on how to handle my grandfather, and my father – indeed all the men in the family. She always told me never to let anyone tell me how or what to think, always to be brave, and never to be intimidated by any man – especially not one of our relatives! (Perhaps this may make her seem like a militant feminist who held a grudge against men; on the contrary, she simply learned the hard way how to protect herself from men who held grudges against women.)

I always enjoyed being in her company, even after her health declined and she moved in to the rest home. Since I no longer live on the coast, I didn’t have many chances to visit her; the last time was during my last visit home, in 2005. Her body was small and frail in her bed; the dementia was showing its strength, and it took her nearly 15 minutes to remember who I was. But once recognition set in, everything clicked; she talked of my aunt, who still visited her almost daily and who spirited in small bottles of whisky (strictly contraband in the home); she complained loudly about the provincial government, and showed off the large button she was wearing on her blouse (depicting the Premier with a Pinocchio-style liar’s nose); she still had her stash of chocolates and sweets hidden in her bedside table. (She always maintained that the secret to longevity was strong whisky and decadent sweets, taken daily in small amounts.)

Pendant la moitié de ma vie, je n’ai connu que deux autres femmes dans la famille: une cousine, et Mildred. Elles étaient seules jusqu’à mon arrivé dans le monde – un arrivé qui a déséquilibré l’ordre naturel des choses: car maintenant, chacun de mes demi-frères a une fille. Après ma naissance, la composition génétique de la famille a été irréversiblement changé.

Elle a vécu tant de choses avec moi: elle était là quand je suis devenu végétarienne; quand j’ai passée mes examens terminales à l’école secondaire; quand j’ai déménagée à les prairies; quand mes parents se sont divorcés; quand j’ai obtenu une license universitaire. Elle m’attendait pendant que j’habitais à Los Angeles pendant un moment. Elle a rencontrée chacun de mes copains (si nombreux ); elle a connu chacun de mes grand-parents. Elle m’a réconforté quand j’ai cassé mon bras, et quand mes grand-parents ont eu leur accident d’automobile. On a fait des promenades ensemble, des excursions de camping ensemble, des randonnées dans les forêts et sur les plages froides de la côte ouest ensemble. Quand elle courait dans l’arrière cour chez nous, elle ressemblait Falkor the luckdragon du film L’histoire sans fin. (Si, si!)

Daisy est décédée ce matin, vers 9h, chez le vétérinaire. Elle s’est endormie dans mes bras, le début d’un long repos bien mérité.

On Saturday afternoon we found out that Daisy was suffering from kidney failure, and that her kidneys were only functioning at 25%. We were told that without treatment, she would die in a few days, after going into toxic shock. Treatment options were much the same as with people: dialysis, intravenous fluids and medication, taken every couple of days; but even that would only provide temporary relief, making her more comfortable in her final days, as the damage was done and was irreversible. The decision to euthanise was made; I was conflicted, because on the one hand I didn’t want to see her suffer, but on the other hand, making a decision about someone else’s death seemed presumptuous to me. But after seeing how rapidly her condition deteriorated over the weekend, I knew it was the right thing to do.

The house is so empty now. When I got home, I sat and cried for awhile. I realised that it’s been quite awhile since I felt so profoundly alone.
I’m surrounded by evidence of her: her hair is still on my shirt, my skin still smells of her fur, her toys and pillow and leashes are still scattered around the house. Her food is in the pantry, her treats on the kitchen counter, her water dish in its usual spot. Even now, as I sit at the computer, when I hear a noise from the other side of the house, I automatically turn to look and see what she’s doing, before remembering that she’s not there.

The sadness comes with the knowledge that she will never again be sitting at the foot of my stairs in the morning, impatiently snorting and stomping her feet, waiting for me to come down and say good morning; that I will never again be able to bury my face in her unruly fur, which always seemed to smell vaguely of stale buttered popcorn; that I’ll never again hear the soft whine she made when she was scratched behind her ears. This morning, she wasn’t waiting by my stairs for me; she didn’t have enough energy to move about much. But when I rounded the corner to the living room, where she was stretched out on the floor, under the fan, her tail started wagging ferociously and her little body wiggled and squrimed and she whimpered until I reached her, singing “good morning” as I always do; she licked my hands and rested her chin on my arm. C’est toujours étonnant: il y a quelques jours, elle courait partout dans la maison et on dansait ensemble; il y a quelques heures, elle était toujours dans mes bras, à moitié endormie, ronronnant comme un chat. Mais elle avait perdue son spunk, elle ne pouvait plus marcher, elle n’avait plus d’énergie. Elle n’avait pas mangé pendant quelques jours déjà, et n’avait même pas la force pour boire – pour se hydrater, elle lèchait mes doigts, que je trempais dans l’eau pour elle.

On a passé sa dernière soirée ensemble sur le plancher, devant la tv, en regardant Singin In The Rain, et en dormant côte à côte.

Animals in general, but dogs in particular, are such generous creatures; they never sit in judgment of the people in their lives: they love and protect and comfort unconditionally. Daisy was a constant in my life, one part of me that never changed, never wavered, no matter what else was happening, good or bad. She was always there, and now she isn’t. And that will take some getting used to. J’aurai 27 ans en août; Daisy avait 13 ans et demi: elle était avec moi pendant la moitié de ma vie.

As we walked out into the waiting room of the clinic afterwards, there was only one patient waiting to be seen: a tiny, frisky little ball of fur, a husky pup. His life was just beginning as my dog’s life was ending. Something about that sense of continuity made me smile.

C’est ce que j’avais écrit il y a un an, sur mon blog. C’était un matin ensoleillé, chaud; j’étais heureuse que le plâtre avait été enlevé de mon bras la semaine précédente. J’étais assis devant l’ordinateur, en train de taper sur le clavier avec ma main gauche seulement, quand la téléphone a sonné. C’était un homme, qui a demandé pour ma mère. Quand je lui ai dit qu’elle n’était pas là, il m’a demandé mon nom. Normalement, je ne réponds pas à cette question; je n’aime pas donner des infos à des étrangers. Mais peut-être y avait-il quelque chose de grave dans sa voix? Car je lui ai répondu immédiatement: je suis sa fille. L’homme a dit qu’il était un policier, que mes grand-parents ont été dans un accident d’automobile, et que ma grand-mère était à l’hôpital. J’avais écrit tous les infos sur un petit morceau de papier que j’ai trouvé à côté de l’ordinateur.
Puisqu’il était un vendredi, toute la famille était au boulot; il n’y avait que moi qui ne travaillais pas, à cause de ma blessure. C’était donc à moi de téléphoner ma mère, mes tantes, et mon oncle à leurs bureaux pour leur donner les mauvaises nouvelles. J’étais toujours en mes pyjamas; j’ai du me préparer vite, en attendant ma mère, qui est venue directement du boulout pour me chercher, en route à l’hôpital.

Après, je me suis rendu compte que mon écriture était illisible: c’était la première fois que j’avais écrit après que j’ai cassé mon bras, et ma main tremblait terriblement.

Baignant dans les détours pleins d’ombre
Leur manteau de velours vert sombre,
Des bois au faîte ensoleillé,
Dans ces profondeurs qui nous trompent,
Si frais et si moelleux s’estompent,
Que l’oeil en est émerveillé

So many moments from the past year remain crystallized in my memory. I can still clearly see the ICU waiting room, the air thick with quiet desperation, every person’s face showing the same mixture of hope and despair. I remember the shock of seeing her in the hospital bed for the first time, a small, frail figure lost in a tangle of intravenous lines, breathing tubes, and drug pumps. I remember how quickly the hours passed in ICU; I would sit at her bedside in the quiet of the night, until someone came in to “relieve” me – the next shift, we called it. I’d look up at the clock and realise I had been sitting there for 4 hours. I can clearly remember the faces of those other families we befriended; fellow soldiers, killing time just as we were, waiting for good news, bad news, any news. Everyone exchanged stories about their sick and injured, complained together about the terrible cafeteria food and the poor bedside manner of some of the staff, and comforted each other. I can still picture the scene in the waiting room of the IICU a couple of weeks later, when we held a birthday party for my Baba; 30 or so family members showed up, bringing trays of cheese, crackers, pickled veggies, and cake. I remember hearing the first name my Baba said after her trach tube was removed and she regained her voice: mine. I remember the first time she smiled, when my aunt and one of the “nice” nurses were telling jokes. I remember the week where she did nothing but wail and cry and say that she no longer wanted to live. I can still hear the arrogance and condescension in the doctors’ voices – both the one who wanted to take my Baba off of life support a few days after her collapse, as well as the one who insisted her condition would never improve and she would be in a vegetative state until she died. I can still feel their contempt for us.

But my Baba did improve. She is still a long way from her former self, but she is also a long way from where she was one year ago. She desperately wants to go back to the way things were: she has repeatedly said she wants to make borscht and pyrohy and holubtsi, bake kolach, can the vegetables from her garden, and buy endless gifts for her grandchildren. None of that is likely to ever happen again, and that reality has been a tough adjustment for everyone. We now celebrate small milestones, and nothing is taken for granted. It is a small celebration every time my Baba successfully supports her own weight on her elbows, or signs her own name to a greeting card. Some things haven’t changed: she still likes to sing, and to be sung to; she still likes talking on the phone with her sisters; she still insists on being well-dressed, perfectly coiffed, and made-up every day. We are grateful for those little consistencies, reminding us of who she is and who we are.