Beautiful Cynicism III

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.

- 41 per cent of Canadians say that their employer does not do nearly enough to help them manage stress at work.

- Canadians are not alone: job-related stress has been identified by the World Health Organization as a ‘worldwide epidemic’.

- Job stress is a major factor in the use of employee absenteeism. Statistics Canada calculates the annual cost of work time lost to stress at $12 million.

- Workplace stress has been shown to cause backaches, migraines and substance abuse, all of which contributes to poor job performance.

- Chronic stress can lead to hypertension, depression and susceptibility to other common physical illnesses.

It began rather unexpectedly in June, with the purchase of Suite Française at Pearson International Airport. It wasn’t until I was in the air, flying over the Canadian prairies, when I realised that I had forgotten to pack a book with me for the trip. Fully realising that it would be impossible to spend the next 12 hours without reading material, I gave in and decided to buy a book at one of the ubiquitous Relay shops in the airport. (While I appreciate their magazine selection, they really aren’t purveyors of literature of the most engaging sort…) On one of the crowded shelves, nestled between romance novels and clichéd self-help books, I spied Suite Française. I had meant to read it from the day it came out, but had never gotten around to it. And although I had wanted to read it first in French, I opted for the path of least resistance and bought the English translation.
It has so far been a good read, but I will reserve judgement until I finish the novel. Oddly enough, I chewed through the first half on the flight from Toronto to Paris, but in the month since my trip I haven’t quite managed to finish the second half!

Book #2 is also in a state of semi-completion. I first stumbled upon it (in all places) in a FNAC in Paris in March, where I read a few excerpts that caused me to laugh out loud. Talk To The Snail is an irreverent look at French life as seen through the eyes of an Englishman. I find it utterly hilarious, and am somewhat reassured to know that I am not the only one who was baffled by certain Gallic tendencies.

The third book, A Paris Moment, was written by a Canadian author who, along with his wife, lived in Paris for one year. It was an entertaining and easy read; I opened the book Monday morning on the bus, and read the last line Tuesday evening in the bath. While it does chronicle the day-to-day struggles of an expat, it is less a memoir (thankfully) than a literary travel guide. Cope’s observations are extremely detailed, leaving the reader with not just an impression of the place, but a real sense of time and space. Happily he includes actual street names, addresses, and the like, and includes brief (and entertaining) historical descriptions of his neighbourhood, his favourite buildings, and some less well-known locations. (Here, too, I developed the unfortunate tendency of laughing out loud at certain passages.) And because he mentioned actual street addresses and restaurant names, I had the pleasure of being able to relive certain memories, as he described places I had visited.

The fourth title is one I have yet to lay my hands on, but am eagerly awaiting. Good Bread Is Back is written by Steven Kaplan, an American – and a bread historian (who knew there was such a thing? Marvellous profession!). He has written other books (in both French and English) on the state of our yeasty friend; this one in particular is about the history of French boulangers, and the way in which the entire process of breadmaking is integral to the psyche of the French.

My favourite kind of spam involves the randomly-generated one-liners; they come across as almost poetic, in a surreal kind of way. But the above photo, a snapshot of the contents of the spam filter on this blog, shows another kind of “happy” spam: each entry is a line or a verse or a paragraph from a well-known book, poem, or speech. I logged on to find approximately 20 messages, obviously from the same source, spread out across the vast terrain of my blog. I recognised the Bible, a speech by JFK, some Shakespeare, and more.

Of course, though it may be entertaining, I still delete every last bit of it. (I don’t particularly want 20 links to a playstation forum on my blog, thank you very much.) Though I do so with a certain wistfulness. It’s like that time I was talking to a friend after we had just started university. She described her first encounter with university graffiti: someone had etched on to her desk “this class is so banal”. I remember her delight at finding such a phrase on her tabletop (as opposed to the usual “f*** this” variety, more often found in high school and on street corners). It was still vandalism, it was still graffiti, but it did bring a certain pleasure to those who saw it.