The Power of One

One teardrop glistening down the windowpane.

One butterfly perched on the back of a garden chair, the day after David died.

One bloom on my mother's hibiscus plant. I was presented with this lipstick pink bloom on Mom's birthday a number of years ago. It hadn't bloomed in the two years previous and hasn't bloomed since.

One chickadee at my feeder. As you know I haven't had any birds at my feeders this winter.

The other night I had gone to bed obsessing about wanting, needing to dream of David.  I had read that if you focus on a person before going to sleep, you will dream about him/her. Makes sense, however I was so obsessed with forcing my thoughts back into our memory bank, that I prevented myself from falling asleep, my mind going round and round in circles. And the dream never came, of course. So, I made up my mind in the morning,as I took my cup of coffee over to the window, to just let things happen naturally, in the time they are meant to. With that thought in mind, the chickadee appeared! That was February 4th and I haven't seen any since.

One person living in
One house
One person driving
One car
One place setting at the kitchen table
Cooking for One

One can mean aching Loneliness; a river of tears washing down grief-stricken cheeks. Sad, alone, empty,  unbearably quiet, echoing rooms.

Yet One can mean Solitude, getting-to-know-oneself in the depth of that stillness, a time of reflection, of learning to stand alone, of  listening to the gentle inner voice of....One being.

A Dinner To Remember

Valentine's Day will soon be here. Memory takes me back to another Valentine's Day about a year or so after David and I were married.

Always the romantic, David decided to take me to an elegant restaurant for the occasion. So we dressed up, hopped in the car and drove up the mountain to Auberge des Gallant, a well known, but rather secluded Inn at the top of Rigaud mountain (which is not really a mountain, but a hill).

I was impressed by the massive stone fireplace in the lobby. Our table was not quite ready, so we decided to make ourselves comfortable in front of the roaring fire. A waiter brought us each a glass of rich-looking red wine to sip.

It wasn't long before a hostess appeared to take us to our table. We had requested a table by the window, since at this time of year the deer come out of the woods to feed. They come right up to the windows as food is put out especially for them, adding a uniqueness and charm to this restaurant.

Our waiter was very French, of course.
He set out tasty tidbits, a basket of bread, and water in crystal glasses.
Resisting an urge to pick up a tasty tidbit with my fingers, I politely stuck my fork and knife into what looked like a toast triangle.

That was the wrong thing to do! It was hard as toast usually is, and flew over David's shoulder to land on the floor! Thank goodness nobody was looking.

Surprised by the flying toast tidbit, David knocked over his wine glass. Fortunately it was almost empty, so he quickly put it right again.

By this time I thought I'd better be safe than sorry, so I chose an innocent-looking roll from the bread basket. It was crusty on the outside, but nice and soft and buttery on the inside.  I'd just finished eating it when Monsieur Waiter appeared at our table with a whisk.
"Vous permittez, Madam?"
 I was taken aback. Permit you do to what? I hesitated and then nodded my head, wondering if he was really going to sweep up the breadcrumbs I had carelessly spilled on the white linen table cloth.
He did.
David choked on his water.

Monsieur Waiter then asked for our orders.
"I'll have the duck," I decided, wanting to try something different.
"How would you like it cooked?" asked M.Waiter.
Again I hesitated. I didn't know there were different methods of cooking duck. Doesn't one just roast it?
"Sanguine?" asked Waiter.
I nodded again.
David gave me a funny look but then went on to give his order.

Le canard (the duck) was presented to me on a bed of rice surrounded by tender-crisp vegetables. It was rare. Eewwww. I could not eat it.
"Didn't you realize that when you ordered?" David asked me. "Send it back."
"No, no, it's o.k." I'd lost my appetite for it anyway. Just ate the vegetables and rice, which were very tasty.

A young couple sat down at the table behind me. I could hear M. Waiter asking what they'd like to eat. It was obvious they spoke no French, so the waiter had to speak English.
"Perhaps a salade, Madam?" he asked the lady. "A lettoose salade?"

David and I looked at each other, then quickly looked away, in case we burst out laughing.
Lettoooose? Lettoooose? What else would a salad be made of than lettuce?
O.K., it could have been cabbage, but that would be cole slaw. Or potato salad, or greek salad. But really it was the poor man's pronunciation that had us chuckling in our napkins. 

Coffee arrived in delicate china cups. I picked up the silver cream pitcher and poured some into my coffee. It didn't look like cream; it looked like milk. A small sip confirmed my suspicion.
I asked M.Waiter for cream. He looked horrified.
"Non, Madam, we do not have cream."

Well, excuse me. I thought. Isn't this a French restaurant?  Don't they put cream in all of  their sauces?  Well never mind. We stopped at Tim Horton's on the way home and picked up coffee to go - double double for David and just cream for me.

We had had a delightful evening and laughed about it for years.

Do Spirits Cry?

I sat at my kitchen table one sunny morning a day or so ago, looking out the window into the snowy backyard. That window was new; a lovely and spacious bay window David and I had installed the winter before he died.
Looking through it is always bittersweet. Sweet memories,  dreams now of our life the way it was, mixed with the bitter reality of loss. 

The hedges surrounding our deck  were laden with snow. There were no birds. A few icicles hung from the roof, but not many.

I have tulip bulbs sprouting in a glass dish on the window sill. The cat was curled up on a kitchen chair, napping in the warm February sunshine. It was unseasonably mild for this time of year and some of the snow was beginning to melt. I turned my face to the morning sun and began a conversation with David as I usually do.

Movement drew my eye to the window pane.

It was a lone drop of water, glistening in the sunlight. 
It sat there for a second or two, then slowly trickled down the glass, like a tear drop running down somebody's cheek.   

Where Are The Birds?

I've been open, willing, and extremely happy to receive all the signs David has been sending me.  "Proof" if  you will that there is an Afterlife. "Proof" that energy does not die. "Proof" in our strong connection.

But there is one thing that puzzles me. Pulls at me.

There have been pens lying in the grass, butterflies sent to comfort my weeping soul, a hot spot on his side of our bed, just where David used to sit and sip tea before settling down to sleep, caterpillars curled up in the garden, playing "dead", but coming "alive" a few minutes later, and the Bird Story.

You remember the Bird Story. The one where I was looking after my grandchildren back in the summer. I'd just come into the house, to catch the childrens' show on television about the little bird who needed to fly free. He thanked the tearful child who had looked after him all winter, told the child he loved him,  but now it was time for him to go and join the rest of the flock. To fly away to freedom. Sad, but a very important life lesson.

Then there was the hawk messenger. I had seen it flying from my back deck a week before David died. And then once again, in our meditation the night before……

My birthday weekend, I spent at the home of Firstborn Son and his family. They had invited me so I wouldn't be alone. Early morning, as is my custom, I took my cup of coffee over to the kitchen window to watch the day begin. It was still dark, but a hazy light allowed me to just make out the shape of a rabbit, nibbling something under their crab apple tree.

"We're Lucky Rabbits!" David was fond of saying. Even at the end. We were lucky to have each other. I was pleased with this "sign" on my birthday. Daughter-in-law, coming up behind me, took one look at that rabbit and had a different interpretation. "Fertility, isn't that what rabbits mean?" I choked on my coffee, but kept a straight face. "Hmmmmm," was all I said.

Not long afterwards, we were sitting around the breakfast table, when my eyes were drawn to movement in their backyard. Two cardinals perched on that crab apple tree. Then two more. Then a whole gathering! I was amazed! I had never seen so many cardinals all at once. They filled that tree. A message from David for sure.  Later I looked up some facts about cardinals and read that they mate for life.

What's puzzling me, is the lack of birds in my own backyard. There have been none at all this winter. Our bird feeders are full. David used to enjoy sitting in his comfy chair by the window watching winter birds. We had finches, chickadees, some cardinals and blue jays, juncos, and woodpeckers in the trees. This year there are none. Every morning I watch for them. None. I've taken down the feeders, washed them, refilled them,  but it changes nothing. They are full. Swinging eerily in the cold winter air. Not a bird in sight. How strange. Did David take the birds? Are they escorting him somewhere?

I was at my doctor's office (yes, it feels strange to be seeking the services of a physician for a sore thumb joint, when all I had to do before was ask hubby). My doctor is a very kind, patient, and compassionate person. I came for a minor problem and yet she took a good amount of time to sit and talk. To ask how I was doing. When I mentioned my enigma over the lack of birds in my backyard, she said, "yes, that's strange, but I had another patient who had that very same experience. The winter after her husband died, there were no birds at the feeders, or in their yard. The next year they all came back, but that first one, they were gone."

Ah, so I'm not going crazy, or somehow repelling the birds with my sorrow. They will be back, at least I hope so. Has anybody else heard of this?

My Christmas Present

I did not want to do Christmas this year. But Christmas came anyway.
Christmas morning, I decided to go out for a walk. I was spending Christmas at my daughter's; the evening had been fun, especially watching the little ones opening their gifts. But this morning, I needed to be alone, so left them warm and cozy in front of the fireplace, toys strewn all over the floor.

I opened the front door to a cold morning. However, bits of sunshine were peaking through the clouds, so out I went. Not having a plan at all, I just walked, automatically turning my face towards the sun. After about 10 minutes or so, I realized I was in the neighbourhood of David's childhood home. Somehow my feet had taken me in that direction.

I stood on the sidewalk gawking at his childhood home. Taking some deep breaths of clear cold air I tried to absorb precious energy waves of Christmases long past.  I imagined David as a little boy, opening Christmas presents, playing street hockey with friends, eating turkey with his family. David with a smile on his face looking out at the world with those sparkly brown eyes - the ones I'd fallen in love with.

There was nobody about, so I took my time. I wasn't quite sure what people would think of a middle-aged lady anchored to the sidewalk gazing at an ordinary house. Was she going to knock on the door? Or was she just going to stand there all day in the freezing cold?

Eventually I turned away. Probably should get back, I thought to myself. I'm getting cold and the kids must be wondering where I am. Ahhhh, but in the distance I could see the Lake, the sparkly, silvery Lake, luring me with its charm. What is it about water? Whether it is winter or summer, I feel the irresistible pull of a lake, river, or ocean. Just a little farther, they seem to say. And I'm never disappointed.  

So I continued down the sidewalk all the way to the end of the street. Then the sidewalk ended in a footpath which led to the Lake. As I got closer to the water, I braced myself to be hit in the face with a cold gust of wind, but the air was still. The scene in front of me was beautiful in its serenity; snow-covered evergreens at the shoreline, silvery ice crystals adorning water's edge, soft clouds, calm water, all was quiet and peaceful.

Without warning the glorious Sun burst forth, transforming the soft greyness of the landscape into shimmering, shining gold. It was as if David had popped out of the clouds to greet me with a joyful:
"Hi Sweetheart, Merry Christmas! I was waiting for you to get here!"

I stood there absorbing the golden sunlight, feeling David's love and warmth enveloping me. What a nice Christmas gift! And well worth the long walk and cold toes.

Just then a dog ran up, startling me by rudely sticking its nose right between my legs! The owners were horrified, and called out an apology, but I just laughed and petted the dog. 

"Ha! Still trying to get between my legs, are ya David?"  Smiling to myself I started back towards Daughter's home.

Hope

One thing I have learned on this journey, this steep and rocky path is to never give up hope. I did. Many times over the past few years of David's illness, I totally and completely gave up hope. He would never get better. There is no cure for lung disease. He would die.

And he did.

However, I watched him give up hope, only to find it somewhere else. A kiss,  a cuddle, a smile, a shared memory, the voice of a grandchild over the phone. Life goes on until the candle flame goes out.

They advise you in palliative care to never give up hope. I used to get angry at that, for how can one hope when you know that death is certain? What good is hope?

Ah, but it's the focus of hope that shifts. You know there is no cure for the disease, that the end of life is near, so your "hope" shifts. You hope that the end will be peaceful. You hope your loved one will die in comfort and with dignity. You hope you will be there with him, and not at home or hastily picking up a sandwich in the coffee shop.

Until then, you go on living because that is what you know. David was in palliative care for just over two months. About a month into his stay, he mentioned to his doctor that his cataract was giving him more trouble than usual. An opthalmologist would be making rounds next week, how does that sound?

Inwardly I cringed. What on earth does he need an opthalmologist's consultation for? How much longer will he be alive? Does he really want to undergo a "procedure" at this stage of life?

It didn't matter for the opthalmologist did not come as scheduled, and would only be available next month. Too late in any case for David. I asked a friend of mine whose husband had passed away the year before. She said "well I guess they only know how to live, not die. My husband wanted to have all kinds of dental work done his last year of life; work he had been putting off for years. I went along with him - whatever floats your boat, honey. Maybe he wanted to die "whole". I don't know."

Two weeks before David died, his medical licence renewal came in the mail. As was our habit, I brought the mail to him every day. He looked up at me with a question in his eyes. I nodded my agreement, so he quietly wrote out a cheque, filled out the form, and handed the envelope for me to put into the mailbox.

He died a licenced physician - just as he had lived.




Wishing you and your loved ones a peaceful Holiday Season, filled with joy, hope and blessings.

Renovations

I hired someone to paint (about 3 weeks ago), because I liked his name. It was Liam and I liked how that name just rolled off my tongue. He seemed to be a nice, upstanding young man;  pleasant with a cheerful manner and an agreeable smile. However, his work was terrible! So I fired him.

My daughter advised me to call Mr. Experienced Handyman, a fellow recommended by a friend, who had painted their house a year or two ago.

So I called Mr. Experienced Handyman. He was not available right then, but could I wait about 5 days or so? Hmmm. Not the answer I wanted. When you're ready to have the house painted, you don't want to wait. Oh well, I guess so.

Three or four days later, I came down with a doozie of a cold, so put house painting and renovations on hold.

In the meantime, I thought I'd call around and find somebody local. Mr. Unexperienced Handyman came  by to give me an estimate. He too was polite, but this time I was ready. "How would you fix this problem?" I asked pointing to some bumps in the wall that were obviously screws or joists protruding through. He looked a little unsure for a minute before happily providing what he thought would be the "right answer". It wasn't (I won't bore you with details).

I called somebody else. His name was Mr. Dude. Well, I'd learned not to judge a person by his name, so asked him to come by. He offered his renovation skills as well. Since I needed a sink and toilet replaced in the small downstairs bathroom, he gave me an estimate for that at the same time. But he could only come two weeks down the road.

I was starting to get frustrated. It seemed to be taking longer to choose a good worker than to actually have the work done!

 I called Mr. Experienced Handyman back once again, since he'd done a decent job in my daughter's home. There was no answer and he didn't have an answering machine. Odd in this day and age.

In desperation I called a painter David and I had hired five years ago. He was very good, but rather pricey. And since I'm refreshing the house to put up for sale, I don't really want to spend a lot of money. Mr. Expensive did come over and just as I'd thought, his prices were more than I wanted to pay. But - he could come within a couple of days.  Hmmmm.

A couple of days came and went and no Mr. Expensive. His "other job" would take another week to complete. Figures.

Decided against Mr. Dude installing the the sink and toilet, as somebody else, a Mr. Old  Handyman-with-a-truck told me he would pick them up at the Home Depot instead of me paying a hefty delivery charge. Fine, good, but this guy doesn't paint.

However, when I went to Home Depot to choose a sink and matching toilet, the salesman told me they were the last ones in stock. Groan....  So I had the young man hoist them into my car and home I went. Once in the garage, it was easy to remove the sink (it comes in pieces) from my car but the toilet was heavy. I looked around to see if any of the neighbours were about. The couple across the street were in their driveway, along with some members of their family. However, it was their wedding day - definitely not a good day to ask one of those finely dressed guests to come over and help remove a toilet from my car.

Ever the resourceful one (or more likely the stubborn one), I eased the toilet from the trunk of the car onto a garden chair, which I had pushed over there to catch it. Otherswise, I'd be carrying a toilet around in my car for days on end. But now I have a toilet (in a box, of course) sitting in the garage in a garden chair. The sink is lying in pieces next to it. 

And, I still need to hire a painter. I decided to call Mr. Dude. Could not find his number anywhere. Ah, but I had his email. Sent him an email telling him that the toilet and sink were installed (they were not as yet, but hopefully soon), so could he come and do the painting instead?

He did not answer my email. Is he mad? Who knows. This is business. Tough luck. I'll try Mr. Experienced Handyman-who-had-painted-for-my-daughter.

He was not home, of course, but this time his wife answered. Yippee - progress! I left him a message - could he come on Monday to do the painting?

Went upstairs to check my email. There was a message from Mr. Dude-who-was-not-installing-the-toilet, saying he'd be glad to come and do the painting on Monday if that was convenient.

Great, now I'll have everybody coming to my door at once. I'll have to call somebody back and cancel.
Sounds like a comedy show.
And with my luck, whoever I choose will probably not show up!

Stay tuned.......
Oh, and this is just the upstairs painting (2 bedrooms and a bathroom). Wait until I get the downstairs painted and carpets ripped up!