It wasn’t the snowstorm. Having to park the car by the road at the end of our lane to be sure we can get to work in the morning isn’t that strange, even though the snow-laden trees are beautiful. Here in Pomquet, in Antigonish County, a storm day requiring our neighbour to come plow us out is starting to feel like a bi-weekly event. I had some trouble keeping up with Sara on her march to the car. But no, it wasn’t that.
Nor was it the sauna. In December, on receiving unexpectedly good news after a scary cancer test, I decided I’m not getting any younger and I’d buy that sauna kit I’ve dreamt of for years (ever since being pastor to the wonderful Montreal Finns and enjoying the rite with them). With the help of local carpenter extraordinaire Evan Theriault (Theriault Timberworks) I’m hoping we soon have our very own sauna in action for relaxing in this deep-freeze. That will be great. But no, it wasn’t that.
And no, it wasn’t that I’m starting to feel increasingly guilty about my handicapped parking sticker. Yesterday I felt badly using the space at the Farmers’ Market, although in the end I’m glad I did, since my balance on ice still isn’t the greatest. I’ve started to leave spots closest to the door for those who need them more. I guess that says something about my recovery and the general improvement to my walking! It’s easier and easier for me to tramp around the property, even on days like this (see below). But it’s still not that.
Nor is it that the big, furry feral feline we named Theodore, whom Sara trapped, neutered, and had patched up by the vet for his infected paw injury, didn’t immediately spring back out into the wild on his release. Instead he surprised us by turning into some kind of indoor love-bunny. He has apparently decided to adopt us. He’s incredibly smart and affectionate. As a dog person and someone with mild allergies I don’t encourage Theodore too much, but he seems to think I’m okay. We’re warming up to each other. But it’s not that either.
Nor is it that Sara tried her hand at making bagels (Montreal-style, of course!). As I write this I’m enjoying that yeasty, honey-laden smell and taste, and I can’t wait to try them with cream cheese. A rare delight and pleasure, indeed! (Recipe here). But no, not that…
Finally, it’s not that for the first time in months I dusted off my completed novel manuscript and read through it again, and I still think it’s great! I’ve been inspired to start sending it out to publishers again. The drawing below is from my friend Robert Aubé (more at his website). The novel is set in the very real location of St James Anglican Church, Cacouna QC. I’m rejuvenated. But no. Not that either…
What it IS, is that this last week I had Sara film my daily attempts at guitar. Every day I try to get my left hand fingers to move better by practising my playing. Here’s where I’m at post-stroke as of yesterday: https://vimeo.com/1157626018?share=copy&fl=sv&fe=ci
And here’s where I was pre-stroke, with that same piece (and with help from my youngest). I hope someday to get back to this level: https://vimeo.com/433444043 .
No. What actually happened this week that was unusual, was that I watched the recording Sara made, then the one from a couple of years ago. Then I broke down and cried.
I don’t weep like that often. It wasn’t from sadness, exactly, although I know I’ve lost much. I had to reflect a while on it. It’s complicated. While some of it was sadness, more of it was happiness – happiness I’m alive. Even though a year ago I could only twitch my thumb (and barely that), and now my hand has dramatically improved and is still getting better. Some of my tears came, I think, from realizing just what an endurance test recovery has been, despite the help and support of so many: the months of struggling with coats, and socks, and shoes, and bags, and silverware, and backpacks, and grocery bags, and everything else. Every day making the decision to use my left hand even though every time, it’s harder. (I just remembered to do it again, while typing this sentence.)
My point is NOT that congratulations are needed. There are lots of folks who’ve had it much worse. And there are certainly others who have to be much much more courageous. It’s that we are, all of us, emotional creatures, whole beings with needs, regrets, hopes, sadnesses, and joys.All. And life can sometimes feel the most beautiful, and the most rewarding, in precisely those times when it’s not the easiest.
I wouldn’t wish my stroke on anyone. But I was glad, this week, to go through such a heart-filling experience as that unexpected cry. Given the state of the world right now, we probably all need one.
So, something fairly big for me happened recently. Following my stroke ten months ago, I would look out the hospital window from my wheelchair and see people–strolling on their lunch-breaks, walking their dogs, or jogging–up and down the small hill that leads from the hospital to the Bethany Gardens and farm owned by the sisters of St. Martha. At that time, I was a ‘two-person transfer’ and couldn’t walk a meter, let alone a kilometer. “See that hill?” I said to Sara. “I’m going to walk up it with you one day. That’s my goal.” There’s a small tower at the top. My dream was to touch that tower like Rocky finally able to take the steps from the iconic movie. It felt impossible, but I fervently envisioned getting to the top of that hill, giving thanks for my recovery–and being outside, right side up, and on my own two feet.
This week, it finally happened. Sara and I were running separate errands on a busy day and we both wound up in the vicinity of the hospital at the same time. We decided to meet for tea at the volunteer-run BreakAway Cafe that helps pay for new medical equipment. Last fall Sara had been there pretty well every single day to see me, and she still had a free coffee on her hospital coffee card. It had been a while since we’d both been at St. Martha’s together since my stay. After our drink and my medical appointment, Sara said, “is today the day?” and looked meaningfully at the hill. And we set off. It was surreal to make it all the way to the top.
It wasn’t entirely as envisioned. My gait wasn’t as smooth and confident as I’d imagined from my wheelchair in September. I was winded by the slope and had to stop to catch my breath. (That certainly wouldn’t have happened pre-stroke to this long-distance pilgrim!) And when we got to the top it turned out there was no way to actually touch the tower, which turns out to sit behind fences, cattle, and construction.
Even dreams that come true don’t usually do so in the ways we’ve imagined.
But – it felt wonderful to reach the top just the same! And I was thankful every step.
“Telltale Heart“
(apart from the title, what’s below doesn’t actually have much to do with the Edgar Allen Poe short story, which is frighteningly narrated here, if you’re interested)
Today I was at the hospital for another important step in recovery. I’m still doing physio at St. Martha’s at least twice a week…odd to remember how when I was new to Antigonish I used to think I should go see the place because I’d never been inside. But this morning wasn’t physio. After three tries and two different technicians, they got an IV line into my arm for what’s called an “agitated saline contrast,” or echocardiogram bubble test, pumping “bubbles” into my vein, then watching them travel to the heart to see if my surgery in April had really closed the hole between my heart’s upper chambers.
The great news: it had. No bubbles got through. This means that now no future clots can sneak through there, either. I said thank you to Dr Amy Hendricks, and told her she plays a mean piano and violin (I had been surprised to see her perform in a wonderful concert at St Ninian Cathedral). She laughed and said thank you, and that everyone needs to have a few hobbies on the side. That’s life in a small town. (Pictured are my friend and fellow pilgrim Sister RéAnne and I at the concert before it began).
This week I also got my Botox shot for leg spasticity. Or rather six shots, into my left calf, as I lay on my stomach on a clinic bed in Halifax. There was no immediate change, except some mild flu-like symptoms I’m presently experiencing. Apparently it takes 4-6 weeks for the poison to reach full efficacy and (we hope) work its wonders. However, tonight I feel like my leg already swings a bit easier, which might be psychosomatic. In any case, convincing my plastic brain to accept that my leg can be trusted again is apparently part of the point. We’ll see!
I’m starting to be able to do some slow and basic typing with my left hand. Just barely. Soon the hand tires and my xpinxkixe finger (there it is, doing it again), starts drooping and hitting errant keys and I have to go back to one hand. But… it’s a start. The trick is holding my left hand in the air without the fingers curling in (spasticity) or the whole hand dropping, then adding to that the coordination of using fingers to distinguish between the “a” and the “d” keys when they are only beginning to remember their connection to my brain…
“The Gatto Came Back”
Okay, that heading holds a fairly obscure pun, but IYKYK. (If you don’t, click here for “Gatto”; and watch Canadian entertainer Fred Penner sing the song here !)
My two universities have both been incredibly supportive through these months of stroke and stroke recovery. Firstly, Concordia’s Dept of Theological Studies and its chair, Dr. André Gagné, worked to renew for one last time my status as an “affiliate assistant professor” there. I love still being associated this way with Montreal, even though the thought of a trip to the big city and taking public transit in my present condition gives me the heeby-jeebies.
Second, Saint Francis Xavier (StFX) and my colleagues here in the Religious Studies department have been nothing short of wonderful. In addition to taking over my teaching last fall, interim chair Dr Robert Kennedy dropped by with a stunning white orchid from the department after my heart surgery. You may recall that they also sent flowers and cards during my hospital stay, and Sara got gift certificates for take-out and ready-meals from our then Dean of Arts office and the department. Recently, the University also made “a big deal” of my winning a Sask Book Award with a special news release. New colleague Dr Gerjan Altenburg invited me fishing with him and his son. And this last week, Dr. Erin Morton, Associate Vice-President, Research, Graduate and Professional Studies, and head of the Gatto Chair Committee, confirmed that my application for a one-year extension of my chairship was approved. This means that the research travel and meetings for which I had funding will not be lost to my months in hospital. I’m incredibly grateful!
“Running Back to Saskatoons”
I’ve been hanging ’round hospitals” is one of the lines from the 1972 The Guess Who song “Running Back to Saskatoon,” which also mentions libraries, grease monkeys, and Moosomin SK. But it’s actually now that I’m home from the hospital that I’ve really been able to enjoy Saskatoon (or as they say here in Nova Scotia, “serviceberry”) season.
It’s a good year here on our three acres for Saskatoons, even if you’d laugh to watch how slow I am to pick them. My first attempt at a Saskatoon crumble was only okay (not enough berries). But today is Saskatoon pie day. I followed a recipe from the beautiful – and fun – cookbook Flapper Pie and a Blue Prairie Sky, which devotes several pages to Saskatoons and their place in prairie cuisine and culture.
It’s not a beautiful pie…I used a store crust, and my thumb marks disappeared in the baking. But it’s mine. And what I really wanted to say was not so much about Saskatoons (or pies!) as the feelings that arose in me this year as I picked the deep purple berries. The other evening I was out during the “golden hour” with my plastic pail. Somewhere in the near distance I could hear children playing. A rooster crowed from one of the nearby farms, and the songbirds – we have a lot of song sparrows, vireo, yellow warblers and more – were calling to each other.
Despite the mosquitoes, deer flies, and ticks, suddenly there was so much peace and joy welling up inside that I could feel it like a physical presence. Here I was, standing on my feet, reaching with both hands, however awkwardly, for berries, and tasting the sweetness of this land where I live.
I feel incredibly blessed to be living, period, and to be living in the country. Yes, the power goes out sometimes, yes, there are critters, some great, mostly small, to be aware of and learn to live with, yes, there is grass cutting and incessant yard care, and yes, there are no bakeries or restaurants or cool little take-out spots just around the corner like I enjoyed in Montreal. But there are other pleasures, like sitting with tea looking out at the little bit of salt water that fingers in at the foot of our yard, like watching herons rise up into flight or eagles float lazily overhead. Like tossing ripe Saskatoons into your mouth and hearing the soft tap-tap-tap of a downy woodpecker somewhere deeper in the bush. And feeling alive and connected to it all.
The 2009 album “These Are the Moments” by local Cape Breton group The Rankin Family contains the song “Fare Thee Well Love” – which is my wish to you, in your moments, whatever and wherever they are..
That’s a snapshot of what’s been happening. It’s been ten months since the event that overturned my life last fall. That one moment of garbled speech, of a tingle running down my arm, of Sara running for the Aspirin and calling 911, has led to all these moments since.
Isn’t it profound how a single moment can change our lives, and how often that happens, in some form or another?
And yet life still goes on, until it doesn’t. And for this moment now, I’m thankful. And thankful to you for taking a moment to read this. Tonight is garbage night. Time to head out with the wheelbarrow, and then maybe try that pie…
[Update: As they say in the Maritimes, it was some good.]
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