Tag Archives: Fear

Me or You?

I went to see a movie yesterday – Two Days, One Night.  It hit me hard.  The story is about Sandra, one of 17 employees at a small factory.  She is returning to work after a period of depression, and I guess her job performance isn’t back up to snuff yet.  The boss met with the other 16 people and held a vote: Lay Sandra off and give the 16 a bonus of about 1000 Euros each or keep Sandra and forget the bonus.  The result?  14-2 in favour of the money.  At closing time on Friday, Sandra and her friend meet with the boss and convince him to hold another vote on Monday morning.  Sandra has the weekend to approach each of her fellow employees and ask them to vote to keep her on.

This is life in all its rawness, and realness.  How do you compare the value of someone losing her job (with the family likely having to go on welfare), with the stories of many other people who are just getting by?

One family saving for their kids’ education, a second one wanting a new patio, a husband and wife at war about “the right thing to do”, a man in tears as Sandra approaches him, horribly guilty about having voted for the bonus … it’s all on the screen.  Plus Sandra’s decency – her tears when someone says they’ll vote for her on Monday, and her gracious “I understand” when another person says they need the money.  And then there’s her courage, knocking on door after door, not knowing whether she’ll be hugged, hit or ignored.  Such grace.

I sat in the theatre watching the largeness and smallness of human beings.  All part of the tapestry.  All to be honoured.  And yet … may we be large.

 

Billowing

As I was driving north towards London this afternoon, I noticed a black mushroom cloud rising above the trees to the northwest, trailed by a yellowish mass of something against the blue sky.

Mushroom cloud?  I didn’t think of Armageddon, but rather I imagined a horrible traffic accident on the 401, our local freeway.  “Oh my God, please let there be no lives lost.”  As I passed over the 401 fifteen minutes later, the scenario I’d created faded from view.  But the black cloud was huge.  It looked like smoke.

I decided to turn west and investigate.  “What was that about?” I asked of my decision.  Needing to be up close and personal with death and destruction?  No, of course not.  I just wanted to experience the intensity.  Soon I rounded a curve and saw a farmstead about a kilometre away in the middle of a field, with one building fully ablaze.  I pulled Hugo onto the shoulder, opened my window, and looked.

The flames licked well above the roof.  The rolls of black smoke climbed so fast and so high before floating off to the south.  And there was silence.  I was protected from the immediacy of the fire.  Still, I prayed: “Please God, may there be no one in that building!  And may that building be a barn, not the family’s home.”

My eyes were transfixed by the blackness.  Sure, I’d watched such scenes on TV, but this was different.  There was such power rising from the flames.  I was reminded of photos I’d seen of an ash cloud after Mount St. Helens blew its top.  Stunning in a book.  Overwhelming  right now in person.

I saw a road that would get me nearer the farm, and I set off to get close.  This time I was maybe 500 metres away.  When I opened my window, I heard the fire.  I heard things popping.  I saw long streams of water arcing towards the blaze.  And the black smoke roiled and boiled right in front of me.  With the sounds, I pretended it was a nice controlled campfire … “Oh, Bruce.  Wake up.  This is immense.  Lives could be lost.”

I saw ambulances with their lights flashing, but they seemed to be waiting, rather than caring for burn victims.  Maybe everybody was okay.  I sure hope so.  Guess I’ll find out in the paper tomorrow.

Do I need such striking moments to really see what’s important in life?  No, I don’t think that’s true.  I vow to keep my eyes wide open, so that I may experience the defeats and triumphs, large and small, that come upon us all.

Muddled

Jody’s Celebration of Life is on Saturday, two days from now.  And my brain is messed up.  I still cry for Jody every day.  That’s a blessing for me, not a mess at all.  It’s all the other stuff that intrudes.

I want lots of people to come.  But I have no control over that.  It could be 50.  It could be 200.  I’m trying to let go of the numbers.  I know what’s true is that there will be a lot of love in the room.  That’s what’s important.  Love for Jody.  Love for me.  Love for the loved ones of the loved ones attending.  It’s going to be a Celebration of Life … Jody’s life, of course, but also of life itself.  What a precious gift we’ve been given to be on this planet, to contribute to the lives of others.

I want to laugh a lot on Saturday.  I have some funny stories about my lovely wife and I hope that I’m rolling in the aisles as I listen to her friends talk about Jody’s smile and fun spirit.  But I will cry too.  And I worry about crying all the way through the ceremony as I gaze out at Jody’s friends and think of her.  Then I worry about not crying at all, of suppressing myself, both the joy and the sorrow, as I wallow in the stress of the day.  But there doesn’t need to be stress.  How about if I let things unfold exactly as they do, and trust that our time together will be good for our souls?  Yes, that’s a good idea.

I’m playing four songs for Jody – two YouTube videos and two from DVDs.  I played them at my darling’s funeral too, and struggled with the technology.  What if that happens again?  Well, at the funeral, people were wonderfully understanding of my imperfections.  Nice folks will be coming on Saturday too.  We’re all in this together.

There was a fifth song in November, and it will also appear this Saturday … me singing “Annie’s Song”.  Back then, I only got a line or two into it before my sorrow ground me to a halt.  Friends and family picked up the tune and sang it for me.  It’s okay, Bruce, if the words won’t come again.  The choir will respond.

I think about the food that will be available after Jody’s celebration.  I had to order enough for 150 to get the room.  If only 50 people show up, health regulations would prevent me from donating the excess to the Men’s Mission downtown.  If there are 200 guests, there won’t be much for each person to eat.

Oh, what a tangled web I weave!  Let it all go, Bruce.  As the Desiderata said, “The universe is unfolding as it should.”  Let it do its dance on Saturday.

I’ll let you know early next week how the moments blessed us all.

Fifty Years After – Part 2

As Cam and I wandered the halls of Lawrence Park, looking at the photos of former classmates on the walls, we came across five girls sitting on the floor.  They all smiled when I said hi, which was lovely.  “We went here fifty years ago.”  Shock and, I think, curiosity.  “Do you still have school dances in the gym?”  Yes, a few.  I proceeded to tell them the ritual of the day:  girls sitting on one side of the gym, boys on the other.  I would walk across the floor, ask a girl to dance, and usually she would say no.  So … there I was, plodding back to the boys’ side, with everybody in the room knowing what had just happened.  Owwie.

The girls seemed to hang on every word.  I then launched into the topic of acne, since my young face had been covered with it.  Smiles of recognition.  And friendly goodbyes as we moved on.

We walked into the auditorium, where I’d attended countless assemblies, and performed in many concerts.  I was floating in my memories when I decided to turn around and face the back of the hall.  There on the wall were the missing plaques.  Under 1967, I was indeed there, resplendent in yellow calligraphy.  I just stared.  Who was this young man?  How much of him is with me now?  Lots.

I wanted to see the orchestra room, where I had practiced the cello for the five years of high school.  Being an orchestra member, playing concerts featuring symphonies from famous composers, had helped me rise above my acne and become a fuller human being.  There was a Vocal class going on as Cam and I passed the open door so we decided to come back at the end of the period

As the old kids were filing out, we walked into a room which was the site of one of the most traumatic moments of my life.  The Vocal teacher (also the orchestra and band teacher) welcomed us, and after hearing our story, invited us to listen to a few songs from the new group of students.  Sounded good to us.

I asked the gentleman if I could say a few words to the kids.  Of course.  I told them of our presence here fifty years ago.  I also told them about November 22, 1963.  It was ten minutes into our morning Grade 10 String class.  We were tuned up and ready to go, but our teacher, Miss Kuzmich, was nowhere to be found.  How strange.

In 2015, I pointed to the door and said, “Suddenly, that door smashed open and Miss Kuzmich fell through the opening, tears pouring down her cheeks.  ‘Kennedy’s been shot!’  And the shock raced through the String room.  I was immobile.  Terrified.  No body parts worked.  It was a moment that will never leave me.  At lunchtime, I raced home to watch TV with my mom, and found out that the president was dead.”

The kids listened and, I believe, gulped.  They too were silent.

We heard two lovely songs from the group.  So skilled.  So expressive.  We applauded.  Then I asked the teacher if I could sing a song.  Seems to me that Cam’s face dropped a bit right then.  But what the heck.  Time to sing.  Was it “Imagine” by John Lennon that flowed from my mouth?  How about a little opera from Verdi?  Naw … it was “Give a cheer for the good old gold and blue.”  The students smiled.

Just before we left the room, I said,  “Lawrence has meant a lot to me.  Fifty years from now, I hope that you look back on your days at LPCI with joy, that you reminisce about how your time here contributed to your life.”  We all waved goodbye.

It was a precious day in the hallways of my youth.  Thanks, young Bruce, for being there.  Thanks, young classmates, for giving me so much.  Thanks, young teens of 2015, for listening.

 

Another Celebration

Two weeks from now,  Jody’s Celebration of Life will be held at Bellamere Winery in London.  This afternoon, I went to another one, honouring Kathy, an occupational therapist colleague of Jody’s.

I didn’t know how hard it would be for me.  As I walked in, I recognized person after person.  First of all, Jody’s former boss from many years ago.  Last January, she had dropped off gifts at our house, but I hadn’t seen her.  The best of the lot was a sculpted fabric seat to give me some lower back support as I sat with Jody.  I’ve used it many times but never found out the woman’s address to thank her.  Today I did, mixed with sorrow and embarrassment.  She wasn’t fazed at all.  Just me.

I started talking to a friend of Jody’s who retired from Parkwood last month.  Soon, though, I was pulled away to say hello to another workmate of Jody’s.  A dangling conversation.  Made me sad.

As I bounced from person to person, I got scared.  We were here for Kathy, not Jody.  Except that I’m always here for Jody.  And people wanted to give me a hug.  So let them, Bruce.

A few minutes into Kathy’s Celebration of Life, it was time for the first musical number, sung and played by a mellow male guitarist.  Oh, no.  It was “Annie’s Song” by John Denver, a piece I had sung to Jody for years.  I tried to stop the tears but they pooled in my eyes.  “It’s not about you, Bruce.  It’s about Kathy.”   I thought about staring into Jody’s eyes all those times as I’d sung “Come let me love you.  Let me give my life to you.”  Oh, Jodiette.  How I miss you, my dear wife.

Later, the musician favoured us with “Bridge Over Troubled Water”.

When you’re weary, feeling small
When tears are in your eyes
I will dry them all

Oh, Jody.  Will you dry my tears, dear one?  They seem to go on forever.

Family and friends came to the front and talked about Kathy’s life, and how kind she was to everyone.  She was truly a wonderful person who had always treated me royally.  My focus moved to Kathy from Jody.  And I could breathe again.  But near the end of the ceremony, the master of ceremonies mentioned the good people who Parkwood had recently lost … “Kathy, Jody and Rob.”  And my tears came once more.

How will I ever cope two weeks from now, when maybe 200 loved ones will show up at Bellamere, and I’m the master of ceremonies?  I don’t know.  Jody, please be with me then.  Help me draw forth the love that’s already in the room.

I’m always with you, Bruce
I will shelter you
I will protect you
Love them all

Lost

Sometimes my consciousness is “normal”, with me addressing the daily tasks of life.  Sometimes it’s spacious, as the flow of awareness and compassion holds me.  And sometimes there’s a jolt of disorientation as something completely new floods my being.

In the early 70s, I travelled with my girlfriend and her dad from Vancouver to the slopes of Mount Baker in Washington.  They were skiers.  I was not.  I strapped on my snowshoes and set off up a hill on my own.  Partly I was thrilled to be exploring solo, but there was an itsy bitsy parcel of fear as well. Soon the lodge was out of sight and it started to snow.  Gosh, what a winter wonderland!  I plodded onward, being careful to make my steps wide so that one snowshoe wouldn’t overlap the other.  At one point, I looked up and saw that the nearby trees were dimming … and then some more … and then gone. Everything was gone, in all directions.  I had walked into a whiteout.

There I stood.  Nowhere to go.  Not knowing uphill from down.  No idea how long it would last.  Stunned to silence and immobility.  All my insides were stunned as well – mind, heart and soul.  Would I survive this?  Is this the end of Bruce as we know him?  All the structures I had built around my humanity were gone, irrelevant.  It was like A, B, C, … Ψ.

I stood for at least twenty minutes.  Then the snow cleared.  But I was changed.

In August, 2010, Jody and I were driving back from Nova Scotia through the States.  After crossing back into Canada at Buffalo, we headed west on Highway 3, a secondary road.  I knew that sooner or later we’d catch a glimpse of Lake Erie on our left.  A couple of hours more and we’d be home. That trip was a lot of time behind the wheel, and I was tired.  On and on we went until there was a huge lake up ahead … on our right.  I pulled over and gazed out the window at the blue.  Huh?  Does not compute.  Actually, I wasn’t doing any computing.  I just sat there with my mouth open. Completely fried.  All functions having ground to a halt.  Stunned again.

There was a big empty space where brains should have been.  It had to be another planet I was on.  All thoughts of reason, of a gradual accumulation of life experience, frittered away.  Only many minutes later did Jody and I figure out how to get back to Earth.  For a short distance, Highway 3 curved to the right and headed north.  The idea was to turn left at a certain intersection to resume the westward trip.  I missed the turn.  And continued until I came upon … Lake Ontario.

A total break in the head
A discontinuity of consciousness
A plummet into the unknown
Lovely

No Sleep

Late one evening at the end of January, Jody was transported by ambulance from the St. Thomas Hospital to Victoria Hospital in London, so that her collapsed lung could be treated better.  We arrived in Emergency and stayed there for some time until her bed was ready in the Thoracics unit.

I stayed with Jody overnight, mind racing, heart throbbing, doing whatever needed to be done.  Mostly just “being with” my lovely wife.  As morning broke, and my head was getting fuzzy, I realized that I had been awake for 24 hours.  And still there was stuff to do, people to meet, Jody to love.

As the clock struck noon, I was really fading.  A nurse would say something to me, and it just wouldn’t register.  People would walk by the room and they started looking like ghosts.  I thought about driving home to Union for some shut-eye.  I remember fingering Hugo’s keys in my pocket, truly in a state of absent mind, until I clued in to that being a ridiculous and dangerous course of action.

I could feel my mind collapsing, and I just had enough brain cells left to phone Rachelle, a friend of ours, and ask if I could get some sleep at her place.  She was happy to help.  We arranged a time for her to pick me up.

I wobbled my way from the nursing unit down to the Emergency waiting room, marginally conscious of people looking at me.  Oh so dully, I wondered if they thought I was drunk.  I spoke to someone to prove I wasn’t, and God only knows what came out of my mouth.

In the waiting room, I tried to focus on the conversation between an elderly woman and her daughter a couple of rows away, but it was a foreign language to me.  And I was nodding, then jerking myself up before my body would have hit the floor.

Finally Rachelle, smiling at me.  Good grief, what was she so happy about?  I told her I was in trouble but that didn’t faze her.  From the passenger seat of her car, I surveyed a strangely unfamiliar London as we headed west on Commissioners Road and then swirled through a bunch of side streets.

I think we sat at her kitchen table a bit, and I think I drank something, but I don’t really know.  Rachelle led me to a guest room in the basement, and I pretty much fell into bed.  Some inside voice said “You can’t sleep in your clothes” so I struggled with buttons and zippers before falling onto the pillow again.  It was 5:00 pm.

Five minutes later, I was still awake.  I sat up, terrified.  “I’m going to die of no sleep!”  That I remember – exactly those words.  “I have to find Rachelle and tell her I’m dying!”  It was so real.  I was dying.  I pressed down on the mattress to get up and tell her … and then collapsed back on the bed. Breathing fast and shallow.  Eyes stunned open.  Hands shaking ……

And then sleep … for many hours.

And today, I remain alive.  Having had a glimpse of oblivion.  Oh my.

 

Deluge

All Jody and I were doing was watching an episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation on our laptop last night.  Captain Jean-Luc Picard was saying “Make it so” a lot.  It was fun.  I was vaguely aware that it had started raining, but so what?  No problemo.  As Jean-Luc and friends continued to battle the forces of evil in the universe, the vague morphed into the absolute.  The drops were beating on our home.

Neal, a friend who’s living with us, came by to say, rather anxiously, that the water in our sump pump hole was rising.  I let Jody deal with the Starship Enterprise and went downstairs.  This was about 10:30.  Our main sump pump and the backup one were going full tilt.  I knew we had a few 10-gallon pails so I gathered them up, took a small red container, and started bailing water out of the hole.  Sooner than I had hoped, they were full, and the holey water was continuing its upward journey.  Still, calm was I.  We have an four-foot-high garbage can in the basement which we use to store flour, rice and the like.  I gently removed the contents and plunked the can down beside the sump hole.  Slowly, slowly, I dipped my red friend into the water and deposited the results in the can.  No sooner said than done – the plastic brute was full to the rim … and the sump water was only a foot down from the level of the floor.

Okay, so now someone I know developed a slightly elevated heart beat.  I walked briskly through the basement and climbed the stairs into the garage, where I hoisted the super-industrial-sized can which we roll out to the road once a week.  Semi-ran downstairs and continued bailing.  Looked up at the tiny window and saw water streaming down from it, from shelf to shelf and then puddling on the floor.  Back to the sump hole – eight inches from Defcon One.

Well, what can I say about my brain?  Neal asked me about the portable submersible pump we had, and I had completely forgotten about it, choosing instead the “no cheese down that tunnel” route of continued container finding and inspired bailing.  I found the pump and Neal went in search of a long hose.  Soon we were all attached and had run the hose up the garage stairs and out onto the driveway.  So there were now three pumps in the hole.  To my horror, the water kept rising.  I looked up at the window and saw that the water level was halfway up it.  And slow tides were spreading out on the floor, leaking from our foundation in several spots.

So much for decorum – I ran up the stairs, onto the driveway, and around to the backyard, where I found our big green cart for garden debris and two flexible plastic tubs.  Like a runaway shopping cart driver, I plunged back to the house, somehow got the cart next to the hole, and bailed anew.  One inch below the floor … and then level.  Refusing to go with the flow, I kept finding space among the three pumps for my little red pail to fit, and gave ‘er.  Neal brought two more containers.  I looked around … and time stopped.  I had a moment of amused astonishment within the panic.  I saw all these cans, pails and carts surrounding me, each brimming with water.  The line on the window was two thirds up.  And peace drifted down upon me.

Maybe a minute after every single container we could find was full, I looked down at the hole and saw that the liquid had dropped half an inch below the floor.  By grace we are saved.

The level continued its slow decline, and soon Neal and I could put the portable pump into the pool residing in our rolling garbage can, gradually sucking it dry, before moving to the other vessels.  We set to with a wet-dry Shop-Vac and a mop, sucking up water, plunging the pump in, sucking some more, pumping some more, getting cardboard boxes off the floor, unplugging electronics, running around like crazy men.

We finished, in a manner of speaking, at 1:00 am.  Really not much damage – to our possessions, that is.  And actually no real damage to our souls.  We imperfect human beings did all that we could.  It was enough.  Good for us.

Standing O

Sometime around 1980, I walked to the podium at the annual meeting of the Order of the Eastern Star in Edmonton, Alberta and talked to about 800 delegates about the need to rejuvenate the Star in order to attract younger members.  I received the only standing ovation of my life.

I was so scared on the way up and so shocked on the way back.  I did it.  And it definitely felt that a huge serving of well-being had been added to my life.  Decades later, I’m not so sure.  In 1980 and 2014, I was and am complete.  Perfectly okay.  Acknowledging the value of goals and achievement but not needing them (except when my wayward mind convinces me momentarily that I do).

Here’s another standing o and its accompanying ego rush:

He found that his heart was suddenly full of happiness and simple gratitude.  It was just good to find out you still had a heart, that the ordinary routine of ordinary days hadn’t worn it away.  But it was even better to find it could still speak through your mouth.

The applause started even before he finished his last sentence.  It swelled while he gathered up the few pages of text which Naomi had typed, and which she had spent the afternoon amending.

It rose to a crescendo as he sat down, bemused by the reaction … Then they started to rise to their feet, and he thought he must have spoken too long if they were that anxious to get out, but they went on applauding.

I don’t need multiple representatives of the human race to say “Bruce is good”.  I just need to keep expressing myself, letting the world’s reactions be as they are.

There’s another side to standing ovations, of course – me as an audience member either getting up at the end of a great performance or staying glued to my seat.  If the singer, actor or speaker truly deserves accolades at the end of their presentation, there comes that moment of choice for me.  If I want to stand up, do I wait for other folks to elevate before I do?  Do I glance furtively to the left and right to gauge how I should act?  Or am I the source of my behaviour?  This is what I choose in my better moments, occasionally suffering the embarrassment of rising and clapping before the person is done.  Oh well.  I can live with that.

It’s just such a pure experience to reveal myself to the assembled multitude
“Here I am.  Love me or loathe me.  It’s okay”
Naked visibility

The Big Three

Once upon a time, I was a super thin teenager, with a face full of acne and a farmer’s tan.  Clearasil didn’t seem to help and the Instatan goop left me with little lines of brown on the top edges of my toes, bordered by lily whiteness.  Eventually, I started wearing longsleeved turtleneck shirts all summer, to the amusement (and no doubt disdain) of many.

My self-esteem was rock bottom, and I let my woes focus on three facts:  I couldn’t swim.  I couldn’t skate.  I couldn’t ride a bike.  My conclusion?  I couldn’t have a good life.

Let’s take swimming first.  When I was 6, my parents sent me to a hotel pool for lessons.  At one point, the instructor told us fledglings to line up on the edge of the deep end.  He yelled “Jump!” at us one by one, and if the person didn’t, the hairy-chested so-and-so pushed.  I remember flailing away … and then later waking up on the side of the pool after receiving artificial respiration.  “Yuck!” said my very young mind.

Then there was high school.  Happily for some, Lawrence Park Collegiate Institute in Toronto had a pool, and there were twice a week swimming periods from the beginning of Grade 9 to the end of Grade 12.  Quadruple yuck.  It seemed like I spent my entire high school career floundering around in the shallow end while the guys did laps.  And all of us were nude.

How did I ever recover from all this?

On to skating.  My parents meant well but my skates were ill-fitting and I guess there was no money for fancy new ones.  Flop went the ankles and down went the bod, again and again and again.  My friends were playing hockey.  I was going to skating parties, running on my skates in a hopeless effort to stay vertical and grabbing on to chain link fences.  Friends did loops around me and occasionally came to a professional stop, showering me with ice crystals.  “How’s it goin’, Bruce?”  The girls were more discreet.  They just stayed away.

How did I ever recover from all this?

For dessert, there was riding a bicycle.  Except I didn’t know how.  I was too terrified of falling and smooshing my muscles and bones to even ask Mom and Dad for a bike.  Once more, friends rolled away to destinations (and adventures) unknown.  At least unknown to me.

When I was 17, I got my first job – flipping hamburgers at a stand on Toronto Island, a lovely stretch of lawns and trees.  My spot was at Hanlon’s Point.  Refreshment was also available at Centre Island and Ward’s Island.  One day, my boss came up to me and said “Bruce, take this box of burgers over to Centre.  They need it right away.  There’s a bike at the back.”  Oh … gulp big time.  I took the frozen burgers, walked to the back of the building and spied the sinister two-wheeled job.  Arghh!  I tried to do what I’d seen so many people do – get on the bike.  Didn’t have a clue, and the result was predictable … splat! on the asphalt.  Picking myself up, I glanced around like a fugitive and saw that no one had witnessed this escapade.  Twenty yards away was a grove of bushes.  I ran the bike over there and shoved it in.  After making sure the beast was totally concealed, I ran like hell to Centre Island with my thawing patties.  Sigh.

How did I ever recover from all this?

Forty-eight years later, I’m a happy adult.  As for the big three, here is my score:

Swimming – still can’t
Skating – still can’t
Riding a bicycle – learned when I was 47 years old

Something good must have happened to me along the way