Act Your Age... Letting Go

Just three years ago, I was living in Halifax with my long-term girlfriend, taking my undergraduate, and working a co-op term at the Department of National Defence. Lisa loved animals and though she was allergic to nearly every species under the sun, she desperately needed a creature to love. While her primary goal was to get a hypoallergenic dog (she has one now), we were moving every year and it seemed irrational to limit ourselves to the very few dog-friendly apartments in Halifax. Cats caused her the sniffles, fish were hard to cuddle, and hamsters were fragile and boring.

So to appease her, I did some research and discovered the perfect pet: rats. They were furry enough to cuddle, intelligent enough to train, and small enough that they wouldn’t infringe on our living arrangements. I barely uttered the idea and she was on Kijiji, found free pet rats, and got on a bus heading outside of the city to pick up a grey hooded rat I named Adelaide “Ada” Rat-sputin and an albino rat she named Sophie Flawless. A few months later, Daisy “Dukes” O’Dare, a tan baby rat destined to be snake food, was added to the family.

I am not a pet person. When I was young I loved animals, but in adulthood they’re just one more chore. So I was hesitant to get a pet from the beginning. Then when I too often was left to clean their cage and fill their food bowl, the idea that they would be a chore became a reality. But they became something more than that and their intelligence and cuteness melted my heart. Before too long, I was calling them my rat babies and had pictures on my cell phone, which I showed off like a proud parent.

Like any new pet owners, we had our hands full. We fed them, cleaned their cage, trained them to do a handful of tricks, and tried to spend as much time with them as possible. In return, they were great pets. When you’d enter a room they’d jump to the side of their cage and stare out at you as if they were happy that you were there. They learned their names and would come when they were called. And like all good pets, they were incredibly cute, despite their long tails that turn so many people off.

Time went by and, as it so often does, life changed. Lisa and I broke up. I moved to Ontario to do my Masters and had to leave my babies behind. Then when Lisa started having allergic reactions to the now adult rats, they got forced onto my younger sister who had moved to the city a year before. Jessica raised them like they were her own.

Two months after Jessica inherited this responsibility, I got a phone call. Sophie, our albino rat, had died. Since I was waiting for the bus with a group of school friends heading to a restaurant for dinner, I kept my composure and after the meal I got a second call. Lisa and Jessica were burying Sophie at the school. Upset, I excused myself to the bathroom and listened as they tried their best to make me a part of the funeral.

Ada and Daisy kept each other company for nearly a year after Sophie passed, but by the time I returned from Ontario and Europe it was clear that Ada wasn’t doing okay. On numerous occasions, her breathing got shallow, she would lie on her side, and we would think she was done for, but three times she bounced back. It was on October 26th that she once again lied down and began to breathe harshly.

It had been a hard month with unemployment and a break-up chipping away at my typically positive attitude. As she lay gasping, I held her and prayed that God would take her away. I cursed myself for not being stronger and not being able to put her out of her misery. And in the end, I laid her on her blanket and walked away. Having experienced so much loss, I couldn’t watch her pass. Less than an hour later, I checked on her again and she was stiff and cold.

Adelaide was gone.

Sarah, a friend I made during my undergraduate, is renting a house with a big back yard. So that evening my sister and I got a ride to her home and we dug a hole deep into her rock garden with a spade. After a few words, we placed Ada into the shallow grave and buried her.

This week’s “Act Your Age” has been a bit different from past ones, since I’ve told you a story of something that happened to me as opposed to something I set out to experience. I tell this story because our lives are defined not only by the decisions and paths we choose, but by how we react when life happens to us.

You’re forced to retire. You become dependent on medicine or a walker or an institution. A pet or a loved one passes and you can’t imagine a life without them. I make no claims to know what anyone has gone through, but these are all similar stories. They are stories of loss, but also stories about trying to put a new life together and accepting the changes for good or bad.

The death of a pet is an interesting allegory for all of the shit that can go wrong and all the things a person has no control over in life. I don’t have any answers or pearls of wisdom to make the feelings of powerlessness and loss go away; other than to say this, as clichéd as it may be. You’re not alone. Your story is timeless and its universal and we all go through it. Even though in this instance you can do nothing but accept the things you cannot change, there are things that you can control. And it’s okay to grieve and it’s okay to hold onto your memories and cherish them. It's even okay to fall apart for a while and lose yourself... to not be okay... to mourn and shatter. Just, when you’re ready, come back to us.

Act Your Age… Take a Flight

I have a love/hate relationship with flying. The fact that for relatively cheap prices you can get across the country in no time at all is a real perk. The propulsion you feel as the plane hits that take-off speed and the tires lift from the asphalt is incredible. Even the little packages of cookies are great. For me, it’s the landing I can’t stand. With sensitive ears, the swelling pressure in my head makes it feel as if my eyes will explode from their sockets.

I remember the first time it happened. It was three years ago. I hadn’t flown in nearly a decade, but suddenly I found myself on a plane to Newfoundland for a summer working at Memorial University. While the ride was enjoyable enough (I remember watching Boston Legal for the first time and since then I’ve watched the entire series twice), the landing made me face my mortal existence. It started with my ears feeling clogged. Then a small headache began to develop near the front of my brain. As the pressure built so did the pain, until I felt like there must be a blood clot in my brain ready to blow my head clear off my neck; irrational as that may be.

So finding myself at the Halifax Stanfield International Airport on August 30^th, with a cross-Atlantic flight before me, I had mixed feelings. I was certainly excited about flying to Europe for a month long adventure, but that pain… it was a more pressing concern.

I went through security without a problem and met my friend, Natasha, in the lounge area. We would be taking this flight together. The flight began to board and the two of us walked down the long chute-like hallway and reached the door to the plane. The crack between the hallway and door showed a small glimpse of the ground far below. Cautiously, I stepped over the crack and smiled at the female flight attendant standing before me. She pointed me in the direction of my seat, which seemed silly all things considered. Stepping onto the front of the plane, there was only one direction to go, but I’m sure she just meant it to be a friendly gesture.

Because I was flying Iceland Air, each of the headrests had a fun fact about Iceland. I found my seat and began my process. I took a magazine, headphones, gum, and a bottle of water out of my knapsack before sliding the bag under my seat. I put my supplies in the pouch on the back of the seat in front of me, buckled my seat belt, and leaned my head back against the Icelandic factoid. I was in a middle seat with Natasha sitting at the window and a quiet man sitting to my left. I was pleased to see the small television screen built into the back of the seat in front of me.

A woman’s voice came over the PA system, welcomed us aboard and explained the emergency plan in case of plane problems. The flight attendants stood in the aisles and did their all too familiar dance: pointing to the six exits, demonstrating how to use the oxygen mask that will fall in case of a change in cabin air pressure, and showcasing the flotation vest.

Once they were finished their presentation, the lights dimmed and the seat belt sign lit up. There was no turning back. The airplane slowly began to inch its way to the tarmac in the darkness of the night and before I knew it we were in line for take off. There seems to always be that moment of dead stop before all the engines are switched on full and you’re pressed into your seat. I was propelled back as the plane barreled forward.

My stomach rose to the back of my throat as the nose of the plane tilted to the sky and the wheels left the runway. It’s in these moments that I become incredibly Catholic. I did the sign of the cross and began with my Hail Mary’s. If I’m going to die and face the Almighty, I’m going out with a prayer on my lips.

And then we were airborne. The plane turned to the right in the air and for a moment there was uncertainty of which way was up. Up and up we rushed, until the plane finally leveled out and we were on our way. I finished the last of my prayers and turned on the TV in front of me. It was a four hour flight to Iceland and then another five hours to our destination in Paris. Three movies and a pack of cookies later, we were descending.

Before they announce that we’d almost arrived and were preparing out descent, I could feel it in my ears. The slow descent starts and the pressure builds immediately. I had read, after my first horrible flight, that drinking water could help since it causes you to swallow repetitively. So that’s what I did. I took out my liter of water, tipped the bottle back, and sipped it slowly and consistently. At the same time, I chewed loudly on three pieces of gum. The pressure built anyway and the headache started. But the feeling of my head exploding never comes and we land without too much suffering.

On safe ground for only a temporary stay in Iceland, I desperately want to get off the plane. I’m antsy and need to get out. It takes another fifteen minutes for the plane to be attached to the building and for the people in the rows in front of me to gather their bags and move off the plane.

Despite my trepidation about flying, the experience is always exciting and the destination always makes the pain of getting there worth while. So whatever you’re reason for flying, whether it’s to see family or a new country, I highly suggest it!

Love, I Think

From the February 2007 Issue of Focused Press

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As I wait at the bus stop in the dark heading out to pick up the latest Sims Games for my girlfriend, I wonder what love is. Can it be found in a one night stand? Will it reveal itself before our time runs out? Is it forever or fleeting? Very deep questions, I must say, for a bus ride.

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I consider those that I have “loved” in the past. I once had a huge crush on a girl who eventually came out of the closet. Now, I’m dating a girl who I love, despite the fact that she drives me crazy. Love is complicated, but at the same time, it is possibly the thing that focuses the human mind more than anything else. When you’re in love you focus… you know what you want and things, despite the fog, seem clearer.

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Now, I’m not claiming to know what love is. I don’t. And I think very few of us do. What we experience is in fact just glimpses of what love truly is. We experience a fleeting glance or an ache in our heart when separated. We long for another’s embrace. But it’s far from love.

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The other day, for example, I saw true love. My grandmother moved into an old age home about 12 months ago and my grandfather, at the time, still lived at home and visited her on a daily basis. He wasn’t well himself, having had an aneurism years back and having the use of only one of his legs. Two months after she moved into the home my grandfather had a Gout Attack and was brought immediately to the hospital. I remember the first time I visited him there. He was sitting up right in bed, tubes coming from his body, and he turned to my father and asked, “Is Tessie alright?” After fifty years of marriage the first thing that came to mind after a medical emergency, is will my wife be alright. After fifty years he still had that instinct to protect her. After fifty years he still loved her.

God, I don’t know what love is, but I know it when I see it.

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He died this weekend and we miss him. But that’s another type of love isn’t it? That part of you that is lost without the affection of your other. That aching question that asks, without answer, “How will I go on without them?”

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So the question remains. What is love? Could it be that hour you take out from your evening to buy your girlfriend a much wanted present? Is it that never ending desire to care for and protect your special person? Or can it only be truly appreciated once it is lost? Whatever it is, it certainly makes life that much more interesting.

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See you next month.

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Tessie passed away two years ago this summer. They both are dearly missed and their love is a testament to the best in us all.

My Grandfather in a Nutshell

Written for the class "Public Relations Advanced Writing"

During my first year at Mount Saint Vincent University, my mother was chronically concerned that I would be homesick. On top of the dozens of care packages she sent throughout the year, she also had my relatives write me letters which would periodically pop up in my mail box. The first letter was from my grandfather – my Grampie.

It is written on a small sheet of note paper, no more than three inches by six inches. He had donated money to the Canadian Wildlife Federation and they had sent him the sheets as a gift. It was a god-ugly green color with a picture of a baby bob cat at the bottom. At the top, his name was typed “Mr. George W. Deviller” – to add that personal touch.

The note is short, simple and written in barely legible cursive. It is dated September 10, 2005. It reads:

Hi Jeffrey;

How are you doin’. I trust you’re settled into your new quarters by now and making loads of new friends. It’s exciting times all right. I trust the Mount is to your liking. Do I hear the girls outweigh the boys almost 8 to 1? I see! You guys don’t stand a chance. How I envy you.

I was in Halifax yesterday to see my doctor ‘Sergian’ about my operation 12 years ago. He gave me a good report which was comforting.

Take care of yourself, Jeff.

Love Grampa OXO

I had a black Dollarama frame empty in my desk and on a whim hung the note on the wall. As I moved six times, I kept the note and hung it wherever I called home.

It was just so… Grampie. His grasp of modern slang (‘How are you doin’) mashed with his outdated lingo (‘quarters’) captured my down-to-earth grandfather. The fact he was comforted, comforts me. His kind words at the end show the love that my grandfather had for his grandchildren. It was, however, the side note ‘How I envy you’ that struck me as both funny and strikingly genuine. It was my grandfather in a nut shell. He loved women. He was human, but his humanity made him all the more likeable.

Over the next two years, my Grampie’s and my Grammie’s health deteriorated both physically and mentally. Before long, my Grammie was put in a home, while Grampie stubbornly clung to his freedom. In 2007, my grandfather had a gout attack and was sent to the hospital. While there, my grandmother died in her bed. He passed away six months later.

Throughout his life, my Grampie wasn’t always the perfect man. However, throughout my life, he was the perfect grandfather. Nothing that I inherited from him so encapsulated the man I knew as well as this note. It hangs in my bedroom to this day.