Solid Gold Pets by Mom in her book "Lurking Back"

            I stride proudly down East Sooke Road, accompanied by my greatest shame. One of the lusty, tanned East Sooke residents jogs past me.

"Your dog has body rot," she says.

 “Yes,” I say, “I’m sure that’s what it looks like, but before you make hasty judgements, let me tell you the story of Jeannie.” 

Jeannie is one of the four-legged creatures we allow into our home, feed and pet, love, honor and cherish in sickness and in health, and in time, she should be made of solid gold. The irony of it is that quite often this solid gold pet, this walking monument of dollars, is a mediocre mongrel of a dog or cat that belongs in an alley. Ordinary as all get out, no way worth the money.

This is what I said to Barbie when she wished Jeannie on us. "She's such an ordinary little dog. I'm not sure I want her.”  Jeannie had been on her way to being shot because she'd evolved from a cute puppy into an adolescent dog in heat.  Barbie, a known sucker for pets, rescued her. She had her spayed and she brought her from Vancouver to us. 

We wanted a dog because we were moving out to the countryside in East Sooke but I wanted a cuter dog, possibly a dog with more class.  We said we'd keep her for a few days but I started composing ads, “HOME WANTED FOR FEMALE BLACK DOG, FRIENDLY.” etc.  

While we worked on our East Sooke home Jeannie quickly set about establishing roots. She spent her entire time on top of a pile of excavated earth, growl­ing, tugging and pulling out roots. We thought this was cute and we laughed. It seemed a shame to waste all that labour and we never did send in the ad.

While I packed our Victoria home, Jeannie unpacked.  One night she ate a whole jar of peanut butter. How she survived, I don't know; the peanut butter was all right but the jar was glass and it was sharp.

She survived my rage on moving day when tired and hungry, I went to the packing case on the floor to get the casserole I'd made for supper and found she'd knocked off the cover and eaten the whole thing.

But Jeannie is a kindly soul, large and black and a bit silly.  She tolerates most things, allows the cats to bully her, and gets along with the otters and raccoons.  But, by Jeannie, there is one thing that should have gone the way of the passenger pigeon, that scourge of the woods, that foul fiend, that mocking, sneering chittering beast, the squirrel.

Jeannie has worn a path all around the trees in our yard and into the woods.  She races along this path all day, whining and yapping with rage while the squirrels float overhead.  They’re mean to her. If by chance she forgets about them for a moment or dares to fall into an exhausted sleep, they come right down the trees and chirp at her and yoicks, tallyho, Jeannie’s away again.

She’s not always cute, however.  She grows an extra row of eyelashes, which irritate the eyes.  This has cost us a pretty penny, having them pluc­ked at first and then two opera­tions.  The last one made me a laughing stock.  Dr. Grigor sewed two white buttons above the eyes to hold the stitches and she looked funny.  At the same time she got an allergy and scratched all the hair off her back. This resulted in the appearance of ‘body rot’.

Yesterday she got her foot stuck between two roots, broke her leg, and now she has a cast.  She lies on the rug, her foot is swollen, she's uncomfortable and I wish I could help her. I'll phone Dr. Grigor in the morning and take her over to have the cast loosened.

Jeannie's body is solid gold, her eyes are rubies and her ears are set with diamonds.  She's cost us a lot of money but she's worth every penny - our blasted, precious dog.

Making butter/bathing kids - Mom's letter circa 1950 - Cortes Island

We’ve had a sick cow lately, she’s better now but she disowned her calf so now we have to feed it, which takes up so much extra time.  This farming’s a mug’s game and I’d be glad if Jimmy gave it up.  He hasn’t the energy or the patience to look after things properly and the logging and a bit of gardening seems enough to me. 

Today I made a ghastly error.  I drained the skim milk into a pan to put aside to feed the calf later and then mixed the liquid for the bread in another pan with the salt etc, I tossed the yeast mixture into the skim milk, thinking it was the liquid for the bread, and happily made my bread.  When I started to take the skim milk out to the calf, I discovered my mistake.  I worked the sugar and salt and a bit of water into the bread dough but it doesn’t taste awfully good and is a bit heavy so I will put it aside for the livestock and bake again.

 

While I mixed that first batch of bread I banged my head so hard on the darn cupboard door that will never stay closed.  Nancy consoled me by saying “Tomorrow it might get better” which I thought rather cold comfort as I reeled and staggered in agony.

         Our ornery cow, Zero, is calving in the next week or so. Jimmy never did get her milking last time, as she is hellish stubborn but hope he does this time. It burns me up not getting the milk as I could take on a whole bunch more butter customers. I make good butter and whenever I need a new customer, I donate some to them as a thank you for some favour they do for me. Next thing I know they want to buy my butter every week. 

          That’s what I did to get Molly to buy from me. She just arrived to pick some up and went to see the kids as they were having their bath. Barbie looked up at Molly happily and decided to make correct small talk. “I have a hole in my fanny,” says she. Molly laughed merrily. Nancy’s belly button was smeared all around with lipstick. What attractive kiddies to be sure.

 

Badminton - Cortes Island circa 1950 - from Mom's letter

 

And our poor helpless little Badminton Club, as nice a group of clear-eyed, high living citizens as you’d wish to find anywhere, has been getting into double-dutch all over the place, and all because we laughingly remarked about something a few times in the Lunch Counter. We didn’t even complain, all we did was laughingly remark.  It went like this.  Jack Summers painted the ceiling of the Hall white, as had been decided, made a wonderful job of it too.  When the Badminton Club next played, we found we couldn’t see the birdie anymore, and some of us being so inept at the best of times, found this quite a disadvantage.  We tried to dye the birdies but it didn’t work, the dye just slithered right off.  We still didn’t complain, we just remarked about it a few times with this light laugh, the upper lip stiff and a few unshed tears dripping around the back of the eyeballs.  Next thing we know the Hall Committee has ordered green paint, which Jack sprayed on over top of the white, whilst making a great many remarks, most unlaughingly.

  Jack, aided by Jimmy also got the walls done on Sunday.  The Hall looks very nice and much brighter with its green ceiling and sand walls, which latter exotic sounding color is a very pale yellow. 

  Once the badminton game was over a little spat broke out. I believe there are two sides to every question and here they are.  First we’ll hear from Jack Summers:

 Jack:  Well, I was sitting there in the Hall after the Badminton Game and Molly Milton came over and whispered that she thought that Peg Pyner had some of the Hall’s spoons in her purse and shouldn’t something be done about it.  So I waltzed over and very nicely asked Peg Pyner would she mind opening her purse and letting us have a look.  Well, she made a scene and instantly accused us of framing her and took the spoons out and even threw one at me while I was walking over to tell President Don Levey about it.  Quite a few gathered around and some said they were surprised and some said they weren’t and everyone kept asking her was she going to print it, which seemed to get on her nerves somewhat.

And now me: 

Peg: Well, just to be a good sport I went and played a game of badminton and left my purse with Molly Milton, fool that I was.  The minute I saw Molly go over and whisper to Jack I knew something was cooking and sure enough he asked me to open my purse, bellowing his head off the whilst.  I fished around for these measly spoons they had planted there and if one flipped out of my hand and hit him on the back it’s just too bad.  He shouldn’t have kept shouting so, it got on my nerves, though not as much as those dimwits that kept asking, “Are you going to print this, Peg,” as if I’d miss!

Breeding Ezzie - Mom's letter circa 1950

Excerpt from Mom's letter Cortes Island circa 1950

Jimmy took our cow, Ezzie, down to the Hanson’s last week to get her bred to a bull they have. She was very sophisticated about it.  She was artificially inseminated formerly so when he took her into the pen with the bull, she was in a terrific dither.  Each time the bull tried to mount her she would pull away and mount him so he couldn’t get the job done.  The bull, however, has a crush on Ezzie and showed up here this morning.  Stuck around until noon when Jimmy roped him and took him home. He took Ezzie back the next day and she cooperated in a very earthy and unsophisticated way.

After he brought her home, she was back to her usual self.  Jimmy came walking along to the yard gate with Ezzie fast on his heels hoping to get something to eat, he went through the gate and Ezzie stood close to it licking her chops.  Nancy came along behind her and wanted her to move so gave her a shove from behind.  Ezzie banged into the gate and looked quite annoyed. Later, Jimmy and Nancy went out to feed Ezzie, she walked deliberately to Nancy and bunted her gently on the front, hard enough that Nancy sat down.  A very unusual happening, in fact she never did it before.  Nancy walked up to her today when we were all out in the field and blew in her face but Ezzie was lying down and ignored it. 

CAGES - My Life with Multiple Sclerosis

CAGES 

 My mother always laughed at a photo of my nervous uncle babysitting me on a west coast rock and shell littered beach while the family hiked. My childless and overly cautious Uncle Harry watched his rough-and-tumble niece fall, get up and fall again. He chased me and returned me to his log but I wouldn’t be still. Needless to say I stretched his comfort level on tenterhooks.

In desperation he fell back on the tried and true method of containing wild beasts of all species – the cage. It was easy to build and did not interrupt his beer drinking. That was important. He puts chunks of driftwood logs in a square with me in the middle. When I mastered climbing those he put another log on top and then another until eventually all four driftwood walls soared above the top of my curls. I drank from my bottle, Harry drank from his bottle, I was caged and all was at peace. That was my first lesson about cages.

And suddenly I was going to be forty in nine days. The neurologist examined me, talked for a long time but all I heard was, “Barbara, you have multiple sclerosis.” I was gentle with him and told him it was alright, that I knew something was wrong and that it was fine. After twenty years of symptoms, a bevy of doctors suggesting everything from stress to small strokes, I could now allow the illness to take me where it chose. It felt good to have the weight of guilt and failure removed.

“I’m just so relieved I’m not neurotic,” I said. “I don’t need to feel like such a loser anymore.”

The elevator closed behind me and in that stainless steel and artificial wood paneled cage I began to cry. I didn’t stop crying for months. There were days full of sobbing with ugly gagging noises on every intake of breath.

The energizer bunny ran out of batteries. My sales job ended. I could not work in my own business. Friends vanished. I wasn’t fun anymore. I moved from a battery operated scooter to a walker to a cane as the exacerbation passed.

My rage did not heal at the same rate. How dare my body do this to me! Counsellors assured me that anger was a healthy part of grieving and I would finally reach the pinnacle – acceptance. Like hell I will! My pinnacle has been an agreement with my demon MS – an agreement which is a bit reluctant on both our parts. MS won’t cage me and I won’t abuse him.

Yes, “him” because in my case MS is a male. My symptoms increase at night, between the sheets. The traveling numbness occasionally reaches its tentacles up my leg and into my crotch. Yes, it’s a man. He caresses me, not always gently. My thoughts stop, consider what he’s doing and move on. When he pinches he wakes me from my sleep and I lie as still as I can hoping he’ll get discouraged.

He is not easily put off and sometimes I am forced to get up, pace and amuse myself in front of the computer. I try to explain to him that sleep is my strongest weapon against him. He challenges me in that chest bunting way that again assures me that he is a man. I know I can wait him out so I smile one of those patient womanly smiles that drive men nuts.

The pain that MS causes at random times in random places in my body has been unexpected. It takes my breath away and I am discouraged and depressed when I wonder why this particular symptom has happened to me. But what would I want to trade the pain for? Loss of eyesight?  A tremor? A wheelchair? Loss of the ability to speak? Thanks but I’ll take the pain.

I struggled to find out who I was, what I was, what my worth was. My value was less than it had been the day before the diagnosis. A friend suggested that I write my own obituary. Did I want to be remembered as a person who could sell a fine business form, could slice a ton of salami or would I want something else said at my funeral. Writing my obituary forced me to look at, really look at life and ask myself some questions. Am I my job? Am I money? How do I want people to remember me – smiling or crying? Am I a good friend? Do I love? Am I true?

I learned that I did not find out who my friends were when I got sick. I found out who I was. When my walking slowed down I had time to look at butterflies, buds and stars. It is a journey to learn how to look past obstacles, look around them and see the horizon. That has given a depth to my life that I didn’t have before. The freedom MS has given me is a blessing. It has given me the ability to understand aging, disability and death at an earlier age than I would normally have.

The photo of the child in a driftwood cage is a picture of a child waiting to grow up, to learn and become me. This new me walks with a cane - not well but well enough to allow me to enjoy friends and much laughter. I was a family caregiver for my parents, aunts and uncles and my spouse. I am involved with a family caregiving society and was named Distinguished Honoree at National Philanthropy Day. My involvement with a wonderful group of women who care for family members with dementia continues although Mom has been dead for four years. I also love that I am forced to rest, to breathe, to think and to grow.

MS, I think we need to talk. Today you will be quiet, you will stay out of my way, you will not cage me but we both know you are not gone forever. You’ll be back caressing me tonight for I get lonely in the dark. Just try not to pinch.

 

Mom's letter from Cortes Island circa 1950

The other day I went out to feed the sheep and the ram tried to bunt me.  He was such a timid little thing when he got here and has never acted tough at all, cares nothing if you pick up the lambs but I tried to chase him away from a new mother’s feeding place and he got mad at me.  So now, there is a little fillip of danger.  He stands and glowers at me and I make faces and growl a bit.

Jimmy hurt his eye on Wednesday and is in Campbell River Hospital but is coming home today, I think.  A chunk of wedge flew off and struck his eye when he was bucking logs.  It was very painful, of course, but he decided he wouldn’t need to go to the hospital that night and he went Thursday morning.  He spent a miserable night, and it was much more swollen in the morning, all down the side of his face.  Men!  When they have a little headache or nausea they would gladly let you start a public subscription to get the world’s most famous specialist all the way from Rochester or Vienna to look at them.  But crack a skull open or knock out an eye and their only desire is to hole up like a wounded animal and let Ma Nature heal the torn and bleeding tissue.

The Great Shopping Cart Caper

The Great Shopping Cart Caper

           Doctors generally ignore me.  I’m the person who drives Aunt Joan and accompanies her into the office, explains what medications she is taking and describes her symptoms.  They listen to Joan as she tells them what they want to hear, check that her heart is still beating and send us away.  Ask about my stress?  No.  Ask if I’m coping?  No.  It’s okay – I’ve learned to laugh.
          
          Most of us who are family caregivers would call this a thankless job.  My mother, who is blind, believes that in my heart of hearts, I really want to go grocery shopping with her, not with my husband and certainly not by myself.  The idea!

But within this thankless job there are moments of pure pleasure, if you allow yourself to see them.  Taking confused Aunty Joan to Safeway is always an exhausting but oddly stimulating afternoon.  She loses her cart and takes someone else’s.  I find her wandering the soup aisle, her favourite place, and notice a large salmon and three turnips in her cart. 

“Joan, is this your salmon?” I ask.

“What salmon?”

“This 14 pound salmon right next to the turnips.”

“Someone stole my buggy,” she cries out, and the search begins for a puzzled shopper wondering what happened to her fish and why it was replaced with three hand picked sticks of celery.  We transfer the cans of soup from one buggy to another and carry on until I next take my eyes off Joan and she resorts again to the “Great Shopping Cart Caper.”

Mother is always with us, too, and it is my greatest wish that I could have a leash for both of them.  Mom is wandering along peering closely at the Kotex boxes wondering if they are cereal, Joan is in the soup aisle and I’m looking for both of them.

The upside?  When Joan moves out of her house we’ll have enough soup to keep the food bank going for a week and enough Kotex to insulate our walls.

We then go to lunch where Joan says in her loud voice, “There are a lot of fat people in here today, aren’t there, Barb.  Would you like to taste my soup?  And what will I do with that salmon?”