everyday is d. day

sifting through the archives

feeling accomplished. as accomplished as one can feel without actually doing much.

i went through the mementos box last night--the rubbermaid rough tote that serves as one--and sifted through the assorted and sundry.  i thumbed through the pages of photo albums and marvel at how we all have changed and also haven't changed at all. i was so young! what have i done with my life? decidedly little that is tangible and i am filled with some regret. interesting that this should be a topic on the morning show running in the background as i write this. it is a theme i currently revisit often anyway. another time.

matt is mugging for all the pictures there, until the point there is no new photos at all. somewhere in the late 90's. he decided that he didn't like his picture taken anymore and stopped smiling, or making himself available, so there is a sudden dearth of photos that occurs somewhere in his tweens. this was also the time he began to live with his father, so the opportunities to snap those photos also waned sharply. i've inherited some pictures that are of family unfamiliar or completely alien to me, but i don't know what to do with them. i return to the old metal cigar box that contains them and move on.

i read old papers trying to remember that which escapes me now. i finger old documents and simply wonder. some are my grandparents' that i can't read, typed or written neatly in dutch. tears well in my eyes. i carry this bin, heavy with the weight of a past, as if doing penance for mistakes i've made, roads not taken; for the things i cannot change. then i put the lid on it and return it to the back of the closet and hope that there will not be an occasion where i will have to surrender it to some disaster natural or otherwise.

the plan is to scan the old photos and put them on discs. in case of.....it's a daunting task, so it may take a while.  while i procrastinate i wonder why there isn't some device that could make it a quick and dirty experience. with my bottom of the line scanner the process is an arduous one. so i decide to leave it for another day.

oh my crumbling temple

i went and had my foot looked at. after a brief fondle the podiatrist declared that i had a case of sinus tarsi syndrome. just like that. a little pressure here and little push there. part of me felt like i was getting the bum's rush at a cost of $75 for the appointment. but afterward, i looked up the condition and it seems fairly textbook case. still though, perhaps more could have been gleaned from a little more prodding examination. instead, he plastered me up shortly after my arrival in aid of fitting me right then and there for expensive orthotics. he didn't ask me if this was the course of action i wanted to take, assuming of course, that my pockets are lined with gold and it was something i could easily afford. quite the contrary.

after i washed off the plaster residue i asked him what i was supposed to do in the 2 or 3 week meantime--he didn't seem compelled to inform me of anything--until my orthotics arrived. to which he responded that i should take anti-inflammatories (advil) and such. it was something i was already doing with no result or relief, as well as following the guidelines of the RICE principles (Rest-Ice-Compression-Elevation). if anything, the pain was progressively worsening and after asserting itself only 10 days prior and i was almost to the point of visiting the hospital for a pair of crutches. i was hoping for a more aggressive solution. he said he'd seen worse. fine, that's other people. i know what pain is and i have no desire to prolong my agony in any event. in the end i imagined to finagle a cortisone shot. its effect didn't last long but long enough to allow me to walk blissfully painfree for about 10 minutes.

this vague disinterest tinged with ennui seems to be a recurring theme among the health professionals we have been visiting of late, excluding my fantastically thorough g.p. it's as if none of them cares. the irony is that of all the professions one could choose, a health professional should work doubly hard at remaining unjaded. without generalizing, it seems that the more education one of these professionals has, the poorer the bedside manner and ability to relate to the human condition.

i inhabit my body 24/7 and i can sense when something is amiss. i don't want to trouble my doctor with every twinge and ache, of which i experience now than ever before, but i know though that sometimes some of the most deadly and vicious afflictions are belied by their innocuous symptoms.( i don't imagine that i am dying of anything, but i like to feel secure in the knowledge that i am completely ok), however alarming these symptoms sometimes present.  these days we are chided to be our own health advocates and to give voice to our concerns but i often meet health professionals that clearly just want me to shut up and listen to them tell me nothing. i usually don't seek any medical attention at all until my symptoms become impossible to ignore.  i've a persistent mystery plaguing me chronically lately, and in the absence of a diagnosis, my blood has been tested, scanned and probed a few times now, with no result. don't get me wrong. i am heartened by the fact that there appears to be nothing wrong, but the condition recurs. it is a mystery wrapped in a riddle....

on the plus side my doctor has suggested i drink less water and use more salt, to balance out my out of whack electrolytes. in the grand scheme of things, this could be seen as the best good news i could get, since i am a salt freak and have difficulty in getting in a solid 8 glasses of water.

why is it that annoying leaf blowers are being wielded about when the weatherman calls for high winds?

and the rains came

it's full frontal winter vancouver style. it's epic, it's legendary, it's common knowledge. it rains here, a lot. so why is it so difficult to find a stylish, affordable and waterproof/resistant gear to clothe us poor slobs who have to deal with it for such a big chunk of the year? a nice dual season jacket, one that can be worn for the cool and step up when the weather gets blubbery.

if one were to gauge a region's prevailing weather condition by the retailers adverts, you'd reckon we were chest deep in snow from october to march. i know precipitation= snow, up there on the mountains, but down here it means, rain. umbrellas are fine, to a point. if you've remembered to bring one along. i don't always like to use one, especially if it's windy or my hands are full. a good coat is essential.

the raincoats i'm speaking of are not those heavy yellow rubber numbers of my childhood; the ones that conjure up imagery of sou' westers and fishermen.  surely they've engineered an efficient and stylish barrier against rain by now? i know they have, but apparently they don't sell it here, where we could use it most. today i met a woman on the bus that got her gorgeous raincoat in a place that withstands precious little precipitation, reno, nevada. go figure.

and here's something. in the city more well known for its humidity and snow i got my first pair of grown up rubber boots, ones that have been coveted by strangers. i brought them back to vancouver, and by now people have finally embraced the wearing of funky rubber boots, wearing them in all manner of weather, including our well storied torrential rain.

ode to Henrietta Carolina

i am my mother's daughter. i don't know how pleased she would be with this declaration, but i think it is true.

this short phrase has been resonating and echoing through the curved  chambers of my cranium for years now. it has been getting louder and louder with each passing year since she died almost 14 years ago. every mother's day, every occasion when family usually gathers, it thunders. as i try to gain a better understanding of myself i am reminded of her.

i catch glimpses of her in myself all the time. the sharp angle of my profile, the elegant swoop of my neck are hers. our thin psychic skin; so easily bruised and hurt; our circumspect pride.

make no mistake about it, she was as much a stranger to me at the time of her death as i am sure i was to her. there was an unspoken chasm we never bridged. we never even neared the edge. on a few wine soaked evenings we laughed with abandon, skimmed the surface, but even then she was vigilantly guarded. she never dropped the barricade that protected the pathway to herself. the more i pushed, she further she retreated into a blithe and unaffected cool.  the longer i knew her the further away she disappeared from my view. at one time, in a patch of domestic turmoil, she reached out to me, and with it glimmered a tentative possibility. then, in the blink of an eye, a rabid cancer coerced her into the refuge of the status quo, to what she knew.

with age comes a certain type of wisdom, a more learned perspective (one would hope), i bear the excruciating knowledge that she will always be an enigma to me. the questions i had will forever remain unanswered. i will never gain any insight into who she was, save for the uncanny resemblance i find in myself to what i do know of her.

holidays loom and i find myself caught in a tumultuous grip of acute inexplicable grief and loss, triggered by the season. this is the month that she died. and even more baffling, with each year that passes the more persistent this ache becomes.

as i continue to grapple with my own conundrum i hope that my son won't find himself struggling to gain a similar understanding. i've made my life transparent to him with the invitation to ask any question he needs answered. i've made it known that he has every right to know. i love him without reservation and trust that we will both grow to possess the level of a deep and abiding relationship.