Anniversary musings

I've now been married just over a year. Robin and I had our anniversary this weekend and it put me in a strangely contemplative mood. (That and the fact that I just read an excellent and deeply thought provoking book called 'Still Alice').
Before I was married it seemed like this elite club, a sort of social nirvana, and I was eager to join their ranks and find my soulmate; the person who completed me and was the half I'd always been missing. But it isn't quite like that, I've discovered. I don't know quite how to explain it, I tried to tell Robin that I didn't feel married, but that's not quite right- I think a better way to explain it is that I still feel like the same Heather I always have been. I suppose as a child I had this illusion in my mind of what I would be like as an adult- a sort of abstract concept of my future self as an object separate from myself. Then, I was surprised to discover the adult me is the exact same person as the child me. I am and always have been and always will be the same girl.
That being said, I do like being married. But I haven't really changed into a different person now that I have another half- in fact, if anything, I understand Robin less that I thought I did when we were first together.
We went out for dinner on sunday night, to the Keg, which was a vast improvement over my cooking. We had an appetizer of sizzling scallops wrapped in bacon and dipped in red sauce. Then Robin had a huge pink slab of prime rib (I do not understand the attraction of rare meat in the slightest) and I had an entire Atlantic lobster. It came on the plate like it had been plucked out of the ocean and it seemed a shame to break it apart and destroy it's beautiful red shell. I've always wanted to have lobster and I finally did. It was messy, and a lot of work, cracking the shell and dipping the juicy meat in melted butter and lemon juice, but oh, so worth it.
For dessert I had warm creme brulee with the smooth creamy inside and crackly sugar top. Divine.
The lobster was kind of like my visions of me as an adult, or what marriage would be like. It was wonderful, but not at all what I expected. We went home from the Keg and played board games and then lay in bed listening to the sound of a bullfrog outside. It reminded me of being in Antigua, lying in the stifling heat and unable to sleep because of the symphony of frogs and crickets and birds outside my window. It brought back nostalgic memories, which are always either good or neutral because of the healing effect of time.
I was pretty impatient to grow up as a kid. I didn't like being a skinny little girl in a world of tall people that didn't have to follow all the rules and who could say and do whatever they wanted. I wanted to be beautiful and have long dark hair and wear mini skirts and have a tall boyfriend. I wanted to have an exciting career, like Florence Nightengale or Maria von Trapp. I remember asking my mom to come take a picture of me as a six year old, and when she came outside with the camera, I was leaning against the tree in my swimsuit and wide-brimmed straw hat, with a coy smile on my face and one hand on my hip. I was ready to be an adult. I wanted to travel and work and get married and fly in airplanes and eat lobster.
Some things in life have been deep disappointments, like never actually growing tall and my first kiss and tasting champagne and realizing I didn't like it at all even though it sounded so glamorous. Other things have been more delightful than I possibly could've imagined, like having nieces and nephews, and studying chemistry, and having a garden on my porch, and getting married to someone who is extremely intelligent and insightful.
I think Robin probably feels the same as me, that we've lived so long being ourselves that marrying another person doesn't automatically erase who we are. I am trying to learn about him but he is like a book written in another language and some of the chapters don't make sense yet. When it comes to lobster, I may or may not have it again, but I'm glad I had that experience once and now I can cross it off my list of things to do before I die. With marriage, I've only just begun.

Frustrations

I've been thinking lately about what God does to get our attention. To be honest, I think I'm fairly good at turning to him when I'm in the midst of a major crisis. However, I have a lot to learn about turning to him with the small daily annoyances of life.
Last week Robin dropped me off at work in Westbank with my bike. I was only working for a couple of hours and the plan was to ride back home on my bike. It was a hot, sunny day, and after trying to teach 1-10 in French to a kid who didn't want to be in summer school, I hopped on my bike to ride home. I had some things to do at home and should have gone straight there, but as I crossed the bridge to come into Kelowna the beach looked just so darn inviting. I biked to the library and looked for something good to read. I bought some ice cream and found a place to sit on a corner of a boat launch. the waves were lapping at the shore and I spread my books out, my bike parked beside me.
A parasailer flew by, towed by a boat, and I looked up at him with interest. It was less than 10 seconds later when suddenly disaster struck. A huge wave from the tow boat crashed against the boat launch and sprayed up at me. I started to get to my feet when suddenly another bigger wave hit. It completely drenched me, all my books, and started to wash my sandals and my bike away. I grabbed at them frantically and tried to stumble away from the edge before a third wave hit. Everything was soaked- from my purse to my new magazine to my Spanish textbook and bible and my clothes. A few people saw my plight and laughed. I began to spread everything to dry on the grass and as I took a step away suddenly I stepped on a bee and it stung me on the bottom of my foot. My immediate response was less than polite.
A young shirtless man was seated nearby and he said, "Hey, how are you? Do you mind if I come over and talk to you?"
I gave him a look to sum up my mood and he said, rather helpfully, "Maybe I can just come over later and talk to you."
There was nothing to do but pack everything up and go home. I rode home in disgust, muttering under my breath. When Robin came home from school I was still grumpy.
Unfortunately my little tsunami disaster wasn't the only frustration of the week. I borrowed a movie only to find there was nothing in the case. I ran to Marlene's to borrow her car only to discover I left the keys at home. I got a stomachache from too many cherries and a neckache from sleeping funny and a brainache from talking to some jerk at work who told me my marriage was doomed to failure.
I have my only little theory about why these particular trials came my way this week. In a general sense, though, I think God is quite good at specificially designing trials that will draw us into relationship with him. He lets us struggle with futility so we will look to him for meaning. He lets us encounter scary situations or not enough money or food so that we will learn to trust him. He lets us experience discouragement in relationships so that we will come to him as the only true and faithful friend and lover. He hurts us because he loves us, and wants us to love him.
So I know I've got a long way to go, but at least after the fact I recognized that God was trying to say something to me that day last week. Not only that, but everytime I took a step the beesting reminded me of what God was trying to say. Now, that's clever!

City, City

I've lived in Kelowna now for just over a year. It's smaller than Vancouver, more laid-back, more relaxed, more low-key. Hardly anyone dresses up and it's not unusual to bump into someone I know at the grocery store or walking down the street.
I like it so much that I didn't realize how much I missed Vancouver, until Canada day last week.
Robin and I drove downtown (about 10 minutes away) to check out the Canada day festivities. There were people everywhere! Booths with things for sale, food, music, a group of break dancers, face-painting, but most of all: people, in large quantities. In the evening we went downtown again with Bob and Marlene and two of their grandsons and their niece, to watch the fireworks. I remember being in English Bay as a teenager and hanging off a lamppost, and as far as the eye could see, people- a churning, milling mass of humanity that was all caught up in the same excited frenzy.
This was reminiscent of other Canada days: although on a slightly smaller scale. I was beside myself with excitement. Kids were waving glowing light sabers around and I could smell mini donuts and hotdogs and teenagers were painted red and white and everyone was waiting for the show. I breathed deeply of the scent of all the people. It was a familiar mixture of bodies, cigarette smoke, food, dirt, just people.
There were two little boys having a sword fight with their glowsticks and there was a young couple that looked about sixteen pushing their baby in a huge stroller. There was a woman who was much too large to be wearing her tight red and white outfit. There were hippies with their hair in dreadlocks and henna tattoos snaking up their arms. There was an old man with a hat almost covering his face, playing guitar with the case open in front of him for some change. There were families of all types and sizes sitting on the grass and the sand and the sidewalks .
We bought light sabers (I couldn't resist!) and sat on the edge of the waterfront, our feet dangling over the water. Off the shore was the barge for the fireworks and the excitement was palpable. We waited for what seemed ages, looking at people. There was a bit of misty rain and the speaker above us kept cutting out, and a beaver and a huge fish and someone's lost shoe all drifted past us in the water. Finally the music started with a rousing rendition of Oh Canada, and the lights shot off the barge like colorful stars lighting up the sky. The crack of the explosions made my chest hum and I joined in the oohs and aahs of the crowds.
When it was all over we walked back through the pressing crowds, stepping over broken beer bottles, and trying to keep track of each other so we wouldn't get lost in the gathering . We got in our vehicles and joined the throng trying to get out of the downtown core. Same old stop, go, stop, go. (Except in Vancouver I would've taken the Skytrain, and packed in with all the other passengers, sweating and laughing and talking.)
I remember being at University, buried in the chemistry lab and the library, feeling disconnected from the world. I would get on a city bus once a week just so I could smell smoke and bodies and look at interesting people and feel connected to the web of life I was part of. Something in me would miss the people, the humanity of it, after spending so much time with books and beakers as my primary company.
There is nothing like a city. Perhaps if I'd been raised in a peaceful, tiny farming community with cows as my neighbors I would be overwhelmed and bothered by the masses of people. But I wasn't. And being part of the crowd and assaulting my senses with the smells and sights and sounds of a whole pile of people all excited about something- somehow it grounds me, and makes me feel content within myself.

My biannual rant

Over the years as I've blogged, I've often been far from home, so I've felt freer to talk about things that happen in my life without worrying that my readers will encounter people from my stories. Living in Kelowna, a much smaller city, poses a distinct disadvantage when it comes to confidentiality. I am constrained by the fact that you may indeed bump into one of my characters if you are in town here. I am limited in my writing by the fact that Kelowna has one hospital, one Save-on-Foods, only 3 Starbucks, and one Costco. If I talk about the mean blond who works behind the counter of some restaurant, you'll probably know who I mean.
I had intended to write in my blog today about funny things that happened over the weekend. But life is not all fun and games. I am generally a happy person and I am not often angry, but today I feel a rage burning in my heart that demands to be spoken. I must put words to my frustration and let someone, somewhere, hear them and take notice. Writing in my blog is a way to give voice to my thoughts without attacking anyone personally. You can take it or leave it; you can read it and walk away or you can block my website on your computer. It's your choice. This is nothing personal against you.
But first, as a slight aside from the sad story I am going to tell you, the first story of my day was slightly comical. A patient came into my office to tell me there was an injured bird outside in the garden and could I come and help. Dealing with birds isn't a typical nursing duty, but I obliged. It was a pigeon, and I picked it up and examined it. It had flown into the window and it's wings were fine, but both legs were broken. I contemplated leaving it and seeing if it would summon the strength to fly away, but then another patient told me it had flown into the window the night before and had been lying on the ground ever since. They had been making him a shelter from the rain out of saranwrap and leaves, and feeding him popcorn.
I did the right thing and took him around the corner where we were alone, and I broke his neck. I told him I was sorry and I snapped it quickly and then I looked down at him, warm in my hands, and he winked at me. Things like that summon superhuman strength and I wrenched at that neck and was a little horrified to see his whole head pop off in my hands. I quickly stuffed him into a plastic bag and I raked gravel over all the blood and I discreetly disposed the bag and went to wash my hands.
“Where's the pigeon?” One lady asked me.
“He's gone to bird heaven”. I told her. “He's better off now.”
Later on I had an older man come to me and he was crying. Alcohol withdrawal and some anxiety issues were at the root of it, but I asked him the problem and he said between tears, “My bird is gone!” I told him kindly it was quick and painless and the bird wouldn't have recovered anyway.
So that was that. And then I was busy with more nursing things. One young lady was very sick and projectile vomited all over her bed, her neighbor's bed, the walls, the bathroom, her shoes and clothes, the lamp, her stuffed animals, the floor, and me. I spent a good deal of time with her, and cleaning up puke on my hands and knees. She had it coming out of just about every port on her body. I never knew one person could have so much output from so many places at the same time.
And the sad part of my story comes here. In the interests of confidentiality I can't tell you what actually happened, beyond the fact that this poor young lady and I had an interaction with a community service (Not the detox where I work, to clarify) that treated her in a terrible way, simply because she was a drug addict.
I am coming to dislike the term drug addict. I've only worked in the area of addictions for a little over a year but I feel it is changing me. I am seeing myself in my patients. They are not drug addicts and alcoholics. They are hurting people that are filling the empty hole inside them with something that is ultimately very harmful. And we all do it, in some way or another.
Statistically, 10% of the general population have a substance abuse problem, straight across the board. That includes doctors and nurses, who also have a 10% rate of drug and alcohol abuse. Yet so many people who work in the industry of caring for others see it as just that- an industry. They fail to realize that it is a calling, not a job, and that when it comes to loving and caring for people, the bottom line is not money, it's the dignity and worth of that person. Jesus did not shy away from touching people because they were lepers or beggars or whatever the social equivalent of that day was. He loved them, he ministered to them, and he let them bless him. My young lady today was denied the medical care she needed and was relegated to a second-class, inferior citizen. She was treated rudely and callously. And while I was on the phone fighting for some help for her, I was rebuked for being too 'aggressive'. I am not aggressive when I am advocating for my patients. Aggression, in my mind, is when someone in a position of authority, like a doctor or nurse, uses their authority to make another person feel inferior. It is when they invade a person's dignity by writing them off and not treating them in a way that reflects their inherent worth. It is when they simply don't care, and just bulldoze on ahead to get the job done without taking into account the needs and rights of another person. It is when they violate a person's worth in some way or another.

Excuse me for being passionate about this issue. We all have pain in our lives and we all deal with it in different ways. I know that loving people is not all about being a push-over and letting them have whatever they want. Sometimes it means being tough, and saying no. Sometimes it means putting a little pigeon out of it's misery, so to speak. But always, it means to do it with respect, and to recognize that we could be in the same position.
As my patients in detox I have homeless people, I have wealthy businessmen, I have successful nurses and massage therapists, I have writers, and musicians, and mothers, and fathers, and store and restaurant owners, and teachers, and farmers. I have Christians and atheists and Sikhs and Catholics and Buddhists. I have had patients as young as 19 and as old as 77. All of them have come to a point in their life where their addiction is unmanageable and they need help with their pain. They deserve compassion, respect, and good medical care. If I can't provide that to them, I shouldn't be doing my job.
I know this blog entry sounds like a rant but I feel it is something that needs to be said. We need to have grace for each other. When I grew up I heard the message from society that drug addicts were dirty people who lived on the streets and were dangerous. They're not the type of people you let into your house or befriend. I'm ashamed to say that I unconsciously succumbed to that thinking for so long. And now I have looked in the mirror of my patient's faces and I have seen myself, and more importantly, I have seen Jesus. When we treat someone as if they are undeserving of our respect and love, it is as if we are treating God's son in the same way. But when we treat them with compassion and love and dignity, and when we fight to honor them and care for them, it is as if we are doing it for God.

Normal people

It's been many long months (okay, maybe just weeks) since I blogged, so I thought that instead of giving you a recap of my life, I'll give you a recap of some of the most interesting people I've met at work over the last while. Between tutoring and nursing, I've met people of all ages who have blessed and inspired me, challenged and grieved me, and given me a window into my own heart and into the heart of God. (Of course, as usual, all the names are changed in case someone reads this and fires me.)

At tutoring I struggled for a long time with a little boy named Mark. He's about 11 years old and he is totally unmanageable. He's behind in math and English so I'm trying to help him catch up so he can get into a regular class. When I ask him to do something (usually math) that he doesn't want to do, he pulls out all the stops. Whines, swears, kicks the wall, flat out refuses, etc. I've tried bribing him with games and jellybeans, threatening him with telling his dad and making him do more math, manipulating and coercing and cajoling but nothing works. I suspected that his home life might not be that great because he always came to tutoring covered in scrapes and bruises and as dirty as a little boy could possibly get.
Finally in despair I talked to my boss for some ideas and she gave me some background about him.
Mark's parents are alcoholics and drug users and he spent from the age of 6 until recently living on the streets. Finally his grandma was able to get him and he's been living with her and going back to school. At first no school wanted him because he was so wild, but he's made a lot of progress and almost caught up with his grade. He has ADD and fetal alcohol syndrome, you name it. His dad has been sober for awhile and takes him to tutoring on the bus and really does love him, but it's Mark who looks after his dad, not the other way around. The kid has been used to fending for himself and looking after others and doing whatever it took to survive.
When I heard Mark's story I knew my approach had been totally wrong. I'd been very task oriented in trying to get his math done. In reality, if we got ten minutes of good work done in our hour together, we were making progress. Mark needed to have fun at school so that he would want to stay in school and graduate. (Education isn't the answer for everything, but it certainly can help break a cycle of poverty and addiction.) I realized also that consistency and discipline were majorly lacking in Mark's life and even though I wasn't a parent, I could help him a lot more by being consistent and not giving in to his whining and manipulating.
He's extremely gifted with writing, despite his terrible punctuation, but we've finally worked out a system of rewards involving purple play-do and board games. We're making progress. Slowly but surely.
While nursing I met an intriguing fellow named Stan. Stan has bipolar disorder and he was brought into the hospital and then detox because God spoke to him (so he said) and told him not to take his medication or wear any clothes. He'd been wandering around town and got taken in. Even after we got him stabilized with some meds he would still appear periodically at the nursing station in his skivvies (or his birthday suit) asking for a chocolate milkshake. He's a gentle-spirited and very polite man and when he's in his right mind he has a little twinkle in his eye and makes wisecracks under his breath to the nurses.
Carl is only 19, which is the youngest age detox will take (there is a detox for youths in BC where they help kids as young as 8 detox off of drugs or alcohol). He looked like 16 and he had a scared, timid look about him. At first he wouldn't look me in the eye, for about two days. Every time I tried to talk to him he avoided my gaze and gave me mumbled answers. Finally one of the social workers was cleaning his room and found a stash of used needles and a spoon with heroin on it. She also found that he'd been wetting his bed and stuffing the sheets into the closets and under the mattresses. I felt myself recoiling from the awkward conversation I knew we had to have.
I told him we'd noticed the sheets and I asked him if he was sleeping too soundly because of the meds we were giving him, and not able to make it to the bathroom at night. He was embarrassed but I told him that we were happy to wash the sheets, he could just bring them discreetly to the laundry room and get new ones, but not leave them in the closets because he had a roommate coming. I asked him about the needles. “Carl, we found some needles in your room. Are they yours?”
He said he thought they belonged to the guy who'd been in the room before him. I did a dipstick urine test but it was negative for drugs. I told him, “Carl, we take very seriously using drugs in detox here. If you are using while here we'll have to discharge you. However, I always give people the benefit of the doubt and if you tell me that you haven't used, I am going to trust that you are telling me the truth.”
For the first time he looked me in the eye.
Sometimes when I'm working I believe that the Holy Spirit gives me insight into people's lives. I've found that with very young people heavily involved with drugs, there is often a history of sexual abuse, and I felt very strongly then that Carl had a history of massive sexual abuse. Sexual abuse destroys trust and respect and is devastating for anyone, but especially a young man who can't easily talk about it. So I looked Carl in the eye. I told him that I trusted him and that I wanted to see him do well here. He actually cracked a grateful smile and later, came and talked to me and the social worker about something else. He held his head up.
He finished detox two days later and went on to treatment and I pray for him that someday he finds freedom from the things that try to chain him down.
At tutoring I appreciate the normalcy in most of the kid's lives. Some of them are so innocent and untainted by life that it's truly a joy to see them discover and have fun learning. I commented on this to my boss and she laughed and said, “well, you like to think they're normal!”
The next day one of my most 'normal' students was missing. Stacy is a pretty blond 15-year-old; a little overweight and shy but we've shared a lot of laughs over French. I asked my boss if she'd heard from her. Apparently Stacy's parents had just gone through an ugly divorce and her dad refused to pay child support and her mom had run up a big debt with tutoring and other activities and finally it had all come to an end. My boss felt like Stacy and I had made a lot of progress in French, mostly in the area of building confidence, so she encouraged Stacy's mom to save the money and pull her daughter out. Suddenly normal didn't seem quite so simple.
Janine at detox seemed pretty normal too. She's the mother of two lovely teenagers who dropped her off at detox and cried when they said goodbye. She has a lilting Newfie accent and while struggling with depression she started drinking, and eventually it got out of control. She talked to her husband every day on the phone and when she was feeling a little better she bleached the whole kitchen and washed all the windows for me.
It seems to me that suffering pain is normal. Doing whatever it takes to survive is normal. Laughing and making jokes even though everything is wrong all around you, that's normal too.