All For Love

Valentines Day.

Or as my decidedly unromantic father would say: “Another holiday dreamed up by Hallmark.”

We don’t have plans.

I’m afraid to make plans to do much of anything lately.

Katie’s seizures are worse. More frequent. More intense.

Four out of five days, it seems she just gets to school and the phone is ringing because she’s seizing.

From a parent’s perspective it’s like walking a tightrope. Every second I’m on edge. Waiting. Worrying.

On Friday morning alone she had five seizures. No, that’s not a typo, you read correctly – five.

The new drugs she’s on obviously aren’t working.

But here’s the kicker.

The neurologist hasn’t returned my phone calls. And neither her paediatrician, nor our family doctor will alter medications prescribed by a neurologist.

So what do I do?

I’m not an uneducated woman. I know the damage that multiple seizures are causing. I know that, if left unchecked, my daughter could die.

I want to scream.

I can’t help her. She looks at sometimes like she’s begging me to fix it.

But I’m powerless.

All I can do is wait. Keep her calm. Let her rest.

Rick is phenomenal. My strength when I have none.

Physical proof that a families are forged with love as much as they ever could be with blood.

Kate has made it through today.

I don’t know what tomorrow brings. I’m afraid to hope.

Just a note

They say you make your own luck.

I must have lost the recipe somewhere along the way. Because, lately, it feels as if my life is rather unlucky.

Over the holidays I lost several people that made my hometown, my “home”.

With the mayhem of the Christmas rush I didn’t fully appreciate their losses and how much they meant to my life. But today, as I sat down and attempted to write notes in no less than three sympathy cards I thought about each of them.

I attempted to convey to their wives, children and grandchildren how their loved one touched my life.

I clumsily attempted to convey what I was feeling without making people sadder. And after several tries – I was sitting with a dozen crumpled balls of paper and three cards with just our signatures on them.

I hate that.

It’s impersonal. Cold. Dismissive.

The power went out here over the holidays. A large tree knocked down a power line on the main drag and we were left in the dark and cold for nearly ten hours.

As I lit my grandmother’s oil lamps I was reminded of a night when Kate was very small. The power went out in St. Anthony on the coldest day of the year and the entire town was without power.

Kate was just a couple of months old. Newfoundland Hydro had no idea when the power would be back on and my mother’s house was getting colder by the minute.

Our neighbour came and picked up the baby and I without hesitation. It was only after we were sitting safely by their woodstove did I discover that it was their 50^th wedding anniversary and they were hosting a party.

Rather than feeling like an imposition they made us part of the celebration. Like they planned to have us join them all along.

The generosity and love we were shown on that day has stayed with me - I’m not sure I ever told them that.

How do you put that onto a card?

Hallmark has made billions in the greeting card industry but they can’t quite capture that.

I don’t know about making our own luck – but we certainly make our own imprints on those we touch.

I hope mine is worthy of a note someday.

Until then, I’m going to continue to tell my friends and family that I love them whenever I get the chance. I’m going to tell them how much they have meant to my life. You never know when it will be the last.

Call it a resolution for the rest of my life.

Happy 2010!

Merry Christmas!

It’s the most wonderful time of the year!

O, I wasn’t so charitable yesterday in traffic when we were cut off by that idiot in a Hyundai – but it was definitely divine intervention that I didn’t choke the life out of the old bat in front of me with a cartload of crap in the 10 items or less line.

But I definitely feel more “Christmassy” this year.

In fact, I’ve stopped saying “Happy Holidays” completely.

I am a Christian. I was born a Christian. I was raised a Christian. This is the time of year we celebrate the birth of our Messiah and I’m going to wish you a Merry Christmas.

Now I know that it was a Pope that chose December 25^th as Christmas Day.

I know it was a response to the Pagan celebrations surrounding the Winter Solstice.

I know that most of the symbolism surrounding the holiday was “borrowed” from other cultures and religions. And do you know what?

I don’t care.

I like it.

I like the fact that during the darkest days of the winter our houses are lit with colourful lights.

I like the fact that we have an excuse to gather with friends and family to feast.

I like that we sing special songs and that my house smells like ginger and pine tree.

What about that is offensive?

Just what about any of it is offensive?

Now, I can understand why other religions don’t care for Christianity. We weren’t exactly charitable during the Crusades and we were definitely less that tolerant of the pagan religions of the new world.

But check your calendars folks, it’s nearly 2010. The world has moved on. At some point one has to simply get over it.

The political correctness of our society is maddening.

Governments are issuing apologies for things that happened hundreds of years ago, things that occurred when their grandfather’s grandfathers were just a twinkle in their daddy’s eye.

And we’re trying to make up for the atrocities that occurred centuries ago by letting the minority dictate to the majority.

Prayers have been removed from school. The Queen has been removed from the Girl Guide Promise and The Men’s Christmas Dinner has been replaced with the Soldier’s Seasonal Appreciation Dinner. All because at some point some hippie, yuppie, politically correct idiot said, “That offends me.”

Well boys. Brace yourself.

When I wish you Merry Christmas I am wishing you the very best of what I believe in. If this offends you - as my son would say, “get out your big girl panties and get them on.”

The manger scenes do not promote violence or intolerance and therefore I fail to see why they are perceived as offensive. It’s not a re-enactment of a bloody coup or a murder. It’s a baby. Suck it up.

I want to sing about angels and wise men. And I want to do it in public. Right along with the songs about Santa and elves. If you don’t like it – I suggest you bring earplugs with you.

If you’re uncomfortable with this, then my suggestion would be for you to stay at home.

Personally, I would welcome a wish for a Happy Hanukkah or a Joyous Ramadan.

I’m done excluding the things I believe in. I’m done leaving the traditions of my childhood in the dirt.

I think the discarding of our traditions is part of the reason why the world is in the state it’s in.

And I think it’s time we stopped.

Fear not. For behold I bring you good tiding of great joy which shall be for all people.

For unto you. Is born this day in the City of David a Saviour, which is Christ the Lord.

And this shall be a sign unto you; ye shall find the babe, wrapped in swaddling clothes, lying in a manger.

And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly hosts praising God and saying, Glory to God in the highest. And on Earth peace, good will toward men.

Merry Christmas!

Louise

Do you see what I see?

Well I knew something was coming when the media began reporting on the whole Afghan prisoner thing.

I knew there was a reason, that after nearly seven years in theatre, the media all of a sudden tells the world about what happens to prisoners once the Canadians turn them over to local authorities.

It’s been like a thunderstorm in the far distance. A barometric pressure change in the government’s attitude towards the military. It was coming. I just couldn’t put my finger on the extent.

At first I thought; “Ok – some tit-arse hippie in Ottawa is just stirring the poop.” But the more I’ve seen in the media, read in newspapers and heard through the military spouse grapevine (by far the most reliable source of the three) I began to see that this was the governmental spin doctors at work.

What I failed to understand, at the beginning, was the truly Machiavellian mechanizations of the Canadian federal government.

After 9-11 people began to appreciate the military. They started Red Fridays. Support Our Troops ribbons popped up on businesses and homes. And the government, sensing that they’d better get on the bus, threw their support to the men and women in uniform and began to do what they should have been doing for the previous twenty years.

Outdated equipment was replaced. Recruiting was improved. The image was improved. All in the hopes to gain popular support for the government that was sending the boys overseas.

A bit of flag waving is always good for the polls.

But now the Afghan mandate is almost up.

And the world’s economy is in the toilet.

Along with Harper’s approval rating.

Hmmm – I wonder how to tie this up in a nice big package?

Well – first you villainize the heroes. If you discover your heroes have clay feet then you don’t care how they’re treated – do you?

That way, once the combat mandate is over in 2011, you have the public approval, or at least their indifference, so you can claw back everything you’ve given to the one group of loyal employees who can’t protest back.

The military grapevine is ripe with budget constraint rumours and we’re months away from the fiscal year end.

History appears to be repeating itself.

The last time this happened was in the early 1990s. Bases were closed. The military was scaled back. Equipment contracts were cancelled, and soldiers’ pays were frozen so that some poor buggers had to go to food banks to survive.

I wonder how much further it will go this time.

After all – the greatest soldier advocate, Gen. Rick Hillier, was put out to pasture.

Now they’ve got their yes-men - their “corporate-minded” political monkeys who don’t care about Cpl. Canada, as long as their own jobs are safe.

They’ve got their distraction for the Canadian people. They’ve got their scapegoat. And now they won’t have to answer for the $50-trillion dollars they’ve spent on…what? Signs made in the US?

And tra-la-la the feds can continue to spend money behind closed doors like gambling addicts all the while sacrificing the pride, loyalty and good name of the men and women who have done so much and asked for so little.

Maybe I should start a little campaign of my own. I won’t need the $10-million dollars that the federal government is spending on the junk mail that’s being bombarded into my mailbox every week to ask whose socks are better or which party has their bread buttered better.

I’ll just need some support.

Let’s stop this train now.

Who’s with me?

Wagging the Dog

The media is at it again.

Twisting things to make it look like Canadian soldiers are the bad guys.

The policy in Afghanistan is that prisoners or suspected terrorists caught by the Canadian Forces’ patrols be turned over to local authorities to allow their rules and justice system deal with.

The Afghan authorities apparently still employ the use of torture and physical punishment on prisoners or suspects. And wonder of wonders it leaked to the media. And – big shock – the bleeding hearts are all over it.

The whole NATO involvement in Afghanistan is not to run the country. They have their own laws they have their own values. Where do Canadians get off interfering in their judicial system?

Now I’m not saying I agree with torturing another human being. But if that’s the law in a foreign country – who am I to change it – it’s not my country. This is.

I listened to a commentary on the local radio station today that actually compared turning over prisoners to the Afghan national to the incident in Somalia where a teen-aged boy was killed. Wow! Talk about comparing apples to oranges!

Nowhere in the report out of Afghanistan does it say that Canadian soldiers tortured prisoners. The Canadian soldiers merely follow orders and bring the terrorists - or suspected terrorists, if you prefer, to the local authorities.

The soldiers may be aware of local ‘practices’ and may not agree with them. But seriously folks, should it be up to a 20-year-old private from small town Canada to change the judicial practices of a foreign nation?

If you answered anything other than ‘no’ please have the person nearest to you kick you in the shin.

Render onto Caesar what is Caesar’s - the politicians made the rules – lay it at their feet – don’t vilify the military.

The politicians, not the soldiers, make the policies. And in this case it’s NATO. A little bigger than Cpl. Canada don’t you think?

These bleeding hearts are the first ones to jump on the bandwagon and say that Canada shouldn’t interfere in Afghanistan and yet here they are practically screaming for judicial reform of a foreign nation and somehow it’s been turned around to be the soldiers’ fault.

So B.H.s of the world, what would you have the soldiers do?

You’re bitching about the cost of the war – so I’m guessing paying for a prison up to the standards of North America is out of the question. Maybe you’d prefer the soldiers to bring them home – maybe they can live with you!

Better yet – let’s let them go – let them keep blowing people up and shooting at us.

Let’s disband the army and all wear robes and dance around the Maypole holding hands and singing We Are The World – I bet the terrorists would like that.

Here in the real world I’m thanking God for the courage of the Canadian soldier and hoping that the B.H. reporters can get their heads out of their arses before John Q Public begins to believe the ‘wag the dog’ reporting I heard and read today.

Clowns and Monsters

I started this blog to write about things that I feel strongly about. This is a departure from my normal entries but it is something that has affected me profoundly over the last few weeks. It contains graphic images and may not be suitable for everyone.

Clowns and monsters.

The two most common fears of small children.

I suppose you could include Santa in that mix, come holiday time – if Liam’s reaction was typical of the average kid’s.

I always imagined the monsters to have fangs and talons and to come after you in the dark. My poor mother had to lay down with me to go to sleep for years and that was even with my Kermit the Frog nightlight.

It’s been a long time since the image of Frankenstein or Dracula invaded my R.E.M. sleep. But last night I woke up nearly screaming - twice.

It wasn’t the monsters of my childhood that were out to get me. It was something more sinister. Something that disturbed me more than I could imagine.

You see, yesterday was the beginning of the 1st degree murder trial of a man named Rodney Miller. He pleaded guilty to stabbing his infant son through the heart when his girlfriend threatened to commit suicide if he didn’t kill the baby.

The local radio stations carried synopses of his confession where he described how he killed the baby. He said he “stabbed the baby’s heart and felt him go limp in his arms and that’s how he knew he was dead.”

Just like that.

And just like that something inside me screamed. Something from my nightmares reached out and wrapped it’s cold hands around my spine. And I instinctively reached for my own infant.

I smelled her baby smell. I felt her warm weight in my arms. I felt her body next to my chest and I cried.

If these two didn’t want a baby why not just drop it off at a hospital? Why not call Social Services? Heck, why not just put it in a gym bag and leave it in the mall where someone would find it?

There are thousands of families in this country that would have taken that baby and loved him and raised him and adored him for their entire lives – so pretending there was no other option is ridiculous.

He should have handed his girlfriend a rope and told her to have a ball. Instead he did something that, I hope, haunts his dreams every night like it haunted mine tonight.

They were his parents! They were supposed to love him unconditionally! And if they couldn’t provide for him – they should have loved him at least enough to give him to someone who would.

I hope they rot! I hope they rot in the darkest, dankest part of the deepest dungeon that Corrections Canada can find until everyone that ever cared about them forgets them. Because that’s what they deserve.

That’s what all monsters deserve.

*This should have been published a few weeks ago. Like all mommies of infants I’m still running on baby time so things have been a little hit and miss – my apologies to my regular readers. I’d say it won’t happen again – but it probably will….

She’s radiant.

You can see the love in her face.

It’s her day! At last!

And here I am trying not to ruin it day by blowing snot out my nose laughing at the tongue-tied priest. He reminds me of the Bishop in the Princess Bride – the one that starts everything with “mawwiage”. He’s standing right in front of me. I just about lose it when he starts to drool.

Think. Think. Think. There has to be something to get my mind off of this!

My mind runs over the words I plan to say at the reception.

I’m going to have to introduce myself and explain how Jenn and I met. I think I’m the only bridesmaid that no one has met before.

How do I explain that we bonded over mispronounced French words without making us sound like a couple of hyenas?

I’ll just tell them about the military family. How we meet in the strangest places, under the weirdest circumstances and somehow make each other stronger when our “real” families can’t be there. I wonder if they’ll understand.

I wonder if they’ll understand how much this chick has meant to me, and my little family over the last 18 months or so.

I wonder if they’ll understand how much I leaned on her when Rick was in the desert and I was alone. How she was there every time I called or needed her. How she dropped everything on her baby’s first birthday because I was in the hospital with my boy when he bruised his liver and needed help managing Kate.

I look over towards Jenn and her groom. She’s glowing. I’m so happy for her.

She’s spent the last several months planning this day practically alone. I’ve been a voice at the other end of the phone – but really haven’t helped much. I feel guilty about that and have told her several times. She’s pooh poohed away my guilt – telling me she knows what life with a newborn is like and wants me standing there with her regardless of how much (or how little) I’ve helped.
I’m very fortunate to have a friend like her.

It’s got to be at least a hundred degrees in the church. My legs are soaked beneath the satin gown. Jenn has somehow managed not to wilt. I only hope I’m holding up half so well.

I glance at the priest again – he sweating through his over robes and still talking! My eyes are drawn to an enormous bead of sweat rolling down the tip of his nose. How is it he doesn’t feel that and wipe it away?

I need to tell them that this bride has the biggest heart. That she’s the most generous person I’ve met in a long time. That her strength and her friendship and her sense of humour have held me together more times than I can count. Will they understand?

We all step forward to witness the vows. I wait for Jenn to cry. She’s been waiting for Ryan to say these words to her for a long time. I’m crying for her. She manages to hold it together pretty well and get through it with just a bit of nervous laughter. I’m so proud of her.

I don’t remember walking back down the aisle with Stevie, the groomsman. I think I was channelling some of the euphoria the bride was feeling.

The rest of the day passes in a hot and sweaty and happy blur. I keep thinking that I should hide away to pump some breast milk before I explode but the opportunity never really presents itself. Thank goodness I’ve doubled up on the nursing pads.

I hear the speeches and Marjorie, another bridesmaid acting as the emcee, announces that the mic is open for anyone else to say a few words. This is my opportunity. I just need to get up and walk maybe 10 feet.

I don’t.

I’m not shy or anything. I’ve given speeches in front of strangers before. I have my notes. I even have a joke about the time Jenn asked the French teacher how to say jackass.

But I don’t get up.

I can’t.

I’ve managed to leak through my dress.

So I sit at the head table looking like the world’s sloppiest drinker – hopefully people will think that’s what it is.

And my words go unsaid.

Until now.

“I love you, Jenn. I am proud to be your friend. You’ve held me together for the last year and a half with gun tape and love and I am so thankful for everything you’ve done. Sometimes blood has nothing to do with family – and this is one of those times.

I wish you and Ryan and Angelena a lifetime of love and happiness, mixed with a little passion and craziness. And in fifty years I hope to be here with my new orthopaedic hip celebrating with you again.”

Jennifer Nemeth and Ryan MacArthur August 22nd 2009.