springing on

Mum's first day in the ICU was hard, but she survived. Apparently a bit of psychosis is normal in the elderly after anaesthetic, and she was angry yesterday, especially that she had put herself through this torture again, at 88. But we're sure that she'll forget this bit when she has recovered and is better than ever.

So - relief, if not yet for her, then for us.

I went for a walk at dusk yesterday, in love with my neighbourhood, with spring, with life. A glorious world. Cabbagetown has never looked so beautiful, every tree in bloom, front gardens packed with flowers. I ran into several neighbours - Ryan's baby is now 2 1/2, how did that happen so quickly; young Angeline, a friend of Sam's, is learning to pilot a plane; Riverdale Farm has survived to fight another day. The light was sheer, delicate, fading. So many grand old trees.

My beloved Chris is now spending many hours a day writing his play. He downsized a few years ago to a tiny apartment and has an uncomplicated life. I wrote to tell him how I envied that freedom to work, and he wrote back, "Your life could be so much different if you sold that house. Would you ever downsize?

Perhaps, your greatest accomplishment is not the Jacob Gordin book or the memoir, or being a writer and editor and a teacher. Maybe nothing has taken more work and time than being a homeowner in a very expensive city. All the time that you do work to support that—gardening, finding tenants and most of all, working to pay bills—takes away from a simple easy life that you could have in a small space, if you wanted. 

He's right. But first, though I do not love being a landlady, I do love my work. And second, my name is Beth, which means "house," in Hebrew. I am my house, weighty and time-consuming as it is. Surely not forever, but for now, it's unimaginable to live somewhere else. Right here, right now, in this place. 

flying colours

It's 11 a.m., and my brother just called - "The doctors say she came through with flying colours." The next 24 hours are critical, but so far, so really really good.

Cue the sound of champagne corks going off. Imaginary only, for now.

MEMOIR WRITING

CLASSES BEGIN TODAY AND TOMORROW.  Today, 12.30 to 3 at U of T: Life Stories.
Wednesday, 6.30 to 9.15 at Ryerson, True to Life.

Now is your chance to tell your life stories, to learn to shape your memories into a narrative to be shared with supportive others, with me as your mentor. I just read this, about the word:  "The common denominator of great mentors is that they are good and active listeners willing to offer constructive, but blunt, criticism and, at the same time, share stories about their own failures."
Mark Evans; Age No Barrier; Globe and Mail (Toronto, Canada); Mar 30, 2012.

Not too blunt. And share I do. 

Here's what a student said of her time in last term's class:

You are so well-informed, confident, passionate, wise, clever, and mature in how you present yourself and in what you draw from your students. Your comments on our work are masterful and spot on. You treat us as mature adults and writers from the get-go and you focus on the writing. You get us down to it, and you work us, giving us lots of opportunity to read and learn from critique, allowing us no apologies or excuses.


Come and see if you agree.

tension

It's 7.48 a.m.; my mother's operation was due to start at 7, so it must be underway right now. Dr. Labinaz is fixing my mother's heart. Let's hear it for the superb University of Ottawa Heart Institute. How right that this vital place should be associated with a university where my father taught and did research for many years. Perhaps some of the people tending to Mum right now took his classes in physiology and biology.

Last night, unfortunately, the anaesthetist came to warn her that in 10% of cases like hers, something goes wrong. So rather than focussing on the 90% that go right, she was left with a dire sense of danger. After a bit of talking, though, she calmed down. And I, too, as I sit here so far away, will focus on the 90% and not on the 10.

Anna and I and her bulge had lunch yesterday. That baby could not be more ready to pop out. She stretched her t-shirt tight over her belly so I could see him move - tiny fists and feet, exploring his dark, safe world. She will call me when labour begins, and let me know where and when I'm expected to join her, to do what I can to help her through. A friend told me yesterday of a dream, in which she had to navigate a very long, narrow passageway out of a basement; half-way out, she felt so frightened that she decided to turn back. Hmmm - I don't know about you, but my analysis was pretty easily made.

As I sit writing to you, there's a great pounding overhead - my tenants, having breakfast. Only two weeks and a day until I reclaim my home. You'll be happy to hear that the crabby cat has decided to take up residence down here, with me. That curled up, snoring ball of tabby fur on the sofa makes this subterranean place home. That, and the stacks of magazines, newspapers and books that follow me wherever I go. Yesterday, the library called; two books were waiting for me, Memory, Fragments of a Modern History, by Alison Winter, an exploration of our relationship with memory; and Slice me some truth, an anthology of Canadian creative non-fiction, which is delicious.

The bad news - after that ferocious clean-up on Sunday afternoon, I looked at the little pile of jewellry that I'd left on the living-room bookshelf and found one diamond earring. One. Dropped to my knees and looked all over the surrounding floor - nothing. My guess is that the earring is inside one of the two vacuum cleaners used that day, along with a great deal of dirt and dust. What needs to be done is clear. O joy.

At 10 I will call my brother who will be waiting in the relative's room at the hospital. And then, at the first U of T class of the spring term, I'll explain why, for the next while, I'll be leaving my cell phone on during class.

the good life

Blessings, blessings. I'll call my mother today to tell her that scores of people she doesn't know will be rooting for her tomorrow. Brucie wrote from Ravenna: At times like this I sometimes wish I wasn't an atheist so I could pray for your mom. But I will still be thinking of her.

Isabelle, from Montpellier: i'll check your blog for word of your mom this week. bon courage!

And Pam, one of my most faithful blog followers though we've never met, wrote from rural Quebec: I wanted to send along my thoughts to you, and to say I will thinking of your Mum on tuesday, and I wish her all the best. She is surrounded by all the best of care, and you and Mike especially. You may not be in Paris anymore, but we grow where we are planted, and everything is working out as it should. I look forward to your posts to tell us of her recovery. Thinking of you today, your fan and blog family member, Pam.

So, in this strange new world of ours, with our busy, crowded lives and jazzy technology, people are more connected than ever in the most fundamental and important way.

Another blessing: spring. I've managed to follow dreadful weather for months now - it was freezing cold, grey and wet in England and France while it was a startling 25 degrees here, and then, the minute I came back, winter also returned. But though it's still chilly, the sun is out, and the trees are that sweet, transcendent spring shade of green; tulips, forsythia, magnolia, redbud, lilac, pansies, cherry blossom - scent and colour everywhere. My own garden, bursting into life. Usually, when I return to Canada from Europe, it hurts for a bit that there is so old and beautiful, and here is so ugly and new. But not this year. Because my mother is alive, and it is spring.

Tomorrow she is having a procedure called a TAVI, which is non-invasive valve surgery specifically for the elderly; they operate through a catheter inserted in a vein in her groin, how's that for miraculous? Her aortic valve was damaged by rheumatoid arthritis in childhood, and she's had open-heart surgery twice to replace the valve; we are all great admirers of pigs, because it is a pig's aortic valve that has kept her alive all these years. But now the valve is badly damaged and restricted, so Dr. Labinaz, the TAVI surgeon who's been given five stars out of five in patient reports, will repair it. After a week or so in recovery, she will be moved to the Geriatric Assessment Unit, which sounds like paradise - teams of caregivers to help her regain strength and to figure out what's next. Blessings blessings blessings.

And the last, for today - routine. Three hours of gardening with friend and gardening guru Scott on Saturday morning, and then to Ingrid, my hairdresser whom I've known for so long, she's like family; on Sunday to the Y, where friends said, "Welcome back! How was your trip?" and I managed to gasp my way around the gym with the others. On Sunday afternoon, house-cleaning while listening to CBC, Eleanor Wachtel and then Cross Country Checkup, which was about eldercare, though I missed a lot as it was sunny and I had to go outside and get the decrepit wicker garden furniture from the shed. Today, the pleasure of same old, same old: yoga at the Y, taking my daughter for a pedicure, going to the library, getting newspaper delivery back, buying groceries at No Frills.

And getting ready for my first class of the spring term, tomorrow afternoon, which I'll teach while thinking about my mother's beautiful beating heart.