More than Puppy Love

Valentine's Day can look like this:

The day before Valentine's Day, I lament to M that I didn't get to send my parents an anniversary card for February 16th. By the time I'd have mailed it, it would've been at least a week late; so late it wasn't worth sending it. I'd call, of course, but no card this year.

M doesn't say much but gives me the look.

"Did you get me a Valentine's card?" he baits me.
Yes is my proud reply. "Did you get me mine?"
He hesitates. "Sort of."
I test to see how well I know my husband:
"Sort of because it's still at the store?"
He gives me a sheepish grin.
Do I know him or what?
"That's okay," I offer a reprieve. "I've already got your card for next year then."

Valentine's Day there is no romantic exchange of cards in our home. In fact, we've forgotten it's the day of romance. Half way through the morning, M grabs my arms and kisses me firmly.
"Happy Valentine's Day!" he croons. "Let me treat you to a coffee and muffin at McDonald's."
"McDonalds? I like to think I'm worth a Starbucks!"
M hangs his head.
"Of course, Starbucks it is."
He redeems himself and lovingly gazes into my eyes.

He starts to move his head back as far as he can while still looking at me. He answers my puzzled look: "Sorry with these glasses you go out of focus if we're too close."

We break apart laughing. Mid-life love is more than puppy love. It's more than romantic love. It's a deep rooted commitment and a good dose of humour.

(P.S. M says to ask him for his version about McDonald's.)

2010-02-10

We need to leave at 8am, so M advised. Just as well as I would've been none the wiser that the Olympic flame was coming through our neighbourhood.

I put on my red jacket, sporting the most popular colour in Vancouver, zipped on my boots and decided to forgo a scarf and gloves. After M's customary rush out the door, we were on our way for a glimpse of the flame that has Vancouver and Whistler abuzz.

The excitement mounted as we made our way down Lonsdale. The Quay was crammed with people. We wanted to see more than the heads of strangers and headed further afield. At Waterfront Park there was standing room along the route. I found a good spot and waited.

M explored and I knew to keep my eyes on him. Yip, his hand went up and he motioned for me to join him at the war memorial. He'd found where the torch was going to be passed on to the next runner. I moved as close to the front as I could.

"Here it is!" Sooner than I expected, through the score of handlers, I saw the famous flame. I jostled to get a picture. Height would've been an asset here.

With the flame passed on to the next Olympic runner, the black-clothed handlers started to push for a path through the throng. I pushed with them forcing a path out for myself. I broke into a sprint to get ahead of the flame, score a few more photos and savour the excitement. I saw M and relished his surprise at seeing his wife lead the way.

I was now officially infected with Olympic fever.

A Happy Death

Mom called yesterday morning to share the happy news that her latest tests show that she is cancer free. Next week, February 18th, is her final chemo session.

She's had to work through the assault on her femininity and the loss of her hair. She's fought bout after bout of nausea and increasing illness as the poisons mount and her body breaks down with infections - all part of chemo treatment she's reassured us.

Mom has decided enough is enough. With yesterday's happy news, next week's final chemotherapy is as far as she is going to go. She's cancelling the intensive radiation treatment that was to follow. "The radiation will just break me down even more," she tells us. "I'm going to put my hand in God's."

She tells us of her interaction the day before with my thirteen year-old nephew. After being told that his grandmother was going to go for tests to see if she is cancer-free, he responds that he hopes she is.

"Well," replies my mother, "what you should do tonight is pray and ask God that I will be free of cancer. If you pray, He'll listen to you." My nephew ponders this for a moment and agrees he will prayerfully make the request. Then, with all seriousness, he adds, "and if not, I'll pray for a happy death for you."

Wisdom from the mouth of a child.

Sunday Snooze

I hoped I heard wrong ... nope ... there it was again. This time M's call was clearer and not muffled by the blanket over my head. "What? I'm sleeping."

I don't know when last I had a Sunday afternoon snooze but, with my eyes closing and my head nodding just two pages into my book, it wasn't much of a leap to recline the Laz-E-Boy and pull the blanket over my body and my head.

M had to see it to believe it. His voice was just a metre away from me now. "Can it wait? I just want to have a catnap." I wasn't going to surface from my indulgence if I didn't have to. M let his sleeping wife lie.

Ahh ... bliss. I felt a swell of relaxation. I erased thoughts of guilt: later, they can plague me later.

As I nodded off Gary Bertwistle's Aussie advice from his book, 'Who Stole my Mojo', filtered through: get your Mojo into high gear - catch a weekend nap in the afternoon. According to Gary Bertwistle, a Sunday snooze will revive me and have me looking and feeling terrific in no time.

I'm counting on it, Gary! Tiredness slipped in the back door uninvited long before Christmas. Its reluctance to move on means there are days I have red sore eyes, fatigue in my shoulders and impatience close at hand. I really should put your book next to my bed again for night-time reminders to not let anyone, and mostly myself, steal my Mojo.

Thank you, I appreciate your license to indulge in a Mojo restoring snooze.

Bob's my Burger!

Yesterday someone commented on the leftovers I was heating up for lunch at work and how much more he liked leftovers to sandwiches for lunch. I had to agree but also admit, "I just like food". I like to buy it (I'd much rather go grocery shopping than shopping for clothes); I like to prepare it and cook it (a good destressor); and I especially like to eat it.

One of our favourite places to eat burgers is Bob's Burgers in Sumas, Washington. We hop across the line, flummoxing American and Canadian border officials that we would bother to wait in line and haul out our passports just to eat a burger and drink a glass of beer. But this is a long standing tradition with our four Abbotsford friends, also ex-South Africans who now call Canada home.

Last weekend we headed across the line for our burger and beer bash at Bob's. We were toasting thirteen years of friendship in Canada and sojourns to Bob's together. It's a welcome opportunity to connect and not have someone misunderstand your accent or your choice of words.

A case in point was this just week having a Thai lunch with a girlfriend. Talking about travelling I referred to driving in Nîmes, France and how many circles there were. My companion quietly asked, "You're talking about roundabouts?" Of course, it's circles, robots and petrol in South Africa and roundabouts, traffic lights and gas in Canada. At Bob's we could say either and be perfectly understood.

Having emigrated from Holland to South Africa in 1958, M's parents sagely warned us, when we first mentioned our intention to emigrate, that we would "never belong anywhere ever again". We would never be fully Canadian, no matter how hard we tried, and South Africa would move on without us. How right they are.

When I sometimes find living in a foreign culture wearisome, I remind myself that, regardless of my accent and what my passport might say, I am a stranger and alien on this earth anyway, my citizenship is elsewhere.

Bob's not only offers us great burgers and green beer on St. Patrick's Day, it is also part of the fabric of our life in Canada. It is a resting place of fellowship, warm memories and South African accents as we journey through a foreign land knowing that our life is like the morning mist, here for a little while and then gone.