What Could It Be?

J.P. was out of town, so several girlfriends and I decided to have a pot luck dinner and game night at my house. The food was wonderful and laughter warmed the room.  The games were fun and as usual the most raucous laughter was saved for Rita's irreverent and silly responses. It was easy to hear her 'voice' among the list of definitions we would each create for the dictionary game (aka Balderdash). "That was Rita's, for sure," one of us would yell. She never won the game, but then again, she never really expected to with those answers.

My son, Justin came in midway through the evening, said goodnight to the ladies and went upstairs to his room. 

As with all things good, the evening of giggles, snorts and all around merriment finally came to a close and the last guest and I bid each other adieu. I sighed.  It had been such a happy time, but it was late. I battened down all the hatches and dragged my weary body up the stairs. Yawning, I switched on the bathroom light, performed my bedtime ablutions, then stumbled to the bedroom where my jammies awaited. Removing my pants, I was horrified to see that my legs from above the knees to the top of the thighs, were black.  I glanced at my hands and was filled with dread.  My fingertips were also black.  My heart pounded, my mouth was dry; I couldn't breathe.  I was dying.  I was sure of it.  I was dying. A cold sweat covered my body and I became even more light-headed than is my usual state. But, what could be the cause of this horrific malady?  What causes legs and fingertips to turn black?  Justin might know.  He had taken Red Cross and First Aid courses to become a lifeguard.  I hated to wake him, but I was desperate for help.  

"Justin?"  

"Yeah?"  His voice was thick with sleep.  

"Wake up.  Can you look at this and tell me what it might be?"

The bright light flooded the room.  He squinted.  He looked at my limbs and the black fingers I held in front of his face. 

"What is that?"

"I don't know, but I'm really scared.  Do you have any idea?"

"No, I've never seen anything like that before."

"Okay, I'm going to the hospital."

"Should I go with you?"

"No, you stay here.  I'll call you when I find out what it is."

"Are you sure?"

"Yes, I'll be fine.  Stay here."

I walked quickly back to my bedroom, threw my clothes back on, ran down the stairs, grabbed my purse and my keys and dove into the car. Heart racing, I drove out of our subdivision and sped toward the hospital.  

I got about a kilometer from home, when it struck me.  I pulled over to the side of the road and doubled over laughing.  I laughed until the tears streamed down my face. How could I be so stupid!  Oh, my! Howling in merriment, I flashed back to the event that had lead up to this fiasco.  I saw myself at the clothing store, trying on the pants. They fit so well and were so soft.  I loved the material and rubbed my fingers over it.  I bought them of course and wore them home.  The velvet was so soft and downy, I couldn't stop rubbing it.  I rubbed that deep, black velvet all day and all evening.  I rubbed it so much that the dye had stained both my legs and the fingers that had caressed them all day long!

Lou

Lou was my father.  He wasn’t a huggy father, not what you’d call a loving or lovable man.  The business world was his milieu; in that world, he was a good schmoozer and thus a good salesman.  He was a man of little education, having dropped out of school in grade 10.   Keeping abreast of world happenings via newspapers and television gave him the ability to converse intelligently about current events.  He had many acquaintances and quite a few friends who respected his work ethic and his outside-of-the-family-home sense of humour.  Unfortunately, we didn’t often get to see that side of Lou…most often we saw the tired, impatient, quick-to-anger side.  Long hours and hard work left him with little patience for his two youngest children…his daughters.  We were not, as is sometimes the case in families, daddy’s little princesses.  Surprisingly, he would sometimes refer to me as his princess and my sister as his baby, but in truth we were it seemed, more of an annoyance, small people who made too much noise and were too silly.
 

There were the days when he tried to be a good father.   When I was eight or nine, my sister and I and our father had a game we played from time to time, until he got fed up with it.  When we heard him pull up in the driveway, we would run and hide (always in the same place) behind the pillows in the cupboard.  He would pretend to search for us and ultimately ‘find’ us.  I remember being so excited that he was playing with us.  Some weekends would find us at Port Stanley.  My father loved the water and again, I was thrilled when he’d spend time with me.  He’d allow me to stand on his shoulders and dive into the water and encourage me to swim.  It happened very rarely, but it was wonderful to experience the playful father.  My love of swimming comes from those experiences.
 

Lou loved to sing and when we travelled to Detroit, our family indulged in two or three part harmony.  How I loved those times!  Of course, those were also the days when we were unaware of the dangers of smoking. Lou was a two-packet a day man and smoked in the car.  I was prone to motion sickness and when tobacco was added to the mix, the motion sickness often forced a very angry father to pull over to the side of the road, so his annoying daughter could vomit.

  

I never knew which father I would get when I was young.  I always hoped for the indulgent one, but most often the critical, short-tempered one showed up.  I know from family anecdotes that I was not the easiest child to endure….very whiney (especially after my sister was born) and too needy for someone who tended towards impatience. 

As I write this, I find there is so much to say.  I could talk about the many weekends and summer days when we worked with my father at ‘the store’.  Our drives back and forth to Woodstock heralded a different dynamic in our relationship… his many attempts to ‘educate’ us politically, our conversations about life, his unfavourable attitude about the ‘hippy-generation’, his love of radio talk-shows’ and the news.  We hated those especially, preferring the latest 70’s music.  It was always a battle of the radio dial.  He’d put up with a song or two and then switch back to his favourite channel.  All of this is especially interesting to me now because of my love for the CBC. 

Many years later when my family had all but given up on me ever having a child, along came my son.  When I was in hospital, my father sent me the most beautiful bouquet I’d ever seen.  I was absolutely shocked that he did.  This is one of several memories of him that I cherish.
 

When my son was two years old, I decided, with the help of a psychiatrist, that it was time to tell my father that I loved him.  I called his number in Florida and both my parents picked up.

“Hi, Lou. I just called to tell you I love you,” I blurted it out quickly.

There was no response….a very uncomfortable seven or eight seconds dragged by.

“We love you, too,” said my mother.

“Did you hear me, Lou?  I said I love you.”

Two beats…”Well, Arlene, I don’t know how I feel about you.”

My heart.  I struggled to hold back the tears and said, “Okay, well I’ll talk to you next week.”

When I hung up, the tears came.

Several weeks later my parents returned to Canada.  My father came for a visit and did something he had never done before.  He rested his arm on the back of the sofa where I was sitting and stroked my shoulder with his hand.  He never did tell me he loved me, but he tried to bridge the gap many times by making some kind of physical contact….a hug, a pat, his arm around me on the rare occasion.  This was huge for him…and for me.  He really tried and I so appreciated it.  It made me so happy.

He once confided in me.  “I watch you and J.P. and your sister and George and see how good you are with your children and I wish I’d been a better father to you.” 

He also loved to tell people that I taught at Fanshawe.  It was because of my father (who forced me to become a teacher) that I had the most wonderful job for thirty-two years.  He was proud of that fact and that I could speak several languages (albeit badly….he never knew how badly).

Forward to 1991.  My father suffered a major heart attack in Florida and was medevacked back to Canada.  We were all at the hospital to say our goodbyes.  They were going to take him off life-support..he was on a respirator.  He was conscious and knew it was his time.  Shelley and I went in together.  He couldn’t speak, but he obviously wanted to say something.  I asked the nurse for a pencil so he could write, but she told us it would be too stressful for him.  In retrospect, I so wish I’d been assertive enough to demand a pencil, but I was sickeningly passive in those days.  He beckoned to me with his index finger…”Come here.”  I went to him, but he, of course, couldn’t speak to me.  What did he want to tell me?  I’m almost sure he wanted to tell me to take care of my sister, so I told him I would.  But, maybe, just maybe he wanted to tell me he loved me?

Cake Anyone?

The following is not the most pleasant story.  I'm sorry....

I learned a lot of new things at my mechanic's garage a few days ago.  While I was waiting to have a new compressor installed, I went across the street to a well-known bakery and bought a cake for the guys who work at the shop.  I took it back to the waiting room and invited them to partake.  One in particular was very taken with the treat and came back for seconds.  This time, he sat at a stool and began to pontificate.  As a pleasant way to break the ice, he asked me if I ate meat and when I replied that I did, he told me I was a murderer and that the first commandment is, "Thou shalt not kill."  He asked, "If you were starving, would you kill a cow?"  "Yes, I would.  I wouldn't like to, but I would." Then, I said that the first commandment is not, "Thou shalt not kill," but is, “You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart, with all your soul, and with all your strength."  The man informed me that he didn't believe in the Bible anyway (so why quote it to me?) because it was written by the Roman Catholics.  He strengthened his position and further added a great deal of credibility to his argument (not) by stating that his father was a pastor and his mother went to church all the time.  I replied, as gently as I could, "Uh, the Bible was written in Hebrew and Aramaic and then translated into Greek. The Roman Catholics had nothing to do with it. It was written mostly, by Jews."  
"Oh, the Jews," said he.  They don't do anything!  They kneel at the wall for 23 hours a day and don't work."
"I don't think they kneel at the wall and if they do, it wouldn't be for such a long time."
"Jews don't work," said he. 
"I think most Jews work.  I think you're painting them all with the same brush." 
(I'm sensing just a bit of antisemitism here.)  
"They all hated Jesus and killed him," he continued, maybe to prove to me that he wasn't painting them all with the same brush (LOL!)?
"Sorry, that isn't true at all.  All of His followers in the beginning were Jewish...and so was He.  The Jews that wanted Him condemned were the Sanhedrin (the high priests) because He called them hypocrites and pointed out (on several occasions) their many failures.  He had thousands and thousands of followers who were Jews. His Jewish followers didn't want him to be killed."
Again he 'quoted' the Bible telling me about a story in which many scrolls were thrown into a fire and people were running and saving them and flapping their arms around from the heat.
"I'm not totally sure, but I don't believe that's a story from the Bible, at least one I've never heard," I said.
"Well, you must be stupid!" By now, he was shouting and waving his arms erratically over his head.
One part of my brain was saying, "Please Father, get him out of here.  Send him back to work." Another part was saying, "He's completely gone...forgive him (which of course, I did).  Alas, I could feel my blood pressure rising!
He finally left when I turned my back to him and looked out of the window.  I should have done that much earlier, obviously.
Why am I telling you this story?  I guess, just to relieve that 'pressure' by sharing it with all of you, to demonstrate that a little knowledge is, as they say, a dangerous thing (as if we didn't already know) and to remind us all that antisemitism (in fact, anti anyone that is different from ourselves) is very much alive and well on planet Earth. 

Una Rosa Con Cualquier Otro Nombre

Voy a hacer algo differente.  Voy a tratar de escribir algo en Espanol.  Espero que usted entendera!

Hace seis anos hemos vivido en Majorca.  Cada jueves, me encontre con un groupo de personas en un pueblo a 25 minutos de nuestro pueblo, para estudiar la Biblia. La jefe del grupo era una mujer de Texas que esta casado con un hombre de Majorca.  Su nombre es Sandra y su marido Adrian. Ellos tenian dos hijos pero querian otro hijo.  Los medicos les dijeron que Sandra no podia tener mas hijos. Pero....sopresa...Sandra quedo embarazada! Que alegria!  

Durante 6 meses han buscado un nombre para la bebe (una nina) pero ellos no pudieron ponerse de acuerdo en un nombre!  Todas la personas en el grupo tenian sugerencias, pero cada vez Sandra dijo, Dios dara su nombre.  Ella es una mujer de fe!  Estaba segura que Dios le daria un nombre!  

Ya era hora de salir de la isla.  Era la ultima vez que iba a ver el grupo.  Era en mi coche...estaba muy triste por dejar la isla y llore.  Me pregunte sobre el nombre del bebe.  Encontraron un nombre? De repente, una palabra salto en mi mente.  Habia oido esta palabra antes y sabia en este momento que seria el nombre del bebe y sabia que cuando lo oiga, Sandra estaria muy, muy emocionada y que me diria algo sobre este nombre.  Sabia que este nombre fue mandado por Dios!  

Cuando llegue a su casa, le conte todo lo que me habia pasado en el coche.  Le dije que Dios me mostro que estaria muy emocionada cuando escuche el nombre y que este nombre seria el nombre del bebe! Pero antes quiera verificar el significado en el ordinador. Ella era muy, muy impaciente de saber el nombre. Cuando termine de verificar el significado, dije, "Este nombre significa un retorno a la tierra prometida.  El nombre es Aliyah." Sandra empezo a saltar y llorar. Dije "Dime que paso." Ella me dijo la historia, "Ayer por la noche, Adrian (su marido) me hablo sobre su familia en Inglaterra. Estaba hablando sobre los nombres de sus primos."  Me dijo, "Sus nombres son Paul, Dean, Donna, Nigel y Martin.  Quince anos despues, mi tia tuvo un bebe y la llamo Aliyah." Sandra dijo, "Me gusta mucho este nombre.  Porque no me lo has dicho antes?"  

Es una coincidencia o un milagro?  Creo que es un milagro del Dios.  Sandra sabia que Dios le daria un nombre...y....en mi opinion, le dio uno! 

Just Another Day in Jimena (Revised in November 2017) My first ever attempt at writing fiction...I apologize in advance!)

                                                                                                                                                                                                       

The bell in the clock tower struck four.  8:50 a.m.  Another day in Jimena.  A day like any other.  They’d come here 8 months before, hoping to find meaning.  They’d meant to leave, but got stuck in this place of hills and valleys, of whitewashed abodes.

The place they’d rented, just for a week they promised each other, was rustic, not at all what they wanted.  She’d wanted something more modern.  She loved her creature comforts.  He’d wanted a place near the beach to windsurf.  Yet, here they were, eight months in and still waking each morning at 8:50 a.m. to the bell in the clock tower striking 4.  Still in Jimena.

She can’t remember when he started drinking.  Breakfast was a thing of the past.  Wine started the day, beer ended it.  The thin, muscled stomach of which he’d been so proud, now hung over his belt; his shirts no longer buttoned.  She too, had started enjoying her drink.  She found herself waiting anxiously for the bell in the clock tower to ring 7 times.  Almost noon.  Not too early, she’d tell herself as she poured the fermented liquid into a dirty wine glass she’d pluck from the pile of unwashed glasses lining the counter.

When was the last time they’d washed the dishes or taken out the garbage or bothered to remove the empties?  The smell didn’t bother them anymore. Nothing bothered them much anymore.  She looked at him…his empty, rheumy eyes stared back at her…hopeless.  They were hopeless in Jimena.

No more contact with the outside world.  They hadn’t checked their email for months.  They knew people worried about them, but somehow they just didn’t care.  The last time she’d heard from her sister and her son, they’d expressed concern."“Well, let them worry,” she sighed as she poured them both another.

                                                                    *******

Morning in Jimena. The bell in the clock tower struck 4.  They woke up.  He grimaced in her direction.  His teeth were stained blue; hers were, too.

 

A knock at the door.

“The door,” he slurred.

“You get it!  Did you break a leg?”

“MERDE,” he swore, as he dragged himself from the bed.

She heard the lock turn; heard the door open.

“Who is it?"

He didn’t answer.

“WHO IS IT,” she yelled.

A woman’s voice. “It’s your neighbours, Louise and Brent. We haven’t seen you for so long!  We decided to visit.

”

Her husband entered the bedroom followed by the two.  They both had one hand behind their backs. Their eyes opened wide with disbelief as they took in the rows of empty bottles, the unwashed sheets, the dirty clothes piled high on the floor.

She threw back the stained blanket and tried to stand up. Staggering, she fell back.  She managed with great difficulty the second time.

“Why are you here,” she asked belligerently.

As if of one mind, the two took their hands from behind their backs.  Grinning from ear to ear, they held them out.  Two bottles of wine.

They poured the alcohol into four filthy glasses.  Her husband made the toast.  “Here’s to another day in Jimena.”  

                                                                     ********

It had been five months since the visit.  The lives became more hopeless with each bottle consumed.  Loneliness was an anchor that paralyzed them.

In one of their more lucid moments, they talked about it.  It was time for a change, they decided.  Time to leave Jimena.  Time to start hoping again.  Their rent was paid until the end of the month, but they didn’t want to wait.  A forgotten emotion....anticipation?

Bags packed, they piled into the car.  He started driving down through the narrow village streets passing people they hadn’t seen in months, waving happily at each one as they passed by. They could almost taste the hope, it was that palpable.  They looked at each other and smiled, excited for the future. They heard the bell in the clock tower strike 6.  It was almost eleven a.m.  They had lots of time to make their flight.

The countryside embraced them.  They used to love this road; it had always filled them with peace.  The rolling hills, the gentle curves, the cows and horses grazing in the fields.  They could feel the stress of the past year rolling away as they got closer to the highway that lead to Malaga and the airplane.

The roundabout leading to the highway was just ahead.  Their future was just ahead. 

                                                                     ********

The car that hit them hadn’t been there half a second before.  They were dazed, but not hurt from the impact.  Before they knew it, a police car had arrived.

“Your driver’s license, please.”

He reached into his wallet and with trembling hands, pulled it out and handed it to the officer.

“This has expired.  I smell alcohol.  Have you been drinking, sir?”

“We had quite a bit of wine last night, but nothing today.”

“Please get out of the car and blow very hard into this, sir,” he said, brandishing a breathalyzer.

He did as told.

“Sir, I’m afraid we’ll have to impound your car.  Your blood alcohol is much higher than the accepted limit.  If you’ll just step this way.”  The officer opened the back door of the police car for them.  They removed their luggage from their trunk and placed it in the trunk of the police car.  They climbed into the back seat.

They used to love this road…it had always made them feel peaceful, but now it just felt like hope dashed…hope no more.

The officer dropped them back at their apartment in Jimena.  Hungry, they opened the refrigerator.  All there was inside was a single bottle of wine; a single bottle of wine.

 

The bell in the clock tower struck 8.

MAGNIFICENT - A GIFT

"All right.  Roll from the bed onto the table."
"Do what?  Onto where?"
"Come on.  You can do it!"
"I can't feel anything at all from my chest down to my feet and you're telling me to move?"
I lift my head and glance down at the body to which I seem to have no connection.  The epidural has severed it into two halves - mind and a big hunk of meat, formerly known as legs and torso.  I touch the disembodied appendages. They even feel like meat - cold, flaccid.  The lack of summer sun and thirty pounds of extra weight add an air of raw chicken flesh to the goosebumps that cover them. Why is it so cold in the operating room?
"Sorry, there's no way I can move from here.  You're going to have to help me."
Two strong nurses make short work of the transfer, straining only slightly under the bulky load. Starched linens snap as they cover my prone body with a tent-like structure, thankfully cutting off our view of it.  The harsh artificial lighting causes me to squint as I glance up at my husband.  A hospital mask hides the lower half of his face which is still, I'm sure, registering fear.  He hates hospitals and when the doctor informed him in no uncertain terms that he WOULD go into the operating room with me, he had paled considerably.  I reach for his hand to comfort him and smile brightly.  I'm not at all afraid.  Everything will be fine. Yes, it's a shame that natural childbirth hadn't worked out for us, but women have cesarean sections all the time and rarely die.  
The sound of scuffling feet behind us herald the entrance of the doctor and his assistants.  They make their way to my lower half and are hidden behind the 'tent'. We hear the movement of a cart and then, "All right.  Let's get this baby born. Thirty-two hours is a long time to wait.  I'm going to make the incision now. You may feel some pressure, but it won't hurt."
"If I feel a thing, it will amaze me, Dr. Patrick."
I look at my husband and our eyes meet.  We are going to see our son, finally! Elation and fear. Are we ready for this?  Even after all of the books and manuals on childbirth and babies, we feel so unprepared.  Ready or not, it's about to happen!  I feel some pressure and then see my husband's eyes widen as a single drop of blood flies through the air and splashes onto his cheek.  He doesn't like blood, either.  I squeeze his hand. His eyes close tightly as he successfully fights the urge to pass out.
The operating table vibrates wildly under me while the linen tent above me undulates rapidly.
"What's going on down there?  Are you trying to kill me?"
The doctor laughs.  "We're just about to deliver your baby.  
A long pause.
"Here he is!"
I wait for the cry, but the room is silent.  Oh, my God, is he alive?  Why isn't he crying?
A nurse runs out of the room carrying a bundle.  Oh, Lord.  Please let him be all right.  I can't speak. Can't ask what is happening; too afraid to hear something dreadful.  Tortuous, long minutes pass. We are both frozen in fear.  Please God, please.  My heart hurts - it's pounding so fast.  Please, please, please.  A CRY! The most wonderful sound ever.  My baby cried!  I cry!
The nurse comes back into the room and places the tightly-wrapped bundle beside me on the operating table. Our son's eyes meet mine.  Such wonder.  A miracle.  A gift from God.  He looks just as we had imagined he would.  Brown eyes, big, crooked nose, little red curls dot his head.  He is MAGNIFICENT.

MAGNIFICENT - A GIFT

The sterility of artificial lighting and the silver sheen of highly-glossed medical instruments...we're in the operating room at St. Joseph's Hospital.
"All right.  Roll from the bed onto the table."
"Do what?  Onto where?"
"Come on.  You can do it!"
"I can't feel anything at all from my chest down to my feet and you're telling me to move?"
I lift my head and glance down at the body to which I seem to have no connection.  The epidural has severed it into two halves - mind and a big hunk of meat, formerly known as legs and torso.  I touch the disembodied appendages. They even feel like meat - cold, flaccid.  The lack of summer sun and thirty pounds of extra weight add an air of raw chicken flesh to the goosebumps that cover them. Why is it so cold in the operating room?
"Sorry, there's no way I can move from here.  You're going to have to help me."
Two strong nurses make short work of the transfer, straining only slightly under the bulky load. Starched linens snap as they cover my prone body with a tent-like structure, thankfully cutting off our view of it.  The glare of the harsh lighting causes me to squint as I glance up at my husband.  A hospital mask hides the lower half of his face which is still, I'm sure, registering fear.  He hates hospitals and when the doctor informed him in no uncertain terms that he WOULD go into the operating room with me, he had paled considerably.  I reach for his hand to comfort him and smile brightly.  I'm not at all afraid.  Everything will be fine. Yes, it's a shame that natural childbirth hadn't worked out for us, but women have cesarean sections all the time and rarely die.  
The sound of scuffling feet behind us herald the entrance of the doctor and his assistants.  They make their way to my lower half and are hidden behind the 'tent'. We hear the movement of a cart and then, "All right.  Let's get this baby born. Thirty-two hours is a long time to wait.  I'm going to make the incision now. You may feel some pressure, but it won't hurt."
"If I feel a thing, it will amaze me, Dr. Patrick."
I look at my husband and our eyes meet.  We are going to see our son, finally! Over the months, we'd speculated about his appearance. J.P. has black hair and dark brown eyes and I, as you know, have blond hair and green eyes.  Large noses can be found on both sides of the family. We laughed as we envisioned our future child's 'looks'.  "His eyes will be brown, because brown is dominant over green, his hair will probably be red, and he'll have a big nose for sure." 
Elation and fear. Are we ready for this?  Even after all of the books and manuals on childbirth and babies, we feel so unprepared.  Ready or not, it's about to happen!  I feel some pressure and then see my husband's eyes widen as a single drop of blood flies through the air and splashes onto his cheek.  He doesn't like blood, either.  I squeeze his hand. His eyes close tightly as he successfully fights the urge to pass out.
The operating table vibrates wildly under me while the linen tent above me undulates rapidly.
"What's going on down there?  Are you trying to kill me?"
The doctor laughs.  "We're just about to deliver your baby.  
A long pause.
"Here he is!"
I wait for the cry, but the room is silent.  Oh, my God, is he alive?  Why isn't he crying?
A nurse runs out of the room carrying a bundle.  Oh, Lord.  Please let him be all right.  I can't speak. Can't ask what is happening; too afraid to hear something dreadful.  Tortuous, long minutes pass. We are both frozen in fear.  Please God, please.  My heart hurts - it's pounding so fast.  Please, please, please.  A CRY! The most wonderful sound ever.  My baby cried!  I cry!
The nurse comes back into the room and places the tightly-wrapped bundle beside me on the operating table. Our son's eyes meet mine.  Such wonder.  A miracle.  A gift from God.  He looks just as we had imagined he would.  Brown eyes, big, crooked nose, little red curls dot his head.  He is MAGNIFICENT.