Life seems very full of contrasts these days: ups and downs and goings-round that lead nowhere in particular. Maybe that is part of living this icy winter life in the north, where the days revolve between blue skies and ashen skies and if you aren't careful, you are looking up one minute, and the next you are on the black-ice that lurked under the white snow. The other night, on our way to a potluck birthday party, J.'s feet went out from under him, just like that. He was carrying a white porcelain platter of deviled eggs, and like a deft waiter, didn't drop a single slippery one.
I find I'm battling against some hidden demons myself: the short days; the ill-spirited political arguments; the city navigation amid waist-high snowbanks and short-tempered drivers shoveling out yet again; the early arrival of Lent when I'm not feeling ready to be self-critical and would much rather hold onto my crankiness. There are some more immediate reasons for feeling discouraged, among them the recently diagnosed breast cancer of a close friend and some most-unpleasant dental surgery I just found out I need to have in March. On the other hand, I found out today that my friend's surgery went very well and she has an excellent prognosis, and after a day of feeling miserable, I've accepted that the dental work will be one more step toward an eventual stable situation and greater comfort for me. And the snow and ice, tiresome as they are sometimes, are really beautiful.
At the aforementioned party, I met a Dutch woman who works with very elderly people, and with people who are nearing death. While a jazz combo of young students played in the living room, and the guests drank wine, she and I sat on the stairs and had an earnest conversation about meeting people where they are: about just being there. She's been doing this work all her life. She told me that many people facing death are very angry - that anger is one of the strongest and most common emotions she encounters. "Angry that they're dying; angry at their situation; angry at the Church for letting them down, making them feel unworthy - I see that a lot. And so many people have unresolved issues and relationships," she said. "Things they've been stubborn about and are too proud to relinquish. And so, at the end, they are really suffering. I sit with them, and eventually, if there's enough time and they trust me, stories come out. I never say much. Sometimes people make changes, do things, say the things they need to say, tell the stories they want to tell. And sometimes they don't." She raised her eyebrows and smiled a half-smile; not judging but merely noting the sadness she had observed. "And other people embrace life and the moment, as much of it as they can, even with great limitations."
She told me this story: she had been working once in a chronic care facility, and was asked to fill in for someone who ran an "art cart", taking reproduction paintings around to people in their rooms, most of which had bare walls and were pretty grim. So she started doing that. She'd go into the rooms and tell the people that she had paintings, and they could pick one if they wanted, and she would put it up on their wall. "The people were often in terrible physical shape," she said. "One woman was just a pile of bones in a bed, drooling from one corner of her mouth - she looked absolutely awful - but when I told her what I was there for, she immediately brightened up and told me she would love a painting, that she had had many works of art in her home, and described them all to me - she had really known a lot about art and lived with it. You never know." Other people dismissed the paintings immediately, "Why should I want something like that?" But one day she went into a room and saw that the man in the bed was blind. She had hesitated for a minute, and then told him why she was there. "Even though you can't see it yourself, maybe it would give people who come into the room something to talk to you about," she suggested.
"That's a good idea!" he said. "What kids of paintings do you have?" - for he had been able to see earlier in his life.
"There are lots of different ones. Why don't you tell me what you are imagining?"
"I see a field full of flowers, and a beautiful young woman there, and she looks very happy."
As it turned out, she had a painting in the cart that was very much like that, and she described it to him, and put it up on his wall, and the blind man was delighted. The nurse was silent for a moment, and then she turned to me and said, "You see? They are teaching me; they show me how to be."
(o)
Posted by: dale | February 04, 2008 at 10:25 PM
i like it here!
my feet went out from under me tues- black ice- i broke my wrist and radius..
glad he was luckier than i
Posted by: rose | February 05, 2008 at 09:50 AM
Hi Beth,
I am heading into town soon for two unpleasent hours in the dental chair so I sympathize. I'll be happy when it is over.
We just had more snow here but we are glad it was snow and not all the rain predicted. It is raining now but with a few inches of snow it won't be too bad. My best advice for winter is to get out in it and go cross country skiing. There are wonderful places outside Montreal and I find there is nothing like feeling better physically to help enjoy winter. For me, winter is a peaceful time and once the snow goes life speeds up with gardening, building and shooting video. So I am happy to enjoy these winter days in the mountains.
Posted by: Zuleme | February 05, 2008 at 11:04 AM
That's a wonderful story about the art cart. When people are ill, really seriously ill, I think we sometimes become so caught up in caring for them and in the illness itself that we forget that they are still just people with likes and dislikes, strengths and weaknesses, and needs outside of their physcial being.
Posted by: kaycie | February 05, 2008 at 11:49 AM
Beth,
I enjoyed this glimpse of your life, thank-you!
Posted by: the sylph | February 05, 2008 at 12:20 PM
As always, I enjoy the little stories about your day to day life, the good and not so good but ultimately integral to life. Very insightful story of the art cart!
Posted by: marja-leena | February 05, 2008 at 01:03 PM
Great story from the nurse.
Posted by: Dave | February 05, 2008 at 03:34 PM
It's that time of year when the wolf is snapping at your heels and lurking in the corners!
That was good hearing what your nurse friend said; the stubbornness and resultant suffering sound familiar regarding how my mother was, also sometimes when people would perhaps be prepared to give up their stubbornness, it's too late. But there are hopeful stories, and the art-cart one is one of them.
Posted by: Lucy | February 05, 2008 at 03:48 PM
What a wonderful story. And yes, always learning.
Posted by: rr | February 05, 2008 at 06:41 PM
Awesome!
Posted by: Bill | February 06, 2008 at 10:51 AM
I so enjoy checking in with you. I haven't been able to write in a couple of weeks. Reading this entry brought tears (that were just right) and gratitude. And I took the opportunity to link any of my readers to "Round about Blue." Such a February feeling. Thanks.
Posted by: Pat | February 06, 2008 at 12:50 PM
Wonderful story. Sounds like she brought you your own art cart.
Posted by: leslee | February 06, 2008 at 06:57 PM
Always something new and fresh and insightful here, never disappointing. Your place is a joy to visit, Beth. Don't let the demons get you down, tear them to shreds.
Posted by: Natalie | February 06, 2008 at 08:42 PM
What a lovely post. Your new friend says exactly what I would have wished that I had said, only after I had moved on to the next room.
Posted by: annie | February 08, 2008 at 09:34 AM
This brought tears to my eyes, too. I would like to remember this story: it would help me with some of the terrible inadequacy I feel around people who are ill or bereaved.
Posted by: Nancy | February 16, 2008 at 04:31 AM