A Father of the Bride Summer

A Father of the Bride Summer

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At long last, we are planning a wedding in this home.

We’ve talked about it. Dreamed about it. Imagined it. Ever since my daughter Lexie was little, being a bride and having a wedding has been part of our conversations. Lexie always knew she wanted a wedding—even during the years when she wasn’t entirely sure she wanted a husband.

And now, at long last, it’s come to fruition.

She’s found her prince charming, so to speak. Although if we’re being realistic, is any man really Prince Charming?

Red comes close.

Had I ever imagined that my future son-in-love would be named after a colour? No. For years, as I prayed for Lexie’s future husband, I gave him a name. Paul. Paul after the Apostle Paul. It somehow felt less abstract to pray for an unknown boy and eventual man if he had a name.

Years later, when Red was telling Lexie about his childhood in Romania, he spoke about how often he and his older brother were left on their own. They got into some trouble, as boys often do, but he remarked that he was surprised they hadn’t gotten into much worse trouble or experienced more serious consequences.Without missing a beat, Lexie replied, “That’s because my mom has been praying for you since I was a baby.”I was ridiculously delighted when she told me that story—not only because she remembered all those years of prayers, but because she knew exactly when to tell him.

Red hails from Romania. Lexie met him while living in London, England, for two years. When her time there came to an end, she essentially brought him home with her.Because he was immigrating to Canada, he wasn’t immediately able to work, which made finding a place of their own difficult. So we happily welcomed them into our home.

One month after Red arrived, they were married in our backyard. The visa process began, life moved forward, and now, almost two years later, we’re finally planning the wedding celebration.

Since I work in a school, I have summers off. This summer will be spent sewing for the wedding, planning the wedding, baking for the wedding, and decorating for the wedding.

And if I’m honest, this whole wedding business has been a dream of mine too.

Of course, I had my own wedding 45 years ago and I’m still married to the same wonderful man. But back then, weddings weren’t quite the cultural phenomenon they’ve become. The wedding itself wasn’t the dream; it was simply the vehicle that got you to the marriage.

Somewhere along the way, weddings became something more. They became celebrations, family stories, and treasured memories before they even happened.

Lexie and I share an affection for the movie Father of the Bride. We quote it far more often than any reasonable people should. Over the years it has become part of our family language. Sometimes I’ll say, “This is a Father of the Bride day.” What I mean is difficult to explain. It isn’t really about weddings. It’s about a feeling. A sense of gratitude. A recognition that life, for all its hardships and surprises, has produced a moment worth celebrating.

A Father of the Bride day is a good day.

And this summer, I suspect there will be many of them.

Somewhere to Stay

Somewhere to Stay

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Instead of looking for somewhere to go… build somewhere to stay.

I love that. It reminds me of another saying I heard once: Instead of trying to escape your life, build a life you don’t need to escape from.

That feels much closer to the kind of life I want.

I’ve never really had that feeling of “Anywhere but here.” I like my home. I like my life. I like my people. I realize that may sound rather ordinary, but perhaps that’s exactly the point. Somewhere along the way our culture started convincing us that ordinary isn’t enough. We begin to believe that fulfillment must always be found somewhere else—on another continent, another beach, another adventure, another bucket-list destination.

We pour so much expectation into “getting away.” We imagine ease, rest, perfection. Yet right off the bat, airports are usually none of those things. They’re crowded, noisy, expensive, and exhausting. And that’s before you’ve even reached your destination.

Then you arrive and discover the room isn’t what you expected. There are cockroaches. Or construction next door. Or you packed the wrong shoes and the wrong clothes—the ones you paid an extra two hundred dollars to bring. Your luggage disappears. Your return flight is cancelled. You drink the water you shouldn’t have, or eat at the little restaurant everyone recommended and spend the next day in bed with food poisoning. A political coup breaks out. Maybe that’s an extreme example—but the point is, travel isn’t paradise. It’s simply life… in another location.

Of course, many trips go beautifully. There are places in this world I would genuinely love to see. I often imagine going on a cooking vacation to Italy or France. And I’d hesitate to say no to beaches with warm sand, seashells, and impossibly blue water. I understand why people travel, and I don’t begrudge them that joy for a moment.

But every time I think seriously about planning a trip, I find myself asking a different question.

Is it worth leaving a life I already love?

Because when I look around, I realize that so much of what brings me happiness is already here.

My people are here. Well… to be honest, most of them are living in my house.

If we decide on a whim to have everyone over for burgers in the backyard, everything we need is already here. We can string up the lights, light the barbecue, sit around the table long after the dishes have been cleared away, laughing over stories we’ve heard a dozen times but still enjoy.

If a summer thunderstorm rolls in, we can order pizza, put on a movie, and listen to the rain pound against the windows while we’re warm and dry inside.

On quiet afternoons I can read a good book, work on a puzzle, fuss over my flowers, pull a few weeds, admire something new that’s blooming, or spend an afternoon baking bread that makes the whole house smell welcoming.

Friends can come for dinner without anyone needing a passport.

Christmas can last as long as we want it to. We can linger over traditions, decorate the tree one ornament at a time, celebrate birthdays and anniversaries, and make a much bigger fuss over life’s milestones than the world probably thinks necessary.

These are the things that become a life.

These are the memories that quietly weave themselves into a family.

Perhaps that’s why I don’t really have wanderlust. It’s not that I don’t appreciate beauty in other places. It’s simply that I don’t believe contentment is waiting for me somewhere else. I don’t think joy lives at the end of a boarding pass.

I’ve discovered that home can become its own destination if you’re willing to build it that way.

And then there’s another reason.

As a Christ follower, this world isn’t my final destination anyway. Scripture reminds me that I’m just passing through. So while I’m here, I want to build a life marked by gratitude instead of constantly searching for the next escape. I want a home where people feel welcomed, where meals are shared, where conversations linger, where faith grows quietly, and where love is practiced in a thousand ordinary ways.

Now… if someone happened to offer me a week on a quiet beach with warm sand beneath my feet, seashells scattered along the shore, and an azure ocean stretching to the horizon… I certainly wouldn’t refuse.

Whether it’s worth all the hassle to get there?

The jury’s still out.

Multiple colorful fireworks exploding over a city skyline at night with reflections in the water Savouring Summer

Savouring Summer

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I’m actually just loving this summer so far.

I’ve been on summer vacation, so to speak, for two weeks now. They haven’t gone exactly the way I’d hoped because I wasn’t planning on doing a bit of a home renovation. But I got through that. It’s done. It’s beautiful. And now we move on.

My garden has been incredibly satisfying. Every spring I wonder, Am I going to be able to get it looking as good as it did last summer? And somehow it usually shows up for me… mostly because I show up for it.

It’s never the same from year to year, but it’s always beautiful in different ways. Gardening is one big experiment, and I love waiting to see what that experiment is going to produce. I’ve given up on vegetables, but I don’t miss them. Instead, I have gorgeous perennials and annuals, and I’m now up to seven rose bushes. They’re all blooming, and every time I do my early morning garden walk  they make me smile.

And finally… summer has arrived.

My husband turned on the air conditioning in the middle of June, but most days I was sitting here wishing I could turn on the fireplace but that doesn’t make sense.. It just never felt like summer. But now it does.

I’ve already seen two sets of fireworks. Fireworks just feel like summer to me. They’re festive and uplifting and spectacular. I’d love to have fireworks at my daughter’s wedding, but since it’s happening in the daytime, I’m thinking that might be a little difficult to pull off.

My early morning walks have been well worth the effort. The mornings are beautiful, and once I’ve accomplished that, I usually feel like accomplishing something else. It’s funny how one good decision often leads to another.

I’ve made my first potato salad of the season. We’ve had watermelon. I baked a lovely Fourth of July cake for my husband and me to celebrate our 45th wedding anniversary, which happens to fall on July 4th. I have to admit, I love the way Americans celebrate Independence Day. It’s probably the only time I’m ever a little jealous that I don’t live there. I love all the red, white, and blue.

Sometimes I’ll be driving somewhere on one of those perfect summer evenings—taking my mom home after she’s spent the afternoon with us or heading to Costco for cheap gas—and I find myself wishing I had somewhere to go just to soak up the evening. But most of the time I simply head back home. Gas is too expensive for aimless joyrides.

We did spend an evening at the Stampede, though. The Stampede itself left a little to be desired this year, but it was still a lovely summer evening. And the fireworks made it all worth it for me. My husband and I also went to see one of the big summer blockbuster movies. We didn’t understand half of it, but that’s okay. The popcorn was excellent, and when we got home our son explained the entire plot to us.

My mom loves coming over to sit on our deck. Her apartment gets unbearably warm in the summer because she doesn’t have air conditioning, so bringing her here for the afternoon has become one of my favourite little routines. We usually stop for Starbucks on the way, and then she sits outside as long as she wants, enjoying the breeze and the flowers.

And the best part?

I still have seven more full weeks before I have to go back to work.

There are gardens to tend, books to read, walks to take, movies to watch, roses to admire, and probably a few more fireworks to enjoy.  Well maybe not fireworks but for sure, thunderstorms with lightning.

I’m planning on savouring every bit of it and holding these summer memories close to my heart… so that when January arrives, I can pull them out again and live on them for a while.

I Can Do Hard Things

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For most of my life, I have struggled with my weight. I am not one of those naturally thin, high-metabolism people. I’m built sturdier than that. Pregnancy changed my body both times, and after each baby I fought hard to find my way back to some version of “normal.” And now, after two strokes, menopause, COVID, and simply the wear and tear of aging, staying healthy can sometimes feel like a full-time commitment layered on top of all the other responsibilities of life.

But I haven’t given up.

These days, though, my motivation has changed. I no longer chase some impossible ideal of thinness or youth. I want health. I want strength. I want energy. I want good lab results. I want to walk well into old age. I want to do everything I reasonably can to reduce the chances of another stroke. So I keep trying — eating better more often, walking more, lifting weights when I can, learning to care for this body instead of constantly criticizing it. And I’ll be honest, very often I fail at this and sometimes I just don’t even care.  I’m just exhaustified. But I press on….

And maybe this is one of the gifts that comes with age: perspective.

At some point, you begin to realize that your worth was never tied to the size of your waist or the number on a scale. The culture may worship youth and thinness, but God does not measure human value that way. He looks much deeper than outward appearance. He looks at the heart, the spirit, the character being formed through an entire lifetime of joys and sorrows and endurance.

Do I wish I had always taken better care of the healthy body I was originally given? Of course. But shame is a poor motivator for lasting change. I’m tired of fighting my body as though it were the enemy. This body has carried me through pregnancies and illnesses, grief and celebrations, long workdays and sleepless nights, surgeries and recoveries, mountains and oceans, kitchens and gardens, worship and ordinary Tuesdays. It has survived things I once thought might break me.

And despite its imperfections, it still serves me faithfully every day.

This body lets me walk beneath Alberta skies and see the mountains. It lets me hear the birds sing , music, and the laughter of people I love. It lets me taste warm bread fresh from the oven and smell lilacs in the spring. It allows me to hug my children, care for my mother, quilt at the table, bake in my kitchen, play the piano, dig in the dirt, sing in church, write my thoughts, and pray my prayers.

That is no small thing.

So yes, I still want to become healthier. I want to treat this body as a good steward should — not out of vanity, but out of gratitude. I want to nourish it, strengthen it, and respect it as the temple of the Holy Spirit it was meant to be.

But I no longer want to spend my life obsessing over whether I take up too much space in a photograph or whether someone else’s waist is smaller than my thigh.

In the end, those things simply are not important.

Health matters. Strength matters. Stewardship matters.  And I can do hard things.

 

Finally….spring is in the air

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It feels almost miraculous that spring — or really, summer — has finally arrived. Last weekend it was still snowing, and now suddenly it’s May 24th weekend, the time I usually plant flowers and sow seeds and begin believing again that warm weather might actually stay.

I don’t usually drive in the dark anymore, but the evenings are finally stretching long enough that I can take my mom home after Sunday dinner myself instead of bribing someone else to do it for me.

And driving home tonight, beneath the breathtaking sunset of an early summer evening, I felt nostalgic and deeply grateful.

Grateful that another summer has come around and that I get to be here for it.

Grateful that going outside no longer requires ten layers of clothing. Grateful for dry roads and soft evenings and open windows instead of icy streets and survival mode. Grateful too that summer still lies ahead of me — not already slipping away. There are still five weeks left of school, and because I work in a school café, this particular season always feels sweet. Everything is winding down. There are  teas and barbecues and farewell dinners and little celebrations before everyone disappears into the slower rhythm of summer.

I have lofty plans for these coming months, as I always do.This summer will mostly belong to wedding preparations. My daughter is getting married in September, and suddenly it all feels wonderfully, terrifyingly real. There are things to sew and baking to do and meals to plan. Decorations to gather. A mood to imagine. . And now the RSVPs are beginning to arrive — people coming from overseas and across the border — which means we truly do have to create something lovely for them to arrive to. It’s no longer just an idea floating somewhere in the future. It’s happening.

As I drove along the freeway in the soft twilight, the scent of Mayday trees and spring blossoms drifted through the open windows. And for some reason, the whole evening felt like a scene from Father of the Bride — one of those movies our family has watched over and over through the years because it never fails to put us in a good mood. That warm mixture of chaos and sentimentality and family life unfolding in ordinary moments. That’s exactly what tonight felt like.

When I pulled into the driveway after dropping Mom off, my husband and daughter were in the garage sorting and organizing flowers for her flower business. The dog was racing around the yard in the warm evening air, simply delighted to be included in whatever was happening.

And standing there in the fading light, with summer just beginning and all of us together in the middle of our ordinary, messy, beautiful life, I felt incredibly blessed.

Let it Go, Let it Go

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Well, today turned into one of those “face the chaos” family days. All five of us were out in the garage sorting through years of accumulated life. I laid down one rule right from the start: if you’re not out here making decisions about your stuff, don’t be surprised if you never see it again. Miraculously, everybody showed up.

And honestly? The amount of stuff we own is almost embarrassing.

To be fair, not all of it is junk. A lot of it is perfectly good things we simply haven’t used in years. Which then raises the question… why exactly are we keeping it?

We’ve already hauled one full truckload to a mission thrift store, and we’ll probably have another by the time we’re done. There’s a mountain of cardboard recycling, overflowing garbage bins, and still endless Rubbermaids waiting to be opened, sorted, debated over, and reluctantly surrendered.

But it does feel good.

Part of what we’re doing is less “cleaning” and more archaeological excavation of five adult lives under one roof. We’re creating zones now: all of Lexie and RED’s stuff together so they know where it is when it’s time to move, Andrew’s things together, Lexie’s business inventory together. My immediate mission was simply to fit Lexie’s six bins of Christmas business décor into the garage so she wouldn’t have to store them at a friend’s house.  And we will accomplish that

Because I have a personal philosophy about storage lockers: if we can’t store what we own on our own property, we probably own too much stuff.

I know there are legitimate reasons for storage units. If you’re moving overseas temporarily, renovating, downsizing, running a business, sure — that makes sense. But I suspect a shocking number of people are paying monthly fees to store things they don’t even remember they own anymore. Entire buildings full of forgotten treadmills, broken lamps, university dishes, mystery cords, and emotional attachments disguised as belongings.

What does that say about us?

Somewhere along the line, “having enough” quietly became “having more than we can manage.”

Mike turns 70 this year, and I’m right behind him. We can’t take any of this with us, and neither of us wants to leave our kids with a giant mountain of sorting and guilt one day. At some point you start realizing that simplifying isn’t deprivation — it’s relief.

Now, in my own defense, I am a creative person. Creative people do come with supplies. Fabric, paint, baskets, jars, ribbons, unfinished ideas, and oddly specific tools for projects we fully intend to do someday. And I do believe there’s a difference between decluttering and throwing away something you’ll just have to repurchase later.

But still.

Why do we own fifteen knapsacks and fifteen duffle bags?

Why is there luggage with broken wheels that nobody would willingly take through an airport?

Why does Mike need approximately half a million used golf balls?

Why do we own three artificial Christmas trees when we buy a real tree every single year?

Why do we still have two entire bins of Andrew’s university kitchenware untouched since 2012 — especially considering most of it originally came from Value Village in the first place?

And perhaps the biggest question of all:

Why am I emotionally attached to rollerblades I haven’t used in years, especially after two strokes and with balance that now occasionally argues with gravity?

This is the strange thing about possessions. They’re rarely just objects. They’re evidence of who we were, what we hoped for, what stage of life we were in, or who we thought we might become someday.

But eventually there comes a point where the stuff starts owning you more than you own it.

And maybe part of getting older is learning how to loosen your grip a little.

 

August to Autumn

August to Autumn

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Summer has slipped quietly into memory. The air still hums with warmth, but the season of freedom—the weeks of long mornings, of wandering and lollygagging—has drawn to a close. I knew it would. It always does. That’s the way of things.
This summer did not fly by in a blur; it stretched, slow and generous, like a deep breath I didn’t know I needed. I woke to mornings without obligations, with no destination waiting. I lingered in the garden—small but abundant—watering when I wished, clipping blooms, photographing their brief perfection as reminders of what thrived and what faltered.
From the comfort of my deck, I listened to the familiar symphony of summer: the laughter of children splashing in plastic pools, the whir of lawn mowers, motorcycles humming faintly on distant roads, aspens whispering secrets to the breeze. This year the storms spared my little patch of green, and with the rains it grew lush, like a pocket of jungle in the city.
I walked miles, not every day, but enough to feel my body lengthen into the years ahead. I began books and paintings, though few found their endings. I prayed often, as my grown children scattered into adventures—motorbikes on open roads, camping trips under wet skies, transatlantic flights for work. They lived widely; I lived quietly, and still, through them, I lived.
It feels almost like I am writing one of those old school essays: What I Did on My Summer Vacation. Perhaps teachers still assign them. My list is modest, and maybe that is why summer stretched so long. There was space. And space is its own kind of abundance.
Tomorrow, I return. To work. To closed-in shoes and cafeteria routines. To beef burgers, pizza, chicken fingers. To the steady rhythm of service.
And yet, as autumn opens before me, I feel anticipation more than loss. This has always been my favourite season. The nostalgia of new notebooks and sharpened pencils. The comfort of sweaters—my truest companions. The farmer’s markets brimming with promise, baskets filled for canning and pies. A season that insists on gratitude, on gathering, on giving thanks. Though gratitude should not be seasonal, autumn reminds me to practice it more deeply.
I think of the girl I once was, walking home from school, scattering leaves with each step, delighting in the sound of their crisp surrender underfoot. That memory lives in me still, bright as the turning trees.
And so I move forward, season into season. Not with sadness, but with thankfulness for the gifts of what has been, and with a heart open to what is yet to come.

The Blessing of Doing…well…Nothing

The Blessing of Doing…well…Nothing

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The last day of July.  I don’t want it to end.  I mean….I LOVE August…but I don’t want August to end so I don’t want it to begin.  I want to stay right here in July relishing the anticipation of August.  June 30. The summer was so full of promise and expectation.  The excitement of slower days and slower living. the opportunity to lollygag my way through a couple of months. And lollygag, I’ve done.  Well except for the two bakery days I held in my front yard. July 1 and July 31.   When I hatched this idea in the spring I thought I would do it every week.  HA.  Jokes on me.  It’s a lot more work than I thought.  Maybe I’m doing it the wrong way?  or maybe I just realized I didn’t want to spend my entire summer vacation working.  Once again I am blessed to be working at a school and have the summer off.  Of course all my friends joke (even my colleagues) about my pretend job.  13 hours a week. But hey,  it really takes up 3 days of my week.  So I have a super long weekend every week but the days I do work I consider work days and usually don’t get much else done on those days due to exhaustion.   And I certainly don’t want to spend the summer working more than I do during the year.   All that to say…..I’m as light headed as a school kid when summer vacation rolls around.
I was anticipating a stay-cation but serendipity had me on a plane East to visit, bond and discuss health issues with my siblings and that was good use of 11 days of July.  My garden has turned into a tropical rain forest aka jungle and I love it.  With the added initiative of adult children living at home it was set in motion and now I nurture it.  Adult kids don’t have time to water plants.  But I do.  I can’t wait to get up in the morning and take a little meander in my secret garden. See what has sprouted overnight.  Deadhead things to keep them fresh looking.  ooh and awe over the variety and the colors.  I can see clearly in my mind the stark emptiness of winter in the backyard and am totally astounded at the evolution to green that takes place. A tropical paradise.  So some afternoons I just sit out there with a cool beverage and slide off my sandals so my toes can commune with the grass (I think it’s called grounding these days). The sound of the aspen leaves swaying in the breeze is a pleasant lullaby to fall asleep to.  It’s all fun and games until a wasp starts hovering. Back in the house for me. I have plenty to do inside  Paint.  Read.  Write. Stitch. Knit. Bake. Cook. or lazy in my favorite comfy chair and play with my phone (which happens more often than not).  I’m not apologizing.  I’m on summer vacation.
July has not disappointed.  And now comes ‘even slower living’ August.  I have plans.  Plans to do as much of nothing as I can.  Since I am considered a senior now….I can slow down and get away with it.  No one expects too much of me (except myself).  If I could just get her off my back, I’d be free as a bird.  Sometimes I feel guilty lounging in bed while my husband is getting ready for work …but not too often.  Why spoil a good summer feeling guilty?  I still keep the house clean (sort of) and do the laundry and buy the food and sometimes I even cook it. Water the plants.  Walk the dog. And find things for people.  I have four other adults living here and no one can find anything. Am I right?
Often I look around and wonder….what am I doing with all this stuff but now is not the time to figure out what I am going to do about it. No siree. I am not planning on spending August purging and organizing.  There will be plenty of time in the fall for that.  And maybe I’ll still think of a way to get out of it.  The great thing about procrastination is that you never have anything to do today and you always have something to do tomorrow.  So I’m going now to spend my last evening of July lapping up the spirit of relaxation and vacation so that I am fully prepared for doing nothing in August.

The Beginning and The End and all the in Between

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This week, I found myself attending both a baby shower and a funeral—two events that could not be more different, yet each deeply sacred in its own right. One welcomed a brand-new life, full of promise and possibility. The other honored a life unexpectedly cut short, but beautifully and fully lived. The circle of life, laid out plainly before me.

At the shower, the mother-to-be was wrapped in joy and generosity, love given in bundles, hopes whispered in every gift and every embrace. At the funeral, the room overflowed with people who had been touched by the woman we lost—testimonies of her strength, her laughter, her steady care. Both gatherings were celebrations. One of beginnings. One of endings. Both, unmistakably, about love.

I almost didn’t attend either event. Life’s demands made it difficult. But I’m so glad I went. It is always worth showing up for the moments that mark our lives and the lives of those we love. To bear witness. To offer presence. To be part of the blessing. What a gift it was to hold both joy and sorrow in the same breath. To feel the weight of our shared humanity. To hug people—not in passing, but with intention. To say, “You matter.”

Both rooms were full. Full of people who showed up. A reminder that we are not meant to do life alone. We need each other in the celebration and in the grief. In the beginning and at the end.

At the baby shower, I was taken back to the days I carried my own children—those long months of wonder and worry. What would they be like? How could I keep them safe? How would I prepare them for this wild and beautiful life? Children are a gift from God, His reward, and what a magnificent reward they are. Raising my two was the greatest joy I’ve known. It still is, even though the raising is done. The parenting never really ends.

At the funeral, I listened to the daughters of my husband’s beloved relative speak with such love, respect, and admiration. Their mother had clearly loved them well. She lived with faith, compassion, and courage. Her life was not perfect, but it was impactful. Her legacy was evident in their tears, in their words, in their strength.

And as I sat there, in both places, I couldn’t help but ask myself: Am I living the life I want to be remembered for? Will those I love feel the impact of my love when I’m no longer here to give it? Will they have words of gratitude or simply silence? What kind of legacy am I leaving in the in-between?

Because that’s what it all comes down to—the in-between. The space between our first breath and our last. That’s where the meaning is. That’s where we love and forgive and try and fail and get back up again. That’s where we build a life that speaks for itself long after we’re gone.

And we don’t get to know how much time we have. So we must choose now. Choose to live with intention. Choose to love well. Choose to show up—for the joy and the sorrow. For the baby showers and the funerals. For each other.

Because in the end, that’s what matters most. That we loved. That we were loved. And that we didn’t walk through it all alone.

At the Stroke of Midday

At the Stroke of Midday

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It’s been a week. I’m not talking about time frame.  I mean….Its…been…a week!!!
We brought mother home from the hospital today almost to the hour of the ambulance picking her up and pulling away 7 days ago.  One just never knows what life is going to throw at you:  my sister, Natalie ,here for a visit from Toronto. Me trying to have a rejuvenating spring break before going back to school for the final stretch before summer. And mom just minding her own 93 year old business and visit with her second favorite daughter.  All of a sudden she’s slurring her speech and talking like a drunken sailor.. Actually aside from the seriousness of a stroke,  listening to her talk was quite comical. Mostly because there is no way on earth my mother would ever drink too much let alone drink hard liquor.
Anyways, we called an ambulance  and that’s how mom ended up at the Foothills hospital for a week. She wasn’t in the stroke ward but Foothills IS the stroke hospital. I joined Natalie in emergency Monday night since she rode in the ambulance with mom and I had to find my own way there. Later that evening they moved mom up to a bed in a ward after her CT scan. Mom had just turned 93 the day before. Happy birthday.! Finally they came and got  her for an MRI so we kissed her goodnight with the promise of being back in the morning
.
True to our promise we arrived every morning at around 10 with books, magazine’s, flowers, snacks (for us)…. phone chargers.  We took a lot of FaceTime calls over the week much to the chagrin of her roommates. Sorry.
We brought tea every day and baking that I kept pulling out of my freezer.  Banana bread, date squares, birthday cake…we had a tea party complete with lace tablecloth, real tea cups, homemade macarons, Madeline’s, and salmon sandwiches, crackers, pickles and cheese on Natalie’s birthday which happened mid week. I made fresh scones for our final tea party. I mean we had to have something to do. To keep mom’s spirits up. Every day she asked if she was going home today….and we shook our weary heads side to side like broken bobble heads.  .Why am I in here, she kept asking. What happened to me?  Am I going to be stupid now?  Will I recover?  We had no answers so we just poured  her another cup of tea. Read to her. Instigated FaceTime calls.
Let me say at this point how eternally grateful I was that my sister was here. My sister… so gracious. So compassionate. So calm.  So thoughtful. So ‘in charge’. She was a pillar for both mom and I…. As I kept having flashbacks of my own experiences in the stroke ward.  And she added two weeks to her departure date to be with mom at home.
I, regrettably, do not have those characteristics.  I’m working on them.  Philippians 3:12. While Natalie was adjusting mom’s blankets and putting more sweaters on her shivering body, escorting her to the loo, and combing her hair and extracting her food from the sealed containers…. I was drawing pictures on the hospital’s whiteboard,  pouring us tea and reading magazines. Monday night we all find ourselves exhaustified and relieved to be out of the hospital.
I actually felt bad leaving Shirley behind. Shirley was one of mom’s roommates that had been there all week and is still there.  She was in the bed across from mom’s feet. She watched us with fascination and astonishment that we were there everyday  with a party.  She talked to us and lent us her extra chair,  queried about how Natalie’s hair was a different color and length each day.  She was usually in a lot of pain. Lying in her bed with pain killers. Natalie and I took Saturday off from coming to the hospital because, frankly, we were too tired to drive again. We arranged for one of moms friends to come instead. And Shirley told mom she missed us!  She only had  two visitors Friday afternoon the rest of the time she was alone.
Mom’s first kitty corner roommate was a very old Asian man that tried to escape more than once.  He put all his clothes on and headed down the hall dragging his colostomy back behind him on the floor.  When they brought him back to his room… he started yelling. Is this a prison?  I thought it was a hospital. The nurse tried to explain to him it was for his own safety and then he yelled… you mean I’m not safe here.  Hard not to Laugh out loud.
The doctor told us to go home and get mom’s apartment ready for her return home.  So naturally…. We redecorated. I’m not sure that’s what the doctor had in mind but what’s done is done. We DID buy a bathtub assist chair, a bar to pull herself out of bed and a cane.  And now she’s home with very few deficiencies.  But a high risk factor. That’s why we have siblings lined up to fly in to be with her for the next 6 weeks.  While we figure out how mom needs to proceed in the future.  Of course mom thinks we are overreacting but we have decided to proceed with an abundance of caution.  Did I mention she’s 93 and has outlived most of our relatives?  She’s very feisty (a substitute word for stubborn.. lol). If she doesn’t want to be sick… she’s not gonna be.
We’ll not soon forget this weird, scary, memorable week.