Category: It IS all about me

So, remember waaaaay back, when we were first looking at shopping for a mini-van? And I was petulant because I did not want a mini van, thought they were cumbersome and mildly embarrassing? I’ve been meaning to blog for months now about my dirty little secret — I adore that van. Love it. Love driving it, love the space in it, love having a car of my own. Well, past tense – loved it. I was in an accident last night, and the van was a write-off. My first-ever car accident. Go big or go home, right.

I was making a left turn from Fisher into the Lone Star parking lot to pick up some takeout, with Lucas in the van. Lots of traffic. The lady in the inside oncoming lane waved me through. The chick in the outside lane was doing about 60 when she hit me. I didn’t even see her coming. When I thought about it later, I didn’t hear a squeal of brakes, or else I would have looked her way, so I’m not even sure she saw me.

She was in a little sedan, but she hit me hard enough to spin me around a 1/4 turn. The first thing I registered after “oh shit” and “the baby is in the car!” was “ouch, these fucking airbags are burning my (bare) legs!”

I jumped out without even thinking to turn the car off and got Lucas out of his car seat – he of course started crying on impact – to check him out, but he was fine. He doesn’t even have bruise marks from the seat belt. Thank god, thank god, thank god for properly installed car seats.

Right away, people were trying to help. One guy was behind me even as I was undoing Luke’s belt, saying “Oh my god, I saw the baby seat in the back and my heart stopped, is he okay?” Another guy is already calling 911. I’m pretty sure I’m okay and Lucas is okay but holy fuck it was a hell of an impact. A young girl is there, and she’s ashen and stunned, she reaches out her hand and starts to cry saying “oh my god was there a baby in the car?” I automatically reach out to grasp her hands and realize that she was driving the other car. She’s maybe 20. She’s far more freaked out than I am, but she seems to be largely okay, too.

For once in my life, I have my cell phone on me. In my purse. In the van. And as I turn to go back to the van I see that there are little licks of flame underneath it. Flame. And my brain goes on a funny little tangent and says, “Wow man, this is some serious shit you’ve gotten yourself into.” I turn to a nice lady who’s asking if we’re okay, it turns out that she’s the one who stopped to wave me through in the oncoming lane, and I ask her to hold Lucas while I go get my purse because it’s okay for me to go toward the flaming van, not so much the baby.

I get my purse and my phone, and people keep asking me if we’re okay, and I’m increasingly convinced we are, except for the wretched mess of the front of the van. And those troubling little flames under it. So I call Beloved, and try my very damnedest not to freak him out more than I have to. “Hi babe, listen, I’m okay and Lucas is fine. We’re really fine. But I’ve been in accident, and the van is in bad shape.” And just about this point, it’s the only time the hint of hysteria gets to me as I watch those tiny flames start to lick up the front of the van. “And the van in on Fire. It’s on FIRE. (deep breath, deep breath, do NOT freak him out right now, you must make sure he stays calm) But we’re okay. So can you come and pick us up?”

So I’m standing there in the Lone Star parking lot, holding Lucas in my arms, because I didn’t even bother putting any shoes on him because we were just going to the takeout counter and back, and we’re watching my van go up in flames. Surreal moment, dude. There’s this exceptional lady who appears, and she keeps talking to Lucas, to me, and she’s just the most calming presence. She tries to lead me away from watching the van go up in smoke (and really impressive bright orange flames) saying, “You don’t need to see this” but I tell her that I really do. Her sweet boys, maybe 9 and 11, have seen the whole thing and they are obviously torn between the thrill of watching my van incinerate and care for me and Lucas. I am in love with this family of guardian angels.

The fire department and police and paramedics show up and they put the fire out really quickly, wow, the little detached part of my brain is busy evaluating the efficiency of the fire department and the size of the hose and the sheer number of emergency vehicles and personnel who seem to have materialized out of the sewers or something they got here so quickly.

The paramedics begin to assess us, and I wave them toward the girl first. Once the fire is out, I lose a little bit of the adrenaline that has been coursing through my system and realize that the baby is very heavy and so am I and I think I’ll just go sit down on that curb for a minute if nobody minds. There’s another nice lady, an older lady, who seems to work in one of the stores in the plaza, and she’s offering me a chair, which I decline, and a drink, which I decline and she’s offering me food for me and for the baby and even though I’m starving I keep saying polite nos until finally just because she really seems to need to get me something I say some water would be nice. She comes back out with another man who ought to be her husband if he isn’t, they seem like a nice matched set, both with the remnants of a slavic accent from long ago, and I have to all over again assure him that I need nothing else. I realize later they work at the Macs convenience store behind me, and I really feel badly that I didn’t pay for the water bottle (and cup and straw) she brought me, so I’ll have to go pay for it today.

In a quiet moment, I sit on the curb and cry just a few tears, more in response to the sheer kindness being show to us than over what has happened. I know the insurance will cover the cost of the van, mostly, and that these things happen. I do have a bit of a bad moment, though, whenever I let myself think of what could have, might have happened. How very much worse it could have been. It makes me weirdly giddy. My new best friend, I find out her name is Karen, the lady who tried to convince me not to watch the van burning, reappears. She’s told the Lone Star takeout counter what happened (note to self, call Lone Star to apologize, too, I never did go pick up the food) and has brought orange slices in a plastic cup and four mini-packs of crackers. As I’m sitting on the curb, taking bites of orange out of my mouth and feeding them to Lucas, the police officer walks up with a stroller and a Roots backpack that look suspiciously like mine. This is the detail that temporarily sends my brain into blue screen until I realize he’s retrieved them from the back of the van for me. This makes me start to cry again. He says it’s about all he could recover, and I realize my iPod and my gym membership card are in the glove compartment. Crisped beyond recognition, I’m sure, and likely a lot more wet than the time I sent them through the washing machine. My brain wanders away for a while, contemplating why the universe does not want me to have an iPod.

While I’m overwhelmed by the accident, what really amazes me is the sheer kindness of the people around me. What seems like dozens of people have asked if I’m okay, if Lucas is okay, if there is anything they can do. The lady in the oncoming lane who waved me through has had to move on, but she leaves her name and number. The emergency services people are outstanding. I learn that the paramedic and one of the fire department guys live on the street behind me and have been in my back-fence neighbour’s hot tub. I tell them I am disgruntled that I have not. The paramedic seems to appreciate my humour-as-a-coping-mechanism schtick and we somehow end up arguing about whether almost turning forty is wretched or not. When the police officer arrives to finish his report, he joins in on the debate. Everybody is genial and it’s a pleasant afternoon except for the first-degree burns on my hand and second degree burns on my leg from the air bags, and the fact that they’re hauling the burnt husk of my minivan onto a flatbed to haul to the junkyard.

Beloved arrives, and he’s dropped the big boys off with my mom. I’m so relieved to see him, to see he is smiling and that he’s here. A few minutes later, as I’m talking to the police officer, my dad arrives, too. I should have called my mom. Too many things to remember. The paramedic asks one more time if I want to go to the hospital, and while all seems fine, I think it prudent to get Lucas checked out. As soon as I realize, though, that the paramedics can only take him to the children’s hospital, I balk. No way am I taking my healthy baby into the emerg there, with H1N1 and who knows what. But the ambulance cannot take him anywhere else. The paramedic explains other options, I can bring him to a walk-in, or bring him to Queensway Carleton hospital myself. I decide on the latter.

The police officer is a gem. He tells me he’s about to add to my pain, and I get a ticket for “failure to yield” – $100 and three demerit points. I’m giddy with relief again, because I hadn’t known what to expect of this part. I suspect he has been easy on me, administering the lowest fine he was obligated to, and I’m a little choked up with relief. Right about this time, we realize that we have a problem. We have never put a baby car seat in the Focus. We discuss options for getting Lucas home with the police officer. I know that car seats should be discarded after an impact like this, but we decide in this case that it’s a better alternative than the booster seats in the Focus that the big boys use. Mark goes to the van to retrieve it, but it’s soaked and covered in bits of glass from when the windshield (shudder) exploded in the fire. Not an option. We chew it over for a minute, and knowing we have a proper spare car seat at home, we decide the best option is to strap Lucas into the booster, and the police officer will escort all the way home. By this time, maybe an hour or even a bit less since impact, and everything has been cleared away. The young woman has gone to the hospital, but I speak to her mother and it is more precautionary than anything. Her mother is also kind. The cars have been hauled away. Beloved drives us home.

My adventures did not end there. In shorthand: I waffle between a walk-in and the hospital, and decide on hospital just because I fear the walk-in might just send me there anyway. Arrive at Queensway Carleton hospital, realize I don’t have Lucas’s health card. Just then my mother calls, with that uncanny intuition mothers have, and asks if she can help. She offers to get the card and bring it to me, and to help with Lucas at the ER. I agree. I get into the ER, and see there is not a single empty seat in the waiting room. I ask the triage nurse if we’re looking at an hours-long wait. She nods. “Even with the baby?” I ask hopefully. She nods again, and an elderly lady tells me she’s been waiting since 1 pm. It’s a little after seven. I walk out. While waiting for my mom, I call my pediatrician’s number, thinking about the after hours clinic. I have to call back twice to get the number right, but eventually get through and get an appointment for 8 pm. I have a little more than 30 minutes. Still waiting for my mom, call the insurance company. The guy taking the details actually says, “Wow” when I tell him about the van going up in flames. I’m impressed that he’s impressed. Swallow down another “what might have happened but didn’t” panic attack. Getting increasingly agitated for time, and my mom shows up. I take the health card, thank her, and we head in opposite directions. I try to pay for my parking and can’t get the infernal device to work. Feeling time-pressured, I finally get it to work. $16 on my Visa to walk in and out of the ER. Gah. Then, the infernal gate won’t open. I’m nearly hysterical, it’s almost the time of my appointment at the after-hours clinic and I still have to drive 15 minutes, and it keeps telling me my ticket isn’t valid. I repay, just to be out of there. It accepts another $16 charge on my Visa, and the gate still won’t open. With four or five cars queued behind me, I lose it. Lose. It. I jump out of my car and yell toward the unmanned barrier, “For Christ’s sake, will somebody open the goddamned gate!” By the time I hit the word gate, my voice has gone up three octaves and I’m crying. Total meltdown. Long story short (way too late for that) I make it to the after-hours clinic and — the door is locked. I call, and I’m in the wrong place. Remember this story? I’ve gone to the place I should have gone the last time, and it turns out I should have gone to the place I did go. It takes the very last of my reserve not to do an encore presentation of “meltdown at the after-hours clinic” but I manage. The doctor examines Lucas, and we marvel over the fact that there is not a single bruise on him. He is perfect, as always.

It’s all good.

(Edited to add: you had to know there’s be a photograph. Can you believe it’s the one time in a million I didn’t brink the Nikon — and that’s a good thing — but I snapped this one with my cell phone, not so much for the 365 project as for potential insurance issues, and posterity.)

Ten years ago today, in a tiny church in London’s Pioneer Village in front of 45 of our best friends and family on the hottest day of the summer, I said these words:

I, Danielle, choose you, Mark, to be my love.
I pledge to you my life, my heart, my hope and my joy.
I promise to love you with my finest kindness and my deepest care.
You are my prince, my knight, my king;
My friend, my jester and my inspiration.
I promise that I will love you always, from this day forward,
Blissfully, joyfully, infinitely.

Ten years ago today, I married my best friend. We had no idea what was in store for us, the joys and the fun and the heartaches and the adventures, but we knew we wanted to do it together.

Ten years ago today, we two joined together to start a new family, and in doing so we linked our families and our histories together.

Ten years seems to have passed in the blink of an eye — and yet it was a lifetime ago. Three lifetimes ago, actually! Tristan’s, Simon’s and Lucas’s.

Ten years ago today, I did the smartest thing I ever did: I married my Beloved. And each year since has been better than the one before.

Happy Anniversary, my love! Happy anniversary, and thank you for the honour of your love.

Once upon a time, I had a crush on an altar boy. I used to go to Saturday evening mass just because he was there, and then we’d head out in a noisy, happy gang to do whatever it is teenagers do on a Saturday night. In fact, he was the boyfriend of a good friend of mine. They were “the” couple in our high school, the inseperable ones, the ones who were together so often that you really started to think of them as a single entity.

I’d known him since grade school, but it wasn’t until half way through high school that our social circles started to intersect regularly. We became friends, and soon the three of us — he, his girlfriend, and I — were spending a lot of time together. One March Break his girlfriend went off to Florida and he and I spent the whole week together, not quite bold enough to do more than hold hands discreetly when we knew no-one was looking, but there was no mistaking the mutual attraction between us. I was 16 and desperate for affection, but not desperate enough to be disloyal to my friend.

She came back from Florida and I’m pretty sure she was oblivious to what had almost happened in her absence. We went back to being the Three Amigos again, but it was never as comfortably fun as it had been in the months before. I didn’t exactly pine for him, nor resent his girlfriend, but felt a kind of melancholy sadness over what I knew would never be.

A few weeks later, I started seeing a boy who lived out of town. I drifted away from my friends, as often happens in high school (and for that matter, even now) when a new boyfriend comes into the picture. Our social circles still intersected, and I saw them occasionally. In fact, it was less awkward being a threesome with an invisible and out-of-town fourth than it had been before. Just a few days after graduation, though, I moved across the province to live with my new boyfriend. In the adventure of new love, I left most of my best friends behind me like discarded possessions.

Through the years, I thought often of my altar boy and regretted losing touch. While I’d managed to keep in touch with the dearest of my high school friends, my altar boy seemed to drop off the map after graduation. I knew he and his girlfriend had broken up, but nobody seemed to know what had become of him. Through the years, I’d idly check online directories and alumni lists, but his name was nowhere to be found. He’d disappeared – but I never stopped wondering about him.

He was, in many ways, the one that got away. I wouldn’t change the path that my life has taken for any sum of money, but he’s the one that I would wonder about, late at night, especially when things were in turmoil. What if? What if? What if I hadn’t had that ridiculously overdeveloped sense of loyalty, that long ago March Break in 1986? What if I hadn’t been so desperate for attention and affection when the new boy swooped into the picture?

The fact that he disappeared so utterly and completely after high school only elevated him to nearly mythic status in my imagination. I imagined him doing some sort of foreign aid work in third-world countries, or planting trees in the Amazon rain forest, or riding his bicycle across the country to raise awareness and funds for some obscure disease. Of all my friends, he seemed the most likely to do something like that.

And then one day, I found him. On Facebook. I was perusing the ‘friends’ list of another friend from the same high school social circle, looking for familiar names. (Do you do this? I scan the list, see names I recognize, and then do nothing about it. Why do I bother if I’m too shy to reach out? Facebook brings out the strangest bits of me.) When I read his name, I’m quite sure my jaw dropped open in surprise. I know for a fact my breath caught in my throat. Could it be the same person? Of course it was, but I had so elevated my altar boy to the stuff of legend that to find him in such a pedestrian place — stumbled on to in a Facebook account of all things — seemed so unlikely that at first I simply stared at his name in wonder.

At first, I was so surprised to find him that I did nothing. I clicked back into Facebook a few times, just looking at his name. His icon was nondescript, a blurry photo that could have been just about anybody or – for that matter – anything. I agonized over how to make contact. Whether to make contact. Countless scenarios spun out in my imagination, not least of which would be him replying to my query saying he didn’t remember me from high school. (After all these years, it’s rather alarming how close to the surface resides that crushingly insecure fourteen-year-old girl I was.)

Finally, I spent an hour crafting a two line message, imbuing it with as much friendly nonchalance as I could muster. I think I hovered with my mouse pointed to the send button for an eternity before releasing 20 years of “what if” with a single click of the mouse.

For a week, nothing happened. Well, lots happened, but nothing that could have possibly met the expectations pent up in my Facebook account. Just when I was beginning to think I’d been mistaken — mortally, painfully mistaken — I got his response.

We exchanged a few messages in that stilted way that comes with intimacy followed by a 20-year gap. I learned that he had a daughter, herself a teenager now, but no wife. He is a salesman, living in a middling-to-large city that I’d visited a few times. I told him that I’d married, and divorced, and remarried, and that I was happy. He never said whether he was happy, too. Our conversation petered out after just a few messages, with neither warmth or regret. It’s been more than a year since we made contact, and each time I see his name in my list of friends, I feel that pang of lost wonder.

His ordinaryness continues to amaze me.

So it turns out that the cough that has been plaguing me for a week now is — wait for it — pneumonia. I guess fertility and mild depression aren’t the only things that come around seasonally in May — I had pneumonia in May 2007, too, just before I got pregnant with Lucas. When I mentioned this to my GP yesterday, she looked at her notes and said, “Oh yes, I see that here, but then you had just a mild case in one lung and now you have it extensively in both.” Run down much, you say?

So anyway, in addition to the antibiotic that I got last time, I am supposed to use a steroid puffer twice a day. I’ve never used a puffer before and to be honest? This one is freaking me out.

When my doctor was explaining the puffer to me, she said “make sure you rinse well each time you use it” but what I heard was “rinse it well” meaning the puffer. Luckily, the pharmacist chose a slightly different way to phrase it, and I finally understood that it was my mouth I was supposed to rinse well after each use, not the puffer. “Because,” the pharmacist helpfully explained, “there’s a possibility for fungus if you don’t rinse well.”

Fungus.

In my mouth.

*all over body shudder*

Now, I know — I know — that fungus is things like thrush and athlete’s foot, both of which I’ve had. But I’m still freaked out. I have trouble eating raw mushrooms because they’re fungus. Fungus is a nasty word that evokes, in my brain at least, colonies of fast-multiplying creepy-crawly things that definitely do NOT belong in my mouth.

I was freaked out enough just trying to make sure that I actually inhaled while the puffer was puffing that I was lightheaded from the practice attempts and the three tries to psyche myself up for it, and the first blast shot not down into my lungs as was my intention, but straight out onto the middle of my tongue. Terrific. I mananged to gag and hack down the second puff, but then immediately set to rinsing the legions of already-multiplying fungal creatures off my tongue.

First, I rinsed with water. When I still had a vaguely fungusy taste in my mouth, I tried chewing up some saltines and THEN rinsing with water, thinking I could more or less exfoliate the inside of my mouth. Still not entirely convinced that my mouth was fungus-free, I went upstairs and attacked the problem with half a cup of Listerine. (And by the way? The new Listerine Total Health stuff? Brutal! Effective, maybe, but not unlike gargling with mint-flavoured turpentine.) I followed that up with some club soda, thinking the bubbles might loosen any last fungal vestiges, when it dawned on me that I was now ingesting the remaining traces of potential fungus instead of expelling them.

So now I have pneumonia and a tummy ache. I fear there are mushrooms growing in my gut. This can’t be good.

(And P.S.: don’t you think “Fungal Freak” would be an awesome name for a band?)