D is for defining what retirement means to you (and only you!).
What constitutes “retirement”?
How does one define retirement? If you retire from your job and then pick up some part-time work, are you still retired? If you go back to full-time work for a contract position are you still retired? If you take up other work, or a hobby becomes a paid gig, are you still retired?
This argument discussion is played out brilliantly here, at Our Next Life – a delightful blog I came across recently. Mr. and Ms. Our Next Life are a young couple who are planning on retiring early – later this year in fact, at the tender ages of 38 and 41.
It is definitely worth a read. Go ahead, I’ll be here when you come back:
I like Ms. ONLâs definition of retirement: I define retirement not as playing shuffleboard or any other tired old images, but as leaving your primary career to do the things youâd rather be doing.
And really, why are we arguing about this? Who the hell cares what constitutes retirement, and who are these retirement police anyways?!
Iâm retired if and when I say so, no matter what I happen to be doing at the time. So long as itâs not what I have been doing full-time for the past 30+ years for my career. If we donât agree, what are you gonna do about it? Fire me???
Often when people retire they offer to work for free (volunteer) as a way of staying active and involved and giving back to the community. Volunteering can also be a way to find a âcommunityâ of like-minded (or not) souls and there is also the  potential for growing your social network. You may even end up with paid work as a result. I know many people that this has happened to.
Regardless, volunteering is as good for the volunteer as the recipient of the free labour, from what I have seen. My dear late mother (and long-departed father too, for that matter) loved to volunteer. Her diagnosis of non-Hodgkins lymphoma meant the end of her working life and the beginning of her volunteering at both the Emergency Department and the Cancer Clinic at her local hospital, when her health allowed.
Mom volunteered a couple of days per week up until the last year of her life, when her own cancer finally got the upper hand for the last time. Because she was dealing with cancer at the same time she was volunteering, she was especially empathetic and effective in helping others navigate their own cancer journey while at the clinic. And I think being needed and appreciated as a volunteer helped Mom stay engaged with life and gave her the purpose she still needed despite no longer having the energy for full-time work. She had a couple of long-lasting and spontaneous remissions during her 15 year battle, which baffled the oncologist and led her to remark: I donât know what youâre doing, but just keep doing it! I’d like to think her volunteering contributed in some way.
I also have plans to volunteer once retired. Because Iâve experienced so much death during the last 4 years, I’ve come to realize that I am someone who can handle that situation better than others. Somehow I can manage to keep my own emotions on the back burner and focus instead on ensuring the dying person is heard and has their needs met.
I am not afraid of death or dying. Iâve looked into how I could translate this âtalentâ of mine into a volunteer opportunity, because in our death-phobic society there are not many that want to or are capable of spending time with a dying person. Let’s face it – Â we are all in the process of dying as long as we are living – just some of us are facing it sooner than others. I believe I will end up volunteering for a local hospice when my working life is over. If I don’t die first (hehehe). And this is how I plan to give back to my community once full-time work life is over.
From what I have gathered from a brief search on Ye Olde Interwebs, the idea of retirement is relatively new to human history. Our great-great grandparents knew of no such thing. You either worked till you died or had to stop working due to physical limitations. There was no monthly government cheque as a reward for life of working. You had either saved for this during your working life or you had to keep working so you could keep on eating.
I feel unbelievably fortunate to even have the luxury of worrying about contemplating a retirement date and what to do/how to live after my full-time work life voluntarily ends. There are many today that donât have that luxury even yet. I am grateful to have this sort of problem to work through.
When most people think about retirement the first and foremost thoughts revolve around finances, as in: Can we/I afford to retire âearlyâ (then how early, or even at all)? Then the next question is: what will this look like for me/us?
I am starting out by assessing how I actually feel about retiring. In this A-Z Challenge, Iâve got 25 more letters to cover finances and what to do with time and what retirement could/should/will look like, and believe me, these things will get covered! Probably more than once and from more than one direction.
Iâve been observing others around me as they transition into retirement or begin contemplating it. By far the most astonishing thing to me is the depth of the fear, followed by the lack of planning exhibited by some of them. I have met several people now who are actually terrified by the thought of retiring. Whether they say it out loud or not, the fear is there and it is real. These people are defined mainly by their work, and are scared shitless of no longer having that role or title or purpose once work life is over.
Sometimes they don’t acknowledge the fear but instead bury themselves in work to avoid this fear or other issues in their lives that need addressing – issues that will undoubtably surface when work no longer consumes them. And because of the fear, they do nothing for retirement planning except maybe to ensure they have the funds in place to have a comfortable retirement while secretly (or not) dreading all those upcoming free days and hours to fill.
Is this any way to address what can be/is supposed to be a wonderful reward at the end of working life? I think not!
Which is why I think assessing oneâs thoughts and feelings about retirement is just as important as crunching the numbers to see if/when retirement is feasible. Acknowledging these fears is the first, absolutely necessary step towards addressing them.
When I think of retiring, I admit I feel a bit of fear, currently. My fear is related to finances primarily at this point, and a bit of FOMO (fear of missing out) too. I fear that when I retire (early or not), I will be setting myself up for a moreâŚahemâŚthrifty living situation than I would like. I have spent a large portion of my adult life feeling like the wolf was always close to the door and it is only recently that I feel comfortable, financially. I like being able to spend money as I see fit without too much stressing over the bank balance – itâs quite a new experience for me and I like it! I like now being able to say âYes, I canâ instead of my previous default: âNope, can’t afford itâ. And I don’t want to go back to the default in my post-work life, if I can help it.
Conversely, I also fear delaying retirement longer than I need to and then (ironically, having the extra $$ but…) not having the health or years left to enjoy it the way I dream of doing. I have seen people put off retirement only to fall ill and be forced into a sickly, limited version of what could have been a beautiful, fulfilling time of life. If they had known they only had so much time, would they have continued working as long as they did? I know if I had that crystal ball, it would make picking a retirement date very easy. But I donât have a crystal ball so instead I have this niggling fear.
But are these fears justified? Can they be addressed so as to make decision making and planning easier? This is what I hope to find out as I explore Planning for a Badass Retirement in this blogging challenge. Thanks for reading and joining me on this journey!
We interrupt today’s Grace and Frankie binge-watching session to bring you the following public service musings, sponsored by WB Industries…
I was recently asked if I ever worried about my safety when out on my solo trail walks and I tossed off a quick “Nope, never think about that when heading out the door.”
Later, (on the trail, where I do my best thinking) I thought about that statement and have come to realize it is undeniably true and untrue AT THE SAME TIME. It’s true that I don’t think about personal safety when I head out the door. (Unless weather conditions are poor, but I think we all know that when women talk about personal safety outdoors it is about just one thing 99.99% of the time. We are talking about being assaulted by others men.)
The reason that I don’t think about this is only because my protection mechanisms are so automatic by now that I don’t even realize I am performing them anymore. Like any good little prey animal, they have become instinctive. They no longer register as conscious thought. So you see I am a bit of a liar, liar pants-on-fire.
This week I paid close attention to these “instincts” when I was performing my training walks for my upcoming half-marathon event. What was I doing subconsciously or barely consciously to prepare for and to execute my walks? The answers were enlightening to me.
First, I never wear headphones. I see a lot of people wear them outdoors when exercising but I will never be one of them. I want to be aware of my surroundings at all times. I want to hear traffic when on the streets and other hikers or bikers or walkers when on the trails. Headphones (or earbuds) have their place. On the treadmill. Where you will (almost) never find me because although a prey animal, I am not a hamster.
Second, I don’t take any valuables with me, except my phone.
Thirdly, I walk stride with purpose. I have always been a fast walker. I (think I, hope I) radiate “don’t fuck with me”-ness while out and about. And I make direct eye contact with every other person on the trail and greet them. So they know I see them.
I got my eyes on you, potential bad person!
This week I even found myself scanning the ground for a weapon (a rock, a pointy stick, whatevs…) when I saw a couple of males standing around on the trail up ahead. Turns out they were preparing to fish from the riverbank but when I first noticed them I didn’t see the fishing gear lying on the ground, just the unusual sight of 2 men just standing a bit off to the side.
Holy crap, I thought, I was actually looking for a weapon to defend myself with! My mind “went there” as soon as I saw those men. Upon reflection, this is not the first time I have automatically done this. I do it ALL. THE. TIME. when faced with anything “unusual” on the trail (or the street for that matter).
Nope, I am not paranoid or a scaredy-cat. I am just a woman living and trying to enjoy life in a rape culture.
When I was on the trail this week thinking and noticing all of these things I remembered the first time I really got scared when out walking by myself. I was a young teenager (13-14?) walking from my house on outskirts of town to my girlfriend’s (in closest subdivision) on a quiet weekend afternoon. I had to walk through an open agricultural/industrial area for close to a kilometer. It being a Sunday in the early 1970s, there were not many cars on this stretch of the road nor many (if any) people working in the factories. And certainly no other people out walking.
And then a white van slowed down beside me. The back doors were open and there were 4 men inside. Two in the front seats and two sitting in the open back. They began to catcall me and coax me to respond and get in the van with them. I ignored them and kept up my steady pace but inside I was frightened to death and trying to figure out how to best escape them if they decided to get out and chase me. Then another car drove by and the van sped up and drove out of sight. I felt immense relief until…the van pulled up beside me again and the harassment continued.
When it happened to me this time, my fear turned to rage instead. I had an umbrella in my right hand (forecast called for rain and I was prepared), so without changing pace or looking at those fools I raised the umbrella and slowly and deliberately tapped it into my open left hand.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
Three times.
You wanna mess with me? Well, I won’t go down without one hell of a fight. Consider yourselves warned.
Then I brought the umbrella back down to my side, all the time keeping up my steady pace and looking straight ahead, chin raised defiantly. Message delivered.
Now, I don’t know if this worked (doubtful) or if it was because I was now quickly approaching “civilization” (the subdivision was just ahead), but the van pulled away again and this time didn’t come back.
I didn’t get a license plate number and I didn’t report it. I already knew, even at my tender age, that somehow this incident would be seen as my fault.  (And selfishly I didn’t want my emerging freedoms to be cut off by parents worrying about their daughter being accosted whenever she left the house. )
I had provoked them somehow. How was I dressed? Were my jeans or T-shirt too tight? It was the 70s – everyone wore tight jeans and t-shirts. Maybe there was too much wiggle in my walk. What did I think would happen when out walking by myself? Etc. Etc.
I knew this because these were the thoughts going through my head. Like a good little woman-child of the 1970s, I was trying to figure out what I had done to bring this “attention” on myself.
Thus began my transformation from human being to hyper-aware prey animal (and, let it be said: future badass).
I wonder if men can even begin to comprehend feeling this way when out walking solo, on the trail or anywhere.
Apparently not, because just a couple of days ago I came across a post on Facebook by Backpacker Magazine linking to an article entitled How to Avoid Seeming Creepy to Solo Women Hikers. I made the mistake (I know, I know) of reading the comments section. There were some good comments from men but also a lot of stuff like this gem by a guy named Spear Chucker in response to a woman:Â If you are getting eaten by a bear, I will keep walking. I won’t even tell anyone.
Yeah, so mature. You hurt my man-baby (thank you Lindy West, for this) feelings so now I am picking up my toys and leaving the sandbox, with a vengeance. WAAAAAH!!!! Take that you woman, you!
Dude, if you are that offended by the article and comments made by a woman, clearly you ARE the target audience.
There were other negative comments and arguments. I’m paraphrasing tremendously of course, but this was the gist:
Women feel scared on the trail when approached by men? Can’t be our fault. What is wrong with these women?
One little rape and they become suspicious, man-hating femi-nazis. LIGHTEN UP, WOMEN.
Get some therapy. The good kind.
And this sparkler: how am I expected to find a date on the trail if I can’t hit on the women I come across there?
The lack of empathy and consideration that someone else’s world-view or experience could not be like yours (and yet strangely enough, VALID) is mind-boggling. Don’t these men have women in their lives? Women that they could ask if this is indeed how they truly feel when alone and outdoors?
I have yet to meet a woman who has not felt anxious or threatened, even for just a few seconds, when outside and alone. The woman who has never rethought a plan to go somewhere because it might not be safe. The woman who has never been catcalled or harassed by men on the street.
If you are that woman, please contact me because I want to know where you have been cloistered all your life. It would make a great retreat, I am thinking.
For me, the world has become a much scarier place since January 20th. Here in Canada, I am disturbed daily by the things happening south of our border.
It’s hard not to feel powerless at this time. However, the good news is that people are not taking this shit lying down. Nosirree! The Women’s March has started something great – something that promises to continue in other marches and protests. So there’s hope.
For my own mental health, and maybe for yours too – I have decided to round up a listing of things that excited or inspired me this week. Something to change my focus from obsessing solely on all that is going south*, south of the border and other places. Like an online gratitude journal of sorts.
So here goes – the inaugural, “inaugurally-inspired” post:
The amount of silver/white I am seeing in my hair – I have been (not so) patiently waiting for my head of hair to turn a glorious white, as per the females in my family who have come before me. It seems I have inherited my dad’s type of silvering – mostly temples and a sprinkle throughout every where else, unfortunately.
Lots of white happening here in Temple Land!
However, lately I have noticed the silvering is accelerating. Excited!!!! I can notice the silver strands quite clearly in my hair’s part now. It didn’t photograph so well otherwise I’d show you. I am sick of touching-up roots at my temples. I think the time may be right to let it grow out au naturel and see what my real hair really looks like. I may decide to go back to colouring for a bit and try again later. Or I might not. Stay tuned.
Invisalign – Remember that episode of the Simpsons where Lisa is told she needs braces? And she is shown how her teeth will look as she ages? I feel that is going on with my teeth. They seem to get crookeder the older I get. So when I come back from Barbados I am going to begin using Invisalign trays to fix my smile. I have paid off Edward II (my 2nd “Blizzard White” Prius) so those $$ have been freed up for another purpose! Very happy to be starting this journey, even at my advanced age. I’ll be damned if I live the rest of my life with these crooked teeth if I can afford to do something about it. Again, stay tuned. No doubt I’ll have plenty to say as I go through the next 2 years of this particular adventure!
My car’s namesake. My Edward sparkles just like this when the light hits it. If it’s clean, that is.
Physiotherapy – Since the beginning of the year I have been working steadily away at regaining my long-lost flexibility via yoga and barre exercises. I’m making good progress! However, no matter how diligent I am I know I need more help than this to regain range of motion in my left arm – an ongoing problem I have noticed for about the last 6 months. I was thinking I had strained something and that it would heal itself but that’s not happening. So last week I saw my doctor and got a referral for physiotherapy. So far my homework is a set of exercises to perform 4 times a day. And they hurt! But I am keeping my eye on the prize – 2 fully working arms!
Pussy Hats – I missed taking part in the Women’s March for a multitude of reasons including a long-standing prior commitment for that date and not knowing until way too late there would be Canadian marches to take part in. And I feel really bad about it. So I made myself feel a bit better by at least knitting some pussy hats. I have finished one and am about to finish another (for my cousin). The way things are going, there should be many opportunities to march and wear pussy hats, unfortunately.
First pussy hat on the needles!
Rogue US Government Employees – I think the rogue or alt Twitter handles/postings that have sprung up in the past week are just brilliant. I can’t stop reading them. Between these and the organized protests, it makes me feel there is some hope of getting through this shit show the US/World is in, after all.
March for Science – If I have any say in the matter, I won’t be missing these upcoming marches. Our last prime minister muzzled our scientists like Trump is doing now. During this dark time in Canada, I was otherwise preoccupied in Crazytown (i.e. OCD/MBA Land) and dealing with a dying husband/subsequent widowhood so I missed out completely on this issue and its protests. Looks like I’m getting a second chance to chime in and make my little voice heard. Why does this shit keep happening?!?!? Rhetorical question…I know why it keeps happening.
My new pan – A couple of weeks ago now I bought a pan at the local Dutch store, very similar to one that I learned to cook in as a young girl. Dutchies call it a “braadpan” – simply put:Â a frying pan. It is enameled steel and cooks and cleans like a dream. The high sides keep the mess in. And the heavy lid makes braising a snap. Safe for stove-top or oven use. And induction-friendly. I love it.
Think Le Creuset – only lighter and 1/3 of the cost. And without the sexy colour choices, unfortunately. Your choice is any colour so long as it’s black, with an ultramarine blue interior.
My new GoPro camera – During Boxing Week, I pulled the trigger on a Hero 5 Black – a camera I had been eyeing for quite a while already. So far I love the features I have been discovering. I’m busy learning how to use it in advance of:
50 Years of Friendship Trip – by this time next week I will be snorkeling and relaxing with a good friend, down in Barbados. 2017 is the 50th anniversary year of when we first met and became friends – partway through Grade 2 – when she moved to Preston. To commemorate our first 40 years of being friends, we spent a day together at the Elmwood Spa in Toronto. That was a great day, and now this looks to be the makings of a great week. All I can say about this is WHEE!!!!!! More to come later…
Rock and Resist on,
The WB
*That Canadians like Kellie Leitch and Kevin O’Leary are threatening to bring to our great country as well.
Merry Christmas ya filthy animal dear olde savings and loan blogge!
Oh my, it has been a fun coupla days around Chez Badass – thanks to birthing new traditions, my kids, sparkling cider and help from my badass cousins overseas!
Before I begin this tale, let me fill you in on the origin of the Seashell Jesus, whose picture shall grace this blog in mere moments.
Remember when I told you about cleaning up the hoard and shared a picture of the outdoor storage area? Well, one of the only items that survived the purge of that space was a very colourful, homemade-looking old-schooly picture of Jesus, adorned with seashells. I have no idea of the provenance of this picture – it could have even belonged to one of the many tenants that abandoned their junk belongings on the property – but I just couldn’t find it in me to fling it into the dumpster (#4 or 5, can’t remember which). So Seashell Jesus, as he came to be known, ended up hanging in my old kitchen for about a year.
When it came time to renovate the kitchen, Seashell Jesus survived yet another purge and ended up in a box of other wall “art”, in the boiler room of my building. Until Christmas Eve 2016, that is.
I had planned for weeks already to try a new tradition for my family. The Dutch meal of “gourmetten.” In researching how to pull this off, I came across the following article – Gourmetten” A “gezellige” evening of classic Dutch dining  Very funny and tongue-in-cheek. The author claims that Jesus and his disciples actually “gourmetted” the last supper and there is a picture in the article to prove it. When I told my daughter Mizz J about this, she said Seashell Jesus needed to be part of our Christmas Eve meal. So up from the basement he rose…
Seashell Jesus oversees the abundance of food to be grilled.
Like a good guest, Seashell Jesus also offered something to grill.
When I shared these photos on Facebook to my Dutch cousins, they were not to be outdone.
Jesus (and family!) does gourmetten in Amsterdam on Christmas Day.
Virtual Jesus shows up at my other cousins’ in Breezand.
Suffice it to say, much Facebook merry was made over Jesus being sent on to our various homes to partake of gourmetten.
Meanwhile, in real life, our meal was fantastic.
Let the grilling begin!
Even after all that food there was still room for dessert, obviously.
Before the food coma took a full hold, we cleaned up supper and then got artsy-crafty with it.
Using glitter glue and acrylic paint to make ornaments.
Continuing the creativity on Christmas morning. Glitter glue is mostly dry, so time to pour in the acrylic paint.
After a relaxing day spent on the couch (mostly), Christmas dinner was a clean-out-the-fridge stir fry – liberally doused with left-over satay sauce and served over rice. “Sooooo gooooood”, to borrow a phrase from my Amsterdam cousin.
Ever have one of those days when you try to do something good and it just doesn’t work out like you thought?
This happened to me on Saturday.
I was crafting my post about my mom’s death and jumped onto Facebook to grab a photo from one of my albums. I happened to come across a post in my feed from one of the community groups I belong to. In it, a lady was asking for help for her husband – a custodian at a church that is a neighbour of mine. The church snowblower had died and she was asking if anyone knew how to fix it as last night’s snow was too much for hubby to shovel.
My first thought was one of total schadenfreude – I will not lie. During the fall/winter that my husband was sick and eventually died, the snow came fast and deep and early on. It was a record season for the number of days of uninterrupted snow on the ground. JD and I used to do the shoveling ourselves and now it was all left to me. I didn’t have time to try to find someone to help me during his sickness and dying and during the aftermath of his death. Many the night and morning I had to run over to the building to clear the steps, the wheelchair ramp, the sidewalks (it’s on a corner lot) and one of the parking lots (the tenant at that time got their lot plowed out so I was left with only one to clear, thankfully). Yep, just me and my trusty snow shovel. And when the plows went by and threw the stuff from the road onto the sidewalks and driveways, I had to go back and do it all over again. Mr. Custodian would watch me silently as he was snow-blowing out the walks on the church property.
(One day during that crazy winter after an especially fierce blizzard resulting in thigh-high drifts, one of my fellow downtown landlords came up the street with his tractor and plowed out my lot. I’ll admit to this: I stood on the sidewalk and sobbed hot tears of relief, unabashedly.)
Yep, I thought on Saturday morning, dead snowblower looks good on ya.
Then I gave myself a stern talking to. Told myself I was better than these thoughts; not to sink down to this level. Got my ass quickly dressed and out the door, shovel in hand, to help.
I approached Mr. Custodian and introduced myself as his neighbour from across the street, told him I read the Facebook post, and offered my services.
After a long pause, he said, “I told my wife I needed someone who knew how to fix a snowblower.”
Me, cheerfully pointing to shovel in other hand: “Well, I can’t do that but I certainly can shovel snow so show me where you’d like me to start.”
After another pause, I was directed to a patch further down the sidewalk, and began to shovel. Another fellow appeared who introduced himself as the church treasurer. We cleared the sidewalk together. Mr. Custodian tried to start a conversation.
Him: “So you rent upstairs over there?”
Me: “No, I own the building and yes, I live upstairs.”
Him, pointing to my tenants’ unit, the downstairs Museum: “What do you think of them?”
Me: “I think they are great; happy to have them in the building. Have you been to visit?”
Him: “They hosted our church for coffee a few weeks back. Not a place I’d ever go into. Do they get many visitors? I don’t see much traffic going in there.”
Me, brightly: “Well, actually many people are very interested in going there. They get visitors from all over the world and host large tour groups from time to time.”
Then Mr. Treasurer decides to chime in and change the subject: “Nice the building is finally getting fixed up. The fellow that ran it before didn’t do much.”
Me, smile becoming more and more fixed: “You mean my husband who died? He had a mental illness that prevented him from making those changes. And he had no money. But I own it now, and I have been spending the money to get it fixed up.”
Mr. Custodian: “Well, I guess we should shovel your place now.”
Me, still smiling: “Not necessary, thanks. I have people to do that now and they should be around any minute. What’s next? Let’s do the main entrance steps and then the parking lot. Between the 3 of us it should go quickly.”
Them, variations on a theme of: “Oh no, that’s OK. This is good enough. Main entrance doesn’t need to be done. There’s a guy coming to do the driveway. Thanks for your help.”
So off I trudged, back to my place – thoroughly pissed by the entire encounter. I just wanted to shovel some fucking snow to help my neighbour out and ended up feeling under scrutiny and like I had to defend both my tenants and my late husband to these guys.
Later I came back downstairs and saw they were indeed shoveling the main entrance stairs.
“Hey!” I called out, blood boiling: “I wanted to help with that!”
“Oh no, that’s OK” came the reply.
Fine – fuck this, I said to myself – my low-level thoughts making a spectacular and rapid-fire comeback.
Then I got mad at myself for letting them get to me; for going low instead of high.
I can’t understand why more people don’t take up church. It clearly brings out the best in people.
Rock on,
The WB
P.S. Today, a couple of hours after I posted this entry I saw a thank you to me posted on the Facebook community group by the custodian…or maybe it was his wife. Apparently I helped “a lot”. At this point I don’t give a fuck about the snow shoveling any more. I hope I helped open some minds and hearts. Including my own. Looking for a Christmas miracle. đ
The world lost my badass momma one year ago today.
She had been diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma about 15 years before. Most of the 15 ensuing years were high quality. Mom experienced several remissions and used that time to enjoy life to the fullest with her second husband, who she met at a grief class about a year after Dad died. They travelled and camped, and generally enjoyed retired life together.
But eventually the cancer came back with a vengeance and Mom got sicker and sicker.
In the summer of 2015 the doctor advised that we move up the date of my sister’s wedding and host it closer to home, to ensure Mom could attend.
My sister and her new wife flanking Mom and Stepdad on their wedding day. Mom had lost her hair again due to the latest (and last) round of chemotherapy.
So I volunteered to host the wedding at my building and what a joyous occasion it was!
Shortly after this Mom made the decision to not proceed with any more chemotherapy. She had had enough, and it was only making her sicker at this point anyway.
Soon she was too ill for her husband to manage so I offered for her to come to stay with me. My newlywed sister made arrangements to take compassionate leave, to be with Mom while I worked and did homework (yes, I was still plugging away at my MBA that fall). And my far flung sister was ready to board a plane and come as soon as she was called, which was a short while later.
All parties agreed to the new plan for Mom and thus we made it happen. A stair lift was installed so Mom could get into and out of my second-floor abode, and we transferred her medical care to my city. Bedding arrangements (and bedrooms) were created to accommodate everyone.
Mom worried about getting into hospice care in a new city. This was something she was considering when living with my stepdad. When I asked if she really wanted to go to hospice when the time came the truthful answer was no. I told her she didn’t ever have to go there – she could die at her new home, my place. She said she would like that, so that is how we proceeded.
The sisters and Mom – the care team
Granddaughter Mizz J and her Oma – also part of the care team
What a wonderful, awful fall that was – the fall of 2015. The fall of our mom’s dying. Mom had a typical Dutch practical attitude about her impending death. It didn’t bother her and she didn’t want to be a bother to anybody else. She hoped her death happened at a “convenient” time for everyone, so as not to interfere with any Christmas or vacation plans. We joked a lot with her about these wishes. It was freeing for Mom to be able to speak and joke about her dying with us. It was not something her husband could bear to hear, understandably so.
Mom’s sister, My Tante T asked to come over from the Netherlands for a last visit with her sister. This visit was welcomed by all, especially Mom of course.
Mom and her sister
We took the ladies out shopping. Mom had an ultralight collapsible wheelchair at this point which made it possible for her to get out more easily. They had a lot of fun looking for cute clothes at the local mall. This was tiring but also joyful for Mom. She loved getting out while still able, and picked up a couple of pretty tops to wear for hospital appointments and when receiving visitors.
I had bought tickets to take Mom to see a live performance of the Jersey Boys many months back, and we were able to get an extra ticket for her sister at the last moment. Seating had to be changed to accommodate the wheelchair. Tante T also had to change her flight so she could attend the show. A lot of changes but we were so glad it all came together. Mom had wanted to see this show for many, many years.
With a good friend, Mom and Tante at Jersey Boys – waiting for the show to begin
Tante T went backstage at intermission and somehow convinced the Jersey Boys cast to come out to say hi to Mom after the performance. What a woman!
Mom with Jersey Boys cast
During all this time, Stepdad faithfully visited his wife every day.
We treated Mom to pedicures and massages and accompanied her to her cancer clinic appointments. We tried to tempt her with all her favourite foods but her once hearty appetite was quite diminished. Palliative care nurses and personal workers visited many times and provided Mom with a hospital bed and special equipment to assist with bathing. Spiritual care was provided as well, at Mom’s request. We were trained to give Mom her medication intravenously, as the end drew near and her discomfort increased.
Mom loved having visitors and all were welcome to come whenever they wanted to see her.
Death and dying are not easy for anybody. By the 17th of December we were all exhausted as Mom was very restless, day and night. A night nurse was brought in to allow us some shuteye. Mom passed away in the wee hours of the 18th, partway through his shift. We were all at her bedside when it happened.
I was grateful for all of the resources and comforts provided to Mom, and for so many visits from friends and family. It was a blessing to be able to keep her at home as she wanted.
Last picture of Mom and me. Taken ~2.5 days before the end. Mom lost the ability to communicate soon after this photo was taken. Notice the pink polka dotted sheets. Mom wanted to die on pink sheets, she remarked with a smile. What a badass. Wish granted.
My favourite memory of this time is of being called into Mom’s bedroom one night by my sister. Mom was crying and wanted to talk to me. I asked her why she was crying and she said, “I am so happy and I can’t stop crying. It is wonderful to be here surrounded by my family. I feel so completely loved, like I have never felt in my whole life. I’m not crying because I am sad or afraid to be dying. I’m crying from happiness.”
I think of that night almost daily. If there is a way to “do” death and dying correctly, I think that as we came together as a family during that horrible, wonderful fall of 2015, we just might have nailed it.
When I get a puppy, I spend a lot of time and effort exposing the young dog to every possible alarming (to a dog) situation.
The pup accompanies me in the car on long and short drives. I walk the dog in all types of situations – nature trails, busy city roads, and everything in between. There is lots of time spent around people and other dogs, and other animals if at all possible. The more noise and confusion, the better. I wade into rivers and streams to get the puppy to follow me and lose fear of the water. We go to the groomer and the vet.
The puppy learns it can survive all of these scary situations and gains confidence.
The result of these early months of exposure to new things means this: Congratulations – you have a dog that is afraid of nothing. And…condolences – you have a dog that is afraid of nothing…hehehe. A total badass of a dog.
My favourite breed of dog is the miniature Schnauzer. This is a dog that is already possessed, pound for pound, of more courage than any other breed. Of that I am convinced. I am also 100% certain that when my Lucy looked in a mirror she saw a Rottweiler staring back at her. Miniature Schnauzers are the badasses of the dog world.
The late, great canine badass – Mizz Lucy, in her prime
Elderly and in poor health but still a total badass. Mizz Lucy ruling the street from her carriage.
Women, whether they know it or not, are the badass sex. They are the Miniature Schnauzers of humanity.
The patriarchy knows this too. Which is why women are portrayed as weak, illogical and in need of protection. It is why women are chronically underpaid and their work is undervalued. We are so strong that extreme societal measures have to be taken in order for the patriarchy to continue.
We are dressed in pink and frills from the day we are born. We are put in clothes and shoes that limit our movement and our play. We are punished for expressing traits males are praised for. We are praised when we are gentle and nice; when we are “pretty”. Â We are ridiculed and put down for being smart and sassy, and for not conforming to society’s expectations of beauty. We are told men’s violence towards us is our fault.
And when we age, we lose our value in this society. But the truth is this: when women age we become even stronger, smarter and sassier.
And this is how we are raised. Â This is the culture I was raised in.
I’d like to think things have changed, are changing. Recent, revealing events such as those surrounding the US election are making me doubt this.
Men are victims of this misogynistic culture as well, whether they realize it or not. They need to conform to society’s expectations of male behaviour or face ridicule and persecution. People who present as mixed or opposite or fluid gender…well, we all know how cruel this society can be to them. This is why feminism should be important to all people. It is not “just” about the rights of women. Feminism means ALL PEOPLE ARE EQUAL.
Like my puppy, I have been put through a lot of scary situations and I have survived.
On my journey to becoming a badass widow I have survived:
A long first marriage to a verbally abusive, controlling man who did his best to isolate me from my family and friends. Whose chronic bouts of long-term unemployment meant I had to pull the financial weight a lot of the time, in addition to the bulk of the parenting and household duties.
More than a year of stalking and harassment by the same man when I exited the marriage after 17 years. A restraining order and multiple visits to jail had to happen before this criminal activity finally stopped. I thought nothing could be worse than remaining married. I was wrong.
A second marriage to a man who initially presented as the answer to a prayer. Who wasn’t afraid of my intelligence and work ethic – who praised and complimented me and supported me. Who I thought was a soul mate but instead was a soul-less mate. Who turned out to be mentally ill. Who turned out to be a world-class liar and hypocrite. Who cheated on me. Who put me through OCD hell and severely strained my relationships with family and friends before the cancer finally took him out of our lives.
Somehow I survived these torturous situations and learned and grew.
And now I am fucking fearless. Congratulations Life, you have created a woman who is afraid of nothing. Also condolences, you have created a woman who will no longer be subdued.
And I know I am not alone. Where my dangerous, badass women (and men) at? The world needs us now.
Christmas Newsletter created, for the 3rd year running.
I think I have mentioned on ye olde blogge already this year that I am having a hellacious time getting into the Christmas vibe, spirit, what-have-you.
Nothing has really changed. But today instead of wallowing in a sweaty funk while barking like a seal due to a chest cold, I did make up my annual (3 years and counting!) Badass Christmas letter and put my cards together for mailing out tomorrow. YAY ME! (OK, still was in sweaty funk and barking…but got my cards done too!!!!)
I have always loved giving and receiving cards at Christmas, and actually enjoy reading people’s Christmas letters.
Even when the letter is full of humble-bragging or outright bragging! So far I have received only one like that and it was many years ago, from someone I am no longer acquainted with. A lot of fun was had mocking it with my friends as it epitomized why Christmas letters have such a bad rap. I almost wanted to keep up the acquaintance just to keep getting those letters. I said almost.
Anywhoodle, I love the annual Christmas letter/card tradition. If that makes me old-fashioned or weird or both, so be it.
What I didn’t expect to happen was this: as I finished off the letter and addressed and filled envelopes, I could feel my mood lighten considerably. I’m not saying I’m ready to decorate the tree (still naked despite being up for weeks, by the way) or throw a massive open house party (although that was/is my dream, but now slated for 2017) but I think I will get through the season without having to white-knuckle it.
And that, my friends, is HUGE. Or YUGE. Or however you want to say it.
