What Is Up With All This Shit?

The day after arriving home from a twelve-day sunshine break in California, I got into our van and noticed a particular smell. “What is that smell?” I asked the kids. “What smell?” they said in unison. Oh well, I thought, I didn’t have time to clean it before I left, there is probably some garbage inside. 

I didn’t take the time to clean it for another number of days. After a dog walk one day, I noticed that the plush dog bed was pushed up against the backseats; I reached in to straighten it out, and saw that it was covered in small pellets. No, No, No, I thought, instantly recognizing the tiny black bits. I brought the dog bed close to my face, and stared at the dot-to-dot picture forming in my head. How did mice poop get into my van?! My whole body shuddered as reality hit, and I threw the dog bed across the drive-way. 

I pulled things out of the van. There were three reusable grocery bags on the back seat. All three had been chewed right through. Poop was scattered across the seats, on the floor, on the console, and even inside the cubbies in the front doors. I have a back-support seat on the driver’s seat; I carefully lifted it up—mouse droppings were scattered across it like confetti.

I felt ill, and went inside to lay down. (Yes, I am that sensitive!) My hands covered my eyes in an attempt to erase the images that were forming of a small rodent reunion, with nimble mice feasting on the debris of our living, while contaminating our transport vessel. 

Holy crap—what am I going to do?

I took the van to the gas station to use the super sucking vacuum. You cannot even imagine. Every crevice had droppings in it. But the creepiest were the pockets on the backs of the front seats—which unbeknownst to me had been stuffed with garbage by the kids. Ketchup packets (from take-out) had been shredded, and streaks of red spread across the seat like a miniature battlefield. A package of gum had been partially chewed through, and I envisioned mice having a bubblegum-blowing contest, or with their mouths stuck shut. (I preferred the latter image.) I shook my head. I put on winter gloves, and pulled everything out of the two pockets, each time I reached in, I did a little jump, certain that a mouse would scurry up my arm. 

I steam-cleaned the van seats and carpets. I loaded two traps with peanut butter, and placed them under the seats, and I took all garbage and debris out of the van every single day. 

I did not find a single mouse. I assumed they had moved on to explore another territory. Well done, Wendy; I congratulated myself for single-handedly disassembling their party headquarters, and reclaiming what was rightfully ours. 

*******

Late last week on a dog walk, I noticed that our “old gal” Abby, had a couple of rounds of diarrhea. This created alarm for me because last spring, Abby was hospitalized for acute diarrhea and dehydrated. After hundreds of dollars, and a weekend full of anxiety and tears, we found out that she had a lump on her spleen. Preliminary tests revealed that it was likely benign. Nonetheless, they recommended a splenectomy—because you never really know—and it would cost about $4000.00. 

Two thoughts entered my mind at that time: Abby is almost ten years old; and there are people in other countries dying of curable medical incidents all the time because of lack of resources. 

Ethiopia 2013, Canadian Humanitarian Expedition

Abby did not get the surgery, despite the fact that the emergency veterinarian told me that the spleen tumour could progress slowly and quietly, and then rupture, at which point nothing could be done. I simply sat in the clinic room and cried, and nodded. 

Last week, Abby’s diarrhea lasted two days. 

Our other dog—seven-month-old Wylie—had his chances to procreate lopped off, one by one. Poor guy didn’t even see it coming. 

I arrived at the ranch with Laurèn, and the two dogs. 

Abby was 48-hours post diarrhea. 

Wylie was 24-hours post-op, and had tons of restrictions. Unfortunately, when I told him not to lick his incision, but to keep it clean (i.e., don’t lie down in a field of manure), and don’t rabble-rouse, run, or jump . . . he simply cocked his head to the side, and barked. I put a plastic cone on his head, and put him on his leash. Then--before I could lift him out--he leaped out of the van, as if it were merely an obstacle on an “Superdogs” course. He grabbed his leash in his mouth, and began a mighty game of tug-a-war with me. “Wylie, enough,” I said. 

You might be wondering why I even took the pup with me. Believe me, I was asking myself that same question. But, he couldn’t be left alone, so that was that. I didn’t want to disappoint Laurèn, who was eager to ride, after being away sick with a bad cold.

We were the only people at the ranch, which meant that I had to supervise Laurèn. She grabbed her horse’s halter and lead rope, and we headed off into the pasture. Laurèn walked with confidence and a skip in her step; Abby loped along; and Wylie looked like a calf that had been entered in a calf-roping competition. His legs kicked out in one direction while he pulled his leash in another. I gritted my teeth, sure he was going to rip his stitches wide open.

Just then, Abby circled and squatted to poop. She strained, but nothing came out. Then she circled and squatted again, and slowly shuffled forward doing a crab-like walk. I went over, and lifted up her tail to take a look. Pardon my candour—but her asshole was completely closed off by impacted and dried poop.

Let me just say at this point in my week—a very difficult week at home—I wanted to lay down in that filthy field of manure, and “let nature take its course”. 

But, I couldn’t. Living beings counted on me to be able to “do the right thing” regardless of my own struggles. 

I put Wylie into the gated dog run. He howled as if it was a full moon. I took Abby into the barn where Laurèn was grooming her horse Pita. I got some gloves from my first aid kit in the van, found some hydrogen peroxide in the barn, and I went to work on Abby’s butt. I lifted her tail up, and she bit me. This is uncharacteristic behaviour for our adaptable dog. I swore. Laurèn, who was tucked around a corner said, “You all right mom?” “No, I’m not all right!” I huffed,  “Abby bit me.” Wylie’s howling provided just the eery background music that the situation called for. 

Let’s just say that I de-bunged her with a skill that only a previous health care employee and current mother could have demonstrated. I took her outside, then cleaned up my “clinic” room—aka the barn floor. 

I made it through that day, but barely. Just two days later, after a soccer game, I found more mouse poop in the van. I looked up into the sky…where some imagine heaven to be…and said out loud, “Really God? REALLY!” 

Last night I arrived at the cottage for an overnight. I went into the basement to turn on the water. I noticed Wylie “digging” at something beside the dryer. I called him off, and took a look. There in a metal mouse trap lay the fattest mouse I have ever seen. I threw a towel overtop of the trap, and ran out, hyperventilating.

I am searching for the metaphorical meaning in all of this. You know, “When life gives you lemons, make lemonade.” But, I just can’t come up with anything. Knee-deep in shit, and still standing? Too pooped out to party? 

It simply feels like too much, too much shit for one week.

The tipping point

But, should it cause so much pain?

Synergy

Asylum - an institution for the maintenance and care of the mentally ill.

In 1924, in Alberta, the name “asylum” was washed into history, and mentally ill patients (previously lunatics) were placed in psychiatric hospitals.

Regardless of the name, stigma flows with ghostly presence through all conversations about a person’s mental health. Most would prefer to keep it quiet. Indeed, in reading about the lengthy history of “madness”—I have found that mental health illness and disorder are seen primarily as a domestic problem, with women taking on the vast majority of the management as an extension of their maternal role. And they are meant to keep it neatly tucked into their aprons, next to the recipe for the perfectly prepared supper.

I have to write about the heartache of being that mother—the one who bakes so that her children will know that they are loved beyond words, the one with the sassy hair style, fit figure, and functionally fashionable clothes, and the one who helps to solve the emotional and physical problems that her children face, so that they will have a better quality of life, or at least . . . suffer less. I am her. The mother who has a child with moderate to severe mental health struggles.

The Alberta Mental Health Act states, “In order to protect and treat those individuals with serious mental disorders and to protect the public, legislation has been put in place.” What parent wants to even learn about the Alberta Mental Health Act, let alone put into motion the tenants of the Act in order to adequately care for their child? When a person with a mental disorder “stops taking prescribed medication, appears unable to care for him/herself, is having a recurrence of severe symptoms yet refuses to see a physician,”[1] a family member, peace officer, health care worker, etc. can present the situation and circumstances to a Provincial Court judge, who will rule on whether the individual can be apprehended for examination by a physician.

How can one individual decide what is “best” for another individual? Can we truly look at behavior and circumstances, and figure out how to “help” someone else, who may not want to or be able to make good and healthy choices for themselves? Is is immensely complicated. What if it is a parent, and a child, what then?

            I commenced parenting each of my children with an unrealistic idea of perfection. I felt naturally inclined toward it, and therefore I presumed it would be easy. That ridiculous idea, etched into the condensation on the mirror after a shower, has disappeared. However, if I exhale slowly overtop of it, it fleetingly emerges to haunt me. My journey from perceived perfection to flaw-filled parent has not been an easy one. I can’t detail all of the work I have done, nor all the stages I have gone through.

The last year has been very difficult, while simultaneously being a period of personal strength. I have begun to create boundaries, and have stopped trying so hard. Faven’s wounds became deeper than what I could apply first aid to. I observed and learned more about her, while reminding myself that I am not responsible for her happiness, in any given moment. She has been flailing for awhile. She did not have a good set up for “success”, as she had many periods of loss and trauma before she turned ten, before she joined our family through adoption. No one should have to suffer so much; but we cannot change the past. We have tried love and support, and in moments it has worked, but by length, it has not.

So, I am not “trying” as hard. It is a choice—maybe it is what people call “tough love”, I don’t know, but it sure is tough. It is a choice that the critic who sits on my shoulder every day questions me about. She might ask, Is that really your best? or she might tell me that, Giving up is not an option when you are a mother. I know that I am not giving up, just putting hope aside for a period. I am trying to find a way to survive, and give myself and other family members what they need.

I don’t like to see Faven suffer. I don’t want her to be contained in a psychiatric ward where she feels so alone. I can hardly bear to hear her child-like voice on the phone asking me when I can come and visit, or her voice with the scathing hatred that blames me for her situation. It feels like a weight has been dropped suddenly into the bottom of my heart; my heart is stretched toward rupture, and I can’t breathe.

            We talk about synergy as a positive phenomenon; it is the interaction of elements that when combined produce a total effect that is greater than the sum of the individual elements. I don’t know if one is allowed to relate to a negative synergy. This is what Faven is experiencing right now, the sum of her experiences has created an overwhelming effect that she is unable to manage. We cannot manage or support it in a healthy way either.

I think many of us have read books or seen movies about the over-crowding, inappropriate admittance, abuse, and experimentation that occurred in asylums the world over in the late 1800’s. Original thought within these institutions was around a type of social, and moral reform. “It is worth considering that in all periods, people who we have thought to be mad and mentally unwell have been people who we think fall outside of the norms of acceptable behavior in a given place and time”[2]. This is not to say that mental illness is a social construct, but that societies are behind when it comes to providing adequate care at the community level for those individuals and families who need it.

“One in three people will have a mental health problem in their lifetime. This significant health and quality of life issue crosses all demographic, cultural and socio-economic barriers.”

---

[1] Alberta Mental Health Act

[2] historyofmadness.ca

Red Door

There is a bungalow around the block from us. The backyard, manicured for weddings, backs onto a green space with a playground, where Laurèn and Yohannes used to play when they were small, and where a two-hundred pound log fell on Fraser when he was 11. At the front of the house there’s a red door and a welcome sign. I want to move into that house. 

When my niece Kierla was entering kindergarten, I went with her to her first morning, a “welcome to kindergarten” debriefing. We stayed for two hours. She was four, I was nineteen. Yeah—a couple of years ago. 

The children sat in a circle on the floor while parents, grandparents and caregivers stood in the periphery, smiling and wiping away tears. Each child had a turn to say their name and tell a bit about their family. Kierla sat quietly, and listened. And then when her turn came, she spoke about living with her mother, father and brother, and she said that they had a dog. I was shocked. She had made up a family. In listening to the other children speak of their nuclear families, she knew at some level that she needed to fit in. Kierla lived with my mom, her mom (my sister), me, and my brother. We had a dog, but she had made up a different name for her dog. 

After the kindergarten class, Kierla and I likely held hands as we walked through the school yard, and hopped over the fence and into our backyard. I’m not sure what I said to her after class, if anything. But, I can imagine what she might have answered, what she might have been thinking. 

I took Ward to the house with the red door and the happily-ever-after backyard. He patiently walked through with me. Two adjoining bedrooms could serve as his and her’s offices. How sweet. Outside the jack-and-jill bedrooms, a fireplace beckoned, and two chairs sat facing the hearth and invited one to sit and rest. I wanted to sit down. But then I remembered, I don’t have space in my life for rest.

We walked out, and Ward said, “A real fixer-upper.” I wondered if he knew how badly I needed fixing up. I wondered if he knew how tough life felt for me. I wondered, but never asked. 

In the end, I know that no matter how badly I want to go through that red door, the life that I am supposed to live is not in there. 

Hope

I stash my bicycle in the long grasses by the side of the highway. Out of the front carrier, I grab the dollar-store air horn that my daughter bought days ago—to “prank” the boys, my phone, and a bag of cat treats. I slip the phone into the waistband of my shorts and begin to walk through the ditch alongside the 1A. The long grasses brush against my leg whisking the chaotic frenzy already at play in my nerves.

♡♡♡

Yesterday, on my regular walking trail at the cottage, I stopped on the spot where I had last seen Jazmin sitting. Our grey tabby blended in with the trail mulch, which had weathered over the years since it had been laid; she sat perfectly still. I watched her on that day, just over a week ago. The rain had picked up and I felt certain she would turn around and head for the comfortable deck furniture on our covered deck. Never had I heard of a cat who took “walks” with their owner. The summer after Jazmin joined our family, if she heard us pick up the dog’s leash she jumped up to follow; and if she was already outside roaming, she meowed to let us know to wait for her. Whether the walk was fifteen minutes or an hour, she jogged along, panting by the end. In our first year together, she lost over four pounds. When I took our dog Abby off-leash, Jazmin walked alongside, or scurried right underneath Abby’s belly. Abby, bent down and licked her face. Jazmin tilted her head upwards.

♡♡♡

I walk, just along the edge of civilization, my imagination tumbling over itself. My plan is to sneak into the fenced-off pasture, and walk up and down the hills, and into the small forests, calling—Jazmin, Jazzy, here girl—while shaking the bag of cat treats. The damn cars on the highway are camouflaging the melody of my voice, the one that Jazmin will recognize, and I look over at them, annoyed at their oblivion. My stomach tumbles in angst, and my eyes scan the edges of containers I can’t see into. Stands of trees. Valleys. Grass. The grass is longer than it looked from across the highway. I realize that if a predator is hiding here, I am lunch. My protective air-horn is not even going to have time to yell it’s offending honk. Still, my trigger finger is poised.

♡♡♡

It has been eight days since the rainy day walk. Jazmin had been sound asleep on the fleece checkered-blanket on the front deck when I walked out with Abby. I stopped at the van to get my solid umbrella, the one I would use on the sidelines of a soccer game. I slipped on my gortex pants, and we took off, hoping to get out and back before the storm fully descended. I didn’t bother putting Abby on her leash; who else would be out walking in this weather? The temperature had dropped over 25 degrees in the last day. “Meow,” I heard in the distance, and turned back. Jazmin ambled out, stretched, and scurried after us. “Oh Jazmin, go home, it’s raining,” I implored. “Meow,” she answered. I walked on.

♡♡♡

This summer there have been sightings within our small cottage community in the foothills, of a bear, a cougar, and coyotes. I am what you might call . . . skittish. I tramp across the grassy ditch, and stare alternately at the barbed wire fence, and the fields beyond. Trespassing. Unknown. Wildlife. Jazmin. I lay down on my belly, and roll underneath, like a robber slipping past a laser security beam. I’m in.

♡♡♡

Just as we turned off our cul-de-sac, I saw Dutch with his new police dog. I leashed Abby, who had already given a warning bark to Jazmin. She scurried into the long grasses, unseen. I thought she might go home. Dutch waved to us, and ducked inside his garage. We reached the coulees, and I unclipped Abby again; she sauntered ahead. The trail wound up and down through a grove of poplar, aspen and pine. The rain revived the cedar mulch, and the smell of peppermint wood floated on the air. “Meow,” I heard, and turned back to see Jazmin coming along.

♡♡♡

I lie momentarily cradled by the swaying grasses, and the smell of earth grounds me. With hope, I get up, and continue my plea, “Jazmin, come on girl”. I walk toward the first stand of aspen. In the midst of the clump of trees stands a deer. Her large diamond-shaped ears swivel in my direction catching the sound of my breath. Her gaze fixes on me, and I pause—reverent. I walk slowly by, turning my head to watch her, as she mirrors her head movements to mine. After I pass, I shake the bag of cat treats again, and call out. In answer, just the whizz of the passing cars.

♡♡♡

Jazmin continued meowing at me, so I stopped to rub her chin just underneath her collar. She flopped down on the wet trail, and arched her back to expose her cream-colored belly. I gave her a thorough scratch. “You really are crazy,” I said, “It’s raining. Now go home.” I continued down the hill. All of a sudden Abby barked. I tensed. A brownish-grey, lean, short-haired dog bounded around the corner. I had never seen this dog before. The dogs did their traditional canine greeting, hey, let me smell your butt… Jazmin, who usually took Abby’s bark as a signal to disappear sat right in the middle of the path at the top of the hill. “Go Jazzy,” I said, with tensed lips, and a head nod. She sat. Just then the dog noticed her, and took off. Jazmin sprinted away. She has been known to “toy” with dogs before, so sure of her own leaping, ducking, climbing, and hiding capabilities. Even though the dog, built for racing, had long legs, I had faith in Jazmin. The dog owner showed up; his strong stride relayed his youth, and his wet and tousled blonde hair shifted with the wind. He spoke to me with an accent I drank up, “What’s going on then?” “Your dog just took off after my cat,” I said. “Oh. All in fun. No harm,” he responded, and walked on.

♡♡♡

I walk down a hill, the grass now cutting lines into my leg as if whipping me for some crime. I am itchy. I stumble and fall, as the earth melts away into an unseen depression. My breath catches, and I half scream. I scold myself for being such a damn sissy. It’s a field Wendy, get a hold of yourself. It is not only the possibility of becoming prey to animals, I am also imagining a crazy ranch owner barreling through the field with his shotgun. I don’t know why I would have such a ridiculous thought. My emotions are having a field day. I pass the second and then third stand of trees, and I am afraid to enter, even though I can see clear through. I hear a tiny, repetitive squeaking sound, a mix between a cat and a bird. I stop, finger on the trigger of the air horn. “Hello,” I call out, and from the grasses directly in front of me springs a full grown, molting deer. She runs parallel to me. I jump and nearly fall over from the surprise of it. And then I see the spotted fawn in the grass. Mama deer gives a signal, and the baby takes off in the opposite direction.

♡♡♡

The rain started coming down hard, and I wondered about abandoning the dog-walk. But, it was supposed to rain heavily for the next two days, and I really needed to get out. Jazmin, the dog, and the owner had all disappeared from view. It had never been my habit to go looking for Jazmin after a “chase”—sometimes she merely took off because too many small children came over to maul her—she always met me back at the cottage . . . eventually. If only I had known that this time would be different. If only I had seen where she went to hide, so that I could go tell her when it was safe to come out. If only I hadn’t “let her” come on the walk with us that day.

♡♡♡

I walk through miles of grassy land peppered with Potentilla bushes in full yellow bloom. I shake the treats, which I now realize is a ridiculous gesture in amidst the noises of nature, and traffic. I call out, “Jazzy, come on girl,” and my voice cracks. The tears start streaming down my face, and my chin quivers. I shake my head back and forth, in silent argument with myself.  She’s here, I know she’s here. Yesterday, when I walked on the path at the cottage, I stepped onto the spot that Jazmin had sat just before being chased away. I had the feeling—an intuition—to go across the highway, and walk through the fields. I was filled with hope, after basically crying my way through the days of the week since she’d disappeared.

I stand in the field staring into every space, as if maybe just looking in the right direction will produce the result I want. I feel desperate to hear her meowing conversation. I stand still—reluctant to move, to leave, to carry on with the dinner plans I’ve made. My body begins to shake, and I cover my face with my hands. I wish . . . oh, I wish . . .