It's hard to believe that at my age my mother can still inspire fear in me. For the most part I don't dwell on the things she says but every once in awhile I dread calling her for the comments I fear I might hear. It's not that she constantly maligns me it's just that she flies off the handle at the slightest provocation. And after all these years, despite the fact that I know what sets her off, I still have this uncanny ability to rattle her cage every once in awhile. Just have to open my big mouth and say what I really feel instead of simply agreeing and changing the subject. 

I should know better. By upsetting her I not only put myself in the doghouse for weeks but I also make my father's life miserable. Poor guy has to take the wrath for my inability to shut up. But sometimes I just can't resist 'jerking her chain.' And believe me my instant sense of satisfaction quickly diminishes when I realize the silent treatment is about to ensue. I really do need to keep some perspective and just let it go. I'm trying. So these days when I telephone my mother I vow not to answer her back. Amazingly enough this strategy worked. Like last week when I called her..... I stayed true to my list of questions, listened intently and kept my sarcastic quips to myself. As a result we actually had a pleasant conversation. And despite my mother's usual hesitation to share her situation with me this time she did. Too many questions usually throw her into an emotional tailspin. 

"Have you had a haircut yet," I asked. "Several," she answered and then went in to a long discussion on how many, when and how her hair had changed as a result of the chemo. This opened the door for a chat about her wardrobe. Course nothing fits and my mother is in no rush to buy pieces she won't wear. She's always been a classic dresser and finding clothes to fit her ever shrinking torso is proving to be a huge challenge. Wish I could be there to take her shopping but alas distance prevents it. And although her choices are so limited by the fact she lives in a smaller town its too hard for her to travel. Or is it? Might be a little easier now that her feet have stopped hurting. Yes oh miracles of miracles, as per everything I had read, she woke up one day, at least eight months in from her last chemo and the neuropathy had disappeared over night. What a relief ..for all parties, my dad included. She also admitted that she is able to attend poker night regularly and is ready for a few outings. I have no idea what this all means except that she must be feeling better. Has she beaten the alleged ovarian cancer then, or is this merely a respite from the inevitable? Either way we won't question it. In the meantime she says her right hand has curled up so tightly she's lost the use of it but she's not worrying about that. And if she's not worrying I'm not asking. For now all is good.



-- Karen Ashbee

Pinched, lined and grey. That's how everyone looked to us when we landed in Calgary's airport after two weeks in Florida. A little humidity and a lot of sunshine go a long way in the improvement of one's appearance. It's not that I mind winter. No I hate it. In my youth my mother forbade me to use the word hate. "Hate is too strong a word," she would say. "Instead try using dislike." Well as far as winter is concerned hate is the only appropriate word to describe my feelings. I hate the cold, snow, dreariness and the fact that I am inside so much of the time. I also have a thyroid problem, which compounds the problem. I always feel cold. Although I try to be positive the older I get the more I dread winter. So with that in mind we vowed to get out of Cowtown for a little sun time this year. Now most Calgarians head southwest for the winter favouring Palm Springs over Palm Beach. However with us being displaced Torontonians and most of our former friends in Florida we headed east instead of west. With no direct flights, except to Orlando, it's not easy to get there from here and it's certainly not cheap but the familiar surroundings are all worth it in the end. 

Neither my husband nor I have any great affinity for Florida. We didn't go there as children and certainly haven't been to Orlando and Disney. And yet from the first time I ventured down for spring break I've embraced it. In fact I hate to admit it but I see a place in sunny Florida in my retirement future. Just like everyone else. But how can I make it work? 

Recently the question of limits was put to me. "Why do you put limits on yourself?" one of my friends asked. I thought about it. Even though I would describe myself as a glass half full person in some cases I rationalize my decisions by factoring limitations into the equation, most of the time being time and money. I tell myself I never have enough of either. Of course our generation learned most of our excuses from our parents and in my case time and money were the two most common limiting factors. Of course transportation was another challenge. Like most moms mine didn't own a car. No after school activities for us unless we could get there on our own two feet.  

This has been the norm in my parent's household for all of their life. Decisions rationalized by limits, not by hard cold facts, by what ifs and not by why nots. Even though my folks had both the wherewithal and the financial ability to enjoy a lifestyle of their choosing they chose not to. Instead quoting lack of time and money as the reasons why. Although my Dad was able to realize total freedom from work at age fifty-five he never realized the luxury of fulfilling any of his dreams. No cottage, no home on the water, no retirement place in Florida, all due to the lack of time and money or so he said. Not true by any means but easy excuses to trot out when asked. And now it's too late. If not today, when?



--Karen Ashbee

Thank goodness my mother isn't a pack rat as given the inevitable purge to come things could be worse. Oh there's still a lot to go, given they live in a furnished 3500 square foot condominium but she certainly doesn't collect. No spoons, dolls, dishes or knickknacks what so ever. And with all the recent media attention given to hoarders it's frightening to think if we had to deal with years of retail therapy. However lately she's started to divest herself of bits and pieces, like cookie sheets and loaf pans. Doesn't cook or bake so why bother. In fact she should just go hog wild and get rid of the dining room suite. Never once has my mother hosted a dinner party. Twenty years ago she did have us over on the odd occasion but it was never the norm. Since then the room serves as an office.  

But one thing she did clean out and turn over to me were the family photos. A few months before hubby and I were due to leave for Calgary she insisted I come over and go through the pictures with her. Album by album. No shortcuts that day. I was to sit and go through all the books page by page. To this day my aunt still can't believe my mother wouldn't want to revisit those memories but I set her straight. After all I knew what was behind that decision. First I was extremely busy with barely an afternoon to go running down to Niagara so this was a means to ensure that I would be there. 

Secondly and what was really the issue was the control. The threat of her potentially tossing those out before I could say NOOOOO don't do it hung in the air. If I didn't get there by a certain time they were definitely going in the 'G' file. And it would be my fault. My mother does this all the time. No matter what your schedule...you could be undergoing open-heart surgery, it's her terms or forget it. Once when my grandmother was moving out of her apartment to a nursing home I called to ask my mother about grandma's couch. Time did not permit me to have a couch picked up the following day as I was leaving for Europe on business for three weeks. "Now or never', said my mother "and oh I want $800.00 for it." Needless to say I passed and the couch ended up at the Weall and Cullen barn, along with every other possession of any significance. I know that decision netted my mother far less than $800.00.  

Most of my friends' parents keep every memento they possibly can of their extended family. That and their clothes are pretty much all they take to the 'old folks' home. But not my mother. Sitting in the kitchen going through page by page she revisited the good, the bad and especially the ugly. Reminding me of past fashion faux pas or misdemeanours. In most instances she removed the picture from the corners and gave it to me but for some she dwelled on the possibility of turning it over to my brother. The fact that they weren't speaking then was of no consequence. He was entitled to them too. And let me tell you he would be coming to get them on his own time, not like me. So I sucked it up as they say, went through the books and left with the majority of them tucked under my arm. She's never asked for them back. 


-- Karen Ashbee

My mother's been chemo free now for four months. But the reality of the situation is that she's not really any better. When asked about her condition she tends to be rather vague. Her hair has grown back....a little. Does she feel any stronger? No. I told her she was sounding much better on the phone and although she agreed she said it didn't mean anything. I secretly suspect there's been some improvement in her condition, she went out for dinner last week and was going out to play poker Thursday night, but her feet still hurt all the time and my Dad confirmed they really are a mess. Calloused with cracked nails, all from the chemo, and of course the lingering neuropathy. Yet she flatly refuses to see the podiatrist or anyone else who might have a suggestion. Won't try the topical cream prescribed for them, won't go for a massage or reflexology, and doesn't want to take any oral medication even though her oncologist has given her the green light. Part of the problem is that my mother despises anyone touching her feet. She's never had a pedicure, and purely for this reason. Years ago when I discovered the joys of having others rub my feet for hours, okay really minutes, I suggested a mani-pedi appointment. "Oh no," she cried. "I don't want anyone near my feet. I can't stand people touching me." 

She does have a prescription for her tender tootsies, something to help with the 'burning' and pain but she claims the pills make her dizzy and even worse ...bloated. Can't say I blame her but every time she notices even a wee bit of water retention she goes crazy. "It's back, it's back," she will exclaim to my dad. We're not sure what's back as I still am not convinced that she is suffering from ovarian cancer. How can she be on the mend? From all I've read you don't recover from ovarian cancer but what do I know? I never see the woman and the oncologist insists that she is 'responding to treatment.' 


Anyway she's starting to 'live a little' ....if a poker night with the boys and a dinner out can be described as living. Better than being confined to the couch with the TV. 



If that be the case then the next challenge to be addressed is their living arrangements. They physically can't keep that house up anymore. Secretly it would be a relief if I could convince them to move to a serviced apartment, some place where meals, housekeeping, and medical services were provided. The prospect of pulling up stakes and moving to such a regimented lifestyle horrifies even me. The freedom to live in one's own home becomes a goal as we age and looking at my parents' recent developments only induces me to save even more for my 'old age.' However, my dad who years ago flatly refused to move to a smaller condo, is now out pounding the pavement seeking alternative abodes. In hindsight he should have listened to my mother's pleas to 'get something smaller' but he simply didn't want to face the arduous task of purging, packing, cleaning, and physically moving. My mom won't let others take on these tasks so the responsibility lies on his shoulders and they're tired ones. However a move is staring them in the face and if my mother is truly making progress then something has to be done sooner than later. 



-- Karen Ashbee

It was my dad's birthday this Sunday. Eighty-three. As I said to my husband," given the history of my father's family we're all surprised by the fact that he's still around. Glad he is but most of them died young." "Yup," my husband countered. "But you know it's been proven in countless studies, ever the scientist my man, that longevity is a factor of wealth and your dad is not too badly off." I had to agree. My dad retired at fifty-five, company buy out, sayonara. 

This was a man, who never took a vacation day. Okay once we went as a family to a rented cottage in Vermont. I thought my mother was going to expire on the spot with the dirt, the sand, bugs, and the less than stellar bathroom facilities. She didn't, but we never repeated the experience. My dad also worked tirelessly, toiling away in his basement office almost every night. Those were the days where everyone's father was absent so no biggie. 

My parents rarely went out, thereby saving cash on expensive meals and babysitters, and we never took a family vacation except to journey from Montreal to Toronto for Christmas. So when his ship came in, so to speak I thought he could finally enjoy some of life's pleasures. I had such high hopes for him when he said his final goodbye to work but none came to pass. His dreams were simple, to live on Lake Simcoe, buy a boat and spend his days on the water. Instead my folks went to St. Catherines and although they overlook the lake there's no boat or lazy lakeside days. 

He also wanted to forgo Canadian winters and vacation in Florida. "Can't leave the condo," my mother would cry. "What if there's water damage?" For most of my mother's life she has worried about the threat of rainstorms and flooding. The reasons are hard to divine as its not like she's ever suffered the ravages of a flood but her anxiety where water damage is concerned is an obsession with her. Even to this day she refuses to get a new dishwasher. Her rational is that when they install it by some divine intervention it will leak and her floors will be ruined. Their dishwasher hasn't worked for months and even though my dad realizes it needs to be in working order to sell the joint she won't budge. Instead he'll just have to get creative with any potential buyers. 

So today when I called to wish him Happy Birthday he was exercising his usual self-control by doing my mother's bidding and washing the bathroom floors, an uncomfortable reminder of her condition. She can't perform this task anymore. He really doesn't care much anyway but it's not something I'd embrace as a means of celebrating my day. Instead he focused on the dinner they were going to have mid week to mark his birthday and then dutifully rang off to get a mop and bucket. 

That's always been part of his charm, his absolute refusal to complain over the little things. This is a man who looks for the good in everything and won't kvetch unnecessarily. Won't do it, never has, not about to start now. In fact growing up he told me I was to treat people like I wanted to be treated and to look for the good in every situation. It has stood the test of time and kept me positive for the most part. So I left him to his chores, said goodbye to my mom and will call next week. I'm hoping then that I can quiz my mother on her condition. With over four months chemo free it's puzzling why she isn't improving.

I still marvel at the fact that my mother chose not to see me at Christmas. Really I don't know why I even give it a passing thought, she never has in the past, but this year could be her last and for one brief moment I actually thought she might relent. However as per usual she held steadfast in her resolve and we never did see one another. It's only when my friends and acquaintances quiz me on the nature of this absurdity, "What do you mean you don't see your parents at Christmas?" that I give it a second thought, more so because they ask and not because I care. Oh I know that sounds hard and callous but after years of being rejected I'd be a mess if I didn't accept the fact and move on. This is not something new. Years ago I called my mother to tell her I was coming home in June to judge a horse show and maybe we could grab a quick bite. "No can do," she said. "I'm packing. Your father and I are going to France and that's my packing day." Most parents I know would have jumped at the chance to see their kid and simply re-scheduled the packing. Not my mother. When I suggested that she shift the packing a little later into the day or perhaps start one day sooner another excuse popped up." No that's my drugstore day," she explained. "I've got to pick up my prescriptions as well as any necessary supplies for the trip." Who was I to interfere with a pharmacy run? I dropped the notion and said good-bye. In my mother's defence it is mentally impossible for her to change plans. Her obsessive compulsion nature is a force so pervasive that she cannot be diverted from a plan. I've made peace with it a long time ago.

So this is why I am in no rush to go home. My mother can't cope and any visit from me would throw her into a tailspin. However over lunch with my father he told me that my brother has resurfaced. No visits yet but regular phone calls.

Got me thinking right away. Now my mother would welcome a visit from him. Doesn't matter what his past transgressions are the mother-son bond is all powerful ...maybe not meet the new girlfriend yet but then let's not rush things. My mother and brother have not seen one another for probably ten years. Their relationship has always been tenuous at best but my mother has still not banished him from the will. Or at least that is what my dad told me a few weeks ago. No matter how challenging my younger sibling has been my mother has always worried about him. Once I showed up for a family dinner at his house and there was my parent's dining room set, complete with the hutch. "You wouldn't want that," my mother quickly babbled. "Besides you can look after yourself and your brother needs a little help." She was right regarding the furnishings. I definitely would've passed on the colonial look but the fact that I was never even asked was more infuriating. This has been the pattern though. I also discovered after the fact that my mother had donated her engagement ring to my brother for his second wife. Upon finding out about the 'gem' I must confess I did confront her about the gift. "Oh it was a nothing diamond," she scoffed. "And besides your brother has no money." The man has a steady job with a regular income thereby making it improbable that he had 'no money.' However what could I say. No use getting in a tizzy as the ring was long gone but the gesture still stung. When my brother and his wife split up I must admit I mentioned the loss of the diamond to my mother. "What do you mean?" she said. "She has to give that back." "No" I countered. "She doesn't. It was a gift and legally it's hers to keep."

I think it might be time for the two of them to get together.

Every year we go home for Christmas and every year I vow that next year everyone can come to us...never happens. We're only two and it's a lot less difficult for us to travel than my eighty something in-laws. Besides my sister in law always flies in from California and that makes up the family. 

Don't get me wrong. I love going back to Toronto, any time. Still home to me but at Christmas it's so expensive and stressful! This year we had our flight cancelled due to the foiled efforts of some terrorist on an international flight. We lingered in the airport sick and tired finally to depart seven hours later. 

We're spoiled in our house with our tempur pedic mattress, Frette sheets, and hot water on demand any time day or night. Not so at my in laws. The house is over forty years old, still has the original shag, rec room panelling, and pink toilet. My father in law installed some water saving device, which thank God for my sister in law was instantly torn off. Neither of us could wash our hair let alone on the same morning ...ever! I busted a gut the morning she told her dad she was going upstairs for a misting. Most apt description for the water pressure at the time. And two twin beds dressed as a king in 25 thread count sheets do not cut it [my husband's words not mine] Sleeping pills are de rigueur and my husband inevitably gets a neck cramp from the foam pillow. My in-laws would be put out if we stayed anywhere else and I could never do it to them. They also let us come and go as we please with nary a word. In the past they would gladly lend us the car but now we rent one. We stopped borrowing the car years ago when my father in law exercised his authority by demanding it on the day before Christmas to go to the mall. The man could have gone anytime but nooooooo had to be then...just to let us know whose car it was. Point taken and ever since we rent, despite the rates, horrendous at Christmas. I honestly don't think they realize how expensive the trip home is for us. Never mind, cars and airline tickets, we also have two animals to board and a snow shovelling service to hire. But in spite of all the expense and exhaustion Christmas wouldn't be the same and with all my past traditions blown sky high by my mother what's not to embrace. Two people who wait expectantly for our arrivals even though we spend eighty percent of our time visiting friends, a welcome place to sleep and a huge Christmas dinner thanks to my husband's efforts. He is an amazing cook and has mastered the art of the bird.  

My mother has long ago axed any traditions my family ever had. So what's not to like. This year, as so often is the case in the past, I did not see my mother. Too sick and tired to venture out and I certainly was not invited there. But my father and I were allowed to meet for lunch thereby allowing us a serious heart to heart. My mother is still in fight mode but sounds like the disease will be reaching crisis proportions come spring. It's spread and my mother can barely walk. My father knows we're not getting the true picture from the oncologist and my mother is in denial, still looking at moving to a smaller place. We need to make plans and soon.  

-- Karen Ashbee

I can't believe we leave tomorrow for Toronto for Christmas...it didn't just sneak up on us but slam into me like a semi on our unplowed roads...a constant source of strife in Calgary. The mayor refuses to accept the fact that chinooks do not a snow removal program make. We have so much of the dam white stuff already it's a problem where to put it and we had to stop depending on our neighbours for holiday removal. Especially after one was felled by a stroke last year, not a direct result of keeping our stairs clean thank goodness, but most likely a contributing factor.

Naturally I gave my father a call regarding any potential Christmas rendez vous but no one can commit. My mother has a return visit to the oncologist on the eighteenth; fingers crossed no chemo, in addition to a variety of other medical appointments. Why change our tradition now? We don't usually see each other so taking this logic one step further why start now? Unnatural for most, the norm for us. Besides my mother discovered a rash last week that turned out to be shingles. Thank God they went to the clinic early, my mother said she couldn't face one more doctor's appointment, so off to the walk-in for them. What an eightieth birthday surprise. Luckily caught in time it is starting to abate and as she told me this morning, "makes the neuropathy less painful." But the call today was no less pleasant due to the fact that she was horribly concerned about my father's health. Oh that's all we need now is for the primary caregiver to go down. Despite her tears and pleas not to ask my hubby for a diagnosis I did. Luckily based on the symptoms didn't sound like much too worry about. But it begs the question I had ignored entirely..what will I do if my dad gets sick. To date besides his family history of early deaths, his brother succumbed in his early sixties, my father is healthy, still drives and hanging in for eighty-two. The thought of him having to be hospitalized is devastating. Never mind for me emotionally but who will be there for my mom. I realize that countless people have faced this dilemma before. Quit jobs, moved back in with dear old mom and dad to mind the farm. But what if my dad up and buys the farm? Lord where I am? Sounds selfish. I know. To date, although not entirely detached from the situation, I know my father has been able to handle it. My mother is no longer self-reliant. That's a fact. And I simply cannot drop everything and hustle home to live with her. But the stifling atmosphere of a retirement home where everybody thrives on knowing each other's business is definitely not for her. She can't take the whisperings in their condo building as it is. These are the topics we must face when I return home, no relaxed parental visit but a desperate conversation regarding domestic reorganization. Ho ho ho.

--Karen Ashbee

Twas a week of birthdays. Not only was it my mother's birthday but mine as well. Yes both Sagittarians and yet both very different. According to my mother I was due on her birthday, some present, but in my usual impatient manner came into the world early. So like me, my husband always teases. Always in a rush. After all this time I'm not about to change. Although my mother and I are so different there are a few similarities, that being to get the job done expediently and correctly. She taught me that golden rule and I've always stuck by it. My dad on the other hand instructed me never to be late. "Vince Lombardi time", he always said. "Ten minutes early." I must admit I associate lateness with rudeness and am rarely forgiving. "Death or dismemberment or be on time." Hey I ride and judge dressage, one of the most subjective anal sports out there.

My mother also adheres to the lateness rule, especially when it concerns any hallmark event, like Mother's Day, birthdays, and Christmas. All cards must arrive prior to the occasion and gifts are not to be late. Many years ago my mother informed me that late cards meant nothing, might as well stick the knife in her heart. With these mandates in mind I was terribly surprised when my mother was not the first to call and wish me happy birthday. So unlike her. And with a two-hour time difference in her favour even more so. But she's had to relax her rules. In addition to the ongoing cancer trauma she has now hurt her back and broken out in an unexplained rash. Two for one. No doubt some complication from a recent flu shot. Just more aches and pains making it almost impossible for her to get out of bed, never mind call. I totally understand.

Being my mother's birthday on Thursday I made certain I phoned well in advance. As usual it is becoming increasingly difficult to speak with my mother due to her crying. Despite our difficulties I am having a very hard time with it...tugs at my heartstrings. She is trying to be so strong but every week some other health issue rears its ugly head...this week a pulled back and a rash, last week a toothache and an earache. Her feet still throb, albeit not as much and her sight is a constant battle. But it was when my mother started to cry over the sale of one of her favourite winter coats that I was overwhelmed. Having shrunk a considerable size she no longer could wear it. My mother is a tiny woman to begin with, always struggling to find suitable petite clothes, so the prospect of losing her favourite item of clothing was devastating. It's not just the loss of the coat but also the underlying sorrow of what's to come. I wanted to rush home and take her shopping but she really can't stray too far from the condo. It truly saddens me that she has to suffer with only my father for support. And although Christmas is just around the corner I doubt we will see them. For one thing the weather can never be relied upon to co-operate and the other issue is her declining health. She cherishes her privacy and cannot stand to have visitors. Some people embrace their friends and family in times of need while others prefer to withdraw. This Christmas is going to be tough.

 -- Karen Ashbee

It's my mother's eightieth birthday this week. What do you possibly get an eighty-year-old....the guarantee of a few more years? That's about the only present that would really mean anything. She's hanging in though. Still no chemo so everyone's relieved. But the appointment for re-assessment is nearing and more blood work to be taken this week. In fact my poor mother lamented the fact that she couldn't even have a wee sip of wine on her birthday due to pending blood work. I feel sorry for my mom ....a 'big birthday' and no one to celebrate with, no gal pals, no family, no kids, just my dad and her one close girlfriend. But this birthday begs a bigger question.

Where do we go from here? Although my mother is still managing to clean their condo, at over 3000 square feet that's a miracle, grocery shop and keep the books on their business up to date when will this end and what do we do then? Even if we offered, my parents wouldn't be interested in moving out here and frankly we couldn't handle it. Although a recent basement renovation would allow them a space of their own there is no way they would want to leave their familiarity. With no friends or support group out here my dog would definitely benefit from increased walks but the TV would be cranked twenty four seven. Despite the year's hardships my parents have a life and a routine and I don't blame them for staying put. But how do you make someone who is fiercely independent give that up? My mother has never had a cleaning lady. Me who balks at the idea of losing mine, the last one had to have a foot operation and never came back, would jump at the chance to have a little extra help but my mother shuns the idea...my father not so much. He would adjust fine. Then there are meals, laundry, mail...never mind the business books. So where do I turn to or more important how do we broach the idea? After all my parents are going to need some help, especially if my mother is to return to the drip. My father celebrates another year in January and can no longer be expected to wash floors, do laundry, and grocery shop all on his own. The man will be eighty-three then. Enough already. I know my mother will fight me tooth and nail. This is her domain and no one has ever dared tell her how to run it. Because my mother has never worked in the corporate world, okay when she first met my father over fifty years ago, this has been her office for some time now and its not a joint venture. Many years ago I tried to impress upon my mother the difficulties of being a woman in the workforce but she flatly refused to listen. "I work" was her response and by all means the woman kept our house shining but she has no idea of the rigours of the workforce, the necessity of finesse, give and take, power plays, backstabbing co-workers...and the list goes on. So with that in mind I'll keep my fingers crossed for a positive lab report and hope they can last another month or two. And in the meantime a very happy birthday to her.

-- Karen Ashbee