Erin's Journals

Just a thought… Be Kind. Be Calm. Be Safe. [Dr. Bonnie Henry]

Hello and welcome to a new week. As Ontario (where most readers here seem to reside) begins moving into phase three of post-COVID life, from here in BC where we’ve been in that phase for a few weeks now, I can tell you that life is far from normal. And as hard as it is to take, we’re going to have to take it as it comes.

Yesterday we were tourists in our own city. We decided just to enjoy the sights and remind ourselves why we love this area and its capital so much. As we strolled the empty downtown sidewalks, about as many stores were open as closed and, not needing anything, we mostly window-shopped.

As glass panels spared us the chilly winds blowing off the water, we enjoyed a meal outdoors at a restaurant overlooking the harbour. This was a view we took in an hour earlier and, as some background, you should know that usually on a July Sunday you’d be shoulder-to-shoulder with other sightseers out enjoying the perfection of the day. But not yesterday.

In an area that would usually be bustling with vendors, musicians, visitors and residents, there were just a few dozen people and, if they were like us, they were just strolling and counting their blessings. But we also mourn the loss of the livelihoods of so many: with no ferries coming from Seattle, or international cruise ships bringing travellers by the thousands daily to our shores, a city that thrives on tourism is starving for attention.

Even those few who do venture here from off the island are finding the WELCOME mat rolled up; cousins of ours are visiting from out-of-province and had troubles finding a resort up island to which they could plan a short getaway from their family home base in Victoria.

Many, if not most, BC resorts are only allowing residents of this province to book with them, for obvious reasons of COVID safety and to prevent any spread of the virus within British Columbia. While this has proven inconvenient and unsettling, it takes only this picture of Alberta’s lovely Sylvan Lake on the weekend to underline why there’s no such thing as being too careful when it comes to a province protecting her own.

With the exception of the now-infamous lippy Letitia, who made news across Canada and the US when she posted a video of herself refusing to wear a mask at St. Joseph’s Hospital, our social media feeds have been filled almost exclusively with clips of Americans behaving badly.

They’re screaming about their rights in fast food restaurants, at grocery stores and wherever else hapless employees are telling them that they have to wear a mask to try to stem the spread of COVID-19. (Funny how the No Shirt, No Shoes, No Service signs never brought them to such insanity….)

But let’s not get too full of ourselves. It’s becoming clear that as the pandemic wears on, Canada has more than her share of people refusing to take precautions because: a) they wrongly believe they’re too young to catch the disease, b) they believe that if they do catch it there won’t be any ill effects or residual damage, or c) and this is not the least of the reasons: they prefer to take the word of a wingnut website, or a video that a friend-of-a-friend-of-a-friend posted, over the intelligence of actual lifelong scientists and epidemiologists.

My sister unfriended someone on Facebook on the weekend when that person posted a question about the test swabs: “How do we know they’re not implanting something in our brains?” (I’d have been sorely tempted to respond, “Honey, your brain is clearly something you needn’t worry about as you don’t appear to be using it anymore.”)

I’m afraid it’s too late to slam the internet’s Pandora’s boxes closed, but people have to choose their news sources more carefully and digest their contents even more scrupulously. As someone wiser than I once said, “You’re entitled to your own beliefs, but not your own facts.” I’ll believe a scientist and go with the facts, thanks. And masks? Absolutely. Until there’s a vaccine or no new cases, unless I’m at home or in my little social bubble, that thing is staying with me like it’s my iPhone.

I’ll be back with you here on Thursday.

Just a thought… It’s not about how much you do, but how much love you put into what you do that counts. [Mother Teresa]

Does it feel to you these days as if you’ve gone from zero, not to 60, not to 100, but to 600 km/h in a minute? While those around us who took such good care of us, putting their own concerns aside, hopefully get their well-deserved rest, many of us are still slowly climbing out of our bunkers, opening doors carefully and trying to see through the fog and mist whether we are actually safe.

In our own little lives, Rob makes appointments, invites me to come along, and I just want to stay home in either my day or evening pajamas (getting dressed, of course, to walk Molly). Yes, I have different pajamas for different parts of the day; I even have a workout pair for the stationary bike. And, oh, I despair for how my feet are going to scream for mercy as I squeeze them into the lowest possible pair of heels to “perform” when this is all over, as they’re so used to being bare or in Skechers.

There are plenty of lighter sides to search for, after what we’ve been through the last four months, but mostly, for many, there are echoes.

We subconsciously take mental note of the people not wearing masks when we get into a crowded place, reminding ourselves that we wear ours for their safety, not just our own. We read and watch the insanity of people arguing with their own “facts” against actual medical experts and scientific evidence about the efficacy of taking the smallest of precautions, while shuddering as we witness the size of outbreaks occurring in places where people felt it was a violation of their rights to do so.

(As I showered yesterday, I wondered what our great-grandparents, who wore gas masks during a time of war, in real fear for their lives, and who, if they returned home at all, bore scarred lungs and minds for the rest of their lives, would think of an over-privileged, under-educated citizen screaming over having to don a piece of cloth in a Trader Joe’s.)

Every day, Rob and I count ourselves lucky not to have been touched personally by COVID-19, although we feel the fallout in all of these lesser ways. Last weekend, we worried and awaited word as my sister, a personal home care worker (the one with whom I spent two hotel nights) checked her computer repeatedly to learn the results of her COVID test.

Thankfully, they were negative, but in those days of uncertainty, it was challenging not to go down the dark rabbit hole of counting how many people – including our father – with whom she’d come in contact. How soon, I wonder, until we can truly breathe easy again; until a cough is just a cough and not reason for concern or a quick side-eyed glance? How soon until the only proximity that worries us on the plane is if the person next to us is going to hog the arm rest? I wonder when the echoes will fade.

Some days, when the concern over what is happening around us gets to be too much, the exercise of sitting quietly and planting one’s feet on the floor, feeling quite literally grounded, helps as I concentrate on my breath – in, out, in, out – and get out of my head by moving into my heart. In and out, in and out.

But earlier this week, I had an even more tangible example of the importance of support, and of offering comfort and even a little prayer as care for the helpless came right to my door. Or, more accurately, our window. Here’s what happened.

Lying in bed, my second delicious coffee of a lazy morning in hand, I heard what I guessed was the sick thud of a bird hitting a house window. I went to investigate and, sure enough, a young spotted robin was lying in the garden just a few feet below the pane bearing marks from its collision with it. With one wing bent at an unsightly angle, its little body was vibrating with shock and fear.

I gently scooped up the bird and took it to an outside deck and, between Rob and me, we must have held it for the better part of an hour as its eyes opened; through our fingers, we felt the pulsing of its heart, strong but slowing.

We spoke to each other and to the young bird in hushed tones, watching for signs of improvement or deterioration. Then, after determining that he or she might just survive, we took our young friend outside to an elevated garden and put it down with great care, on its feet, one of which seemed to be broken (judging by the angle of its claws). Rob and I stood back and watched it hop gingerly to the protective shade of the base of a tree. 

Tip-toeing out to the same garden area an hour later, I checked on our little patient and there he was. But after another hour it had gone, hopefully to return home to its family. As I tried not to think of predatory birds and pets in our neighbourhood, I thought of a saying of which I’m often reminded: nature isn’t cruel, it is indifferent.

How we take care of each other, even – or especially – the smallest and most vulnerable among us, says more about us as individuals and a human race than anything.

When we look back at 2020 (assuming COVID-19 has somehow been brought under control or has its own enemy in the form of a vaccine), what will we remember about how we treated each other?

I’ll be back here with you Monday. Thanks for sharing a few thoughts today.

Just a thought… [When] I got sober, I had all this time and more energy…it’s working today. That’s all I have. But it makes life so much easier. [Ringo Starr]

I’ve a lot on which to catch you up, so let’s get at it. Although it was scheduled four days after my own “big day,” I missed my one-year birthday meeting Saturday on Zoom with our local 12-step group because of the wrong code; I sat there with my little birthday candle and lighter at the ready and felt as if I’d been stood up for a date on Saturday night.

Although my “Serenity Prayer” got a workout that day, I told Rob, “At least it wasn’t a business meeting or an emcee gig where I was letting a lot of people down.” There’s always something for which to be grateful, as I am for you.

Many folks have written asking after Molly’s well-being. She’s doing okay. Some days she hardly eats and just sleeps all day; others, she’s constantly standing by a dish she’s just emptied, wanting more, and when we take her out, it’s a challenge to keep up with her. That was the case yesterday when she and I jogged for part of her outing.

Last week, I thought we were nearing the end, as we were up most of one night with her because of a raucous digestive system (yes, there were accidents). Such is life with an aged dog. But for the most part, she’s doing really well. Every day is a gift.

Oh, I should tell you that I’ve passed along many of your kind words to my dad. He giggles like a child when I tell him that people say he’s handsome! But these days he’s going through some uncharacteristic depression, as the realization is setting in that he no longer has his keys, his car and the freedom that accompanied them. His lady friend is upset, too (even with us daughters, I’m told), and much of that likely has to do with her losing a bit of her freedom as well.

We get that; as a team, my three sisters and I are working to ease the sting. We’ve formulated a plan to get him regular rides and a brother-in-law who will be setting up semi-weekly errand runs with them. We’re all doing the best we can; Saturday we got together virtually and delivered a bouquet and some of his favourite toffee. I know that both gave him a smile, that is, if his favourite toffee doesn’t reduce that smile by a few teeth!

The WestJet situation I wrote about here last Monday seems to be resolved – sort of. Although I haven’t heard back from the manager to whom I’d written, Phil and Brooke spoke to an agent on Friday (after a six-hour wait for a call back that didn’t come, they started again on another phone).

The middle seat which was previous blocked off for COVID safety was still available, while the seats they’d already booked had dropped slightly in price. So after refunds of the existing purchases, they were able to buy baby Jane the seat and spend just $144 more, rather than the $1000+ an agent had told them earlier that it was going to cost. So I guess that’s a bit of a win?

Of course, what’s at the forefront of our minds these days is that same little family: the one that is packing up and selling items and checking off lists in the climatic steam bath that is Ottawa. The way we’re helping from this end is by picking up local online purchases of gently-used baby furniture and toys for the kids to have at the ready when they arrive – first for a few weeks here, and then in their own home once the truck pulls into the driveway with their new (two-year-old) house’s contents.

Yes, this is becoming more real by the day. And while we’re trying not to count the days or hours (19 sleeps to be exact) we’re managing to stay calm and keep baby-proofing everything! At nine months old, Jane isn’t yet moving around, but it’s just a matter of minutes until she is.

Finally, tomorrow, Ringo Starr turns 80. There will be a concert at 8 pm ET on 7/7 with a lot of his friends (from whom, with a little help, rumour has it, he gets by) and here’s the link to a story about it.

As Ringo – now 31 years sober – would urge you to say at noon tomorrow, I wish you “Peace and Love.” And I’ll be back with you here on Thursday.

Just a thought… There is never a good time to make a hard decision. [Charles Orlando]

What a two-day trip that was! A true journey of the heart and one that I am so grateful to have made, especially given its outcome. Buckle up – here we go.

On Monday, I was sprung from the island in my first trip in 3 1/2 months, aboard a 17-passenger Pacific Coastal plane, one of the more intimate flights I’ve taken. Yet I felt safe and totally enjoyed the 50-minute trip from Victoria to Kelowna. With no assigned seating, I was lucky to have lots of legroom right up front, and a clear view of our young pilot.

My sister Leslie and I spent two nights in a hotel overlooking Okanagan Lake. To be clear, the hotel was lakeside, our room was not; I had booked two queens in the least expensive category.

The Delta Hotel by Marriott Grand Okanagan was in its early post-COVID stages and there were several adjustments for a guest to make: no coffee pods or condiments in the room, no cups, mugs or glasses (not a one) and no maid service.

We wouldn’t have used a mid-stay clean-up for just two nights, but the no coffee situation had us using some packets I’d brought just in case, and a cup we had picked up at the bar filled with ice. Yes, the ice machines were also off-limits.

I was okay with all of that, but wish I’d known in advance just what the specifics of the limitations were going to be. What I wasn’t okay with was a torn pillowcase and a dirty balled-up sock on the floor, peeking out from under the open curtain. I really hoped for more in my first hotel stay in months.

Interestingly, the dirty sock had bananas on it. It’s like they knew Grama Banana was coming!

The most important thing was my time spent with family, the entire reason for my short sojourn. On a beautiful warm Monday evening, Les and I picked up Dad from his residence and took him to DQ for an Orange Julius which he enjoyed with us in a nearby park. Tuesday evening we went to a family dinner at The Keg, and then yesterday, after a nice sleep-in, we wrapped up my visit with a long lunch at a White Spot (family chain) restaurant.

Dad looked resplendent in his Canada Day red and we had “the talk” about him driving.

Even though Dad was given the thumbs-up in a cognitive test at his doctor’s a week earlier, he listened as we shared his daughters’ concerns. He expressed his feeling that having a car to run errands for his lady friend made him feel like he had a purpose. We got that. We even saw his eyes welling a little.

But we explained that Leslie and Heather will be there for his every need, that we can give him books of cab chits that will be taken care of for him, or that he can call a service like Driving Miss Daisy (or Lt. Col. Davis in this case) for his every need. We reminded him that Dawna could accompany him, that they have shuttle service to and fro wherever they’d need to be, right there at the residence.

And then we ate. In a booth that was already quiet, but which afforded us the privacy of an empty socially-distanced table behind us, we talked about his after-life beliefs and plans for some ashes; Dad already has a tombstone engraved and waiting in his closet(!) so that he and Mom can eventually rest together in their pre-purchased spot near the town of Black Diamond, Alberta.

We offered to take some of his ashes to his own family’s homestead graveyard on Mount Davis near Three Hills and he was really pleased with that idea. Talking about that chapter – may it be a long way off – was easy for Dad; he’s prided himself on his pragmatism in not burdening his four favourite daughters with any dilemmas or difficulties after he’s gone.

This is the talk I’ve been wanting to have with him: letting him know that we are aware he’s not going to be with us forever, and that we just want to honour his wishes, not all of which have been expressed. How glad I am to have brought up the subject, more easily broached after the recent fall that gave him bruises, a concussion and contusions, and gave the rest of us such a scare.

After Dad had enjoyed his burger, and Leslie and I had finished our meals, I reached across the table and took his lovely strong hand. I said that this is where Leslie, in her years as a sales rep, would “close the deal.” So I asked where he was in terms of his driving decision.

He delighted us both by saying he would put his car up for sale this week, and set a date – mid-July – to say good-bye to it for good. That public sale won’t even be necessary: as it turns out, one of my sisters will buy the little Hyundai with its 58,000 km (very few of which were added by Dad, I should note) and give it a good home. This way, he can still be picked up in it occasionally. He’ll be in his familiar car – just in a different seat, is all.

As I said my good-byes to Dad before heading to the mostly empty Kelowna airport, I hugged him repeatedly and told him how we were always proud of him, but that we were never more so in how he handled this huge decision. He got a little teary again when I said that as a pilot, he’d logged more travel miles than most people on the planet; it was time to let someone else take the wheel.

I can honestly say I don’t think I’ve ever loved him more than I did yesterday and do today and from here on in. He showed strength, grace, courage and good judgment when it would have been easy to dig in and say “not yet.”

As worried as we are on occasion about Dad’s memory and shenanigans (like leaving the residence when they were under lockdown, necessitating his a 7-day isolation) yesterday I could see my father clearly for the man he always was and still is inside.

A good man and a great father.

That’s how my Canada Day became Father’s Day. And one I’ll never forget. Who needs fireworks when your heart is sparking like that?

Take good care and I’ll be back with you Monday.

Just a thought… I’m beginning to think “hindsight is 20/20” was some kind of message from a future time traveler that we all misunderstood. [Victoria Guida]

And welcome to the last two days of the first half of a year we’ll never forget. For most, we’ve seen months fraught with anxiety, isolation, fear, loneliness and sadness. That was us, too, until recent weeks brought a sudden upswing in our spirits and outlook with some good news. I can only wish the same for you.

I’m off to the airport today for the first time since we flew home in a panic from California nearly 3 1/2 months ago. I’ll be boarding a plane so small that the practice of isolation (which is now being lifted on Air Canada and Westjet, as you’ve undoubtedly heard) isn’t even an issue: this Pacific Coastal flight has one seat on each side of the plane and carries 17 passengers total! But I’ll definitely be wearing one of the two masks I had made by a nice lady I found locally on Facebook in different fabrics of my choice. I’ll be happy to wear it for the 65-minute flight from Victoria to Kelowna!

I’m heading to the mainland to spend the better part of three days visiting with my dad, whom I haven’t seen in person in a year, and sharing some sister time with two of my three siblings. Oh, and tomorrow I mark a big day: my 12-step “birthday” of one year.

After racking up 10 years of sobriety until we moved here, it feels strange to be celebrating with the traditional cake and kudos, but here we are. For everyone who knows what I’m talking about, I salute every single day you’ve not picked up. And thank you to every person who helped me get here.

That’s not to say that it’s been easy; even after spending those weeks and money getting my head straight in rehab last summer, I sometimes imagine how it would feel to “take the edge off” when I’m extremely stressed. You and I can be honest about that. Friday was a prime example of exactly that kind of day.

10 days earlier, Phil, Brooke and Colin had purchased WestJet seats so they could fly here July 24th to begin their new lives. This was under the previously-enforced seat spacing guidelines, so a ticket for Jane (who’ll be almost 10 months old by then) wasn’t necessary; she’d be strapped in her carseat in the mandated empty seat between Brooke and Phil, or one of her parents and her brother. They didn’t have the option of purchasing her seat, so they had her booked as a lap passenger, which many parents of infants do.

Then the change came into effect on Friday and here’s where it gets messy: when Phil contacted WestJet, he was told he could purchase that seat in their row of three in economy, but for $1024 – not business or plus or whatever it’s called – which is roughly twice the price he’d paid for each seat just over a week earlier. When Phil raised the unfairness of the price hike, the man on the phone (who was just following company policy) said, “Sorry, that’s the price.”

I took to my own Facebook page that evening to express my dismay and, yes, anger with a company to which we’ve been loyal over the years for changing the rules midstream at such an a huge added expense. Heck, if you’ve read Mourning Has Broken you know how grateful we were to their personnel for the compassion they showed us when we were making our way home from the remote show in Jamaica that fateful May day of 2015. So I love WestJet.

I followed up the post with what is likely a more effective way of communicating our situation: an email to a member of management. I’m hoping they’ll see our side of the situation and offer us that middle seat at the same price as the others we purchased. We’re not trying to get anything for free, especially in light of the way that the people of Westjet and so many other companies – big and small – have suffered in the past four months. Just fairness. I’ll keep you posted.

In the meantime, I’ll continue to pop into FB daily plus Twitter and Instagram to share messages from now until my next journal on Thursday, which I hope will include pictures from some long-awaited family time.

Please have a very Happy Canada Day. Of course, we’re a long way from perfect as a nation and there are enough people echoing American-flavoured sentiments here in this country to spark fear in my heart for our future, but I’ll always be grateful to have been born in this glorious, beautiful and bountiful land. I’ve been fortunate to obtain enough passport stamps to know that truly there is no place like home, like our Canada.

Let’s continue to listen instead of talking, consider instead of shouting, support instead of ignoring and work together as the one great nation that we are in order to fulfill the dreams, not simply of each of us, but of all of us.

Tous Ensembles.