The scene where Gloria, the mousy, harried office administrator transforms into her spandex-and-fishnet-clad super-heroine persona (with the Wonder Woman theme playing in the background, natch) was in the can. Now we needed a shot of her barrelling out of the underground garage in her 1998 Chevy Cavalier (2-door), off to save the planet from certain destruction.
After the first try, I got out of the car and ran back to Wim* to review the footage … and collapsed on the ground laughing. We had just filmed a pretty mainstream-looking sedan rolling sedately out of a parkade at a respectable 15 km/hr. The drama factor was nowhere.
“You have to make the tires squeal,” Wim directed me, still laughing.
Well, I didn’t know how. I was a naive, 33-year-old goodgirl who’d only just learned to drive stick and had never made tires squeal. “Ease your foot off the brake as you step down on the gas, then pop the clutch,” Wim explained. “You’ll feel it … the friction … the tires’ll spin and scream and you’ll be going nowhere and then BAM! Release the brake and peel outta here!”
It took me a couple more takes, but I finally left some rubber in that parking lot and we got the shot.
One foot on the gas, one foot on the brake. Tires spinning, screaming. Suspended animation. The eye of the storm.
It’s where I live now.
My father. So tired he spends most of every day in his recliner. 92 years old, so who would ever suspect? Except 18 months ago he was golfing three or four times a week, cutting the grass, pruning the trees, maintaining the garden, making his meals with ease.
Wayne*, Lanie’s* husband, falling twice in the the days afterward, scarred from scratching the rash and for weeks too proud to show her, anorexic to the point of needing all new clothes, too confused to keep up with conversations, nodding off in the middle of the day.
Jane,* my friend since grade five, a whirlwind of energy, never sick a day in her life, so tired she’s spending days in bed. Two of her neighbours hospitalized with strokes. Two of her colleagues grieving stillbirths.
Emma,* my very first friend, suddenly diabetic, suddenly debilitated with multiple tumours.
Tess,* brilliant, beautiful Tess, suddenly diagnosed with cancer.
Van’s* dad, in his 50s, dead within a week.
The manager at the campground on the Gulf Island where I camped last July, unable to turn her torso from side to side, or to lift her arms, or to stand for more than a few minutes at a time, in pain all the time now since the second one.
Sadie*, one miscarriage after another, the grief almost unbearable. Now sick again. Her daughter sick again. Her husband sick again. Her father-in-law diagnosed with cancer. Her mother slipping into dementia.
Susan*, this new pain in her head waking her up nightly, her joints so swollen and stiff she can’t move sometimes.
Dena*, recently diagnosed with diabetes, talking over lunch with friends about another who’s just suddenly died of cancer, another who’s just suddenly had a heart attack.
All within my own circle.
All within the last year.
How much more to come?
There are days when I go about my ablutions and my meal-making and my work without thinking of any of it. But even on those days, I know I am training myself. Strengthening myself. Preparing ….
pray
shield
move
nourish
hydrate
work outdoors
plant a garden
revere the Earth
connect with allies
listen for requests for help
do what I can
notice beauty
make ceremony
give thanks and praise
rest
sleep
And then there are other days, like today, when I decide, for reasons I’m not always fully certain of, to say more. To believe that the code of silence is breaking, that the truth is filtering in. To send a journal study or public health data or a doctor’s report or news of a country that’s reversed its policies, aghast at what’s happening. To believe that someone I love, who has gone along until now, will have noticed a glitch, one of the many, and will be able to hear me.
Days like today.
And then I get back a message like so many I’ve received before:
“Anyways I am absolutely not interested in these types of articles. So please don’t send them. They just aggravate me.
Have a blessed day.”
One of my oldest friends, our mothers best friends and university mates once upon a time, herself a teacher. Responding to an article decrying the impact of the policies of the past two years on children’s mental health and cognitive development. An easy meeting place, or so I had thought.
“Okay,” I respond.
Valuing our friendship more than her life?
It does not feel okay.
It feels like one foot on the gas, one foot on the brake. Like friction. Like the worst kind of waiting.
I want to be Gloria.
I want to be Wonder Woman.
I want to serve.
Sonnet 19: When I consider how my light is spent
When I consider how my light is spent,
Ere half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide
Lodged with me useless, though my Soul more bent
To serve therewith my Maker, and present
My true account, lest he returning chide;
“Doth God exact day-labour, light denied?”
I fondly ask. But patience, to prevent
That murmur, soon replies, “God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts; who best
Bear his mild yoke, they serve him best. His state
Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o’er Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and wait.”
John Milton
* All names that appear in this piece are pseudonyms to protect privacy.
Lovely writing and content as usual Diane. This was a treat - the highlight of my day today and thought provoking. Thank you.
WoW. Such a story of heartbreak and tears. So much tragedy. So many lives ripped apart. And yet a beautiful story as you ask questions out loud that many carry privately.