Little Dalia

A day late, but here she be. Some details have been changed to preserve anonymity.

Little Dalia

Our plane banked towards the farmland knitted below, "We'll be in our new home soon."

I was surprised at the amount of pasture so close to the city; Ottawa. A far cry from Newfoundland, the origin of our journey. The weight of our angled approach pushed me into my window while my son squirmed uncomfortably on my lap.

"Look, there it is" Alex, my husband, said. Gray blocks crawled towards us and roadways fingered through a surprising amount of greenery. It was bigger than St.John's. This was our nations captial, and I wondered if I had been expecting a swell of nationalistic pride at the sight of it. In truth, I was uninspired and distracted. I needed to call Falaise Animal Hospital, now to be my hospital. I was a Veterinary Receptionist and I had a job lined up.

As our plane took its final swaying moments in the sky, I rewinded  the moments leading to Ottawa; our goodbye parties, Alex's Ph.d acceptance letter, skype interviews. I kept going back. The day Henry was born, leaving my hospital for maternity leave, telling my boss I was pregnant. My first day there. My first day at a vet clinic seemed like a million years ago, the actual year was 2009. 

In those three years I had seen death and joy. Pets on the verge of demise who rallied. Animals who died in their sleep. Downy puppies and kittens who galloped in greeting towards me; I saw second chances for abused hunting beagles and abandoned barn cats. A lot of misery came through our doors, but we also granted a lot of peace. I had been in the gateway between our clinic and the wide "out there." This was a new "out there."

Rubber bounced on the tarmack and I shook out my day-dream. Ottawa. Here we were. This was it.

The first two weeks jarred by with the typical duties that accompany a move to a strange city. Matt and I picked up our keys, signed our lease and wrote a lot of cheques. On a bright morning, Henry flirted with his prospective babysitter at a table in Tim Hortons and we decided that we liked her. We screwed together more wooden Ikea furniture than either of us would ever care to see again. We bought groceries, unpacked our bags, and smiled at our neighbours in the elevator when saw them. We were building what we could.

But when we closed our eyes at night, a hollowness echoed through us. We sank into Newfoundland fog and smelt the sea; the sing-song of constant wind, scraping tuckamores and lumbering moose. Steamy sweet teas, crusty toast and thick jam. Dusty cabin beams through laughter that pulled our sides in hazy evenings. Shadowed hills and ice and damp with accents that pierce your ears and your hearts. It was in our souls and we were far away now. When we opened our eyes each morning, loss rolled in our stomachs. 

So I launched myself into my new job. Falaise was a small practice, only one Vet worked on any given day, and my adjustment was easier than I imagined. My first mission was claiming the front desk and organizing outdated leaflets. On my second day, Rosie, one of the three technitions, approached me:

"So. You're a Newfie?"

I straightened, "Yep."
"How do you like it here so far?"
"Ottawa is nice. It's a bit lonely, though."
"You'll make friends." she said,  "Let me know if you need help with anything." and she returned to the treatment room.

The door bell chimed. I scanned my appointment list. This must be Dalia Hall. A lady in a gray  sweater approached my counter – she had a small calico cat wrapped in a blue blanket "Oh! Hello, you must be new!" she said.

I smiled, "Yes, I am. And this must be Dalia."

"The one and only."

Dalia looked up at me from her nest with green moons. Her fur looked like an orange, black and white swirling marble cake. She was very pretty. I reached over my counter and scratched behind one of her ears, "Hello, Dalia." Her skin was thin and barely covered the bones of her face. She closed her green moon eyes and buried her cheek in my hand. A rumble erupted from her chest. "Sweet girl," I said.

I led the pair into consulting room one and  closed the door behind them. I grabbed Dalia's file and flickered over the notes. There was a diagnoses: Kidney Failure. Dalia had been in three times a week for the last week for subcutaenous fluid treatments. Poor girl.

A few minutes later I heard Dr.White open the door to the room and beckon for Rosie. They were starting Dalia's treatment. Ms.Hall drifted back towards Reception.

"Is it okay if I sit here while they do this? I'm squeamish about needles." She was still clutching the blue blanket.
"Of course."

She smiled, "So. Are you a student?"
"Oh, no. I've worked in a vet clinic before. I just moved here from Newfoundland, actually."
She brightened, "Oh, I love Newfoundland! I went there last summer. To St.John's, it was beautiful."

A bit of sweet melancholy swelled up my throat, "I'm from St.John's."
We smiled at our connection.

A few moments later Rosie brought Dalia back up front – her moon eyes were still shining, but she now had a slightly mishappen lump between her shoulders where fluid has been injected. Ms.Hall held out her blanket and cooed, "come here, girlie."

In the weeks that passed I got to know many other clients and their pets, but I always found myself with shifts that were scheduled during Dalia's treatments. Every appointment, little Dalia came to the counter for her squinty, rumbly, ear-rub and then was whisked away while Ms. Hall waited deligently. When I wasn't busy checking in other appointments or running tasks for the doctors, we talked.

I described my rugged island home and suggested all of the places she could visit the next time she was there. Ms.Hall talked most about Dalia; she shared when she had had a good day and when she had had a bad day. As the days passed, there were more bad days, her heart grew heavier and I offered what little comfort I could.

The first day it snowed, Ms.Hall told me about how Dalia had been a mother. Ms.Hall found her fifteen years ago, in the snow, with five little kittens. She adopted the whole family, but three of the kittens died. In her story, Ms.Hall kept repeating that it must have been some kind of mistake. Because, surely, no one was so cruel as to abandon a pregnant cat in the dead of winter. I didn't want to tell her how heartless some people could be. I didn't want to say how many people wouldn't care about a little cat momma and her tiny babies. So, when she'd finished, I simply replied " I bet  Dalia was a good mom. She must have chosen you."

Ms.Hall didn't say anything, but she nodded.

Dalia continued to waste away. She continued her treatments, but Dr.White looked grimmer after each visit. One evening, Ms.Hall called me "I know we're scheduled for tomorrow, but I think I have t-" Her sentence broke. She couldn't finish. Without checking our appointments, I told her we'd  see her at once.

Dr.White was running a bit behind when Ms.Hall arrived, so she stood at my counter with her girl in her arms. Little Dalia looked up at me with her moon eyes; they weren't shining as brightly as before, but, when I gave her her scratch, she still managed to lean so forcefully into my fingers that I was worried I might hurt her.
"Sweet girl," I whispered.

 "She is," Ms.Hall breathed.

We were both still looking down at her softly purring form when Dr.White rushed towards Ms.Hall and apologized for the delay. She ushered them gingerly into the room. I watched as the gentle, moon eyed, marble-cake cat turned the corner.

The phone was ringing. I shoved my palms into my eyes and tried not to think about what was unfolding as I jumped back to my duties.

The rest of the appointments passed and, once things were quiet, Ms.Hall reappeared. She held her empty blue blanket in her hands. Calico strands still clung to it. 

We stood together as orphans for a moment.

She spoke first.

"Thank you for everything"

I knew I wouldn't see her again, at least for a while. My friend who loved Newfoundland.

I filled with love and pain and yearning. The loss that had been rolling in my belly threatened to crash and pull me apart. I wanted to hug her and cry for our gentle, green-eyed girl. I couldn't.

I said.

"You're welcome."

There was a moment of silence and Ms.Hall nodded. Then she zipped up her coat. She turned. She left. 

Creative Nonfiction Longlist

the Canada Writes Creative Nonfiction longlist came out today. There were over 2100 submissions and 30 made the longlist (a small percentage, for sure.) 

My piece didn't make the cut. Statistically, it isn't all that surprising, though it's impossible not to be a little disheartened. I keep telling myself "well, this is part of it." ("it" being writing).   

I had a little chat with the Fella about it. It's hard to talk about disappointment sometimes without sounding like you're making excuses, "well, it is difficult to write something compelling in 1500 words...", "there's no account for personal preference...", but I didn't want to make excuses. Excuses don't do you many favours in the long run.  

One of the judges posted an update on her selection process. She said one of the biggest factors for a winning submission was an economy of words. It makes sense, and I knew this, but as soon as I read it coming from her I realized that there was a pretty large section of my submission that could have been revised and edited out to make way for some of the more important parts. I had never noticed it before, Mr.Fella hadn't noticed it when he read it over, but it stuck me plain as day as soon as I read her suggestion.

So I feel a little better.

I have to run to get the wee man from daycare right now, but I'll post the original submission here later tonight. It's on my external hard drive which is lurking, um, somewhere. 

 

I'm supposed to be writing an article - instead, I've decided to download Irish music to make myself homesick. Ya know.

The Irish, they get longing.

No matter how tardy I am about updating, eventually there's that little pull that brings me back here. I'm just a journaly, bloggy person - sooner or later.

In all fairness, I have been writing. My program is more intense this semester than last and I'm still writing the article. I've reduced it to two-three articles a week now, so I can keep up with my school work, but it's still happening. I'm trying to crystallize the plans for my pipe-dream which is a novel. I talk to my husband about it. I try to pick his English PhD brain apart for ideas that make a good story. Even if it never happens, I like the conversations we have about it. I get enthusiastic, he smiles. It's nice.

Life after SSHRC - Fella and I spend our days together - he reads, I write, we make tea. I ask him for help with grammar structure. He reads out the interesting passages in the work he's reading. Wee man is still in daycare four days a week, though we usually pick him up early (I think he has a little girlfriend there. It's very cute). It's like another world. We don't have to worry about making payments, buying groceries, flying home. We aren't rich, but it's just - easier. We can start to save for the house we've never let ourselves think about just yet. I think we're both still holding our breaths in hope that the other shoe doesn't drop. The first few months here were so hard.

But no errand shoes yet.

Ottawa gets so much sun. Would you hate me if I complained that it was too much sun? We've gone through two canisters of sunscreen this year already and it's only halfway through June. In Newfoundland, I'd buy a can of sunscreen and it'd rust past its expiry date in my medicine cabinet. Our entire little family gets up every morning to coat ourselves in SPF 60, but we still show the evidence of  exposure. My makeup doesn't match my face anymore -- I'm going to have to buy new stuff. I put foundation on this morning (I don't wear makeup every day) and I looked like a geisha. I have more freckles on my arms than I have since I was a kid.

I complain now, but I'm sure I'll miss it. I do like the walks. I walk at least an hour every day. 20 minutes to daycare, 20 minutes home. Usually 10 minutes to the store and back. Yesterday I put wee man in his red wagon and we walked for two hours. I bought him a fruit bar and he picked a dandelion for the ride. I'm sure I could walk to China and he would sit in that wagon without a peep. He loves it.

I understand now why a lot of people have their second baby when their first child is two (no,we're still not having another). At two, they're sleeping through the night (probably), they're feeding themselves for the most part, they walk, they climb, they communicate a little and, by and large, they're really frigging adorable. Wee man is going through a "hugging" phase. He wants to hug everyone. He hugs me and his father a dozen times a day. He tries to hug the cats. He hugs his stuffed animals. It's just - love. He can really show you love in a meaningful, independent way. He climbs onto my lap, I tell him he's a good boy and the contented cuddled smile he gives me is enough to make my heart explode. I caught him singing a tender song to his stuffed animal the other night. Everyone talks about how awesome and amazing a baby's first smiles are - but I was never really convinced. How things are now, this is it for me. This is the why.  

You spend the first year of a baby's life giving so much - hoping you're doing it right, never really knowing if you are. And they start the blossum so much - it's a flash. And they love you and you love them and it's all so much easier.

I'm sure this is all coming to me now because A) it's Father's Day and B) wee man's birthday was 10 days ago. His first birthday, it was like "Yay! We survived!" but at two, he's not a baby anymore - and I'm getting some major nostalgia. Can you get nostalgia for two years ago? Well, I do.

The day before wee man's second birthday, I saw a very pregnant lady at the grocery store and I filled up with tears. At that moment, I missed being pregnant more than anything, and I SWEAR I almost ran up and hugged that woman (thank God I didn't, eh? Probably the last thing she needed). You think you'll remember what it feels like forever; the little kicks and baby stretches and hiccups. It becomes so ingrained in your body -- it literally leaves marks, but you start to forget. You lose the shape, your stomach shrinks, the marks fade and your body goes back to ignoring that part of your physiology.

The first night after he was born I found it hard to sleep without feeling him there. It might sound crazy, but after having constant contact and feedback from a wiggly little being, it's lonely without them. For about a week, I'd wake up in a panic because I couldn't feel him before I'd remember that he had been born. Now he curls up on my lap and I worry about what I'll do when he's too big for cuddles. I whisper "you know, you still have to give your mother hugs, even when you're all grown up." My husband assures me that he will, but I worry.

Anyway, this entry has gotten rather lengthy and there's no real, um, point. I guess. I just felt like writing something that wasn't an article or a technical writing proposal.

We're coming back to Newfoundland for two weeks next month. A month from today, actually. That will be nice. Very nice. We're looking forward to it.

Flowers

When I was little, my Grandmother kept hanging flowers -- 5 or 6 baskets, in a row, every summer in front of the windows of her dining room. They didn't smell like much, but the hummingbirds fought over the red ones. Tiny, squeaking, angry hummingbirds dive-bombing and racing in front of the glass. We'd watch them for hours. By the end of summer her entire yard was covered in petals. Red speckles on grass and concrete.

I've never had live flowers in or around my place. Between the basement apartments, struggling university lifestyle and general short-seasoned-ness of Newfoundland, it's just never happened.

A few months ago I noticed a hook outside our balcony door. "We're getting a basket of flowers", I said.

As soon as the closest garden center opened, the Fella, Wee man and I walked down to investigate. The store was still unloading inventory, so their hanging plants were tucked away in a corner. I saw the same familiar red petals, slightly wilted, behind a tall pylon. In an attempt to move said pylon, I looped my fingers into its top hole and immediately pierced my hand on something.
"Ow!"
Blood ran down from left middle finger.
"Are you okay?", my husband asked.
"Yes. I'll get it, let's go." and I kicked the pylon aside.

I told the boy at the counter to "never mind the blood." He looked at me, but didn't say anything. The basket's handle was stained the same colour as the flowers it supported.

For the first few days, our little plant continued its sad appearance. I'd go out, water it with an old wine bottle and prune its dying blooms to make way for the buds. I wondered if hummingbirds would fly up to the fifth floor of an apartment building. And, little by little, our flowers recovered.

Last night, while we were watching t.v., I looked through our living room window and noticed an eruption of extra petals. The foliage must have started growing, as well, because the greenery began to really hang over the edge of the bowl.

"Hey", I said to my husband.
"Yeah?" he responded
"I'd like to have flowers for the rest of my life. Okay?"
He looked up at me and smiled "Sure. Flowers. We can do that."

Breaks

Week two of writing articles every day. The words are easier coming now. I guess, like anything, it's a matter of practice and habit. Deadlines help to motivate my sorry ass, haha.

I don't know if I mentioned this before, but Mr.Fella had applied to a pretty sizeable SHRCC grant a few months back. The past several months of our lives were consistently framed with "well, IF we get a SHRCC... IF we get one..."

Well, he got it. It's $35,000 a year for three years - not including the funding he already gets for his TAship. So, given our current status, it's pretty life-changing. The letter came while he was finishing up with a meeting and he had me read it out to him on the phone. We both cried, we couldn't believe it. The little guy was confused by our hysterics.

But it takes the pressure off the both of us - we don't have to worry so much about being able to keep up with daycare costs, trips back home for Christmas, that sort of thing. I can focus on the writing projects that I really like, and that'll really help me go where I want to go. I've been thinking about a novel for some time and I might give it a go, or at least get it started. I ordered some research material for it yesterday.

It'll be about Newfoundland. And being brave (don't worry, it won't be autobiographical - a blog is where I draw the line for my ego-centrism.)  Things are happening.

I think I've reached my first ethical dilemma as a writer.

I've been taken on to write daily(ish) articles on various industry sectors. One of the sectors is energy and it's becoming difficult to find energy companies that I feel comfortable writing about. The impression that I get from my editor is that these are supposed to be business oriented columns. As in, "what can we learn from these businesses," sort of thing.

Well, I'm not sure that I really want to present a "what can we learn" piece on BP (remember that giant oil disaster in the Gulf of Mexico? Wasn't that fun?)

And as I delve into the biggest energy companies, I'm finding similarly unsavory histories. I feel like I'm supposed to ignore the social/environmental context for everything I'm talking about and focus on the rich white guy who was able to create an empire because, surprise surprise, he was a rich white guy. And I'm supposed to pretend it was due to some romanticized notion of entrepreneurial "captain of industry" type stuff. It leaves a bit of a bad taste in my mouth.

Soooooo. I'm still going to write. I have other projects. I just think I might need to change this particular arrangement.

- P.S. This is why I'm going to school to write manuals! Unless someone tries to hire me to write a guide on "how to torture puppies", I'll probably be clear of this sort of stuff!