Our lawn is beautiful this year…beautiful, that is, if you enjoy looking at dandelions.
 
To many, our lawn is a scourge, an eyesore in an otherwise lawn-manicured neighbourhood, and if you listen carefully, I’m pretty sure you can hear several elderly, retired neighbours tsking and sucking their teeth as they look out their windows and estimate how long it will take our dandelions to contaminate their pristine green carpets.  As an added bonus, we seem to have developed a healthy amount of forget-me-nots, plantain, and thistles.  Admittedly, I am not a huge fan of the thistles, Scottish connections notwithstanding, but the dandelions are growing on me (pun intended) as I learn more about the down sides of cosmetic pesticide use.

In the book Manifesting with Purpose (Friesen, Lowrance, Plancon, West 2023), the four authors discuss their experiences achieving individual desires through positive thinking, imagery, deliberate action, and affirmations. It’s an appealing premise, that we can control our futures in this way. Perhaps, we think, success is not just luck, or timing, or privilege, but a by-product of purposeful thoughts and intention. I’ve read articles in which sports psychologists guide their Olympic athletes through imagery–over and over–of a perfectly-executed race or performance, to increase the chance of success.
         There are two things that bother me about this generally appealing manifestation concept. First, of course not all the Olympic athletes win. Some get sick, or injured, fall at the start line, or simply have a bad performance. Does that mean they didn’t try hard enough to manifest their win? This line of thinking leads to the “who wants it most?” approach to success. More likely, there was a combination of factors that just didn’t go their way. Not everyone can win all the time.
          Second, what about the corollary, when bad things happen? Are those a product of manifestation also? Did I manifest my own illness?   

I’ll let you in on a secret: I don’t always pick up my dog’s poop.
I’m not the person leaving my pet’s giant turd in the middle of the sidewalk, or on your front lawn. In the woods, however, as long as the deed is done off the trail, I leave it alone. My excuse for this behaviour is the environment: the forest is full of scat of various kinds, and the volume of plastic required to pick up every doo-doo would be extensive. My dog produces 2-3 stools per day, which would add up to 730-1095 plastic bags going to landfill annually, to break down over forty years or however long it takes. In the woods, the organic matter is gone with the next rainfall. I was pretty satisfied with my plastic reduction strategy, until I got an ileostomy.

What word came to mind, seeing that title? Rude terms for female anatomy or sexual acts? Or did you know I was referring to cancer? As doctors, we’ve often tried to bury the c-word, falling back on terms like mass or tumour, trying to soften the blow, because as soon as the c-word is out there, assumptions are made: weight loss, baldness, chemotherapy, death. Sometimes patients don’t hear another word for the entire visit. Let’s take things one step at a time, I’ll say, let’s not jump right to wigs and caskets. The power of the c-word is particularly important to me currently, having received the diagnosis myself; my own rectal cancer is curable, yet I see the anxious impact of the c-word on myself and on others.
          How do we reduce the potency of a word?

Occasionally, I volunteer as a dog walker at the Humane Society. While there is a variety, for the most part the dogs are large and rambunctious; dogs that are difficult to handle and therefore are turned in. The Humane Society has a pretty comprehensive system of ensuring people are prepared to adopt a pet, but things don't always work out. Our current rescue dog was ostensibly turned in due to owner "allergies," but once we brought her home things became clearer; for a while her nickname was "Hyper Piper." Fortunately, we were prepared to manage her: we'd had dogs before, we had a large yard, we could afford vet bills, etc.
          Friends of ours just became first-time grandparents, and watching their son and his wife capably manage their newborn made me reflect on the lack of training most of us have when we take home a new baby.

As promised, a more cheerful holiday segment after my “Ghosts of Christmas Past” blog which turned out a bit darker than expected. These are still based on the “Twelve Days of Christmas” writing prompt, which is quite interesting! If you try to recall past holidays, not just from videos or photos, what comes to mind? You might be surprised.
 
1) I’m at the mall, working at a gift wrap station as a fundraiser for our figure skating team. I’m about sixteen. After a couple of hours wrapping gift boxes and toys, a man walks over with a brand-new, full-sized floor lamp to be wrapped.

It’s interesting, the way we associate the holidays with “joy” and “cheer,” but sometimes those emotions do not predominate, despite the blessed abundance we enjoy. Recently, a writing prompt said “write twelve segments based on past memories of the holidays, eg. The Twelve Days of Christmas.” Obviously, those celebrating Hanukkah, Diwali, or other events could adjust as they wished. For me, a few of the memories that came were strangely dark, despite all the feasting and gifts and cookies and music. Like attending a birth, which I did for many years, the assumption is that the holidays are a happy time, so everything will be perfect.
 
1)  I’m a young child, maybe six or seven. My father loves to watch Dickens’ “A Christmas Carol” on TV, and his particular favourite is the old black-and-white version featuring Alistair Sims.

November 15, 2024
First of all, about the poppies.
Every year, I buy a poppy and make my donation to the Legion, and within about an hour–what with seat belts and purses and backpacks–the poppy has disappeared, to be found a month or a year later on the floor of the car, or when I stab myself on it at the bottom of my reusable grocery bag. As a result, I look like I don’t remember or don’t care, when I actually do. Surely, there’s a better way to construct poppies and/or raise money for the Legion, although I suppose if the poppies are designed to fall off and disappear, we need to buy more of them. I’m not sure how I feel about this business model. Why not make them hardier, and wear them all the time?
          The important part, of course, is the remembering. On November 11, when the wreaths are laid and the bagpipes and last posts are played and we have moments of silence and speeches and elderly veterans, we are supposed to do two things: honour those who gave their lives or fought for our freedom, and remember the World Wars so that they never happen again. The hatred, the greed, the senseless loss of life and destruction of entire cities, entire populations, in the name of what? For what purpose? We are supposed to remember history, so that it won’t repeat itself. And yet, all around us, it feels eerily like the fingers of history are reaching up from the ground to grab our feet.

In the Netflix show Loudermilk, the main character (a man in his forties), holds the café door open for a young attractive woman, then complains loudly when, now ahead of him in line, she gives a long, complicated coffee order.
“I held the door for you!” he gripes.
“Yes, but just because I’m hot.” she replies.
 
Is chivalry just another word for patriarchy? Pulling out the chair, holding the door, carrying the bag…is there not a suggestion of weakness, fragility, disability? “That looks heavy, let me get that for you.” Insert optional bicep flex. Or, as insinuated in the scene above, is it all about “If I do this, I’ve got a chance?” Either way, I don’t like the implications. Of course, if my arms are full, and someone holds the door, that’s great. But shouldn’t we do that for everyone, regardless of gender? Isn’t everyone equal?

Awake. Again. Still.
Overwhelmed with heat: tossing off covers, sticking out one arm, one leg, unbuttoning pyjama top, flinging it off, groping on the floor for it an hour later, repelled by the dampness. Vowing not to check the time.
Checking the time.
Feeling the need to pee but not wanting to get up. Knowing that now that I’ve noticed my bladder, no sleep will come. Getting up to pee, tripping on the jeans discarded on the floor, the ones that I knew I should put away because I’d trip on them in the dark.
One more attempt in bed: stomach sleeping, fan directly on me, neck too tight on the right, switch face to the left, nothing is working, now calf muscles feel tight and twitchy.
Giving up: retreat to the guest room with a book. Vowing not to check the time.
Checking the time.
Thinking, always, of the irony: how many people over the course of my career did I counsel regarding insomnia? All those handouts on sleep rituals, stimulus control, tests for sleep apnea, screens for depression and anxiety, discussions about pain and caffeine and exercise and naps.
And here I am, at 3 am again, wide awake. Well, to be specific, lately it’s 2:20 am and 4:40 am. Which at least has a nice mathematical symmetry.