Caring for Others

Something I read in the Globe and Mail this morning deeply saddened me. I know that people are tired of hearing and reading about the pandemic and what I am about to jot down is not what most people want to hear. I am writing this more for myself than for others. When something troubles me deeply, I feel the need to express my feelings in words. It is, in a way, a form of exorcism.

In an article entitled How much death, illness and disruption from COVID-19 infections are we willing to live with? the reporter states:

“Historically, society has considered the level of illness and death from a disease to be acceptable when those illnesses and deaths primarily affect the least advantaged, Dr. Smith said. When a disease is suppressed to a point where average members of the public no longer feel their lives are endangered, they tend to stop caring about it, even if it still threatens those who are vulnerable, he said.”  https://www.theglobeandmail.com/canada/article-how-much-death-illness-and-disruption-from-covid-19-infections-are-we/

What saddens me in this is not the fact that people have stopped caring about Covid-19. It is the question that it raises and is also implied in the last sentence: have people stopped caring about the most vulnerable? I know this is not something deliberate and calculated. We don't wake up one morning and tell ourselves, "Today, I will no longer care about others. Only myself." But there is a danger of doing that unconsciously.

I still wear a mask when I am in a setting where I can come in close contact with others. I do so because I know I am no longer young, and I am therefore among the “vulnerable”.  That, however, is not the only reason I do so. I know there are others around me and that I need to protect them as well, whether they be family members or strangers. After two and a half years of doing so, I am tired to the bones of wearing masks and being careful, but I have not yet grown tired of caring for others. I hope I never will.

The Back-to-School Syndrome

Schools are about to open. I know that not only because we are at the end of August, but also because I am having my usual “back-to-school dreams”. These dreams (usually nightmares) start occurring a few weeks before the start of the school year.

In the past, these followed the same basic pattern: I arrive at school on the first day totally unprepared, I don’t know what I am teaching nor where my classroom is and I don’t even have my teaching schedule. Once I finally find the classroom, I realize I don’t have the student list and can’t take attendance. Total chaos! Kafka could not do a better job of creating such a nightmarish scenario. When I wake up, it takes me a few minutes to calm down by repeating to myself, “This is just a dream. It did not happen. You are no longer a teacher.”

This year, the pattern of some of the dreams has changed somewhat. I had one nightmare in which the school was an old, dilapidated castle with large rooms that served as classrooms. When I arrived, I saw that they were not furnished with the usual school furniture. I had to scrounge up sofas and armchairs and whatever other items I could find to furnish my classroom which must have been an old dungeon because it was dark, damp, and musty.

Other retired teachers have told me that they also have similar recurrent dreams. I enjoyed teaching very much and am grateful I was given the opportunity to do so, but it can be a very stressful profession at times.

One dream I had this week completely broke from the usual pattern and was not a nightmare at all even though it did involve the back-to-school theme. I was not the principal character in this dream. My daughter Geneviève was. She was going back to study at the University of Ottawa and, on her first day there, they elected her president of the student council. It was nice to feel something else than panic in a back-to-school dream. I woke up feeling very proud of my daughter. I smiled when I saw that even in my dreams, I am proud of my daughters. 

Le cadeau de Dieu

Le cadeau que Dieu m’a fait n’est pas celui de ne jamais trébucher et tomber, mais celui de toujours pouvoir me relever et retrouver l’équilibre qui me permet de continuer à marcher. Il n’a pas empêché mes déroutes, mais a sans cesse dirigé mes pas pour que je retrouve le chemin. Il n’a pas enlevé ma faiblesse mais il m'a offert son bras comme appuie pour que je puisse prendre de plus en plus conscience de sa présence à mes côtés. Heureuse faiblesse, heureuse pauvreté, heureuse faute qui m’a valu un tel rédempteur.

Exotic Fare

Because it is close to many embassies, our neighbourhood grocery store serves people from a variety of cultures and with culinary tastes in a wide spectrum of ethnic cuisines. The staff at the store is therefore accustomed to requests that are a bit out of the ordinary and they attempt to stock products that one would not usually find in other grocery stores.

A few years ago, I was shopping at that grocery store and could not find the perogies I was looking for. I, therefore, approached one of the employees, a very amiable chap who always greeted me with a smile and asked him where I could find them. I spoke to him in French pronouncing perogies while the appropriate rolling of the “r” and omitting the “s” at the end. The smile on his face disappeared and was quickly replaced by a look of consternation and disbelief. After a few seconds, he regained his composure and responded, “I don’t think we have any, but the chicken is over there.”

That rather strange response to my query surprised me at first until it dawned on me that he had understood “parakeet’ rather than “perogies”.

Destiny

I believe my grandson Victor is unwittingly getting ready to become a great tragic historical figure.

Kent, his father, was telling me yesterday that Victor asked him, “Do you love me more than anybody else?” His dad answered, “I love everyone in our family.”  Not satisfied, Victor insisted, “Yes, but do you love me the most?” Kent, “What would you do if I told you no?” Victor, dramatically, “Then I would run away from home!” Dad, “But what would you do if you ran away from home? Where would you go?” Victor, assuming a theatrical posture worthy of a Shakespearian character, “I would follow my destiny!”

I can just imagine picking up his autobiography in 80 years (I expect to live a long life) and reading these words,

At the age of eight, feeling the sting of having received too little love, I packed my suitcase with essentials: a Batman cape, a pair of relatively clean socks, and a handful of superhero figurines. As I crossed the threshold of our family home, never to return, I glanced at my family standing there in tears and said, “I must follow my destiny!”