Albert

My father-in-law and I did not have an easy relationship. I can’t even say that we liked each other because I don’t believe we did. That’s odd, considering how alike we were in so many ways.

This is not to say that we liked the same things. We did not. There was very little overlap of interests. Albert liked to hunt and fish and watch sports. I do not hunt or fish. I never have. It’s not that I dislike sports, I don’t; I just don’t watch them often. Watching sports on TV takes a lot of time. Talking about sports takes even longer. About two hours for every hour watched, if observation of those people I work with serves as a measure.

But Albert and I both liked a good party. Maybe too much so. That goes for both of us.
We’d both been bachelors a long time, and neither of us had been what I’d call a stay at home kind of guy. We both liked our social outings, we both liked to chew the fat into the night.

I’m not sure why he disliked me. Maybe it’s because I stole his daughter away from him. Maybe it’s because I was not a hunter or a fisherman. I doubt that, though. He never once invited me to either. Maybe that’s because he knew that I didn’t do either, so he never asked, sure I would decline. I probably would have, too, but I would have appreciated the offer. Either way, he never asked.
We didn’t get off on the right foot. The first day I met Albert, he barely said two words to me. He was too busy repairing a broken lamp with a length of PVC pipe. When he did speak to me, it was to ask me what I thought of his fix. I thought it ugly. I thought he ought to just throw it out and buy a new one. What I thought is not what I said. “Does it work?” I asked. He didn’t know. He hadn’t plugged it in yet to find out. I was ignored after that, for the most part. I suppose he thought I was just a temporary presence and that I’d go away, after a time. I was just a boyfriend, after all. No need to pay me much mind.

I was confused. I was being introduced by his daughter. You’d think that would have meant something. It didn’t, apparently. I didn’t feel that welcome, and said as much to Bev, so I didn’t go back for quite a while.

Albert and I did not have much cause to cross paths much for some time, after that; not until Bev and I decided to buy a house together.

I was treated with what might have been fury. There was a barrage of questions, none of them friendly. “What are you doing? Aren’t you putting the cart before the horse?” In his mind, we should have got engaged first, then married, then bought a house. That was the time-honoured tradition. And I was breaking that tradition. I couldn’t see how it was any of his business. It wasn’t the ‘50s, after all. I didn’t need his permission to ask Bev anything. I needed hers. And I was getting on in years, years I didn’t have to waste on time-honoured tradition if I wanted to have children. And I did.

Things did not really improve, not really. His anger cooled. But he never really warmed up to me. We came to an understanding, though. He really didn’t have much choice, after all. I’d become a fixture in his daughter’s life. Albert and Alma spent a few weekends with us on Manitoulin. But I was new to the place and wanted to explore, so we were up and about and not there all day, where Albert wanted me to be, so I could pitch in on maintenance. Albert apparently forgot that I’d had a back injury. Fetch and carry and working at height wasn’t my forte, anymore. I did my bit. I cleaned gutters and mowed the lawn and fetched water from the well, replenishing the kitchen and sauna supply. I was less inclined to participate in the physical maintenance of the place so the “boys” wouldn’t have to do anything when they showed up to hunt deer in November, something I was never invited to participate in. The fact that I was on holiday was less important than their being on holiday.

When I popped the question (a moot point, considering we’d been living together for years at that point), I sat Albert and Alma down, and with Bev sat my side, I asked for their permission to marry their daughter, Alma was thrilled. Albert did not say a word. So, I married his daughter without his permission. Like I said, it wasn’t the ‘50s, anymore.

Time passed. Bev and I did not have children. Albert brought that point up once or twice, especially after his son began to have his. “Don’t you think it’s high time you had kids,” he asked. I did. But I wasn’t physically capable of having them. I didn’t have the ovaries for it. I wanted kids, but we were getting on and when it didn’t happen, I considered adoption, and then as more time passed, that ceased to be an option, too.

Then Alma passed. Albert sunk into a funk. It’s hard losing a spouse. I don’t know how hard it can be, but I can imagine how devastating it can be. I suppose it’s like having your entire world pulled out from under you. Even more so when you’ve been together for many decades. He grew morose. He fell into depression.

We’d always spent Sundays with Albert and Alma. We carried on after her passing. I cooked dinner. I was hell bent to make sure he ate, too. I almost never cooked the same thing, either, thinking that he needed variety in taste and diet. Albert told me that I’d make some woman a good wife someday. I let that pass. I let a lot of things pass.

Sadly, Albert never really recovered from Alma’s death. His health suffered. He became diabetic. His hearing, never good for as long as I knew him, grew progressively worse, until we were forever raising our voices in his presence. His knees failed him and he took to a motorized chair. When that happened, his muscle mass faded away. He grew weak. His breathing became laboured.

He put himself on a list for assisted living, but passed when his name came up. His name never came up again.

He rarely left the house in his final years. He became timid. He became ever so lonely. He demanded that we spend more time with him than we already were. He argued when I said that would be difficult. So then it was my fault that his daughter had been taken away from him in his hour of need. I could have been more patient. He was in his 90s, after all. His life was coming to an end and I think he knew it, even if we couldn’t see it at the time.

But I was dealing with my own shit at the time. Not terribly well, I might add.
Before long, he became sick. Pneumonia settled in, and he was hospitalized.
Then he too passed.
I’m sorry to say that his passing was solitary. We did not have the same warning we had for Alma. There was no gathering of the family.
There was only a phone call to tell us that he’d passed away in the night.

A Slow Recovery

Bev almost died. There’s no doubt about that.

She spent three days in ICU, doing little more than laying still and suffering excruciating pain (that’s an understatement; that’s all she did), while I sat on, leaving only long enough to take care of our dogs and get a bit to eat every now and again. And to sleep.

I didn’t call in to work for a few days, only reminded to do so when I heard the message from my boss, enquiring as to Bev’s status. When I did, he wasn’t at his desk, so I left a message on his machine: “Yeah, as you know, Bev had an accident. She hit her head and bled in her skull. She’s in ICU. So, I won’t be in for a while. Put me down for Emergency Leave, or Sick, or Holidays or AWOL. Whatever. I won’t be calling you every day to tell you that I won’t be in. I’ll probably be back once Bev’s out of ICU. I don’t know when that will be. Maybe Thursday. Maybe not then… I don’t know. I’ll have to see how things go. I have to go.” And I hung up and went back to the hospital.

It was a quiet few days. I read a novel, started another. I whispered to her when answering her whispered queries. I kept her abreast of well-wishers well-wishing.

She was not allowed food. She didn’t want it, anyway. Her skull was cracked and chewing was a misery. She did sip a little water from time to time. I directed the straw to her lips and kept it nearby until she said she was done. That was never for more than a sip or two, though. Otherwise, nothing passed her lips. She was allowed food her last evening in ICU. They brought up a sandwich and a fruit cup and some juice. Chewing was still a chore, so she attempted no more than a nibble before waving it off. She did eat the fruit cup. She declared it the best fruit cup she’d ever had.

ICU is a good place to recover from a head injury. Very quiet. But she couldn’t stay in ICU forever. After a few days they moved her to “gen pop,” as I called it, took her off the narcotics and from then on only managed her pain with Tylenol. Not even Tylenol 3s. Just Tylenol. It was noisy in gen pop. And she was light sensitive. Her head throbbed with each dropped pin and each shaft of light.

When I found out that they were only managing her pain with Tylenol, I asked her how often the nurse popped her head in to see her. Not often; she had a floor full of patients to care for, after all. Well, I thought, if all they’re going to do is give you Tylenol, I can do that at home. I asked the doctor if I could I could do just that, so she could recuperate there. He asked if I would be there. I would, I said. Then she can go, he said. But he extracted a promise from me that if she expressed any discomfort whatsoever, I was to bring her back without delay. I promised to do just that.

I packed her up that day and brought her home. It was torturously bright, even for me. I tried to give her the smoothest ride she’d ever had. Not an easy feat, but I did my best.

I set her up in the bedroom and closed the room-darkening-blinds (a blessing from my shiftwork days). I turned on the TV and set it to a classical radio station and turned the volume down as low as it would go without being off, altogether. Did it bother her? I asked. No, it was okay, she said. White noise, if you get my drift.

I became head cook and chief bottle washer for the next while. I was always the cook (I was home two hours before Bev, and unless I wanted to eat at 7 or 8 pm, I had to take it up, or be resigned to eating an hour or so before bed; besides, I like to cook, so no complaints), but now I did all the washing and all the dishes and all the fetch and carry, too, without help. I walked the dogs. And I was at her beck and call, bringing her all she desired: water, ginger ale, whatever. And I tried to anticipate her needs, too. There was always a bowl of grapes near at hand. There’s not a lot of chewing required when it comes to grapes. All as silently as could be.

I went back to work after another week. She agreed that I should. She lay about most days, not requiring much, so she gave me her blessing, so to speak.

I came home to find her crying. She’d tried to read her Get-Well cards, and suffered a migraine after reading only a few words. “I’ll never be able to work again,” she wept.

“Yes, you will,” I said. “You can’t see how far you’ve come in the past couple weeks.”

She had. Her recovery was rapid. She just couldn’t see it. The time was long for her. The improvements incremental. But I could see the difference.

And after a time, so could she. She’d get up to change rooms for a little while, at first. Then she began to watch a little TV. Then she began to watch a lot of TV. She still couldn’t read, reading still gave her migraines, but she could watch twelve hours of TV without interruption or ill effects. That may inform you how much you use your brain when watching TV. She couldn’t watch just anything. The pace of modern movies hurt her head, too loud, too flashy, too much rapid editing. Turner Classic Movies was perfect, though. Slow editing. Long cuts. Not too loud, not too much flash. Black and White helped, too. Before long, she was running out of patience, though. There’s only so long you can remain in bed, only so long you can stay in a darkened room, and you can only watch so much TV before you’re chomping at the bit to do something.

And then, after a time, she could read a little without pain, then a bit more, then more still.
She went back to work after three months. A couple hours here, a few hours there. “You’re sure you’re ready,” I asked her before she went back. She was, she said.

She probably wasn’t. She probably ought to have taken a couple more months, but she was bored.
Can you blame her?

As Close as It Gets

How does someone make new friends? Get involved, I thought. Somehow. Play sports. Join a team, take music lessons and participate in what group functions that affords you. Take art classes. Volunteer. Do what you can to get out there. That’s where the people are. Not online. Not on TV. If people are to become friends, they must be present, in the flesh. You just have to get out there and meet them, I thought. Maybe those activities will lead you to the type of people you like. There: a plan. Now to implement it.

I’d always thought I might like curling. I have no idea why. I’d never curled. That’s not entirely true; if you recall, I did curl once in an HSM curling bonspiel. But that was all. I heard it was a social sport, and I remembered that past bonspiel to be very sociable, so I thought I’d give it a try. The Mine hosted an annual curling bonspiel, a funspiel, they called it, so I asked Bev if she wanted to sign up for it. She’d curled before, so she was up for it. We got a team together, paid our admission fee, and had a good time. We liked it so much I thought we might join the club and take instruction.

But it never led to anything. We never looked into joining the curling club, but we did sign up for the Kidd Recreational Bonspiel every year. When the CIM chapter began hosting one, we signed up for that too. They were fun. We began to look forward to them.

I can’t say we were any good. Sliding out of the hack was problematic. I’d wobble and fall down. And even when I did keep upright, I could never hope to place the rock in the house if I did slide. So, I didn’t. I kept my foot on the rubber grip and thrust the rock down the ice. I didn’t use a slider when sweeping, either. “I’d likely crack my head open,” was all I’d say if asked why I didn’t. I probably looked foolish. But what the hell, I only curled a couple times a year. So long as I kept on my feet, I was happy. I fell once or twice, but I never hurt myself. The potential was there, though. But I always had fun. That’s the main thing, I suppose.

Our last funspiel was not that fun.

We set up to play our first game. We gathered, introduced ourselves to the opposing team, shook hands and I set about throwing the first rock of the game. I threw it right through the house. I turned my back to the rink and crouched to gather my second rock. When I stood again, I saw a group of people gathered mid-rink.

“Did someone fall?” I asked the other person at our end.

“Yeah,” he said. He looked concerned.

I looked to see who it might be. I saw a white sweater through the grove of legs. Bev’s got a white sweater just like that, I thought. Then I realized that it was Bev. Holy Crap! She was flat on her back. She didn’t appear to be moving.

I rushed to where they were, taking care to not fall, myself. I thread my way through them, coming upon our friend, a nurse, on her knees beside Bev, with another guy with his hand under her neck, already manipulating her neck. If she’d had a neck injury, it would have been too late to prevent injury, she’d have been paralysed. I decided it was pointless to point out that he ought to know better than to wiggle a person’s head about after an injury, thinking afterwards, but not then, that he must have asked her if she could wiggle her toes before he began messing about with her neck. He was a mine rescue man, after all. Bev says he did not.

There was no visible blood. But she was dazed.

I took over. The Mine Rescue man backed off. Maybe it was something in my eyes that told him to.
I asked her how she felt. Dizzy. She couldn’t see well, she said. Her head hurt. Her back hurt.
I asked her to move her arms and legs for me. Wiggle your fingers. They wiggled. Can you wiggle your toes? She could. Everything worked fine, so the Mine rescue man was forgiven.

Someone asked me if I thought that we should call an ambulance. I was surprised that no one had already, so I told him that I’d like him to do just that. My voice was deathly calm. I was not.

Bev was cold, so I asked her if she thought she was okay to move. She thought she could, so we sat her up slowly and once she gained her feet, we helped her off the ice and into a chair in the glassed observation area, away from the chilled rink. She was not steady. She was far from steady.
I began to worry.

She grew too dizzy to sit, so I tore a few parkas off their hangers so she wouldn’t have to lay on the hard floor, then another as a pillow. When we laid her down, she couldn’t lay on her back, she thought she might throw up. I didn’t really care if she puked all over everyone’s coat.

The ambulance arrived. They did a thorough inspection, and finally put her neck in a brace and strapped her to the spinal board.

She wanted me to get a few things from home, in case her stay at the hospital was longer than expected. Oddly enough, we both still thought they’d give her a quick once over and we’d be on our way. I even said as much, fully expecting that we’d be back for the gala Chinese buffet at evening’s end, at latest. Our friend, the nurse, took me by the arms and said, “Dave, you are not coming back today. They’re going to want to keep her for observation.” She didn’t want to worry me, so she didn’t tell me how serious Bev’s injury might be.

Even so, the severity of her injury began to sink in.

When I got to the hospital, I was ushered into her triage room. She was to have an MRI. The neurosurgeon in Sudbury was waiting to watch, in real time, to assess. But first, they wanted her to sit up. They gave her the largest bowl I’d ever seen for her to clutch while she did. She needed it too. She sat up, the world whirled, and her breakfast was in the bowl. The headache that rushed up and took hold of her paled the pain she’d been afflicted with until then. She almost passed out. The ER got very busy with her just then. She was rushed to the MRI, after which I was told they’d found a couple intracranial hemorrhages. But they were slow. She wouldn’t be rushed for emergency surgery in Sudbury. Not yet, anyways. They’d reassess in the morning.

Surgery? In Sudbury?
She was being transferred to ICU for the interim.
The ICU?
That’s when it struck me.
Bev had almost died. Right then. Right there.

Bev’s Lost Year

Her mother’s passing had been hard on her. She was in a funk for some time, but I suppose losing one’s parent can have that sort of an affect on you. I’ve yet to experience that.

When I was suggesting vacation options with Bev, she was disinterested. Of course she was; she was grieving. It probably felt like a betrayal to even consider heading out and having fun. That’s the reason why she didn’t go with me to New Orleans and New York. I was rather oblivious to the depth of her pain. Like I said, I’ve never lost a parent and had no idea how deeply it affected her. And I had no idea how long it would take her to push through her funk and pain and come through the other side.

Bev tells me that she was extremely depressed during that year of her life. She hid it well, focusing on work mostly. When she cried, she did so alone. She’s a very private person, not given to lavish displays of affection. She’s like a man in that aspect; you have to look for the signs, like her doing little things for you, routing out the lost, patiently sussing out what might be the problem with electronic devices, keeping track of utilities and personal taxes and dog grooming. She’s very much like her mother in that regard.

Her mother passed in March of 2009. She grieved, but somehow made it through our trip to New Brunswick without falling apart, not that she would fall apart; she’s not that sort. If she did, she’d do it privately, and in her own time, inside her head, where no one else could see.

She had work to occupy her. Then we went on our annual “big” trip. She didn’t have a quiet time between, not really. When things did get quiet, she got busy: she went to Manitoulin in August to convalesce. I was not invited. Neither were the dogs. “I need some time to myself for a little while,” she said. I understood. Sometimes you just have to go on a vision quest or some such thing to come to terms with yourself. If not a vision quest (I really don’t see the point of such things; you’ll only find yourself in the end), then certainly a walkabout. That I can wrap my head around. Put one foot ahead of the other. You’ll find yourself walking beside yourself the whole way.

She packed up for her walkabout. I fussed in the way I can, asking her if she had everything she needed for a week by herself, reminding her that she’d be able to get whatever she might have forgotten in Gore Bay or Little Current, and barring that, most certainly in Espanola. She left on her “Bev’s Big Adventure,” as she called it, the first time she’d ever actually ventured out on her own. Manitoulin was as good a place as any. Better than most. She knew it like the back of her hand. It held a cherished place in her memory, years of summer trips piled up, one on top of the other. It was a safe place. A good place to go and try to center herself.

She called a few times, to set me at ease and to give me updates on how she was and what she’d done. But, for the most part, she spent it with herself, cherishing the quiet and her memories and her newfound freedom.

But it was not enough. She was still sad, still depressed, still in need of time to heal.

Bev was working at the Mine for a while through this, subcontracted by Ross Pope to set up a cost accounting routine for D-Mine at Kidd. While there, one of the girls mentioned a Woman’s Wellness Weekend Retreat being held at Cedar Meadows in the spring of 2010. Bev mentioned the upcoming retreat to her friend Lynn who thought it a great reason to come up, so Bev and Lynn enrolled and set to room together while there.

I remained to hold down the fort and take care of the dogs in her absence. This is not to say that I did not hold down the fort or care for the dogs when she was around, just that I was to have the roost to myself while she went off and did what women do at such things, ridding themselves of their men for a time. Maybe that’s just the point, to be rid of us for a short time.

While there, Angel, the woman who’d mentioned the Retreat to Bev, put another bug in Bev’s ear. They should go to Vegas. The girls were on board, Bev said, naming a few who were. I spoke to one or two and found that they were not.

Time passed. Long story short, the Vegas week didn’t happen in September as planned. The girls backed out, one at a time, and the trip was downgraded to a weekend in Cochrane, or more specifically, a cottage just outside of Cochrane.

Lynn came up for that too, I suppose so that Bev wouldn’t be spending time “alone” with strangers. They bunked together again.

Bev began to come to terms with her mother’s passing. I can’t say how many times she cried; she never did in my presence, not really; I happened by a couple times as her composure was breaking down after seeing something of her mother’s; like I said, she’s a very private person; but what I can say as that she became her old self again, little by little, until she broke through and left her heavy grief and debilitating funk behind.

Would that have happened anyway, those times spent alone and in the company of women notwithstanding? Maybe. Probably? Who’s to say?

But her mother’s passing had prepared her for her father’s passing, still a few years away. She picked up pamphlets about palliative care and grieving and what to expect. These lessons served her well then.
But that’s just like Bev. It’s just like her mother too. Plan, make lists, be prepared.

Alma was a pragmatic woman.
Her daughter is much the same.
As they say, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.

Alma

Not being a Schumacher boy, I never met Alma until I met Bev. Alma was Bev’s mother, to the uninitiated.

Alma was one of those women who dedicated her life to her family. Her children, her husband, her sister, her grandchildren. I recall how fully she glowed when she held them for the first time. She was filled with a lot of love, that woman.

She was always cooking, always puttering, always doing something. Her hands were never still, even when at rest, when she’d be puzzling out a crossword. Whereas I would race through one in half the time, sometimes layering letters one on top of the other when I’d forge too far ahead without considering those words crossing the ones I’d just laid down, Alma’s were always immaculate, her script careful and literate, without error.

Alma was kind, Alma was proud. Alma liked things just so. If there were things to do, she’d be up in a short, fussing, straightening, eager to fetch and carry, always scolding me should I get up to help.

“Go sit down” she’d say.

“Relax,” we say, “sit down and visit,” we’d say. Or maybe it was just me saying such things, Bev knowing better. But Alma could not rest. There were things to do, don’t you know.

She’d slave in the kitchen, prepping and cleaning up and fetching whatever condiments whomever wanted, jumping up with a stern, “Sit,” she’d say, up and to the fridge before your bum could lift from your seat. She rarely began to eat before everyone was a third of the way through their meals.

So, she rushed through her own meals, inhaling portions that need be taken in smaller chunks. But she had to be done eating before everyone else so as to clear the table, don’t you know.

She took to coughing one meal and excused herself without a word, lest she bother anyone. She was like that. She was a proud and private woman.
She was also choking.
When her coughing grew deeper and more desperate, Bev was up like a shot, chasing after her.
“Are you okay,” she asked her mother. Her mother wavered her off. But her mother could not hide the fact that she was gasping for air and not getting any, that she was turning blue.

And Bev would not be waved off. Bev thumped her on her back. When that didn’t ease her mother’s plight, Bev got behind her and thrust her fists and thumbs up under her mother’s rib cage. Once, twice, thrice. A chunk of half-chewed meat flew from Alma’s throat, across the room.

Alma inhaled more deeply than he ever had before, likely blurry eyed and faint, having narrowly escaped death.

Note to self: never leave the room if you’re choking

Then some time later, Alma got sick. It seemed a cold. But she couldn’t shake it.

We took Charlie, their poodle, in so that she could rest some and not have to get up in the middle of the night to put him out, as he was want to do on occasion. Charlie was thrilled. Ours was a more active household. We went for longer walks.

Before long, Alma got sicker. She went to the hospital. She was admitted, where she remained for a week.

Then they released her. They ought not to have. She was not well. She was tired. She was exhausted. But she would not rest upon arriving home. There were things to do, you know, Albert to care for, what with Albert not being as ambulatory as he could be. Bad knees and all that.

“I’m so tired,” she said to her sister, right before worsening.

Within the week, she was readmitted.

She seemed weaker than ever when we visited. Bev was fraught with worry.

“You need to rest,” she said

But Alma was resting. But not getting any better.

Her medications were in flux. They’d put her on one medication to fight the pneumonia, but then her heart began to fail, so they’d take her off that to treat her heart and the pneumonia would get worse.
Within the week, she became unresponsive. Then she slipped into a coma.

It was sad seeing her in such a state. She lay still, a state I’d never seen her in. Her hands still, too.
We worried. Bev far more so than I, but I can be rather dense at times, convincing myself that everything’s going to be alright. My mother tried to prepare me.

“Prepare yourself,” she said, seeing what I refused to see. My mother had seen such things before and knew a thing or two about what was coming to fruition. She gently guided my expectation without actually coming out and saying that Alma was failing and that I needed to prepare fore the inevitable and not pull the wool over my eyes.

Greg got a phone call from the nurse. “Your mother isn’t doing well,” she said. She hadn’t been doing well for some time, slowly slipping away as the week progressed. Greg gathered up Albert and went to the hospitable, calling Bev to tell her that he’d call her when he had more information.

We braced ourselves. Was it time? Would it come quickly? Or would she remain in her coma for weeks? We just didn’t know.

Greg called Bev shortly after arriving. It didn’t look good. She didn’t need to rush to hospital; she was already there doing the annual inventory count. She excused herself, joining Greg and Albert, both of whom had already by Alma’s side.

Then Bev called me. All she said was, “She may not last the night.”

I responded like the idiot I can be: “Do you want me to come up?”

I came to my senses in the same breath, saying, “What am I saying? I’m on my way.” I went to the hospital right away.

The vigil began. Visiting hours ceased to apply to us.

The room was deathly quiet. Bev calm and not calm, obviously fraught with resignation and despair. Bev’s cousin Darryl arrived to sit vigil with us. Father Pat was summoned to perform Last Rites.

Greg left for home after a time, taking Albert with him, realizing that he’d have to take up the watch in the morning, realizing that the wait may be short, but also realizing that we might be in for a long haul. He had to prepare his kids, too. What to say? They were so young, still. And Albert needed his rest, or what rest he could get, considering.

The nurses brought in extra chairs and we each took a turn curled up in two of them, set facing each other, a cruel way to try to sleep. I understand they have better chairs now, almost day beds that recline like first class seats. I nodded some, Bev not at all.

We left once Greg returned to sit vigil by himself, Laurie remaining home with the kids. We slept some, took care of the dogs and were back up at the hospital before too long.

Phone calls had to be made, the family alerted. It didn’t look good, Bev and Greg said to each in turn.
It didn’t. It looked worse by the hour. The family began to drift in, the circle surrounding the bed growing larger, deeper, what conversation there was, muted and somber, whispers.

I left to get some water. I needed to get some air and gather myself. Laurie followed me, talking gently. I wasn’t there more than a few minutes when Bev’s cousin, Theresa, rushed in and said, “It’s happening.”

I was up and back in the room within seconds, already too late. Alma had passed.

I brushed passed those between me and Bev, until I stood behind her. She was holding her mother’s hand, her shoulder’s tense, her breathing almost as still as Alma’s.

Nothing could be as still as Alma though. Bev later told me that her mother had taken one last long ragged breath that slowly released and no more.

“That’s it,” Bev said, her voice trembling slightly.

Albert seemed confused. He could not process that his wife had passed. It sent him into shock. He couldn’t cry.

“Is she gone,” he asked Bev, his voice laboured and cracking. Tears rose up from him and he wiped his face with a handkerchief with measured regularity. But he would not cry. His upbringing would not allow it.

The nurse was called. Alma’s pulse was taken, the doctor called to declare time of death.

Bev was silent, her sobs almost subvocal. There was a great deal of sniffles and weeping throughout the room.

The doctor checked her pulse again, listened for breath and heart sounds.

The sheet covering Alma was fussed and smoothed, befitting her dignity.

She was always a proud woman.

She liked things just so.

Hitched

I got engaged. Who’d have figured that? We set a date which should have been impossible to meet, but as it was in October, safely outside the traditional wedding season, every wedding planner, decorator, baker, priest, church, organist, and hall was free. Go figure. Business must be especially slow then because they even gave us out-of-season discounts.

I hired my neighbor, Luc Chalifoux (Midnight Express), to be our disk-jockey. We hadn’t negotiated a price at first, but when we did, he dropped what probably should have been about a thousand or so dollar bill to four hundred. Call it my wedding gift to you, he said. I was grateful. He asked us for a list of songs for the evening. He laughed when I provided a more exhaustive list than he was accustomed to. I guess most people give him about three or four songs, just those for the father-daughter dance and the like. I gave him a list of about thirty songs Bev and I liked and said that if he could fit them in that would be great, but if he couldn’t, then the top five or six would be fine, pointing out the father-daughter song and the like. Closer to the date, Luc said that he wouldn’t be able to spin my reception after all. He was busy and surprisingly double-booked. Would it be okay if he sent over one of his employees, instead? I said that would be fine. I reminded him that he still hadn’t sent me an invoice. He mulled it over and shrugged it off, telling me that the music was free, again saying, “It’ll be my wedding gift to you.”

It was a small affair, only thirty people, everyone local except for Neil and Sharon Petersen, who travelled up from Barrie. On my side there were my parents, my sister and her husband, their children, my parents’ long-time neighbours, the Millers and the Durochers, my best friends Neil and Henri and their spouses. On Bev’s were her parents, her brother and his wife, her two aunts, her cousin Ellard and his wife, her friends Barb and Christine and spouses. Like I said, small.

Ever pragmatic, I bought a three-piece suit, eschewing the tux. White silk tie. All in all, it looked tux-ish and formal, exactly the look I was striving for. I was never one for renting when I could buy and I doubted that I’d ever have need of a tux again, so, new suit it was, despite my having more suits than I actually needed. That might negate the earlier pragmatic boast, but there you have it; I’ve always been vain.

The day arrived. It was cold. I expected that; it was late October, after all. Luckily, we weren’t treated to snow or icy rain. The rehearsal was uneventful the night before. I paid attention, but most of what happened that evening was soon forgotten. I was pretty sure that someone, everyone, would herd me through the process when the time came. And they did. There was someone there to make sure I was dressed on time, that I made it to the church on time, that I stood where I was meant to, and walked up the aisle when I was supposed to.

Bev arrived when we were still at the back of the church. She was not dressed how I expected her to be, not in what she had originally showed me, anyway. She hadn’t been satisfied with her original outfit as the months wore on, so she ordered another. It was an actual dress, laced and embellished with costume pearls. She looked lovely. Her hair was up and curled, her make-up just so.

Then someone nudged me to be on my way to the Alter to await my bride.

The rest is a little hazy. I wonder how many people actually really remember their weddings. I think most people don’t, not really. Most people are too busy being worried that things will go wrong, but from my experience, someone always takes charge and makes sure things move along at their expected pace and that things happen when they’re supposed to. My sister was that person. I was largely oblivious, just swept along by the tide.

The organist told me afterwards how calm we looked. We didn’t sweat and fidget and fuss like younger couples do, she said. We didn’t. I sat with one leg crossed over the other, waiting for someone to tell me to stand, then to “repeat after me,” then to come over here to sign the legal documents.

Pictures were taken. Most are studio shots. Outdoors really wasn’t an option: autumn colours were long since a memory, trees were stark and bare, clouds were grey. And yes, it rained. I know this because I have one of us outside in coats, with me holding an umbrella over us. Black and white. It looks vintage. I like that one a lot.

Then it was off to Cedar Meadows for the dinner and the cutting of the cake.

The cake was missing. My sister told me so, also telling me to not freak out, that something was being worked out. I was not freaked out. So what, I thought at the time, it’s just a cake. We had lots of food. We’d purchased the Thanksgiving Buffet from the Resort and it came with two deserts.

A call to the bakery told us that the cake had been delivered that morning, so the staff began to search for it. They found it minutes later. It was in the fridge. Who’d have thought to look in the fridge?

There were few speeches made. We were a small group, but there were a few. There were congratulations within them, well-wishes, and expectations of our long and happy life together.
The cake was brought out. We posed for the usual pictures. We danced, we mingled, we (meaning I, but not excluding Bev) kept our drinking to a minimum. No one, I thought, ought to get drunk on their wedding day, although I’m sure it happens all the time, but I have my doubts that those who do are fast approaching forty. I likely spent too much time mingling with Neil and Henri, but they were my closest friends, so sue me.

Did we crush slices of cake into each other’s face? No. Neither of us liked that new tradition. Yeah, yeah, yeah, we’re not fun. So be it. That might have been fun had we been twenty, but like I’ve said more than once over the course of the last memories, we weren’t twenty anymore. And I’ve always been the serious sort.

Expectations might be different.

We did bow to some expectations and traditions.

The garter was removed and flung into the very small gathering of bachelors.

The bouquet made its way into the very small but otherwise shacked-up group of women who just happened to not be married

As I’ve said, we weren’t twenty anymore.

Engaged

My road to matrimony was a longer one than most. I met Bev at thirty-five and we were married just before I turned forty. This was my first long-term relationship. Prior to this, I was a long-suffering bachelor.

We did not have a lavish, expensive wedding. We’d bought a house instead and had sunk most of our money into it and its trappings and furnishings. We invited very few people, just immediate family and a few of our closest friends, thirty people all told. Had we begun to open up the guest list, there would have been no end to it and we would have been up to three-hundred people in no time, something we could not afford. But we could afford thirty people. We only needed to rent the glassed-in rear room at Cedar Meadows. It was small, intimate. But that’s getting ahead of myself.

Bev and I had been dating for about a year before we bought the house. Then we set about setting it up. I must say it was very much an empty building at first. We’d purchased a fair amount of the prior owners’ furnishings with the house, so that helped. We bought a lot of stuff on sale. We bought a lot of what we thought of as starter stuff from Canadian Tire, saying we’d upgrade once we were able.
Throughout all this I shopped rings, all the while listening to my future father-in-law talking about my putting the cart before the house and such things. I didn’t buy the first ring that I saw; I shopped around. I calculated what I could afford and when. I was under the thumb of weekly house payments, my savings erased and only inching back up since the purchase. In short, I waited. I didn’t want to buy a cheap ring. And I wanted to buy a set, you know, engagement and wedding.

Meanwhile, Bev and I had discussions about what the future held. We discussed actual marriage (with me listening very carefully for clues as to whether she’d accept should I pop the question), and we talked about children (I talked about children all the time; I wanted them; just about everyone I knew had them and I always thought that having them was the logical progression of any relationship—and I was getting on in years, thinking that were we to have them, we ought to have them soon or risk putting off retirement until death). Bev usually said the same thing during these discussions, about tying the knot, about having kids: “It’s a big step.”

A Big Step? I spent a great deal of time trying to decipher that statement. We’d been living together for more than three months, so as far as I was concerned, that “big” step had already come and gone. It had as far as the courts were concerned. That “big” step was only a piece of paper by then. Whenever Bev brought up her parents and what they thought, I told her that I wouldn’t be marrying her parents.

In time I thought I had it all figured out (that shows you how naïve I was) and bought the engagement ring. I’d even made a few payments.

But where to pop the question? And how? Traditionally, on one knee? Romantically, over champagne? I thought not. Champagne was not in the budget then; and ordering champagne would have spoiled the surprise, wouldn’t it? And what if she said no?

In the end, I proposed while we were out for dinner. I asked her where she’d like to go; she said East Side Mario’s. I fumbled with the box in my pocket, my palms clammy. I’d been fumbling with it almost continuously, fearing that I’d lose it, forever touching it to reassure myself that it was still there. I wondered if I should wait until she left the table and have it presented before her when she returned. But she usually never left the table until after the meal was done and I didn’t think that displaying the ring amid dirty dishes and the bill made for romantic presentation. In the end, I decided to get on with it after we’d ordered.

The restaurant was loud, clashing, clanging, the volume flowing here and there, the gaggle of conversation bouncing about, an undulating roar punctuated by the clatter of cutlery. I brought the box out in a fist, then offering it up between both hands in hope that neither would betray my nervousness. They did not tremble. Or at least I think they did not tremble.

I popped the question. Maybe I mumbled the question. Bev smiled when she received the box. The smile grew broader after opening the box and seeing the stones catch what meager light there was to catch.

I’m not sure if she said yes just then. I’ll admit that my memory is a little sketchy on the moment. I might have been in a mild state of shock. Fight or flight may have risen up as I waited for a response.
She did say yes, though.

I know. Not terribly romantic. But what do you expect from an old bachelor with limited experience in such endeavours? I suppose most proposals are fumbled affairs, fraught with trepidation, if not panic and terror. Hollywood has set the bar higher than most of us mere mortals can aspire to.

Her acceptance prompted more shopping. The wedding rings had to be chosen. The plans made. We set the date for later that same year. What was the point in waiting?

I proposed September 19th. Bev’s and my birthdays were on a 19th, so I thought I would never forget the date if it too were on a 19th. We were not married on a 19th, or September. Father Pat told us we had to compete a Catholic ritual of a Retreat first, to learn about what it was like to live together, on how to budget, on how to bring Christ into our lives and marriage. That was well and good for the twenty-year-olds, I said; they hadn’t had our years of experience, and they (some of them, anyway) hadn’t already been living together for years. I also told Father Pat I planned to be married that year, before I turned forty, whether I was married by the Church or by the Justice of the Peace. Father Pat said he would talk to the Bishop. The Bishop waived our need to do the Couple’s retreat, owing to our age and circumstance.

In the end, Father Pat agreed to a series of meetings at his house to accommodate us. We’d already set a tentative date in October, after all. We booked the church and discovered that we were to be the final couple married in Nativity before it closed.

Father Pat forgot about our first meeting. We were waiting at his residence when he pulled into his driveway, a puzzled look on his face when he saw us waiting there. Then he discovered that McDonalds had given him the wrong meal. He was conflicted. He wanted to return to get what he had ordered. But he was already late for our first meeting, with barely enough time to complete the curriculum as laid out by the Church. He stayed. We began the course.

I asked my sister to be my “best man,” and Bev asked her brother to be her “matron of honour.”
We booked the “hall” and the decorator; we ordered the cake. It was easy. No waiting. The wedding season had passed and everyone was free. We even got discounts on almost every service rendered. We finalized what needed finalizing.

I, we, were getting married.

The Courtship

Bev and I began our courtship as I was quitting smoking. I’m surprised to this day that she didn’t run for the hills. I thought I was coping rather nicely; she tells me that I was a bear for the first three months. You’ll have to ask her why she stuck around.

Our first date was for coffee at a sub place downtown. It was a cold day, windy, the air still carrying the icy bite of early winter. I was early, killing time at Buc’s before the appointed hour. I kept note of the time, leaving five minutes before we were to meet, recognizing her from her picture as she ran past me, her eyes pressed narrow by the blown snow, her brightly coloured scarf wrapped tightly around her neck and held down against her black wool coat. I smiled, prepared to make our acquaintance, but she rushed past. I think she recognized me, but I wouldn’t swear an oath to it.

I ordered a coffee, found a chair facing the entrance and waited. Our first meeting was short, maybe about a half hour. Conversation was easy, and she carried none of the excitability of the last brief fling I’d had. I expected there would be no games like the last time, so we made a promise to contact one another again.

Over the next couple months we met off and on. She endured my smoking. I raised my intention to quit, explaining about my upcoming Egyptian excursion, the smoking there, and the likelihood that I’d fail in my attempt if I quit earlier. I brought her to all the best places, the coffee shop, the show, the Welcome. I don’t know what she thought of the Welcome, it being the ultimate dive, but I wanted her to see me in my element, bad habits and all. I wanted to see what sort of girl she was. Did she like bars? Did she like music? Live music? Did we see eye-to-eye? Were we compatible? What was her politics? Did she like the same things as me? Did she like the Welcome? Probably not; her last boyfriend had a drinking problem and she very likely disproved of bars and pissing the night away in one, but she didn’t say anything. Early days. She still stuck by me, just the same. I suppose I showed promise.

I left. I returned. I was smoke free.

Mostly.

She saw me puffing on a cheroot at Finn McCool’s when she and I were out with friends. There was shock. There was a touch of anger. I saw it in her eyes and brushed it off, smiled at her and shrugged.
“I haven’t inhaled,” I called out to her, raising the cheroot higher, as if that gesture explained my intent.
“She’s mad,” Dawson said, seeing the look in her eyes.

“She’ll get over it,” I said. I needed a puff just then, the cigarettes around me testing my fortitude, and thinking that puffing on a cigar would help me through the temptation. I did quit cigars too, shortly afterwards, but I was not to be dictated to just then. I’d been a bachelor for decades and accustomed to doing what I wanted, when I wanted. And I was anxious. No one had ever dated me for long. I was adrift in uncharted waters. And I was quitting smoking. I needed a little relief.

In time we introduced each other to our parents.

I had no clue what to expect. I’d never been introduced to parents before. What I didn’t expect was to be largely ignored. Bev’s father Albert was engrossed in fixing a broken lamp with a piece of PVC pipe. Alma was busy in the kitchen. Bev’s brother Greg and sister-in-law Laurie was engaged in conversation with Albert and Alma respectively. No one talked to me. Nobody seemed to be aware that I was even there.

Albert did ask me what I thought of his lamp fix, obviously proud of the prospect of having saved the cost of a lamp. It was warped. The blacks did not match. The textures did not match. I thought it was ugly as sin. It was broken. I wondered why he didn’t just throw it out. I shrugged and asked, “Does it work?"

It did. Albert was pleased. I don’t remember if it was ever put in use, though. It disappeared after a time.

I was engaged once or twice during supper. I’d answer the question, then the conversation drifted away from me again.

Time passed. I began looking forward to my next vacation. I wanted to do something different. That’s not saying much. I wanted to do something different every year. I asked myself, “What have you not struck off your bucket list?” I wanted go to the Galapagos Islands. I wanted to go to the Amazon. I wanted to go to lots of places, but when I researched my vacation options and realized that both options were to be had in Ecuador, potentially two trips in one, I was sold. I planned on doing the Islands one week and the jungle the next. I watched travel guides on TV. I read travel guides.

I asked Bev if she’d like to go. If she wanted to really get to know me, I reasoned, she ought to see me doing what I liked best, travelling. That way she could see me away from Timmins. I didn’t drink much while on vacation. (Or so I told myself. It all depends on the vacation.) There was too much to do, too much to see. Besides, I wanted to share my life with someone; I wanted to experience things with someone. I wanted to find my elusive soulmate, not sure if that person actually existed.

She declined. It was too early for us to go away together, she said. “What would my father say?” she asked, knowing full well what her father would say.

“I’m not asking your father,” I said.

“I can’t,” she said.

Did she expect me to stay? Probably not. I certainly wasn’t going to stay on her say so, either. My parents had never holidayed much and I’d never been much of anywhere until finally bursting forth on my own. I toiled year-round underground. I didn’t have many friends, as far as I could see. I deserved a little joy in my life, and no one was going to deny me that.

Did I go to Ecuador?

You bet your ass I did.