And now for something completely different. Take a break and pour yourself a fortifying cup.
Recently Robin’s existing dysthymia (considered chronic or “double depression”) has been exacerbated by various triggers. People with dysthymia have a greater-than-average chance of developing major depression. This condition is sometimes called “double depression” because an external trigger can result in a depressive episode, which spirals him downward into a black hole. The usual feelings of low mood are then accompanied by the new intensity of emotion.
As dysthymia is a chronic disorder, a person may often experience symptoms for many years before it is diagnosed, which was the case with Robin. His diagnosis a few years ago did not surprise me; I only wish we’d been able to get help sooner. I almost have to sedate him to get him to see a doctor (not an unusual trend in my family); he insists that they’ll find out what’s wrong with him at his autopsy. Hrmph.
Too often sufferers do not even discuss their symptoms with professionals, family members or friends. (How well I know that to be true. Sometimes I smile when I think about gentle solitude-seeking Robin from his seemingly safe, quiet and very private world choosing to marry into a boisterous family where some of us speak about everything to anyone.)
All this to say, Robin recently slipped into a deeper than usual depression. Thankfully he reached out to a friend who contacted the seminary, and two of my colleagues tracked us down in BC and spoke to Robin at length. They were wonderful. Since returning home he has been for counselling and will more than likely see a psychiatrist as soon as possible (meaning within several months in Calgary).
I do not pretend to understand his mental anguish, which is one of the reasons he reaches out mainly to friends who do—but I’ve certainly learned a great deal about depression since our journey began. Friends ask me if he brings me down, or if I pull him up. Possibly both, but for now the light is stronger than the darkness. May it ever be so.
04 August 2009
All hands on deck, and the wrong sort of bees
As I began this letter (written on Heritage Day, 3 August 2009, and updated later), which sensitive readers may need to break into smaller segments (you’ll get the point in a few paragraphs), I was unsure what title to use: “How to provoke a hornet and survive nature’s sting” is perhaps too waspish; “Sting operation” seems too short. I settled for “All hands on deck” and threw in A. A. Milne’s Winnie the Pooh reference to pique the reader’s interest.
Put on the kettle and pull up a chair. Remember me? It’s been a while. My coffee companion, Warren Harbeck, wrote to ask, “What’s buzzin’ cuzzin?” when I droned on in a recent note. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened in the past few months {other than snow on your June birthday, Dad, which isn’t all that extraordinary in Alberta}.
We attended one June and one July wedding (where Robin was the primary photographer), and spent a couple of weeks in Surrey with a sweet and special family. Robin did the post-wedding photo processing at the bride’s home and gave her the albums when she returned from her honeyMoon.
This summer we’re also preparing for the semester ahead: my history-loving husband and I will be co-teaching History of Western Civ. All in all, life in Cochrane’s slow lane has been good.
Let me not forget the bevy of birthday boys and girls. My dear friend Tammy—with whom it is my privilege to spend Tuesday evenings—turned 40 in early July: that was special. And her twins celebrated their 7th birthday.
{Wallace and Dad, do you remember holding the newborn duo in July 2002 when you were last here visiting me?}
And Robin and I spent our annual week at the lake in Vernon with most hospitable hosts. No crises to speak of.
And then suddenly, a couple of weeks ago, all h*ll broke loose in the Phillips household. To test your sense of humour and of perspective, let me begin with today’s wasp attack (and this time I don’t mean those Anglo-Saxon Protestants).
I awoke before daylight (my blinds were drawn) to the melodious hum of my landlord’s chainsaw outside my bedroom window. Finding no alternative but join the crew as a deckhand, I dressed in a long-sleeved flannel shirt and work jeans and reported for duty. This week we are redoing our deck.
Yesterday after church I helped Mike and Pat clear the deck for the tasks of today, and decided to leave emptying the last of several planters (heavy black tyres filled with soil and a variety of tall ornamental grasses) for today because of the recent scorching mid-thirties temps. This morning as I pulled up a clump of grass, an angry array of black-and-yellow-jacketed bugs swarmed up from their cosy earth-nest.
My very first reaction was “Stay calm, they won’t sting you if you stand still.” (Not sure what movie that came from, but don’t try it at home.) Second reaction was an image of Winnie the Pooh holding onto a balloon while stealing bee-honey ... and getting stung by “the wrong sort of bees.”
Since I didn’t know if my landlord was allergic to wasps, my initial instinct was to protect him and get the nest away from him and off the deck. This reaction unearthed a chain of consequences, to say the least. “Mike!” I yelled (since that’s his name and expletives didn’t seem appropriate … yet), but he didn’t hear me because he was wearing ear protectors.
Then I performed what may well be my first ever supernatural act: I picked up the black rubber planter with its full load of earth and flora, and flung it down the deck stairs. (Bear in mind I have not been able to move these planters in five years, even with a helper.) I then jumped—stumbled—down the stairs, closely followed by Mike.
First I felt an unpleasant buzzing in my ear and yelped in surprise. Next I became aware of what seemed to be dozens of insects settling on my sleeves. And then the fiery darts pierced my skin and the wasp-venom entered my blood. (Isn’t that a truly theatrical sentence? See, I’ve made you read it again, savouring the word “fiery.”)
To find out how wasp toxins work, click on this link: http://animals.howstuffworks.com/insects/wasp3.htm
All of this happened in a black-and-yellow blur. In retrospect, I should have left well enough alone and hightailed it off the deck as soon as I spotted the first incensed insect, but … we all know how hindsight works. I slapped wildly at my arms and started to run. “Get into the house!” I heard Mike’s wife yell from the garden below the deck. Instead I made a bee-line to my next door neighbour, Irma, who flung open the front door as she saw me sprinting up her pathway.
All swell that end swell: Mike and Pat were not stung, thankfully, and I received only a couple of stings on my arms and one in my ear. Yikes. A not-to-be-repeated adventure! Outfitted in a beekeeper’s head covering, Mike courageously returned to the scene of the crime and sprayed the nest, killing dozens of insects and hundreds of larvae. Irma kindly provided lotion for the stings on my arms and suggested I take an antihistamine (I doubled the dose); she also administered some much-appreciated pain meds.
Within minutes I was fine and my hands had stopped shaking. (I felt calm but may have acted hysterically.) Surprisingly, the swelling was minimal and I lessened the burn by applying an icepack. Now only an inner itch remains. Secretly I think it was the strong tea with sugar and the serenity of my neighbour-nurse that diminished the shock.
Research suggests that years of antihistamine injections for assorted childhood allergies paid off after all. {Mom, do you remember Dr. Des Sonnenfeld saying, “This is going to hurt you more than it’s going to hurt me”? I always smiled at that.}
There’s more to this letter than meets the eye in this entry. See next post.
Put on the kettle and pull up a chair. Remember me? It’s been a while. My coffee companion, Warren Harbeck, wrote to ask, “What’s buzzin’ cuzzin?” when I droned on in a recent note. Nothing out of the ordinary has happened in the past few months {other than snow on your June birthday, Dad, which isn’t all that extraordinary in Alberta}.
We attended one June and one July wedding (where Robin was the primary photographer), and spent a couple of weeks in Surrey with a sweet and special family. Robin did the post-wedding photo processing at the bride’s home and gave her the albums when she returned from her honeyMoon.
This summer we’re also preparing for the semester ahead: my history-loving husband and I will be co-teaching History of Western Civ. All in all, life in Cochrane’s slow lane has been good.
Let me not forget the bevy of birthday boys and girls. My dear friend Tammy—with whom it is my privilege to spend Tuesday evenings—turned 40 in early July: that was special. And her twins celebrated their 7th birthday.
{Wallace and Dad, do you remember holding the newborn duo in July 2002 when you were last here visiting me?}
And Robin and I spent our annual week at the lake in Vernon with most hospitable hosts. No crises to speak of.
And then suddenly, a couple of weeks ago, all h*ll broke loose in the Phillips household. To test your sense of humour and of perspective, let me begin with today’s wasp attack (and this time I don’t mean those Anglo-Saxon Protestants).
I awoke before daylight (my blinds were drawn) to the melodious hum of my landlord’s chainsaw outside my bedroom window. Finding no alternative but join the crew as a deckhand, I dressed in a long-sleeved flannel shirt and work jeans and reported for duty. This week we are redoing our deck.
Yesterday after church I helped Mike and Pat clear the deck for the tasks of today, and decided to leave emptying the last of several planters (heavy black tyres filled with soil and a variety of tall ornamental grasses) for today because of the recent scorching mid-thirties temps. This morning as I pulled up a clump of grass, an angry array of black-and-yellow-jacketed bugs swarmed up from their cosy earth-nest.
My very first reaction was “Stay calm, they won’t sting you if you stand still.” (Not sure what movie that came from, but don’t try it at home.) Second reaction was an image of Winnie the Pooh holding onto a balloon while stealing bee-honey ... and getting stung by “the wrong sort of bees.”
Since I didn’t know if my landlord was allergic to wasps, my initial instinct was to protect him and get the nest away from him and off the deck. This reaction unearthed a chain of consequences, to say the least. “Mike!” I yelled (since that’s his name and expletives didn’t seem appropriate … yet), but he didn’t hear me because he was wearing ear protectors.
Then I performed what may well be my first ever supernatural act: I picked up the black rubber planter with its full load of earth and flora, and flung it down the deck stairs. (Bear in mind I have not been able to move these planters in five years, even with a helper.) I then jumped—stumbled—down the stairs, closely followed by Mike.
First I felt an unpleasant buzzing in my ear and yelped in surprise. Next I became aware of what seemed to be dozens of insects settling on my sleeves. And then the fiery darts pierced my skin and the wasp-venom entered my blood. (Isn’t that a truly theatrical sentence? See, I’ve made you read it again, savouring the word “fiery.”)
To find out how wasp toxins work, click on this link: http://animals.howstuffworks.com/insects/wasp3.htm
All of this happened in a black-and-yellow blur. In retrospect, I should have left well enough alone and hightailed it off the deck as soon as I spotted the first incensed insect, but … we all know how hindsight works. I slapped wildly at my arms and started to run. “Get into the house!” I heard Mike’s wife yell from the garden below the deck. Instead I made a bee-line to my next door neighbour, Irma, who flung open the front door as she saw me sprinting up her pathway.
All swell that end swell: Mike and Pat were not stung, thankfully, and I received only a couple of stings on my arms and one in my ear. Yikes. A not-to-be-repeated adventure! Outfitted in a beekeeper’s head covering, Mike courageously returned to the scene of the crime and sprayed the nest, killing dozens of insects and hundreds of larvae. Irma kindly provided lotion for the stings on my arms and suggested I take an antihistamine (I doubled the dose); she also administered some much-appreciated pain meds.
Within minutes I was fine and my hands had stopped shaking. (I felt calm but may have acted hysterically.) Surprisingly, the swelling was minimal and I lessened the burn by applying an icepack. Now only an inner itch remains. Secretly I think it was the strong tea with sugar and the serenity of my neighbour-nurse that diminished the shock.
Research suggests that years of antihistamine injections for assorted childhood allergies paid off after all. {Mom, do you remember Dr. Des Sonnenfeld saying, “This is going to hurt you more than it’s going to hurt me”? I always smiled at that.}
There’s more to this letter than meets the eye in this entry. See next post.
02 July 2009
03 June 2009
June 3: CPO, "Pops in the Park"
Stay tuned for photos of CPO's "Pops in the Park" ... and my favourite conductor, M. Pierre Simard.
02 June 2009
June 2: Spring concert in Cochrane
Stay tuned for photos of Riverside Jazz, Band on the Bow ... and the Red Hat Ladies!
01 June 2009
31 May 2009
Perspective
Dear NLSC Readers
The merry but busy month of May has ended well and June’s blank page awaits.
Happy Birthday to all June babes—too many to name, although I must mention my newest niece’s imminent arrival this coming week: I’ll share the latest Leach news as soon as I hear from eager parents, Wallace and Chantal. {Godspeed, little Tyla.} I also feel compelled to highlight my Aunt Nel’s birthday on the 5th (my great aunt is the sole remaining sibling of my Ouma’s baker’s dozen); my Dad’s on the 6th; and my sister Mari’s on the 24th.
Remind me if your birthday is in June—please and thank you.
Now for the reason for this letter’s title:
This past week has been a trifle trying. On top of feeling low physically since our recent “heat wave” (27ºC on Friday)—my body no longer remembers how to cope with extended sunshine!—I’ve experienced a couple of wearisome people-encounters this week. I’ll spare you the details
To counterbalance my current loony/lunar cycle, several notes of grace and cheer have come my way during the past week (see postscript for one gem in particular that deserves a minute and 14 seconds of your time).
After my (fifth!) annual evaluation with our academic dean to check on my progress as an adjunct instructor, I gratefully accompanied my gardening neighbour to a nursery/greenhouse in town, and on the way home Irma and I stopped at Angel’s in Bowness for a swirl of soft serve ice cream. The next day I went for a long riverside walk in lieu of gym, and that afternoon I attended the piano recital of my family-friend’s twins (I practise being a “proud auntie” whenever I can). Ethan and Spencer are the sweetest six-year-old violin and piano players I know! I look forward to a twin-recital-filled future….
This weekend we also hosted a missions conference at our church. The speaker, Daniel Zapoula, gave the audience a priceless gift, one I pray I’ll treasure as long as I live … perspective. I’ve tried and failed to find adequate words to describe his moving message, and so I’ve taken the liberty of stealing a paragraph from a friend’s letter, hot off the cyber press. {I’ll write and ask for permission soon, LA!}
In her weekly Amstutz Journal, Lori wrote:
“We had the opportunity to listen to the experiences of [Daniel Zapoula] a bushman from Burkina Faso … He shared his story of what it was like … from being in a family of 35 children in Africa, to having the opportunity to receive an education here in Canada. What he shared with us helped put so much in perspective. What we consider big issues in our lives were dwarfed by his stories of simply trying to survive … He now runs a ministry called Bridges of Hope, where he helps those who are in the situations he faced as a young boy. Listening to him share was like a reverse missions trip. We didn’t have to go visit those who do not enjoy the comforts that we take for granted here in Canada and the U.S. We just listened to his stories first hand.” {Thanks, Lori.}
Daniel reminded us all to rise above earthly concerns—money, materialism, matters of no eternal consequence—and try and view life from a heavenly perspective; I’ve done so for only one day and already I find myself letting go of unimportant slights and hurts and perceived offences and losses, and focusing on what really matters: relationships.
After today’s rather intense sermon (punctuated by a chorus of Amens and Hallelujahs truly rare for Mennonites), the missions team enjoyed a leisurely lunch with our animated African guest until we dispatched him to the airport. On time.
My much-needed Sunday afternoon nap (although not uninterrupted) was a relief. Three neighbours rang the doorbell on separate occasions, but although I opened the door (they were rather insistent with their bell-ringing since they knew I was home), I resisted all their kind invitations to pop over and visit, celebrate a birthday, watch a movie or enjoy a hot tub. I seldom get headaches and this one’s lingering—I suspect from the symptoms that it’s a migraine—so I stood my (shaky) ground and continued my nap. I think I’ll start posting a “do not disturb” sign on my door for reasons of health and sanity. :)
Starting on July 1, I’ve decided to take the last/first day of the month off as a day of silence and solitude, unless I’m teaching. Within weeks I feel the effects of spending too little time on my own. I’m finally learning that, much as I love people, I need to honour the boundaries of my soul. I have more to give, more to write, more to say—heaven forbid!—when I’ve been alone for a day or two. I even speak more s-l-o-w-l-y, at least for a few days.
I can feel when I’ve been running too fast, and others can sense it too. I get more cranky than usual (!) and when labels I consider incorrect—such as “ADD” and “hyper” and “manic”—are unfairly applied to me, I really lose my cool. “Please don’t confuse enthusiasm for life with mania,” I somewhat snippily told a colleague at Tim Horton’s on Saturday.
(Even on calm, quiet days I am angered by labels, but a wise friend gently suggested on the weekend I look for the kernel of truth in how others see me. So: how do you see me? :) Risky question, eh?)
After my soothing slumber I called a dear friend for her birthday and was blessed by her gentle voice and kind encouragement. I am humbled by the mentors and fellow pilgrims God has placed on my journey. I learn so much from these wise counsellors and companions along the way.
Now for my nightly hour of writing and end-of-month bath … and then back to bed; tomorrow’s another beautiful day.
Grateful for a renewed sense of perspective tonight,
Elaine Mary
P.S. Just when I most needed cheering up last week, this inspiring snippet arrived in my Inbox, sent by my friend in Vancouver—whom I’ve known this year longer than I haven’t. “It’s all about attitude,” my friend reminded me. {Thanks, CW.} In the 1-min. 14-sec. video, Fran and Marlo Cowan (married 62 years) play an impromptu recital together in the atrium of the Mayo Clinic. Mr. Cowan turned 90 in February. Hope it makes your day:
http://www.fark.com/cgi/vidplayer.pl?IDLink=4365716
The merry but busy month of May has ended well and June’s blank page awaits.
Happy Birthday to all June babes—too many to name, although I must mention my newest niece’s imminent arrival this coming week: I’ll share the latest Leach news as soon as I hear from eager parents, Wallace and Chantal. {Godspeed, little Tyla.} I also feel compelled to highlight my Aunt Nel’s birthday on the 5th (my great aunt is the sole remaining sibling of my Ouma’s baker’s dozen); my Dad’s on the 6th; and my sister Mari’s on the 24th.
Remind me if your birthday is in June—please and thank you.
Now for the reason for this letter’s title:
This past week has been a trifle trying. On top of feeling low physically since our recent “heat wave” (27ºC on Friday)—my body no longer remembers how to cope with extended sunshine!—I’ve experienced a couple of wearisome people-encounters this week. I’ll spare you the details
To counterbalance my current loony/lunar cycle, several notes of grace and cheer have come my way during the past week (see postscript for one gem in particular that deserves a minute and 14 seconds of your time).
After my (fifth!) annual evaluation with our academic dean to check on my progress as an adjunct instructor, I gratefully accompanied my gardening neighbour to a nursery/greenhouse in town, and on the way home Irma and I stopped at Angel’s in Bowness for a swirl of soft serve ice cream. The next day I went for a long riverside walk in lieu of gym, and that afternoon I attended the piano recital of my family-friend’s twins (I practise being a “proud auntie” whenever I can). Ethan and Spencer are the sweetest six-year-old violin and piano players I know! I look forward to a twin-recital-filled future….
This weekend we also hosted a missions conference at our church. The speaker, Daniel Zapoula, gave the audience a priceless gift, one I pray I’ll treasure as long as I live … perspective. I’ve tried and failed to find adequate words to describe his moving message, and so I’ve taken the liberty of stealing a paragraph from a friend’s letter, hot off the cyber press. {I’ll write and ask for permission soon, LA!}
In her weekly Amstutz Journal, Lori wrote:
“We had the opportunity to listen to the experiences of [Daniel Zapoula] a bushman from Burkina Faso … He shared his story of what it was like … from being in a family of 35 children in Africa, to having the opportunity to receive an education here in Canada. What he shared with us helped put so much in perspective. What we consider big issues in our lives were dwarfed by his stories of simply trying to survive … He now runs a ministry called Bridges of Hope, where he helps those who are in the situations he faced as a young boy. Listening to him share was like a reverse missions trip. We didn’t have to go visit those who do not enjoy the comforts that we take for granted here in Canada and the U.S. We just listened to his stories first hand.” {Thanks, Lori.}
Daniel reminded us all to rise above earthly concerns—money, materialism, matters of no eternal consequence—and try and view life from a heavenly perspective; I’ve done so for only one day and already I find myself letting go of unimportant slights and hurts and perceived offences and losses, and focusing on what really matters: relationships.
After today’s rather intense sermon (punctuated by a chorus of Amens and Hallelujahs truly rare for Mennonites), the missions team enjoyed a leisurely lunch with our animated African guest until we dispatched him to the airport. On time.
My much-needed Sunday afternoon nap (although not uninterrupted) was a relief. Three neighbours rang the doorbell on separate occasions, but although I opened the door (they were rather insistent with their bell-ringing since they knew I was home), I resisted all their kind invitations to pop over and visit, celebrate a birthday, watch a movie or enjoy a hot tub. I seldom get headaches and this one’s lingering—I suspect from the symptoms that it’s a migraine—so I stood my (shaky) ground and continued my nap. I think I’ll start posting a “do not disturb” sign on my door for reasons of health and sanity. :)
Starting on July 1, I’ve decided to take the last/first day of the month off as a day of silence and solitude, unless I’m teaching. Within weeks I feel the effects of spending too little time on my own. I’m finally learning that, much as I love people, I need to honour the boundaries of my soul. I have more to give, more to write, more to say—heaven forbid!—when I’ve been alone for a day or two. I even speak more s-l-o-w-l-y, at least for a few days.
I can feel when I’ve been running too fast, and others can sense it too. I get more cranky than usual (!) and when labels I consider incorrect—such as “ADD” and “hyper” and “manic”—are unfairly applied to me, I really lose my cool. “Please don’t confuse enthusiasm for life with mania,” I somewhat snippily told a colleague at Tim Horton’s on Saturday.
(Even on calm, quiet days I am angered by labels, but a wise friend gently suggested on the weekend I look for the kernel of truth in how others see me. So: how do you see me? :) Risky question, eh?)
After my soothing slumber I called a dear friend for her birthday and was blessed by her gentle voice and kind encouragement. I am humbled by the mentors and fellow pilgrims God has placed on my journey. I learn so much from these wise counsellors and companions along the way.
Now for my nightly hour of writing and end-of-month bath … and then back to bed; tomorrow’s another beautiful day.
Grateful for a renewed sense of perspective tonight,
Elaine Mary
P.S. Just when I most needed cheering up last week, this inspiring snippet arrived in my Inbox, sent by my friend in Vancouver—whom I’ve known this year longer than I haven’t. “It’s all about attitude,” my friend reminded me. {Thanks, CW.} In the 1-min. 14-sec. video, Fran and Marlo Cowan (married 62 years) play an impromptu recital together in the atrium of the Mayo Clinic. Mr. Cowan turned 90 in February. Hope it makes your day:
http://www.fark.com/cgi/vidplayer.pl?IDLink=4365716
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)