Flying

It could just be my naturally suspicious nature or it could be that the process is designed to intimidate and dehumanize, but I dislike crossing borders and security checkpoints. U.S. Customs was a non-event this time back. The last time it was just Katy and I, so I got the usual questions about where I had been and did Katy’s father know I had her out of the country. Since I always tuck her dad’s death certificate into her passport, it is right there for them to see, but they ask anyway. I guess they need to hear me say that he is dead. With Rob along however, the Custom’s official didn’t even open the certificate. Even traveling with different last names on our passports, because getting mine amended to reflect my new martial status is proving to be a hassle, the official just assumed that Rob was her father.

The TSA screenings are not as Nazi paced in Canada. After all, we are talking about Canadians who are never in a hurry do to anything job related. A marked change from the TSA at the Des Moines Airport who lacked only the snarling German Shepherds and people hollering “Schnell! Schnell!” As if it should take no time at all to de-shoe yourself and a small child while simultaneously dumping everything from your person into impossibly small plastic containers while presenting proper photo ID and boarding passes. Still, it has the feeling of one of those test dreams a person has from time to time even years past being in school. Wandering frantically up and down hallways. Searching for the right room and never finding it or arriving too late. I don’t think it would fit Amnesty International’s definition of torture but it is being brought to us all by the people who think that simulated drowning does not count because it’s not specifically prohibited by the Geneva Convention.

Once through and into the gate area the cluster fuck truly begins. Why do people rush to get into boarding lines? Boarding is a slow process that is actually made quicker by being last. I guess it is to snag all the overhead compartments rather than putting one carry on up and one under your seat. Again, a behavior based on the false assumption that disembarking will be made quicker this way. I can’t count the number of times I have waited patiently with my carry on secured and me ready to leave while nearly every one around me struggled to free their luggage from the upper compartments.

As soon as you board the plane, you are greeted by the impatient glares of the first class passengers. All twelve of them who sit grumpily with their drinks and ample leg room waiting for the rest of us peasants to please hurry up and sit our fat bums down somewhere behind them. Of course everyone glares at you when you are the last to board because it is surely your fault the plane isn’t already taxiing down the runway. We were in the dead last row. Good because it puts a person right next to the washrooms. Bad because there is no reclining. Good again because it’s a done deal that you will be the last people off, so there is no pressure to hurry.

My daughter is a jaded air traveler already. The wonder of flight isn’t lost on her but it has become routine, which I find interesting and I am hoping bodes well for the future because I have a feeling we might travel by air more and more frequently. The downside of travel for me though is the tendency towards motion sickness that has plagued me since I was a child. For some reason I can write and read but not simply read and that makes flights above two hours a tad bit tedious. On this trip both Rob and I, uber-geeks that we are, sit with laptops out. He catching up on work email and me writing this blog piece. Rob to my right and Katy on the left, engrossed in the SpongeBob episode playing on the iPod.

It’s 9:21 Edmonton time and we are due into Minneapolis at 11:30 Central Time U.S., and since the flight attendants are busily collecting snack trash I expect that within the next twenty minutes or so it will be time to begin landing. Why does landing take so much longer than taking off? Although I am still a bit apprehensive about the return trip through Canadian Customs, and I imagine it will be a lengthy sit in Immigration again, I am not going to let that spoil the trip to see my folks and extended family and friends.

A Random Thought about Writing and the Widowed

We are heading back to the states tomorrow for a short visit. Per usual there is too much to still be done and probably only just enough time to do it and nothing more. I can’t figure out how my life went from being empty, open spaces to this crammed full existence that still feels as though I need more minutes at the end of every day. It seems as though it shouldn’t have as simple as falling in love with Rob and moving here to be with him, but in more ways than can be imagined, it was just that.

Which brings me to a thought. Rob and I have been talking a bit about writing. About his promise to write about Shelley’s ordeal with melanoma and the difficulty that presents in terms of digging up the past and the occupying pain, but also in terms of how does one take such a sprawling topic and pare it down to an accessible essence? The path that leads some of us to widowhood is winding and long, and there is so much more to it than just the symptoms of the disease and the doctor’s visits and the treatments. The emotional side is as vast as an ocean and twice as deep. So, what to save and what to toss? In school I would teach my students to identify the audience and make their content match the needs of their readers or listeners. I am not sure if that applies in this case. But, it’s Rob’s story to tell and knowing him I imagine that he will stick to the facts and approach it from a logical “what would someone need to know” stance. It makes sense.

He got me thinking about my own story, which I am beyond weary of telling to the point where I don’t even want to hear other people’s stories. I don’t like sharing widowhood on the loss level anymore. Not that I ever enjoyed it, but there was a time when it made me feel less alone. Not as unique or novel. These days I prefer to share moving one stories. And it’s not about being positive or practical, it just is. Who I am now is a woman who was widowed. It happened. It sucked. It’s over? No, but it isn’t my now and hasn’t been for a very long time. If I were to write about my experiences, I would start with the beginning for this year and work through the beginnings of our relationship, Rob and I. There is so much out there on loss. On coping with loss. On surviving loss. On wallowing in it too. But, there is not much on moving on by people who have actually done it and not been overcome with buyer’s remorse once they got there. Beyond blogs and posts, the movies and books are a little to sugary-coated and belie the churning of emotions that nearly make you sick with fear, hesitation, second-guessing and more concern for the opinions of the world at large than for yourself.

When I think about it, my blog has been about moving on, and that is all that I have been willing to share really. The first blog was about loss and the frustration associated with jump-starting my idling life, but I shared that only belatedly, after most of it was written and past and it was no longer a true reflection of me.

I need to ponder this a while longer. I haven’t a deep need to write about myself beyond this blog right now. I am not sure how the world would benefit from another story about widows finding love again. It has the feel and the makings for a cheesy chick flick. Besides every widowed person I know talks about writing a book as though writing was a gift that came along with widowhood like the parting gifts game show contestant losers are sent away with at the end of a show.

Real Writers don't Blog

A columnist in the Daily Mail and Globe (Christie Blatchford), which is the Canadian equivalent of USA-Today minus the excess pictures and celebrity suck up section, wrote her Saturday piece about bloggers. Her disdain for the genre and the poor writing. She holds the common opinion among those of us who can write that writing is not for everyone. I agree. Writing is a gift that some of us are born with and develop over the course of our lives, but it isn't something that just anyone can do. It's like singing or dancing or painting. It's an art. Having said that, I don't think being a person of average writing skill should preclude anyone from writing and seeing that writing published somewhere. There are people who sing and dance and paint who haven't much skill either but sometimes that's not the point. We all deserve an artistic outlet regardless of whether we are truly talented. What someone might call a hobby is someone else's great soul fulfilling passion.

I think what puzzled this columnist the most is why anyone would put what she considers to be no more than a diary up on the web for public display. The simple answer is that writers, good, average or really awful, want to be published. The only medium to which people have a fairly democratic access is on the Internet. To someone who writes for a living, and to whom the finished product is a matter of a paycheck, it would probably seem odd as well that anyone could write for free or without benefit of copyright. However, to someone who just wants to write and would be happy of any audience, blogging or Facebook or just an online community can be a welcome opportunity.

Another point of contention the writer had was with the concept of online communities and the idea that you can have relationships with "virtual" people. Like most who have never truly experienced this, she falls back on the snotty superiority of the fact that she not only prefers REAL friends, she actually has them too. While it is true that there are many people for whom online communities are their only social outlets, it's not true for all people. The majority of those I have met via message boards have families, friends and rich REAL lives. They came to the different boards during times in their lives when they hadn't anyone in their lives they could connect with for various reasons. One group of women I have been messaging with for over six years now came to be when we met on a site called BabyCenter. We were all "older" women trying to conceive and most of us didn't have peers are our age to relate to when it came to trying to get pregnant in your late thirties or early forties. As we one by one became mothers, we moved our group to a private message board and continued to share our lives with each other because by this time we were friends who had move to talk about than just ovulation charts and birth stories. Two of us became widows in the time we have known each other. There have been location and job changes. New babies to celebrate. Some of us know each other offline and those of us who travel quite a bit meet up from time to time when things can be arranged. I wouldn't consider any of us freaks or even freakish.

I met my husband Rob through an online community for younger widowed people. We started off as email pals much in the same vein as the old pen-pals of yore. Another member of the same community is a friend to the point that she attended our wedding, and there are several others we keep in contact with via email and their blogs. The community itself has produced a viable offline network of events and countless friendships and romances (some that also have led to marriage) have blossomed because of this. I think it is easy to look down on or even make fun of online social networks but it would be a mistake to think that everyone engaged in this rather recent means of meeting people is just for the desperate. My husband's two twenty-something daughters have met some various nice people via Facebook and we use the site as a way to keep in touch with them and with extended family and far off friends. In a world where we are so far from the "neighborhoods" we grew up in and Grandma doesn't live just a few blocks over anymore, it's a good way to stay connected.

Going to the Movies

Going to see a movie, even watching dvd's at home, is always a hit and miss affair. I think it is safe to say that Rob and I haven't managed to find a film yet without references big and small about death and grieving. Last night's movie was in keeping with the trend. Despite the fact that we were running late from dinner, we decided to catch the new Naomi Watts and Viggio Mortenson flick titled, Eastern Promises. About ten or fifteen minutes had passed by the time we walked in and found seats on the left wall. The theater wasn't very crowded but we found ourselves sitting behind and in front of couples. Not an awful view despite the lack of stadium seating, but I did hear the woman behind us make a disgusted sound when Rob sat down in front of her and then proceeded to quickly peel off his pullover. Some people don't deal with the "public"aspect of cinema very well. The simple truth is if you want to view a movie without the inconveince of other viewers possible spoiling your pristine cinematic experience, stay home and wait for the DVD.

The Mortenson character in the film was a Russian named Nikolai who worked as a driver for the Russian mafia based in the city of London. The first scene we took in was of this character being called upon to dispose of a body. To say that there were grisly and violent scenes in the movie would be understating quite a bit. There were only a few deaths, but they were graphic. I am not exactly more squeamish since the death of my first husband. But once you have actually watched someone die, the "Hollywood" take will never seem quite as realistic no matter how well done because you know that it's not real. The actor got up when the director yelled "Cut" and went home to family or out to dinner with friends. It can never be as real as real is.

Naomi Watts played a midwife in the story who gets involved with the mafia, Nikolai, after the death of a 14 year old Ukranian prostitute. The girl had jut given birth and it stirs up memories for Anna (Watts) because she has recently miscarried her own baby. Between the grief and the murdering, it was a good movie. The acting was wonderful and it was visually interesting. The story was well told.

After the movie, we sat and watched the credits, listening to the soundtrack too because we like to collect soundtracks that are particularly well done. As the credits rolled it came to a dedication to the production unit manager, Lisa Parker, a 40 year old Irish woman who had died suddenly this past June. The woman behind us had been babblingly loudly to her companion during this time. Mostly about nothing and it occurred to me that perhaps she and the gentleman she was with were on a date. Maybe even a first or second date because women have a tendency to talk far too much in early dating situations out of nervousness. It's only later when you know a man well and are sure of him that you can let the quiet be quiet. The dedication rolls on and the women reads the dates of birth and death and does the math to come up with Parker's age, which she announces too. Then makes some inane comment about what might have happened. It wasn't what was said but the conversational tone that struck me and told me that this women had never lost anyone. If she had, it wouldn't have been a matter for trivia or simply filling spaces in the air.

We got up to leave after the screen went black. The woman and her companion were still seated and she made sure to give Rob a dirty look. Of course he didn't notice. If this woman knew my husband at all she would have saved the effort. Rob pays no attention to strangers because the things they have to say or the "looks" they might throw at him aren't of interest to him. It's one of the the things I love abou him, the fact that he doesn't let random people get to him. I noted her look. I also noted that she was my age but trying to look younger with heavy make-up and dyed blonde hair styled to the point of being wind-resistant. She was jowly and her belly rolled over the waistband of her too tight pants. I don't know what my look said to her. I think I smiled.

Among the widowed there is a small sub-set which treat grief as something you can "self-help" your way out of with a bit of effort. They refer to this as "griefwork" and certainly there is wisdom is the early months and through the first year and a bit to let yourself be sad and mourn all the losses that come with losing a mate, but I reject the idea that the intensity of grief is something that will consume years - two and three and four - at a time until a person can hope to rebuild and reclaim. At some point, in the second year, normality, and the need for this, take over and grieving becomes intermittment and usually triggered by the memories that the randomness of our lives throws at us. But, it's not long-lasting or crippling and not reason to schedule an intervention for yourself. Like last night's movie showed me, again, that I will never look at some things in the same way.