The Poverty Grind

My ver$ion of a grief memoir would include the denial of more than a death, although death, all by its lonesome, is a major player in provoking the unconscious, self-protective, irksomeness of the process of denial.
In my case, Michael’s death was a harbinger of my financial nightmare. The fact that I ignored that for as long as possible, no matter how irksome that fact is, makes me happy.

After I saw that he was dead I went home and suffered for awhile and so on. It wasn’t until I decided to consider following his death with my own that I looked at my life, now that he wasn’t in it any more. (Well, first, as those of you who know me already know, I tagged the as yet unwrapped Christmas gifts so my mourners would know which gift was for whom, and threw all the sex toys down the chute)

At that point I looked at my present situation and concluded that it would take the rest of my life to dig myself out of the mess. If I hurried I could still catch up to Michael. (This turns out to be a very common thought for the bereaved to have.) But there was the cat and Brill’s final semester, which I imagined might be negatively impacted by my death. I called Mary T.

I coasted along on the money I had and the money people gave me until Deluxoid came with me to see a rather soppy social worker and said, “What about my friend?” and after that, Megamensch came along and after that, applications and more worker-types and government money and HALLELUJAH rent-geared-to-income-housing.

All the paperwork and double-speak and signing away my secrecy was overwhelming but the assistance has been much appreciated. It’s unfortunate that I didn’t realize that when my rent went down, my government assistance would dwindle, too. That’s where the denial thing gets irksome.

I moved into my new neighbourhood a year ago. We are two small apartment buildings (total of ab out 14 apartments) squatting amidst half-million-minimum brick homes in a stately part of town. But there is “our” neighbourhood and “their” neighbourhood. Happy, friendly, two-income young families are very friendly on the street but when it comes down to it, they align with the owner of the buildings, not the people who rent from him.

My rent is so low a monkey could cover it but August’s rent wiped me out. I’m the only person in either building with cable TV (and a two-year contract for it.) Oops. I didn’t listen to my friend’s poverty lessons, although I’ve put all her money-saving tips into effect now that money has finally become an issue.
January 1, 2015, a year into my bereavement, I understood. This place may not have been a slum when I moved in (or maybe it was and I just didn’t see it because my apartment is so adorable and we had a beautiful garden!) but it certainly is well on its way, now. I wouldn’t give it more than another year, if the water pipes and the windows hold up. The Lord of the Land has been a slum lord for years and my building, stone though it may be, succumbs.

I’m much more calculating now that I have very little to add up and lots to subtract. There’s no public transportation in this quiet town so getting around is a problem. I no longer take cabs anywhere. The new neighbour who is already moving out is a lonely Newfie so she’ll do anything in exchange for a little mindless conversation. I get rides and then pay her off with a cup of coffee and a (bored) ear to bend.

Basically, I trade my time for favours. I suppose I could say, I barter my time for transportation. Either way if it’s not a new behaviour (and when it comes down to it aren’t we all trading our time for $$ on some level?) it’s now stark.

Poverty is absolutely grinding. The relentless concern, the stealthy manoeuvers, the serious adjustment of the mindset, these things are akin to gears that must keep in motion no matter how loudly they protest. It’s imperative to keep on top of everything because one slide can mean disaster.

Hydroelectricity and water bills are the Achilles’ heel for many, including me. I didn’t see this cost coming my way because I was floating on a sea of relief.

When I fought my landlord for heat and cajoled the hoarder next door to do the same she demurred. “You weren’t born poor so you don’t understand,” she said. She gave me another pair of her hand knit socks and went home to hide under the quilts.

She was my best neighbour, besides the ex-cop who kept an eye on things. They’re both gone, now. She fled and left her neighbours with a mountain of stuff to sift through, which created unending drama for fall of us, especially me, the keeper of the key. As such, I am the prime suspect in the case of the missing Mix Master. I am not amused and I am no longer keeper of the key.

His exit is much quieter, but he is missed. My building is silent but the other one (and even more so, the drug-dealing apartment block that shares its parking lot) get louder by the month. Hot August nights drew the drunks out into the muggy air and there’s a lot of ‘em. They like my lawn.

Neighbours knock on my door every day. One even drops himself, shirtless, into a chair while I’m sitting in my stoop, smoking and talking on the phone. I’m unnerved, frankly, by the assumptions of my fellow renters. Have I joined a commune?

I’m not even particularly nice to them, even when they’ve paid for my time with gas and wheels. I don’t want to explain what I do. It should be enough that I’ve told them: I’m a writer. I often work at night. I teach, too. I shall have to elucidate: Just because I’m home, even if I’m having a smoke in my stoop (I’ve been ordered not to smoke in my apartment, although it isn’t on my lease) doesn’t mean I want company. But they forget. They don’t even necessarily know my name but they don’t mind hanging out in my yard. I’m flummoxed.

The Lord of Slum Shire shows up whenever an apartment is vacated, which is to say, monthly. Presently he’s not-dealing with a steady stream of clean cold water spewing from a faucet into my tub. It’s literally money down the drain but he doesn’t care because he doesn’t know he’ll be partially liable for my water bill when it arrives, two months from now. He forgets that I have “my guys” too, and one of them is a city inspector.

Now I turn off the power bars off when I’m not using them and shower at night. I eat more vegetables and a lot less meat. Every pack of smokes I buy breaks my bank as much as my heart. I can’t afford to smoke. I can’t really afford to have a pet, either. But I do smoke. I do have a cat. Bad Mad. It grinds a girl down.

Deluxoid hung my Mexican mirror and said, “Here’s your lipstick mirror!” We happily freshened our lipstick. When I pointed it out to the carnie and my Grief Gal they both insisted I rename it my “self-affirmation mirror.” I protested. They pressed the point. I mightily protested! “If you want a self-actualization mirror, hang one up. This is my mirror and it’s a lipstick mirror!”
Goddam it I’m not going to be bossed by women again. I’ve no more interest in that than being bossed by men. I followed most of the rules all of my life and look where it’s gotten me.

Nobody gets to tell me what to do. I made this bed and I’m sleeping in it (although my Dad bought me my actual bed.) Get that sharp edge of defiance? That comes from poverty, too. Don’t mess with me. I may not have been born poor but I’m getting the hang of it now.

Is a lipstick mirror an act of defiance? I don’t care. There’s more than one way out of my situation and I’d be a fool not to consider all the angles. I’m a woman, alone, under reduced circumstances. I think war paint is a good idea.

Shoulda, Wanna, Gonna

A few decades ago, a member of Greenpeace appeared at my door, soliciting funds. He told me, “There really is only one issue – the environment.”

Ten days ago, I was at the end of my “morning” ritual: drinking coffee, smoking cigarettes, gobbling pills, crying and admonishing myself to write that letter to the Ontario College of Physicians and Surgeons about the appalling treatment (or lack thereof) that Michael received from a specific doctor, when I came to a decision. “I will not suffer this for one more day.”

So I wrote the letter. I’d made notes on December 24 (!) complete with dates and quotes. I’d imagined those notes needed work but in fact they did not. All I needed to do was write a cover letter, print off a form, have it witnessed and get the package in the mail and I did.

It was a relief, for a few days, but not anymore.

I’m so sad that he died. I’m so angry about the way he died. I want that doctor to be held accountable for what he did, in the Emergency Room on Dec.1 (“You want me to admit him with gas?”) AND when Michael was finally admitted to hospital on Dec. 20 and the same goddam doctor was his attending physician on the floor.

We could have done an anticipated death at home. All you need is a brave patient, a brave primary caregiver and proper pain management. He was brave, I was brave (and experienced at the process) but he didn’t have proper medication because he wasn’t diagnosed on Dec.1. It would’ve taken that doctor five minutes to have a portable ultrasound machine wheeled into the room where Michael lay. I respectfully disagreed with the doctor’s diagnosis but to no avail. So we went home. We lacked the information and assistance we needed to do things right.

This “morning” I went through my usual routine, including the crying. I should have dug my heels in. It would’ve humiliated Michael and probably angered the doctor but I should have done it. We could’ve had a peaceful last Christmas together and I would have that to remember (as I remember my Mother’s peaceful last Thanksgiving.) We could have created something beautiful, together; a small, sweet triumph wrested from the maw of tragedy.

There are so many things I should have done but more to the point, there are so many things I should be doing. These past eleven months I have been stripped of almost everything that defines me. I’m a lousy feminist. I was a lousy wife, for the most part and, if you ask anyone but me, a pretty lousy mother. I wouldn’t have defined myself as arrogant but I’ve been humbled so thoroughly that I must’ve been arrogant. I’m not even middle-class, anymore.

Light another cigarette. Eat a chocolate muffin. Ponder.

I hung my identity on “writing” before I even clearly understood that I was female. I decided to be a writer when I was twelve. But professional writers (especially, I think, genre writers) gotta write and get published. I will have published two short stories this year, but neither of them was written this year. I have two short stories under consideration for publication but of them, only one was written this year. The sum total of my creative writing in 2014 is one new short story.
Wait! What about all my fabulous face book posts. Don’t they count? Well, no, they don’t.

What about how hilarious I am on Twitter? Isn’t that writing? Oh Gawd no. It is not. Here's me playing a hashtag game. I love hashtag games.

#Thingsthatcanimprovethanksgiving The Get Smart "cone of silence."

Well, I’ve heard from a representative of the Ontario College and Physicians. She said she usually lifts sections from a complainant’s letter to forward to the doctor in question but in my case, my letter is so clear and well-written that she’s going to forward the entire letter to him. So I will count that as good writing, although it isn’t creative writing. I just told the truth.

It’s been a tough fucking year but it’s almost over and I’ve taken great strides forward. A lot of the particulars have been dealt with. But December looms large and I know, every “morning,” that I have managed to circumvent grieving in many different ways and, now that I’m all safe and sound in my new little apartment, it’s coming home, too.
I should be writing.

I should be teaching.

But more importantly, and I have been told this repeatedly by my grief peeps, I should be grieving and sleeping.

Never in my life have I gone for so long on so little sleep. I don’t like going to bed because I think about Michael when I go to bed and I don’t want to think about him because it makes me so terribly sad.

I want to: smoke cigarettes and watch TV and hangout on social media.
I don’t want to read, I don’t want to teach, I don’t want to write.

I think what I need to do (as opposed to what I should do) is start taking care of this microcosm of the environment that is me. I need to stop polluting this poor body with cancer-sticks. It makes no sense to fight the good fight, have surgery, have a mammogram, visit my doctor, begin the long process of getting a shrink, and so on and on if I’m going to kill myself with cigs. I needed them but they’ve done their job. Now I have to get rid of them.

I need to shower (even if the water gets cold in five minutes) and I need to eat right (which means I have to cook every day, not just a couple of days a week) and I need to go outside and breathe fresh air. I need to clean up the mess that is me.

I need to stop thinking that I should be a voice of reason on Twitter. Twitter is for laughs and sex (virtual or real.) Twitter is not about making sense or pointing out fallacies in other people’s comments. Of course, it’s not a bad place to get attention and I am starved for the kind of attention I used to get. But that was unsolicited attention and it died with Michael. It is no more likely to come back than he is. I was lucky to have it and now I have the bad luck of learning how to live without it.

I need to stop digging deep into international issues. It occurs to me that I don’t really care about Bill Cosby’s reputation. Or perhaps more to the point, what I think about Bill Cosby is entirely irrelevant to everything. I don’t even really need to write. There’s a plethora of erotica authors out there; the world doesn’t need my stories. If I want the world to have my stories I’d better write them.

In order for me to get anywhere, I’m just going to have to succumb to grief, cry myself to sleep and sleep. That’s the first order of business. I was dreading Dec. 22 but I now realize that Dec.1 is when the horror really began and it’s days away. I can’t escape it; I have to go through it.

When I’m ready to write I’ll write. When I’m ready to consider the issues of the day, I’m going to concentrate on the environment. We’re all in it together but my country is rich in natural resources and our evil Prime Minister is dedicated to destroying those resources. Google Stephen Harper + environmental issues if you’re interested but be forewarned – it’s really ugly. Here's a pic of Harper addressing the United Nations General Assembly in September of this year.

This fucking pipeline of his, the one that has smart people tearing out their hair and going to jail, is all about getting our fossil fuels to the USA. Canada isn’t even going to make any money out of this thing. America gets our natural resources and American companies reap the profits. So – WTF? THIS is an issue that should be of interest to people who want to save the environment EVERYWHERE, not just in Canada.

I’m going to go make myself something to eat and then I’m going to allow grief to take me where it wants me to go. I don’t know how long this is going to take. But it really can’t be more of a waste of time than trying to avoid it is and I have faith in myself. I am a tough prairie broad and I will come out the other side.
I’ll end this thing with some good news:

Good news week! says Greenpeace.

Fantasy Sanatorium

This is where the fragile go for treatment, because in this fantasy land psychological pain is honoured, even if the source of it is common. Death, divorce – even the existential dilemma we call ‘mid-life crisis’ is treated with compassionate care.
The patients’ rooms are large and immaculately clean. The nurses wear traditional nurses’ garb. There are doctors who treat both physical and mental disorders and each one has plenty of time for each patient.
There are lovely drugs, of course. Therapeutic baths. Little walks around the aesthetically pleasing grounds are encouraged but not mandatory. The food is irresistible, delivered three times a day by pleasant people. There is beautiful music.

Everybody is kind. The more the patient suffers, the more delicately she is handled. Sensitivity, in this world, is highly regarded. Those who work in the arts are valued for their dedication, not their popularity. There is art everywhere in this land but in the sanatorium all the art, while of the highest quality, is soothing.

The patient has no workload; it’s all being taken care of. If her home needs to be cleaned it is cleaned. If she has pets they are well-looked after. If she has children they are coddled. There is nothing for her to worry about while she is in the sanatorium.

She sleeps between sheets of fine Egyptian cotton. She sleeps until she isn’t tired anymore. She talks until she doesn’t want to talk anymore. She visits with her friends as often or as infrequently as she wants. Everybody understands. When her children come to visit they bring fresh flowers and chocolate and they are delightful. They shower her with baby kisses, even if they aren’t babies. They love her more for her fragility than they did before. She doesn’t have to be strong for them, they are magically strong and well and sweet.

There are peer-affection-workers; nice men and women who have been where the patients are now. They visit often and their job is to pet and compliment and make love to their patients. No pain; no expectation. If she wants kisses she is kissed. If she wants sex she gets sex. She is not expected to play any role of any type. She accepts what she wants when she wants it. There are no complications or consequences, except she feels better. The human touch.

Because she has been diagnosed as sad, all her external problems are taken care of in her absence. If she needs a bed, there will be a bed in her home when she is discharged. And so on.

Really, this is a place dedicated to loving and accepting those who have become, through sadness, pitiful and irritating. They don’t ever have to leave but because they get better they want to leave and so they do. Some return as peer-affection-workers or volunteer flower-arrangers. Some donate their paintings or their music or their art, some donate their time, or money. Some donate nothing. It’s okay not to give back. By getting well, the patient has already given back.

Oh! That’s right! In this magical sanatorium, everyone always gets well.