Remember Me ...

It's freezing outside, but we're toasty warm here inside.

You in your big blue lazy-boy chair, me sitting on your bed, basking in the sunlight pouring through the hospice window.  Sochi and the Olympics playing out mute on TV.  

We're silently enjoying the cherries I brought you earlier this morning.  Just you and me. It's a nice, quiet moment, father and daughter.  Normal.

"Have some more" you say.  "I bought them to share; what's mine is yours."  You smile and wink.  It's almost as if you're joking.  But you're not.  You actually believe you brought the cherries.

You look up at me suddenly.  "Who's your dad?" you ask.

I shyly point to you.  "YOU, Daddy, YOU'RE my dad!" I make a silly face.

Trying to make light of a very awkward moment.  Awkward for you, awkward for me.

We both make a twisty silly face, pretending you hadn't actually forgotten.  

After all, I tell myself, yesterday you told me that no one says "Papa" quite the way I do.  Obviously you still know I'm your 43-year-old baby girl. 

You nod your head in acknowledgement.  But there's confusion and fear in your eyes now.  You know you should know but you don't. 

It's another first.  A first in reverse.  A fucking kick-in-the-nuts Alzheimer's moment.  

The first time you're not one hundred percent sure who I am.

I'm thankful, though, because at least my face, my touch, my smell still bring you comfort. 

But for how long?  

Who needs the comfort right now?  Who needs to remember right now?  You or me?

As the memories slip away, I wonder does it hurt you more to fight to keep them or to just give them up?

I look at you and every single bit of you is etched in the wrinkles on your face and in the twinkle in your eye that refuses to fade.  On the outside, on the surface, everything is as it always was.  Well, other than the shakiness in your legs when you stand, the hollow in your cheeks, the protruding shoulder blades upon which muscle and fat used to lay solid.  Other than the fucking tumor that is crushing your lungs and making it harder and harder to breathe.  And the fact that yesterday I heard you say no one could ever imagine feeling this bad.

It hurts my heart.

And I fight back the tears.  "Big, fat crocodile tears" you used to call them.

Because I'm a big girl now.

43 years old.

Nobody's baby girl anymore.

And I replay the confusion and the fear in your eyes over and over again in my mind.

And know there's not a fucking thing I can do to help you.  Nothing but fail you over and over again, every day the same, every day a little bit worse.

And sit here silently for a few more days, eating cherries, holding your hand, singing bits and pieces of old Hank Snow tunes with you, basking in the sun, and watching you fade into the darkness.

And in seven days, I'll say goodbye.  I know it will be the last goodbye.  I know I'll remember it forever.  I pray you'll forget it as soon as I'm gone.  

Yet I pray you'll remember me.

It hurts my soul.

And the floodgates open.

 Moby - Why Does My Heart Feel So Bad

Come Camp With Me

Well, this Canadian lover of all things weather got treated to a few majestic meteorological events these last few weeks!

First, a water spout on the northern coast of Qatar, in Ras Laffan.

Water spout in Ras Laffan

Then some thunderstorms that literally shook the city and paralyzed traffic. I didn't get pictures of the storm, but these were the remnants yesterday morning on the drive to school.

Rare sight in Doha

This would of course be the rainy week Smilin' Vic would decide we're going to start camping!

Not your everyday drive to school ...

He's bought a second-hand tent of Saudi origin, apparently manufactured by the most renowned of Saudi Arabian tent manufacturers.

The "TENT"

He is smitten by this tent, insisting that we MUST take it out for a night of desert camping SOON.  He's told me that this amazing canvas abode is of military quality, no small praise from a former military man.

I'm a little wary of the whole desert camping thing.  The last time we attempted it was about five years ago.  We left Kiddo behind with friends.  Thank goodness, because it was a challenging adventure to say the least.

We'd gone along on a sand duning adventure with some friends, making it to the inland sea to catch a glimpse of Saudi before retiring for the afternoon/evening at an idyllic-looking camp site set up with a half-dozen Arabian tents, a metallic shed cum toilet/shower room, and a volleyball net erected above a sandy court.

A meal was spread out in the main air-conditioned tent, and we feasted on bbq'd meats and Mediterranean salads right there on the beach under the light of the moon and stars.

It was wonderful.  

Until the sun went down and I had to pee.  

As I got up from my lounge chair on the beach, I took in the beauty of the moon reflecting a million tiny lights across the stretch of sand.  The sight took my breath away, particularly when I realized that the beautiful little diamond-like reflections surrounding us were in fact small jelly fish.

As I cautiously lowered my foot from the lounger, a bevy of teeny tiny little mice scattered ... we'd never noticed them congregating under the warmth of our chairs to catch the little bits of Doritos that didn't quite make it past our lips.

I hopscotched my way to the toilet eventually, trying to avoid the food tent which was now teeming with mice desperate to claim every last morsel of the meal that had been prepared for us but never cleared away.  

I don't think I slept that night; every time I came close to drifting off, the back of my eyes would be filled with an image of me rolling off the chair and plopping onto a hoard of toxic jelly fish before being carted off by the army of mice intent on chewing every last speck of Dorito from my tangled hair.

The sun rose at about 5:00 the next morning.  As I lay there parched and hot, grumpy and sweaty, I raved drunkenly about the amazing bed and shower that awaited me back home.

All the tour guides had been through to take their shower by the time I made it to the aluminum port-a-bathroom.  The tin shed was by now akin to a sweat box, and I couldn't fathom taking a hot shower in that humid, putrid little space.

Smilin' Vic, ever the soldier, went in with his bar of soap and towel, sloshing into that little steam vat fully prepared to shower like a real man.  He turned on the tinkling shower head, and proceeded to sling his towel over the wire strung from one end of the tiny shed to the other.  It might have served him well to realize beforehand that it was the very same wire attached to the barely glowing light bulb hidden in the corner over the toilet.  But he realized it soon enough, and duly electrocuted, made a quick exit and declared it was time to head home.

That curbed our appetite for desert camping for a few years; I thought for ever.  But Smilin' Vic has different plans now, and is intent on organizing a truly serious camping adventure.

I'm already picturing the military approach that will be taken to this endeavor.  All I have to do is flash back to last weekend's beach trip.  Coolers packed, shelter in the back of the SUV, water jug ready, singing songs and halfway to the beach, Smilin' Vic asks if everyone is ok.  "Yes" reply Kiddo and I.  "Did everyone pee?"  he asks.  "Yes", we chime in.  "Poo?", he probes.  Kiddo and I are silent.  He says, I kid you not: "Well, I'm stopping at the next gas station, and whoever hasn't poo'd is going to go then."

Kiddo starts laughing in the back seat.  "We can't just POOOOO; I know you're joking Papa."

Smilin' Vic is unfortunately not joking.  "This is serious, if someone gets to the beach and has to go, there's nowhere to go.  And if you don't poo in this heat, you can get sick."

I roll my eyes.  "Seriously?  You ARE joking, right?"

Smilin' Vic is adamant.  "We used to have to do poo patrol out in the field. Guys would get sick.  They wouldn't go for weeks.  You wouldn't believe how ugly things can get when you've got a whole bunch of backed-up soldiers."

I am silent.  I adopt my dejected "no argument is going to best him" stance.  "Smilin' Vic, I know you find this hard to believe, but pooing on command is very uncivilian.  The general public just isn't brought up that way.  But, please, if it makes you feel better, stop at the next gas station and we'll do our best.  And we can pick up a chocolate bar while we're at it."

We never did stop at the gas station, ended up having a wonderful day at the beach, and I'm sure the camping will be just as fun.  Once poo patrol has been ascertained, throat swabs completed, and hydration check carried out.  

Oh, and provided the mice, jelly fish and water spouts remain at bay.

Great day at the beach.

Sometimes "In My Heart" Just Isn't Enough for Me, Maman ...

Goodbyes are inevitable.  

In the ME, in North America, in Europe.  

Goodbyes are a certainty.   

Everyone, at some point, will say their goodbye.  Whether it's casual or final is up to the stars to decide.

No one escapes a goodbye. 

But in the ME ....

"Well, ......"

Even the most casual of goodbyes becomes an event of tragic proportions, particularly as seen through the eyes of an 8-year-old.  

A spoken "goodbye" denotes a potential permanent detachment in even the most  trivial of situations.   

This is because we are living as expatriates in a land where we have no roots.  We do have friends, we have amazing friends ... and we will carry them in our hearts just as we have carried our family HERE in our hearts.

But we have no roots ...  

And our goodbyes are too often final ...

• Your nanny when you were 3?
• She moved back to the Philippines when you were 4.
• Your best friend in Grade 2?
• She never showed up for Grade 3 ... her family moved to America.
• Your favorite teacher?
• She had to move back to Canada mid-year to care for her ailing father.

You may or may not hear from them occasionally after they leave ... it all depends on how solid the relationship was.  

But the fact is your heart will ache.  

And as a child, that ache is all encompassing.  

You are left with your immediate family:  Mom, Dad, and siblings if you're lucky. 

No Uncles and Aunts to confide in, no cousins to depend on, no Grandmother or Grandfather to turn to. 

It's just you ... and Maman and Papa. 

So an old family friend comes to visit for a couple of weeks.  And you have a blast.  And you get spoiled.  And you are so excited to finally tell all your friends and all your teachers that you have someone from 'back home' here to visit you. 

And then after two weeks he says: 

"Goodbye ... "

And you cry.  And I tell you not to worry about it. 

"Just keep him in your heart, where you keep Pepere, and Grandmaman, and everyone else who you love but is far away."  

And you look at me, with your true blue eyes, and say "But Maman, sometimes 'in my heart' just isn't enough for me." 

And I sigh, nod in agreement, and cry just a little inside. 

Thanks for coming to visit, Uncle Shaun, and "aurevoir", "until we meet again".  We will carry you in our hearts, but we really don't want to say "goodbye". 

Safe travels.   

"Aurevoir, ce n'est pas tout-'a-fait Adieu ..." 

Uploaded by Eva Necka on 2011-08-20.

A Poem About Moving to the ME ... Or Something Like It ...

Tick

Tock

WTF? 

Life is just a ticking clock. 

I went racing 

To find gold

And on the way

I damn got old!

I chanced my luck

I made a buck

Along the way

I damn got f*cked!

I made a dime

I paid my time

But this is not

A nursery rhyme.

The dues

I paid

The bucks

I made

Have not an easy

Rich way paved.

It may still all

Just turn out fine

And hallelujah

Still be mine.

But just in case

It turns out wrong

I state my case

And pray it's strong. 

I did it all  

Just for my girl

I did it all

'cos she's my world.

I risked it all

I took a chance

Stripped to nothing

Did the dance.

It's all for her

Without a doubt

I might lose all

Or might

Luck out. 

But in the end

Win or lose

The choice I chose

Was mine

To choose. 

Giving Thanks as a Canadian in the ME ...

I'd actually forgotten it was Canadian Thanksgiving.  Forgotten to say thank you.  Forgotten to appreciate.  That happens sometimes, when you're far away, thinking about yourself, about your reality.  When your view of the world, your perception, becomes your reality. And you forget about the rest.

But I've remembered now (thank goodness we had a Canadian friend visiting to remind us)!  And I'm thankful for that friend.  Thankful for him being here, thankful for him reminding us. 

We didn't have a turkey dinner.  We had pork ribs and potatoes in front of TV watching Home Alone with Kiddo.  I'm thankful for pork in Qatar .... I'm thankful for Kiddo.  I'm thankful for family.  I'm thankful for movie night. 

I called my two sisters.  I reached one on Skype.  I'm thankful for Skype.

I called my best friend in Canada.  She wasn't home.  But I discovered video messaging on Skype and left her a message.  I'm thankful for video messaging on Skype.

I just kissed Smilin' Vic good night.  He's been working about twenty days straight.  I am so thankful for Smilin' Vic. 

I called my Dad.  He has a bad cold, but he's ok, and he remembered me.  I'm thankful for that.

I found a kick-@$$ pair of heels on sale today.  Thankful for anything strappy that adds inches to my legs!

There's no traffic right now in Doha because it's Eid, so roads are empty.  Soooo thankful!!!!

I got time today to catch up on my favorite blogs ... You know who you are!  So thankful for my blogging buddies who keep me entertained.

Watched my kitty cat snuggle with anyone who was willing today.  Thankful we decided to be irresponsible and get a pet in the ME!

I'm thankful for health, happiness, good jobs, good school, good friends, good laughs, good times ...

Sat down and started to blog ....

Thankful.

Just thankful in the ME.