Friday, May 25, 2012

Dear Mr. President

Dear Mr. President:

It is a gorgeous day here in the Netherlands where I live.  Absolutely clear blue sky, moderate temperature, nice breeze.  That doesn't actually happen too very often here, so I am glorying in it while I can.  I hope that you, too, have time to simply relish the beauty of a nice day sometimes.

Which brings me to my point: I have a suggestion for you which, although quite a small change, could, I think, make a big difference in various policies around the nation and certainly in perception.  My hope is that it could also prompt a huge change in practice.

My suggestion is simply this: hang out your laundry to line-dry.


Now, I know at first glance this might seem to be a trivial, even silly suggestion.  But I assure it is not meant to be at all.

Although I am sure we could find several issues to disagree on, we have quite a bit in common as well.  For one thing, we are both parents of two girls.  For another, we both own dogs.  We both have amazing spouses.  We both have a faith background which teaches us that God's good creation is to be lovingly stewarded.  Different people, of course, have different ideas on exactly how that stewardship should be carried out, but I am hoping that we can quickly agree on at least one basic principle: conserving energy (particularly by cutting down on electricity and gas usage) is a good thing.

Hanging out the laundry on a line to dry is an excellent means of doing just that, in addition to utilizing solar power, sanitizing one's clothes and linens (the sun's UV rays kill bacteria), saving money, and encouraging better sleep.  It honors tradition, makes practical use of materials at hand, and serves as an equalizer.  What could be more American?

I am sure you are aware of the several "planned communities" across the country -- several of them within a 25-mile radius of where you currently live.  Many, if not the vast majority, do not allow line-drying of laundry; it is "unsightly" which is just a slightly more polite way of saying "tacky".  I used to be a homeowner in one (Reston, VA) and used to follow all the rules about paint colors and light fixtures.  I obsessed about mulch and edge trimming and decried gutters which needed cleaning.

But then I moved and while I have continued to care for the various properties I have lived in, I am no longer a perfectionist about my landscaping.  Parts of my back yard are helpfully landscaped for me by my dog. Other parts boast incredible peonies, iris, strawberries, beans, honeysuckle, raspberries, and herbs.  And I hang out my laundry.  I am friendly with my neighbors, keep track of my children's homework, volunteer in the community, and laugh a lot.  I have discovered that there is a lot more to life -- a whole lot more -- than meeting some preset standard of beauty for my home and yard, especially when that standard is unhelpfully contributing to the destruction of other beautiful things.  While I might not be as posh as some may like, I certainly don't think my life can be described as "tacky" and surely the sight of clean laundry blowing in the breeze cannot be so incredibly horrible as to justify the amount of energy use and noxious emissions caused by electric/gas dryers.

It's just a little thing, line-drying laundry.  But it could make a difference, and a pretty big one, if it really gets people thinking about things like quality of life, stewardship, and dependency on fossil fuels.  So I encourage you to hang out the White House's laundry to dry.  To set an example of easy, do-able creation stewardship; to show people that concerns about "tacky" laundry lines are needless.  To set an example the same way your wife has done with her garden.

Perhaps hanging out the Presidential skivvies is not in the best interests of the dignity of the office of President (although there are ways to cleverly hang unmentionables on the inner lines with larger items on outer lines, hiding said unmentionables), but surely linens could be hung out quite easily?

And Mr. President, I assure you that there is no other luxury quite like that of falling into soft, breeze-freshened, sun-dried sheets at the end of a particularly stressful day -- of which I presume you have a few.

Respectfully,
Feisty

Saturday, May 19, 2012

The Things Come to Town

If you haven't ever checked out Ironic Mom, you really should go do that now.  It's one of my daily regulars, a site that helps keep me sane by assuring me that I'm not the only one living La Vida Loca.  (Try starting with two of my favourite posts: the one about stripper Barbie and the one about being sexy.)  Recently Ironic Mom's little Things (the alter egos of her twins, William/Thing 1 & Vivian/Thing 2) stopped by as part of their whirlwind world tour, and we treated them to some typical aspects of life here in the Netherlands.  Hopefully we didn't traumatize them too much, but I wouldn't bet on it...


The Things arrived the evening before my scheduled stoma reversal, so they were tucked into bed early to rest up for the big op the next day.  Next morning they accompanied me to the hospital and were ushered into the spacious 4-bed room I would be sharing with various and sundry noises and smells people. They were thrilled with the view out the window, especially catching a glimpse of Fort SintPieter, which I assured them we could visit after the ordeal was over.


We then unpacked, loading up the bedside table with post-op essentials such as lip balm, tissues, good books, and trashy magazines.  The Things happily settled into the bed, much agog with my stories of tea served in real china, staff people who tend the gift bouquets brought in, and proper duvets to sleep under.


They were less than thrilled, however, when the nurse came with the gown to change into as they realized that my warning "if the Dutch are comfortable with nudity in the situation they think you are as well" was all too true.  They quickly devised a scheme to retain their modesty:


The amount of laughter and ribald comments which greeted them soon changed their minds.  They decided "when in the Netherlands, do as the Dutch" was a good policy, combined with a bit of "see no evil":


After this happy compromise we settled down to wait.  And wait.  And wait.  When the transport came to take me down, they blew kisses and wished me well, looking forward to some uninterrupted channel surfing.  When I was brought back up not too much later in a considerably foul mood they were irritated along with me that the op had been bumped.  We threw our stuff into our bag, went home, and drowned our sorrows in chocolate.


Next day we headed over to the dog park at Sint Pieter's.  The Things were a bit worried by the chill wind and the signs of rain in the sky and asked to stay in the car.  We had to be very strict and Dutch with them, saying, "Jullie zijn niet van zuiker gemaakt!"  (You are not made of sugar!)


At first they hitched a ride along with Boo.


But after a bit, seeing how much fun everyone was having running around, they chose to ride along with Bubba.


They had a grand old time, and got to see Fort SintPieter (relatively modern at 1701) up close and personal along with Boo, Bubba, and F.


Our next big outing was to Efteling, the Dutch amusement park which inspired Disney Land.  The Things happily trucked along with Boo and Little Toot, oohing and ahhing at all the rides.


We hoped a fast ride on the wooden roller coaster Joris en de Draak ("Joris and the Dragon") would fluff out their hair but, alas and alack, it didn't.  It was a lot of fun anyway!


They greatly enjoyed wandering the beautifully landscaped grounds; what could be more Dutch than tulips and windmills?


All the walking and screaming on rides gave the Things quite an appetite, so we stopped off for a snack of fritjes (french fries) before leaving.


Thing 2 preferred the curry ketchup, but Thing 1 was partial to the mayonaise (pronounced mah-o-naze-uh).

A few days later was Queen's Day, a nationwide party in honor of Queen Beatrix.  The Things jumped right into the spirit, cross-dressing up (always guaranteeing a laugh in the Netherlands) in orange for the big party in downtown Maastricht.





Like all good Dutch citizens, we bicycled downtown.






We joined right into the throngs of people laughing, dancing, selling things, performing, chatting.  The Things' favourite was the drum band.


We were also able to share the spectacular view of the Maas, with stunning new pedestrian bridge and the older drawbridge in the background:


The Helpoort ("Hell Gate", 13th century), the oldest city gate in the Netherlands, was a big hit as well:



All this Dutch-ness was fun, but a bit overwhelming.  The Things began to feel homesick, so that evening we gave them our latest copy of Our Canada to read and played some Tragically Hip for them to listen to:


The next adventure was my operation, which miraculously took place as scheduled this time around.  The Things were very comforting in their post-op sympathy, joining me with bandages, tea, and warm compresses:


On their last full day with us the weather was gorgeous so we decided to go on a nice country wandeling (walk).  We went to the top of one of the local plateaus (this is the southern Netherlands!) to check out the wildflowers in bloom.






The Things recognized Queen Anne's Lace from back in Canada right away and had a little frolic in the Forget-Me-Nots as well:


Check out that amazing blue!  (Oh, and the flowers are also pretty...)  Next was hunting up native wild orchids which grow here in Limburg.  The Things were thrilled to find two varieties, a pale lilac orchid:


and a brighter fushia-purple one:


We admired the views from top of the plateau together, with the city of Maastricht in the distance:


Then it was time to head home, for our last meal together.  We made it a celebration and served up a traditional Dutch springtime supper: white asparagus and boiled potatoes with a creamy butter sauce, ham, boiled eggs, and applesauce.  The Things loved the "Dutch White Supper" as Boo & Little Toot call it.


All in all, it was a fun visit and a very pleasant distraction for me through the process of this last surgery.

The Things are now off on their next adventure, but you can continue to follow them along via the Ironic Mom website.  Het was een leuk tijd, Thing 1 en Thing 2; hartelijk bedankt en tot ziens!

Thursday, May 17, 2012

Little Things

Yesterday was my two-week post-op appointment.  I drove because I'm not capable of biking too far yet.  Unfortunately, the parking garage was shut down due to to construction and I landed in the midst of a huge snarl of cars, delivery vehicles, bikes, workers, and out-lying overflow parking.  The frustration began to rise; I was going to be late.  I hate being late.  "Calm down," I told myself.  "The staff knows this is going on, they won't hold it against you."

I wove my way through the overflow parking, dodged past the smokers gathered in the no smoking area immediately outside the hospital doors, and trucked it through the hallways as quickly as I could.  The receptionist at the poli chirurgie (surgery desk) greeted me with a large smile and a commiseration about the parking situation.  My breathing began to normalize and I gave myself a mini-lecture along the lines of "you really need to calm down about little things like parking delays and be happy that you're doing well and this appointment will lift restrictions and you can move on with life".  The receptionist looked up, frowning, and informed me that someone had called and cancelled my appointment.

Me at Christmastime after my sixth surgery, trying to smile for the girls
and be happy so they wouldn't worry about how poorly I was doing.
Obviously, I didn't quite pull it off.

That was all it took; the shaking started.  I countered that I certainly hadn't called and cancelled the appointment, the receptionist insisted that I must have, I asserted that NO, I certainly had NOT and YES I needed to be seen TODAY and not in another two weeks at my four-week post-op appointment (which mysteriously was still on the books).  We went back and forth for a few minutes, both insistent, and then she sighed and told me to have a seat and she'd ask a doctor what he/she thought should be done.

Collapsing in the nearest chair, I leaned forward so the tears which had begun to stream down my face would be less noticeable.   Too late.  After I wiped my eyes with a tissue, commanding myself to breathe slowly, I looked up to find several people gawping at me.  One woman had an expression of muted horror on her face; only one man, an elderly gentleman, gave me a small smile of sympathy.

Welcome to the world of PTSD.  It was months after my first surgery (the one which saved my life and then almost killed me again) before I could enter the hospital back in Kingston without suffering a full-blown panic attack; years before I could enter without having to do deep-breathing exercises.  Such a little thing, a clerical mistake with an appointment, but because it is linked to such big, complicated things -- illness, fear, pain, death -- it opens the door to a terror which is, much of the time, hidden deep within me.

In the afternoon -- having been seen by a sympathetic surgeon who proclaimed me doing well and lifted the post-op restrictions -- I took Bubba to the dog park.  The sky was blue with great, blustery clouds tossing across and there was a brisk wind up on the hill; it was glorious to walk around, pet the dogs, gaze at the flowers and the city in the background.  Bubba bounded off through the long grasses; half the time all I could see was his tail bouncing along.  The wind blew harder, whistling in my ears, and a black streak rushed past me, then turned and came back for a pat and a snoepje (dog treat).

Bubba

We rounded the far side of the hill and came out on the top of the plateau.  A pack of dogs was happily rolling around and Bubba raced off to join them.  The pack took off: running, jumping, rolling, wrestling, running again; it was a great mess of quivering canine happiness at being out in the sun, playing.  I broke out into loud laughter at the delight of it all.

Such a little thing, a bunch of dogs playing, but because it is linked to nothing complicated or hard -- because it is such a little, simple, wonderful thing -- it took my breath away with the sheer joy of it.

The other dog owners nearby turned to look at me, every single one of them smiling, and then we all stood and watched our dogs and laughed, long and hard, until the tears came to our eyes.

What little thing brings you joy no matter what else is going on?

Tuesday, May 15, 2012

Peculiar Intimacy

A few days ago I stood naked in a shower with a man I had met only 10 minutes before showing me how to properly use the sprayer to massage my abdominal region.  With his face inches from my belly button, he guided my hand in the appropriate circular motion and commented, "Feels very nice, doesn't it?"  Then he winked and gave me a big grin.  I could do nothing but agree; it did, indeed, feel very nice.

My husband was relieved when he heard about the encounter because it meant he wouldn't have to do it himself.


The man helping me, you see, was a nurse and the reason I needed help with the shower sprayer was to learn how to properly wash out my new surgical site, which was left open to heal rather than being stitched completely closed.  Rather like a drawstring bag pulled almost, but not quite, shut.  While the shower itself felt great, btw, weird doesn't begin to describe the physical sensation of hot water being sprayed into an open surgical wound onto a patch of one's small intestine.  It's like the sharpest pinprick and the softest touch you've ever experienced, happening simultaneously.

This being my ninth surgery in eight years it wasn't my first surgical wound or my first "this-should-be-really-uncomfortable-but-it's-not" moment.  A few weeks before, a very kind nurse knelt by my bed, leaned over my belly and gently blew excess powder away from my stoma -- the bit of small intestine cut open and sticking out through my abdominal wall to allow poop to be gathered in a bag rather than exiting in the typical mode.  Her mouth was mere centimeters from a poop volcano known to erupt violently at random moments, but her eyes showed only concern.  Her breath was cool, and soft.  I let out a sigh of relief and felt pain and fear recede.  It felt wonderful.  I wiggled my toes and stretched a little, delighting in that brief moment of release and freedom from ulcerated skin, adhesives, and plastic ostomy bags.

The Dutch have a great word for this pleasant sensual feeling: lekker.  Lekker can be translated as "yummy" and it is used to describe a variety of sensations.  It is not sexual in nature, although sex can be described as lekker.  So can a shower (lekker douchen) or a cup of coffee (lekker koffie) or the weather (lekker weer).  It's the best word I can think of to describe that first hot shower on a battered body two days after surgery, that comforting touch at a site of pain that lets one know it will all be okay in a bit.

Peculiar is the other word that comes to mind, because normally I don't allow strangers to see me naked or get close to orifices that may leak poop, let alone touch me in an exceedingly intimate manner.  I used to be really uptight about things like that; used to insist on curtains being closed in exam rooms and gowns being provided for medical tests.  I used to blush and bite my lip until it bled when medical students gathered around my bed, commanded me to pull my knees up to my chin, and poked around in my nether regions.  Not any more.  It's all too matter-of-course these days.  Now I just follow directions, close my eyes, think of England (!!!), and get on with business.

Except when one of those unexpected lekker moments happen; those I try to capture, to remember when I need something positive to think about.

Before I experienced major surgery I had spoken with people who described what it was like to be stretched out on the table, naked and cold and afraid.  One man told me that he remembered that Jesus had been like that on the cross, and it reminded him that he was not alone; it gave him some comfort.

I desperately tried to feel that myself the first time I was placed on that cold metal, but even though I pictured the crucifixion vividly in my mind, willing myself to believe that I was not alone in that awful place and position, all I felt was cold and terrified.  Then the anesthesiologist announced it was time to place the epidural.  Powerful hands gripped me, pulled me up, and turned me to the right while a calm voice explained how I needed to curve my back and place my head while the doctors worked.  I began to panic, a scream started to rise out of my stomach, and then strong arms enveloped me and held me close to a warm, clean-smelling, solid body.  The nurse held me like that for the entire procedure, softly telling me to breathe, breathe, in-out, in-out.  The panic left and I felt like a baby in someone's arms.

It was lekker.

Have you ever had an unexpected moment of lekker-ness in a peculiar place?