Heightened Fear

My legs tremble as I hear an exasperated sigh from my sister holding the ladder beneath me. My hands quiver as I make an attempt to reach above and pull myself onto the fourth step.

“Just GO UP the god damned ladder, Rebecca!” screams my sister. “It’s freezing out and you’ve been on the third step for ten minutes.”

“SHUT UP! I’m freaking out, okay?! Just let me get my bearings here,” I say back.

I feel every muscle engage in my body as I pull my weight up onto the fourth step. My heart beats faster as I hug the one thing that is keeping my body from flailing to the ground. The steel cools my warm face as I try to catch my breath between heart palpitations.

“I will freakin’ catch you if you fall, okay!?” My sister urges.

“More like I will break your face when I squash you,” I reply.

Every inch of my skin starts to tingle and crawl with uncertainty. I reach above one more time to crawl onto the fifth step, but I can’t do it. Tears well up in my eyes as I place my left foot back down and I begin to get frustrated with myself.

“Why can’t I do this?” I mutter to myself.

“WHAT?” my sister screams back.

“I’m NOT talking to you,” I yell.

My sister’s impatience agitates me. I’m in a frenzy. I feel stuck. My body is in lock down. My joints feel seized as if I’m the TinMan from the Wizard of Oz. I can’t move a muscle.

“I can’t do this,” I say. “I’m coming down – move.”

“As if,” replies my sister. “Get up on that roof or I’m going to chase you up the ladder.”

As she goes to put her foot on the first step, I realize she’s serious and is not about to let me get off. With a deep breath, I pull myself onto the fifth step with only two more to go. My whole body is tense.

“One more step, and you’re up,” says my sister.

“I KNOW,” I say. “Stop effing talking to me and let me do this!!”

I close my eyes and breathe deeply. I quickly take the last step and finally pull myself up onto the snow-covered roof. On all fours, I slide my body up into the middle of the roof and take a glance at the picturesque river that runs just below my home in Prince Edward Island.  Shivers run down my spine as I gaze below. The scenic view looks as if Claude Monet painted it himself.

My sister makes her way up the ladder flawlessly to join me.

“Look at the view,” I say.

“I know,” she replies. “I told you it’s beautiful from here.”

“We should come up here more often,” I say. “I mean, getting up the ladder wasn’t THAT bad. It just takes me a couple of minutes…”

My sister looks at me with a smirk and then looks away to the river.

Wednesday evening with Judith E. Mack

Her silver bob falls perfectly in place as she shakes her head urging the cashier to keep the change. Every Wednesday Judith stops in at Zaney’s Knitting, a hole in the wall off of New York’s busy Broadway Street, to purchase discounted yarn.

“Thanks Judy,” said the sales clerk. She hated when people called her Judy. She assumed people associated it with unintelligent, overweight kindergarten teachers. But, she had been coming to Zaney’s Kintting for twelve years and Claire, the sales clerk, has always called her Judy.

“Have a good night Claire,” as she smiled while pressing her ruby lips together.

Evelyn was her first name, until she formally switched her first and middle name, Judith.  She had always hated the name Evelyn, but, it was her mother’s name – so she felt bad getting rid of it entirely.  Her husband Stan had never quite understood her why she wanted to change her name so badly.

“Large tea with skim milk?” says the bistro service attendant. “Huh? Oh, yes,” smiles Judith as her piercing blue eyes come back to life. She always tends to space out when thinking of Stan.  Judith fishes for her wallet in her medium sized Coach bag pushing aside newly purchased Tic Tacs and Werthers candy, staple items in her purse.

As she presses on the heavy glass door to leave the bistro a gust of wind pushes her petite 5’4” frame onto the busy street on New York City. Her Chanel pantsuit flaps around her legs as she makes her way to her parked Lexus.

As she enters her elegant two bedroom flat she is greeted by photos of her three beautiful grandchildren who have all moved away to Israel, Brussels and Atlanta; and a bittersweet surge of pain ignites in her heart. You see, Judith has long harbored a fear of planes, and all the psychologists and Valium in the universe can’t fix it. Her grandchildren grow so much between each visit that it is like getting to know a new person all over again.

She hangs her keys upon the key rack and locks the door behind her. As she flicks the light on, the room becomes alive. The walls are ivory white with large colorful contemporary paintings covering them. Everything has its place in Judith’s home. Her tabletops and floors are spotless. Fashion and baking magazines are piled neatly beside her faded peach orange couch in her livingroom.

 As she makes her way to her room she stops and admires the armoire Stan had built her almost twenty years ago. Although he was a businessman he had always had a talent for carpentry. He built it in his friend’s garage, as an anniversary gift for her. She remembers the day he surprised her with it. With tears in her eyes she thinks about him whispering in her ear “I love you, you’re my soul mate.”

And then one day, Stan was gone. A quick peck as she sat at the breakfast table with toast crumbs still on her lip. He had a sudden heart attack during his commute to work. Judith received a phone call telling her to come to the hospital immediately only to arrive and hear the unbearable news.

Stan had taken care of the details as always, so she had no reason to worry about the bills. But financial security just wasn’t enough. Judith was alone. Really and truly on her own. She cried as she lay in bed, sleeping or with magazines piled all around her. And, then one day, a month after the funeral, she got up, put on her lipstick and pearls and made her way to the bakery on 6^th and 18^th.

Judith has been working at Suzies bakery part-time for seven years on Wednesday and Saturday afternoons, not for money, but merely for something to occupy her time. The people there have become like a second family for her. She smiles to herself as she thinks about them.

Out of the corner of her eye Judith sees a blinking red light indicating she has a message. “Hi Mom, it’s just me, Alyssa. I just wanted to get in touch with you about possibly coming to Atlanta for Thanksgiving this year. Let me know what you think. Love you.”

The Train

The bitter cold stings my lungs as I pound my feet onto the concrete bridge and zig zag through the crowd of commuters. I can see the light in the distance of the dark Calgary morning sky. Thousands of pounds of metal are barrelling down the tracks, and it certainly has no intentions of waiting for me. I fling the heavy metal door open, fly through the station and down the escalator, pushing my way past the daily travelers. I feel like a soldier, running for my life, in the war against time. Finally, I arrive at the designated slab of concrete.

Here I am. Just like I am every morning. The doors open and the cows start herding into the small compact cattle truck. The repugnant stench of wet clothes and garbage immediately fill my nostrils. The same horde of half-awake, half-dead creatures in ties and skirts fill into the cable car, stealing seats as if they were the last loaf of bread during the apocalypse. The same elbows jab me in the side as their owners flip through a ‘Metro’ paper.

The space is too small for all of these people. As we continue to make stops, I visualize the cab expanding at the sides – growing and growing as if it's had too much turkey dinner. Another passenger squeezes in beside me and I choke as their strong cologne creeps in around my nostrils, down my windpipe, and lingers on my tongue. My eyes water as I work hard to keep my cough in.

The connected cars move in a snake-like manner down the foothills. I catch a glimpse of the city skyscrapers illuminating the dim sky. A surge of electric pain ignites in my left foot, as a woman wearing six-inch heels looks at me sympathetically mouthing the words “I’m so sorry.”

The doors open and I can feel the cold air place its hands on my cheeks. I feel resistance as I try to push past the travelers through the doors. At last, I stumble onto the platform, overwhelmed by all of the space now around me.

Rollin' on out

“Ok! It’s time to play the rolling game!” yells Dad from the living room floor.

“Eee the rolly game!” my platinum blond Barbie doll sister squeals. 

The rolling game consisted of my 230 lb father lying on the living room floor pretending to be passed out. My sister and I would then be tasked with the duty of moving his body from the living room, past the dining room, through the kitchen and finally to the door.

Too much to ask of a seven year old and her four year old sister? Probably.

The rolling game had its pros and cons. Pro: It was fun. During the time in your childhood where you interpreted every adult body as your own personal jungle gym to climb onto, swing off of, kick and torture, it was epic.

Con: It was difficult, and weird. I mean, none of my other friends had ever heard of the rolling game?

Me: “Ok, I forget what to do first. Daddy, what do we do first?”

Dad (eyes closed): “Shhh, I’m not supposed to talk in the rolling game – you know that.”

Me: “Urgh. Ok, Lys take Daddy’s arms and I’ll take his legs.” (This ties back to “I’m the oldest, so what I say goes” disease).

After several minutes of pulling and tugging my sister and I realize that it’s called “the rolling game” for a reason – that we needed to roll him out of the room instead of simply tugging on his ligaments.

So that’s what we did. Leg over, arm under, roll, leg over, arm under, roll, leg over, arm under and roll. We conducted the same repetitious movements, over and over, until either we reached the door or we were too exhausted to go any further. But, when we did reach the door a great sense of pride and accomplishment came over us.

Not only did my father provide us with an activity for bonding and forced us to learn how to work together to get a task done, but now he could sleep easy knowing that we could maneuver his body to the door if the house was ever engulfed in flames or filled with a poisonous gas.

The Linwood Road

Treetops are ablaze smoldering into the evening sky. The taste of crisp clean air feels like satin on my lungs.  The orchard smells of autumn, of quiet and of serenity. I feel awakened. 

I watch for fallen apples, causalities in the war of fruit versus gravity, so I don’t trip and fall. The devil lights a match in my throat, as I start to pick up the pace.

The faint sound of clinking lets me know he is two paces behind me. Clink, clink, clink. Like a fork tapping a glass. Clink, clink, clink. The river babbles quietly beside me and I lunge over fallen tree trunks. The bark scratches my skin as I breeze by. The silence is golden, like the leaves.

The taste of salty sweat creeps in on my upper lip while I pound my feet into the uneven ground. The tall grass tickles my bare calves as I make room for him to run beside me. Clink, clink, clink.

I’m almost there – the opening to the even clay road I’ve been desiring from the beginning. I stop to draw a deep breath to put out the fire in my throat. He stops with me, waits and smiles.  

I smile back and we’re off again. This is the part I enjoy the most. The clay earth now feels like foam beneath me. I feel protected by the shadows of the trees draping over me and the narrow road. I look ahead at the hills in front of me, like dimples in the skin of the earth. The air starts to cool as the evening sky creeps in.

I no longer need to listen for the clink, as he’s in front of me now, excited to be going to one of the places he loves the most. SPLASH! He always arrives just seconds before me. I watch as he drinks, his body semi submerged underwater. The moment is untainted.

He’s beside me again.  As the faint smell of wet fur slips beneath my nose we begin our journey home, while the clay clumps beneath his dampened paws.

My wish for you

When a loved one is diagnosed with a life threatening illness it can be frightening for the whole family, a feeling I know all too well. When that loved one is a child, the news may hit even harder. Imagine having the honor to work for an organization that has a mandate of granting wishes to children with life-threatening illnesses. I can proudly say that I had this honor.

I worked for the Children’s Wish Foundation of Canada – Prince Edward Island Chapter from May – August of 2009. As a part of my first co-op experience, I joined the small team at the PEI Children’s Wish Foundation, as an Events & Promotions Student Assistant, or better known as simply “Summer Student” to some.  

Sidenote: When I was asked to write a piece on “A job I once had,” I contemplated sharing a ludicrous job I had one summer at the Lucy Maud Montgomery historic site in Prince Edward Island. I had to constantly tell visitors “No, Anne is not real and she did not live here.” Following my short and usually snappy comment I would typically end up consoling many tourists as it turned out I crushed their childhood aspirations of going to the house that Anne of Green Gables “lived in”. Too bad, so sad.

My first day on the job will forever be imprinted in my mind. The employees eat lunch at a small table in the Director’s office (perhaps not something she thoroughly enjoys). As we gathered around for lunch I pulled out my freshly made (well … made that morning) tuna sandwich.  Bad idea. “I hate tuna, it smells and tastes like cat food – gross,” said my new colleague. Great way to make new friends at work. Mental note: Never bring tuna on the first day of a new job, ever.

No day at the Children’s Wish Foundation was the same, which is something I enjoyed. It was a relief from the prior repetitious summer positions I once had. From rolling pennies (not something I thoroughly enjoyed), to attending press conferences, to scooping ice cream – there was never a dull moment.

The best part of the job though? The kids. The privilege to see the immediate results of all of your hard work - granting the wish of a child. I mean, we were all kids once, right? We all had dreams of flying in a helicopter, meeting the backstreet boys (or NSYNC – whichever you preferred), going to Disney World or getting the newest techno gadget available. The job instilled passion.

My wish for you, yes YOU, is to find your own passion in your work or life. Because once you find something you’re passionate about – there is no turning back.

Who I really am & what matters most to me.

As I sit here staring at a partially blank Microsoft Word document with the title: Who I really am – I think to myself, “Huh, it's funny how the word ‘really’ is incorporated into the topic title.” What’s the difference between who I REALLY am and who I am? Perhaps, the difference is how people perceive me and how I perceive myself? Perhaps, the word “really” is just a tactic to make us go deeper into reflection to write something totally kick ass.

The funny thing is I don’t think anyone REALLY knows who they are. Half of our lives we graze through life being told who we are, what we’re good at and what colors look the best on our skin. The other half is spent, for some, breaking free of what we’ve been told our whole lives and trying to make sense of it, incorporating our likes and dislikes.

Is this getting too deep for you? Do you need a shovel to dig yourself out yet?

Let’s get to the good part then: me. I mean, that’s why you’re reading this, right? Because you want to know who I REALLY am? Or, perhaps you think you already know? In any case, I’m not going to supply you with an inspirational three sentences encompassing my 21 years on earth. It’s not my style. What I can provide you with are events from my past that that make me who I am – or who I REALLY am.

We’ll start with the basics. I’m from Clyde River, PEI and am a fourth year PR student at Mount Saint Vincent University.

Growing up I had the pleasure of being the eldest of three children and seven grandchildren. Due to this, I developed “things need to go my way” syndrome at times paired with “I’m the oldest, so what I say goes” disease. I can remember a few years ago one of my best friends that lived across the street from me for 18 years told me that she hated playing with me as a child, because I was too bossy.

Sidenote: My tastebuds are telling me I need to consume a diet coke ASAP.

I dismissed this comment and focused on my own assumption which I had for the previous 18 years - that she hated playing with me cause’ I was fat and couldn’t participate in fun sports games.  Now I can go onto my next point about growing up (for which I created a brilliant transition). I was fat.

Unfortunately, this wasn’t due to eating too many processed cheese strings (which also happened as a child) it was from necessary ingested steroids to control lung deficiencies from which I almost died from at the age of three. Apparently I put my parents through much anguish as a child and nearly shattered their lives when the doctors told them I “wasn’t going to make it” and that they should “start making arrangements”.  Do you need that shovel again?

Coming back to the fat childhood remark – I will tell you to just watch an episode of “I used to be fat” on mtv.ca. It basically encompasses my experiences in elementary school.

Now that you know two things about my childhood I believe we know each other well enough for me to list some of the things that matter the most to me. (You’ve probably been wondering what they are, considering “what matters most to me” is in the blog title).

1.       Family and Friends.

2.       Traveling and experiencing the world.

3.       Having fun.

That’s a pretty basic/lame list eh? I contemplated putting “my coach purse” as #4 but felt as though it didn’t fit with the whole theme. In all seriousness, my family and friends are definitely the most important things in my life. (Big shout out to Mum, Dad, Alyssa and Mike). My parents raised us with great morals and values and have definitely played a large role in creating who I REALLY am.

My love of travel stems from an International Student Volunteer trip to Thailand I took in 2008 where I worked in a small fishing village working on community developing programs as a part of sustainable development initiative for the country of Thailand. The trip was definitely a fundamental pillar in creating who I am and steering me in the direction for my future.