Seasons

On Friday evening I had dinner with Creature and her husband at their cosy little cabin in Sooke. Her in-laws also attended. I liked the way Creature and her husband, Nym, worked together, and in harmony, on the meal. Nym took care of the teriyaki sauce for the salmon and dressed the Greek potatoes while Creature sat on a stool and cut vegetables. Carrots, radishes, mushrooms, avocado, apple – the textures and colours slid smoothly under knife and into the salad bowl, as smoothly and neatly as if their places had been foreordained from the days of their seed-dom.

We sipped at goblets of wine as we waited for the salmon to cook – all except Creature, of course, who nevertheless had a glass in front of her so she could admire the candlelight winking at her from the burgundy depths.

Talk turned to placenta and a story about a couple who froze one. They left it in the freezer for three years, until they were able to buy their own home, at which point they buried it under a tree in the yard.

I felt emboldened to air a concern that’s been playing at the edges of my mind. You never quite know what your children will do. Inevitably, their actions and attitudes surprise you so it’s best to be prepared.

“We aren’t going to have to eat the placenta at some kind of ritual meal, are we?” I asked. Memories of China surfaced, reminding me of the occasions when a fish head or a coil of pig intestine had been lovingly placed in front of me on the plate of honour and eating them was the only polite thing to do.

A bubble of laughter. “No, no” said Creature and discussion ensued. What kind of meat, exactly, is placenta? Organ meat, the consensus decreed. And the ultimate vegan meat to boot – no living thing killed or abused in its production.

At that point the dog wandered in with an ice pack from the birthing kit in his mouth and the kitten managed to slay a rather large moth, his first, so I missed what the ultimate fate of this particular placenta will be – perhaps it’s still undecided. I’m simply relieved it won’t form the centrepiece of an upcoming family dinner.

Late Saturday morning my Mom phoned to say my Dad is in the hospital. Just as it was getting dark on Friday, she’d dashed out to the pharmacy for some Immodium as Dad seemed to have a touch of flu. When she returned, he was lying on the living room floor. The phone had rung and, coming out of a doze, he got up too quickly and tripped over one of his slippers.

The long and short of it is they called an ambulance and, after the inevitable delays in Emergency, learned that he’s broken the bone at the top of his left leg – the femur I think. He needs surgery that involves the installation of two pins. My Dad, however, having suffered through more than 45 years of health problems due to a terrible car accident in 1962, wants none of it. He’s tired, exhausted in fact, and has no more strength to fight. He just wants to go home and doesn’t care of it’s in a wheelchair. We have to respect his wishes.

Mom knows better than any of us what his quality of life has been like since his near fatal brush with kidney failure in September of 2007. In brief, lousy. She figures they can get a ramp built up to the front door and bring in whatever help they need to keep Dad comfortable.
My heart gave a momentary pang for Piglet, who would have whipped up a ramp in short order, just as he managed all the building and alterations that were necessary when Dad broke his hip in early 2002.

So there we have it. Creature in the full bloom of life, about to give us Finn, and my Dad lying frail and defeated in a hospital bed, brittle and defenceless and far too breakable.

It’s all very Ecclesiastical.