So here it is, again. You'll soon see you didn't miss much.
What an odd waiting state we find ourselves in these days, a janglingly busy kind of stasis, if you will. Tomorrow (depending when I post this) I'll baby-sit while Pater accompanies Patient and Patient's Spouse for their visit with the specialist, which should, we hope, give us an idea of the treatment plan and our schedule for the next couple of months. Meanwhile, he was back on the island the last couple of days cleaning up and transporting culled goods off the island for recycling and disposal. He also did some signing, and I'll do the same later this week. And then a bit later, there will be a sign. . . I suspect most of you will be guessing what those are all about, but I'll wait before I confirm your suspicions. What I will say, though, is that we're stepping into months, at least, of the insecurity and the potential of the in-between. . .
I can feel it already, in little ways. In the way living in our little urban apartment changes the rhythm of my days. The way it offers me so many more routes to run each morning, but also denies me the solace of an expansive view, one that tells a different compelling story every day. Here, restored heritage homes sit stolidly, shoulder to shoulder, across the street from us, sandwiched between busy traffic in front and looming apartment buildings behind. Neither soothing nor particularly engaging.
On the other hand, I can be up the road ordering takeout sushi in less than five minutes if the traffic light's in my favour, or Thai if I go in the other direction. We pop up the hill for the best grilled calamari and a glass of wine at the Greek place (probably eight minutes, that walk) or Moules Frites with a glass of bubbles or artisan beer at the brasserie across the road. If I forget to pick up the milk, no one needs to ride their bike down to the dock for a 10-minute ride, each way, to the grocery store in town (honestly, on the island, we just make do if we forget, unless we're desperate enough to knock on a neighbour's door with a begging bowl).
Back on our tiny island, though, one of the neighbours was just diagnosed with one of the heavy-duty cancers, and to send her into her surgery in the best possible spirits, the community held a disco party, costumes, dancing, frivolity, and so much love! We weren't able to be there, except in spirit, but we've attended fundraisers and celebrations of life and baby showers and 60th birthday parties and so many demonstrations of community in the past. I'm guessing there are versions of that in the city as well. I hope we'll find them. Heck, I'm hoping someday I'll have a friend or two here. Meanwhile, I do like to know that we can walk to a cinema for a movie, if the mood strikes, in 20 minutes. Bike over to a daughter's place in 30. Pick a granddaughter up from preschool in 40.
At the moment, we're waiting, fingers ready to press one button, and watching while other fingers than ours hover over other buttons, ones that also affect our future plans, if less directly. And I've been thinking about how privileged we've been, all our married lives, to live in the various houses we've made into homes. And about the privilege of letting go, of having choices. . .
Yes, the cryptic will end soon. Hope it won't be followed by too much frant-ic (haven't any objections to a bit of ant-ic, though) before it ends up, if we're really lucky, at idyll-ic. And perhaps we can move away from that silly bit of wordplay before the Ick manifests itself...