15 ROUNDS WITH AN IMPLACABLE ENEMY

The norovirus

Part of the THIS IS THE MOMENT series.

It must have been the bragging.

The way I’d been stating, with wonder and pride, that in the 15 months I’d been receiving chemotherapy, I hadn’t been sick; hadn’t caught the plague that felled Christian in the late fall of 2018; hadn’t even had a cold.

Tsk, tsk, tsk. All it took was the good ol’ norovirus.

On Thursday, November 14th, thinking that I had allowed for a period of “minimum safe distance”, I drove the 35km down the TransCanada to visit my mum, who had been sick with the stomach flu since the previous weekend. Her partner, a retired physician, was taking good care of her, but he had returned to his home in the city on Tuesday to look after things there.

My mum, who is the Energizer Bunny of octogenarians, was still weak from her ordeal and in need of supplies. So I scooped homemade chicken soup from our freezer, enriched it a bit with some gently simmered vegetables, bought some Yorkshire Gold decaf and also regular tea (for guests) and a whole assortment of dry biscuits from the British tea shop here in Hudson, picked up some bananas, some applesauce and delivered them the same day.

Looking fragile, as she does more and more, my mum was nevertheless visibly jazzed to have some company, and so, with my white cotton gloves on (because you can’t be too careful with stomach flu, even after 5 days), I warmed a bowl of soup for her, made the tea, and got the cookies arranged on a plate.

Sadler, Walter Dendy; Afternoon Tea; Cardiff Council; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/afternoon-tea-158989

The conversation was lovely! My mum brightened, and soon we were talking about books and Christmas and a whole bunch of things I can no longer remember. I purposely—in spite of the multiple cups of tea—did not use her bathroom before leaving. As I left, my mum said: “We have to do this more often, it’s such fun; our conversations are so interesting.” That was mostly just a good sales pitch. Mothers want to see their children, and cancer (and the added distance between us since my move to Hudson) has made a serious dent in my ability to visit her in any kind of regular fashion.

There is so little I can do for her…so little I can do for anyone, that I drove home imbued with a feeling of having done SOMETHING to alter my general ineffectiveness.

Ribot, Augustin Theodule; Mother and Daughter; Glasgow Museums; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/mother-and-daughter-85855

The next day, Friday the 15th, Simon was invited to dinner by one of the coolest couples on the planet, Heather and Adrien: she, a geology teacher at the same college as Simon, and he, an anthropologist at Université de Montréal—who speaks at least 5 languages fluently. They live in the most cutting edge house in Hudson. It looks like something out of an upscale Wallander episode. It’s a giant wood bungalow with all of the wooden structural features (ceilings, beams, walls, the works!) exposed. It’s geothermically heated, and situated on several acres of woodland. They’re vegan and grow most of their own food (of course!). Heather and Adrien are at the forefront of preparedness for climate change. They’re also warm and kind and that’s probably why Heather thought to say to Simon: “Hey! Bring your mum!”

The evening was so lovely. Mostly, I just sat there dazed by everyone’s brilliance and the breathtaking scope of their knowledge. I’d time-travelled and somehow wound up in a room with a bunch of Renaissance polymaths.

Plague doctor masque

And then dinner was served. And as the large bowl of tasty, multicoloured (there were beets!) roasted root vegetables served over basmati rice was placed in front of me—suddenly, as though someone sinister wearing a plague doctor mask had quickly entered and exited my field of vision—I felt the first gentle wave of noro-nausea move inside my stomach. The conversation was as animated as ever, but I was retreating from it, feeling hot and sticky and clammy as the waves of nausea started to build. I forced myself to finish my meal, sitting there like a stump, while the realization of what was happening to me became clearer and clearer, and then, in the gentlest, most urgent-without-sowing-panic voice, I asked my hosts: “Is there a bathroom nearby?.”

Stainton, Alice; Trug with Carrots and Vegetables; Bushey Museum and Art Gallery; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/trug-with-carrots-and-vegetables-16026

That poor powder room. Poor toilet bowl. It was hit with a thundering cascade of totally undigested, colourful root vegetables. Once. Twice. Oh God.

Twenty-four hours after visiting my mum, I was noro-infected up to my eyeballs. Is there a more mortifying way to experience a first encounter with brilliant and generous hosts?  The odds are against it, I think.

Of course, this was just the beginning. I didn’t sleep a wink that night, and was up at least 10 more times, my stomach turning itself inside out. By the next day, it was like I had been scraped off the battlefield—like someone about whom the triage people would have said: We’re not sure about her.”

I spent Saturday in my bed, flattened under the covers, drinking only water and a bit of salt-spiked apple juice (I eventually switched to salted orange juice cut with boiled water—the hydrating mix recommended by the CHUM).

Sunday, I graduated to banana and some apple sauce and as much water as I could drink. And an extra-protein Boost I think.

I had my sights on Monday, which was my sister Danielle’s birthday. I wanted to keep my promise to her to take her out for BBQ chicken and GREAT fries (= Côte-St-Luc BBQ), and then bring her back to Hudson for the afternoon. I succeeded!

Tuesday and Wednesday, it was back to the CHUM for blood tests, my pre-chemo check-up and chemo itself. Back to the routine. Back to….just cancer and treatment. I had lost a kilo (2.2 pounds), but otherwise, I was good to go.

Except that…I wasn’t quite right. I still had occasional waves of nausea. Slight pain in my stomach. I was still skittish around food, and Simon was watching my intake like a hawk.

Then came the evening of Monday, November 25th. There we were, Simon and I, watching a movie while we ate the chicken parmigiana I had prepared. The movie was fun, the company, as wonderful as always and…oh no…my guts were out to sea. It was happening AGAIN.

This is the thing about the treatment of cancer (most especially after 15 months’ worth): it leaves you immune-suppressed. I had thought myself above this. I had developed a false sense of security. And boy, did my body let me have it. I spent another complete night heaving over the toilet bowl only this time, both ends of my digestive tract were expressing their outrage in tandem.

The next morning, with Simon off to teach but checking in with me every hour, I would have scared a ghost. I kind of looked like a ghost balloon that has lost all its air. I also had dark circles under my eyes (well, I think they appear when there’s no more moisture in your body tissue) and a chalk-white face. Every time I got out of bed (to get water, my hydrating juice and more water), I did it in stages, just to make sure I wouldn’t just slump onto the floor. I wasn’t sure I had measurable blood pressure.

And I slept and slept and slept. And when I awoke, I’d sip a bit more liquid, and then, at times, my mind would wander about, picking questions out of the air like: How many times in a row can you relapse with gastro-enteritis? Can cancer spread while you’re being desiccated by a virus? How much weight am I losing, I wonder? Will food ever appeal to me again? Could I just live on bananas instead?

 

* * *

Tuesday ended, then Wednesday, Thursday and so on. And here I am, living what should have been chemo week, but turned into a period of convalescence.

Cursiter, Stanley; Abstract; Orkney Islands Council; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/abstract-167473

It’s Friday, December 6th. I’ve lost weeks of my life, and 3 kilos (about 6.5 pounds). Chemo was cancelled this week when blood tests indicated that my calcium and potassium levels disqualified me. Well, gee, d’uh. Call it dehydration or desiccation or The Great 15-rounder with the Norovirus, but expect a person’s electrolytes to be damned scanty when the final bell clangs.

I’ve been taking calcium (mint green coloured) and potassium supplements (white and looking alarmingly like suppositories) since Tuesday morning. I feel much, much better,  but every visit to the bathroom is still a full systems check. I’m getting there. God bless electrolytes. And the love of sons who care for you and check in on you.

* * *

I hope you’ve smiled through this. Though every word of it is true, it was meant to make you chuckle and okay, cringe a wee bit too.

But during all of those days when I was just lying quietly under bedding, too tired and sleepy to read or watch Netflix or Britbox or anything else, I was still living. Lying there under the soft,  warm weightlessness of my duvet, my head propped up by three pillows, able only to watch, through the window, the light changing outside, and hear the cars and occasional trucks zip up and down the street, I was mostly inside my head.

I feel as though I’ve just lived through a dress rehearsal for my last days—for my palliative weeks. I think I got a glimmer of what it might mean to become so debilitated that I can no longer, or barely, get out of bed; that I no longer have any sort of appetite. It’s easy for me to see why I might choose not to fight. No more 15-rounders. No more rounds at all.

The norovirus telescoped from out of my immune-suppressed chemo body which telescopes from my cancerous body…the tendrils getting thinner at each remove from the point of origin, until I could barely touch life at all…if only temporarily. This time.

I was recovering, quietly, in a home that is mine and also Simon’s and soon Cindy’s too, and it’s a place where I feel loved and safe. This fills me with gratitude. A place where I’m surrounded by books and all of the human experiences, stories and meditations these contain. This brings me joy. A place where the spaces left on the walls are decorated with the faces of family members—my children and grandchildren—and the artwork of friends. This gives me hope for the future. Their future.

My fifteen-rounder has brought death closer to me, and helped me to feel less afraid.

Rand, Michael Anthony; Sunshine through Mist; Lyth Arts Society; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/sunshine-through-mist-166839

 

 

THAT SMALL STIFLING PLACE

Fire Tree,

Part of the THIS IS THE MOMENT series.

A month ago, at a time which roughly coincided with the beginning of my second year in this clinical trial and the repetitive sameness of the life it has reshaped for me, something unexpected happened.

It was Monday morning, the chemo week Monday when I head into the CHUM to have my pre-chemo blood tests done, and to see my research nurse and one of the oncologists from the team who treat my cancer. Every part of this day is so familiar that it has become routine—from the moment I hop on the train at Ste-Anne-de-Bellevue to the moment I get out of the metro and follow the short tunnel that leads directly underground to the first floor of the CHUM.

I often stop at the small café there and grab a decaf coffee before heading toward the elevator that takes me to the 14th floor. Once there, I immediately register my presence by swiping my medicare card under a scanner which then issues me a small white paper on which is written a number—something like PL025 (PL for prélèvement, or blood test). My nurse and doctors are also immediately notified of my arrival. It’s a routine I’ve performed dozens of times since I first began treatment. But four Mondays ago, nothing went to plan. The moment I stepped off the metro and started my walk, something wavered inside me. My autopilot shut down and with no warning at all, my eyes filled with tears and there was such pressure in my throat that I could barely swallow.

I was coming undone. Having some sort of quiet but perfectly visible meltdown. I continued walking down the hallway, past the angelic guard who greets every single passerby with a smile and words of wisdom, taking deep breaths and waiting for this destabilizing malaise to subside, but a wobbly inner voice repeated only Oh-oh, you won’t be able to get it together—you won’t be able to stop crying…, drowning out the part of my brain where my wits were being overridden and which shouted: “What the hell’s going on? You’ve never felt this way before. You LIKE the CHUM. It’s Monday, the EASY day. Get a grip!

 But then came that vacillating, gushy need to cry again…

God. Well, this was a new low. I entered the elevator with shiny red eyes and the sniffles. Once on the 14th floor, I scanned my card while snot clogged my nose and throat. You know this feeling if you’ve ever had a good sob. Your pulse is elevated, you feel unsteady. Your breathing is shallow and rapid. You tremble. It’s completely embodied.

When my nurse, Chantal, arrived to greet me and asked how I was, I blubbered, like a baby, a rambling apologetic explanation that contained a lot of sorrys (or in this case, Désolée, Excusez-moi), rattling on about not being sure exactly why this was happening, although I did have similar experiences at home; that it didn’t even mean that I was sad, that it was just my wonky filters…

Chantal, who is the most serene human being on the planet, smiled gently, then hugged me and reassured me that I wasn’t the first patient to have emotions like this, and that she would be back once I’d had blood drawn, and we’d do my weigh-in + vital signs before seeing the doctor. Business as usual, was her message.

illustration by Jon Han, New York Times, June 25th 2016

 And so I sat and waited with sorrowful pink eyes and Kleenex in my hands, feeling mortified. I was on the cancer floor—Cancérologie—and I was such a depressing sight! What must the rows and rows of fellow waiting patients be thinking as I sat or walked here and there. Her treatment must be going poorly, or She must have recently received a brutal diagnosis or bad news…

And STILL, my chin was quivering, my mouth was dry, my breathing was shallow and my eyes, determined to remain fountains. When I was finally called in to see the oncologist, it wasn’t my primary physician, Dr. Aubin; it was Dr. Loungnarath, a lanky, curly-haired, imperturbable, youngish gastro-intestinal surgeon in oncology, who greeted me.  And of course, the minute he asked: “Comment allez-vous?”, I started blubbering again, as Chantal watched, still smiling at me with compassion.

Dr. Loungnarath looked at me, and said (in French): “Well then, we’re going to give you an extra week off.” To which I responded a shaky “Thank you, I think maybe I’m a little weary (sniff-sniff).”

(Surely there are more dignified ways to get an extra week off from chemo.)

* * * *

I was back in chemo last Wednesday, smiling, and my composure regained. My veteran patient’s game face back on. But this time I carried with me a slight fear, or perhaps more of a doubt that I can count on myself.

What happened three weeks ago?

What short-circuited all of my defenses and let the floodwaters loose? (and what were those waters all about?)

I sat down and made a list of possible suspects, of possible triggers. It includes:

How small my life feels at times.

How circumscribed my days are.

How similar the weeks are: one on/ one off.

How small is the loop I live in.

How altered the future appears.

How I feel from day to day—the limitations of my body going through chemo

The limitations of my body in illness.

I suppose that what this amounts to is fatigue and a deep, bone weariness, that I’m mostly conscious of when it reaches a tipping point.

And this is how and when I slip into self-pity.

In her memoir Gather Together in my Name, Maya Angelou wrote that : “Self-pity in its early stages is as snug as a feather mattress. Only when it hardens does it become uncomfortable.”

Have I allowed myself to snuggle up with such a nasty emotion? It just may be. And if so, then I can say that self-pity is a small, stifling place that I don’t want to go back to.

Since then, so many things have washed over me. One of them was a simple conversation with Simon one evening in the den, where we were watching Netflix together. It was perhaps one of the more melancholy and intense shows, and we started to talk about sadness, and how people deal with the pieces that are missing from their lives. Simon always has a broad perspective, and as we chatted, he mentioned that human beings are programmed to fixate on the negative aspects of their lives—on the missing or broken pieces; and he said that if you tell someone 25 positive things about them, and 1 negative thing, that they will almost surely fixate on that one negative thing…That we are made that way, And so he said: I try to not allow my mind to go there—to those places of dissatisfaction and unhappiness. I try not to let my thoughts wander there. And I say to myself: you are one of the luckiest people in the world. You are one of the luckiest people in the world.

 And I smiled. Because I remembered an exercise I used to have my students do in French classes, It was a questionnaire designed around select statistics and the world population. Things like: How many people in the world earn less than $5 a day? How many people earn less than $10? $2? What percentage of the world population has a university education?…

And of course, the survey revealed two things: the first was that, by and large, most people have shelter, access to potable water and access to the internet via cell phones; the second was that everyone in the classroom, because they are living in Montreal, is likely to find themselves among the top 10-15% of the world population in anything that’s related to affluence and abundance, and a social safety net, and standard of living.

I remember how the first time I put a group through this (I had them guess at the numbers in teams—they chatted away like mad), all I felt was indecently fortunate.

And so, Simon’s exhortation to focus on our common great, good fortune; and on the plenitude that is ours; and on the love, friendship and family; and to make gratitude a habit…

Well…it sure beats self-pity.

As a matter of fact, at a time when we are actually speaking in urgent and terrifying terms of apocalyptic climate change and mass species extinction, my self-pity is indecent, and I am a sorry-assed human.

If my tone slides back toward that small, stifling place, tell me to shape up.

Lakey, Andrew; Angel of Hope; RNIB College Loughborough; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/angel-of-hope-80857

 

SECOND SKIN

“…the human being to lack that second skin we call egoism has not yet been born, it lasts much longer than the other one, that bleeds so readily.”
― José Saramago, Blindness

Robertson, Carol; Second Skin; Bodelwyddan Castle Trust; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/second-skin-178299

 

I’ve arrived at a place of discomfort.

Every day I’ve lived since last July has in some way been about me getting through the day, getting to tomorrow, and then the next day; and by extension, everyone around me has been caught up in helping me get through to a future beyond now, beyond this week, or this month, or year…

Making good meals for me when I’m useless (an all too frequent occurrence); shuffling schedules so that I’m not alone at chemo; remaining open and patient with me when my filters break down and I’m whimpery, and discouraged; adjusting their lives around my needs…These are just some of the things that my sons (especially), wonderful friends and family do for me every day.

How self-centred I have become.
Forced into it to some extent, perhaps, but indulging myself too.

And all of these words I’ve poured out to you—more than 35 000 so far—have they not principally been about me highlighting me?

Higgins, Tony; Skin Deep; University of Stirling; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/skin-deep-127895

While my own skin is showing the battle scars of cancer treatment, a second, invisible one is slowly enveloping me. It’s the skin of self-centredness. At least, this is an apprehension of mine that’s been there from the very beginning of this unchosen journey.

In part, I think, this withdrawal into myself is a survival mechanism. I’m not sure how much I can do. I’m not sure what will happen to me. I’m not sure what it means when I suddenly have no energy and my legs start to shake beneath me, or tears pour from my eyes as easily as I breathe. Self-absorption, my second skin, is in part controlling the flow of what life demands of me. But still… It has made it all too easy to hide away in the two-week (one in chemo, one off) life cycle that I live inside.

***

Last week was spring break for my grandchildren: Penelope, now 7, from grade school, and Graeme, who turns 5 in April, from pre-school. It was study week at John Abbott College, so Simon had more free time to enjoy (though he still had tests and lab reports to mark and things to write), and I was not in a chemo week. Jeremy  was away on business in Hong Kong and Japan, leaving behind an unfillable gap in his young family, in spite of the fact that Anne is an extraordinary life partner and mother. For Christian, unfortunately, it was business as usual: work –work—work—work.

This created an opening. They were home! Anne was happy to have company and support. And so, she and Simon busied themselves making plans to fill the days with activities the kids could look forward to.

Early in the week, we would go play with them all day at their house. Then, on a different day, we would take them to the movies. Next, they would come to our house in Hudson and play all day (from 8 am to 7 pm!). Finally, upon their papa’s return from Japan, we would go celebrate Penelope’s birthday over pizza at a local restaurant.

Our love for Penelope, Graeme and their parents is such that just being near them makes us feel happier. And yet, I see how I have pulled away from them since my diagnosis. Or maybe it’s truer to say that circumstances have made it hard to be with them the way I used to—circumstances which include my cancer and treatment, but also the simple fact that they are both at school and have busy, happy lives and a full calendar, which doesn’t always match up well with my physical highs and lows.

It’s been as though an invisible chord snapped when I learned how sick I was. They say that dogs can smell cancer in a person; I wondered if perhaps young children have a similar sensitivity to things that are going wrong. I didn’t want Penelope and Graeme to sense this…decay when they were around me, and I was feeling so changed and so damaged.

unknown artist; Old Lady with Two Children; Bradford Museums and Galleries; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/old-lady-with-two-children-22343

Last week, I played with my grandchildren with pure joy—something I  hadn’t done for weeks and weeks, because these experiences opened up a melancholy spot inside me: the whisperings of uselessness; of being superfluous and unable to follow the stream of their lives (while everyone else entered and exited their daily existence so effortlessly). I’m speaking of the loss of the kind of intimacy one can create with children that is tender and trusting and of such honesty that it replenishes the soul and reminds us of a different world—a minute by minute world—in which all good things are possible.

On the day they came to play at our house, for some weird and frustrating reason, I was exhausted and having trouble keeping my eyes open, almost from the time I woke up. It was as though magnets were pulling my eyelids shut. This has never happened to me before and all I could think of was going to take a short nap—maybe that would snap me out of it!? But Graeme was by my side, wanting to play and do all of the fun things that are possible here, and I would have been mortified to disappoint him, and so I reverted to closing my eyes for a few seconds at a time–taking the sneakiest, shortest micro-naps every chance I got. And at the end of one of them, there was Graeme, staring at me intently with the most accepting smile (given the circumstances), saying: “It’s okay, Grand-maman, it’s just your sickness.”

 ***

The love and well wishes that have rained down on me since last July, and especially because of this blog, have been a daily source of strength and inspiration for me. I cannot overstate this. Maybe it’s the magnitude of it that has alerted me to my unworthiness. It is love overwhelming. It is kindness and support beyond reason.

Thank you.

Thank you.

 My life depends on the willingness of my loved ones to do all of the thankless, repetitive and life-invading tasks that cancer throws in their path.

What can I do besides accept their love and attempt to return it to them in gratitude whenever I can, and understand that we are all called to love in every way possible?

Making amends…Making it up to them…

These turns of phrase that come to mind imply indebtedness. If their love has left me in debt, then I may not live long enough to repay each and every one of them.

Still, a way to lighten the weight of my second skin must surely be found in being kinder and more forgiving of every perceived wrong, no matter who it involves; being generous of heart and letting go of past slights and hurts; practicing more empathy every day, so as not to forget those dark moments that I am responsible for; and being more open to accepting love that I may never be able to return in equal measure.

It’s a wonderful feeling to owe one’s life to so many.

The Evening of all Days, the Day of all Evenings by Anselm Kiefer, 2014

MY INCREDIBLE EXPANDING LIFE

No one tells you this, but a human life, just like the universe that cradles it, is always expanding.

One of the ways we experience this extension first hand is through the social connections we make. My teaching life has accelerated this, and in the past ten years or so, I’ve come to know so many people that I could and want to call friends; people I don’t want to lose…not wanting the flow of time to sweep them away, beyond my reach.

Last week, my student Mira reached out and pulled me into her life.

In late 2016, Mira left Toronto to come live close to her daughter and grandchildren. In our quiet conversations after class, she had mentioned having just found her new place, which she described in such ecstatic, giddy language that it seemed unreal. She said it was beautiful, surrounded by woods and birds; that her new neighbours were wonderful; that they planted flowers and perennials at the foot of the trees for everyone to enjoy; that she had found a haven. That she was immensely grateful and happy.

And then she invited me to dinner. Her home was exactly as she had described. Sitting on her patio that’s enclosed by a screened gazebo, we listened to the sounds of the birds and the breeze and of a piano tuner next door, who arrived not long after me. As he worked, he played. Beautifully. Every note bouncing off the sparkling light of approaching dusk.

Everything about our evening together was enveloping. Despite a long day at work, Mira had put together a bounteous meal that left me speechless (because I was at a loss for words and because my mouth was always full).

 

I felt like a funambulist in our first hour together, trying to find my way from the interactive dynamics of being Mira’s teacher to being her friend. It’s a subtle thing, because of course in adult education, we’re equals who are simply playing different roles. And yet all my teacherly reflexes were there: asking questions, steering the conversation and adjusting my language (we were speaking English, Mira’s third language after Ukrainian and Russian—French is her newest challenge).

I’ve spoken elsewhere of the pain of letting go of my students at the end of my teaching contracts. The obverse of this requires a different kind of energy and thoughtfulness.

We all know this. We learn it as we move through time, shedding friends and making new ones in grade school and high school; opening our lives to new colleagues as we enter adulthood; merging the social circles of people we love with our own.

This pulsating movement continues for decades. Our neighbours become friends and through our children and all of their involvements, new people enter our lives constantly. There’s always the possibility of friendship and attachment, but there also comes the moment when we realise that it isn’t possible to maintain each connection—that there just isn’t enough emotional energy to go around.

Every time I choose to stay in touch with a former student, I think of this and have to take it into account. I’ve sent and received many enthusiastic Facebook messages to and from former students expressing the wish that we see each other again: “We should have coffee!” “We have to meet!” “Are you free in March?”.

The desire is sincere. There’s only good will. But of course, it can’t always work out, and so I/we settle for whatever time we manage to carve out of our overstuffed lives.

It’s enough, because it has to be. It has meant breakfast with Patty and supper with Karen. It has meant an evening at the pub with Kathryn and my best friend Louise who joined us so that Kathryn could get some serious French conversation practice (there could and should have been so many more such evenings—sigh).

It has meant the unexpected joy of finding emails from Will, then Yan in my Inbox; both engineers, one a British bachelor and the second, a devoted father of three, catching me up about their lives.

One time, it was coffee at Tim Horton’s late in the afternoon with Neshat and Maryam, while their children emitted happy sparks of mischief at the next table. There was phlegmatic Thomas, fresh out of university and a long way from home; elegant and thoughtful Saran, a kindred spirit who has officially joined our Best of the Worst soirées, and there was exuberant, endearing Hatem, whom I met at his five-year-old daughter’s school, where he had joined the French for Parents class I was teaching. Though he was with me for just a few weeks before finding work, he still sends me email updates that are a study in gratitude–he gives thanks for every part of his new life–and an inspiration.

And there’s Facebook, Facebook, Facebook, and its limitless tentacles, for which I’m so grateful.

Mira at home

But Mira isn’t on Facebook. She simply cut through all of the potential barriers to friendship with her extraordinary emotional energy.

Mira’s brilliant: she’s an engineer who specialises in systems, processes, efficiency and ergonomics. One way of understanding her profession is that she has a talent for observing people and their systems and seeing all of the ways these aren’t working properly. She connects people by removing obstacles that hinder functionality and their ability to work well together. Things flow better when she’s around.

Our shared meal in her new condo provided the setting for a long heart-to-heart. In French class, I had witnessed Mira’s brilliance, competence and will, and caught a glimpse of her creativity—she’s a talented painter—but in her new home, where she claims to have found, at last, a space to simply be herself—woman, mother, Baba (grandmother), artist and engineer—she radiates gentleness and incandescent plenitude.

Speaking of her grandfather (Mira was an only child), with her soft voice and Slavic accent, she told me: “When I was small child and sat in his arms, he would stop breathing, he loved me so much. Everyone give me so much love”.

Except that she pronounces it “law-ve”, which sounds even more beautiful.

“The universe is full of doors.”—Frank Herbert, Dune

Painting by Mira