Let’s get right into it:
On Tuesday, I received a text from my uncle telling me Opa was in the hospital with heart problems. I was told not to come and that he was doing ok.
My 99-year-old opa is in the hospital? How was I supposed to stay optimistic? I only had about 30 minutes left on the clock, so I told myself I could finish the bike I was working on.
I couldn’t do it. With 15 minutes to go, I bailed and walked my bike home as I was too distressed to ride. Upon arriving home, I crashed on the couch, exhausted from all my emotions. I woke up from my nap around 8pm and checked my phone.
Opa had a heart attack.
Could a 99-year-old survive a heart attack?! At that point, it occurred to me that I hadn’t heard from my sister. I sent her a text message a month ago wishing her a happy birthday and did not get a response, but that did not concern me as we talk infrequently. Heck, it’s already been a year since we last saw each other. But, the news of Opa’s hospitalization would have prompted a text message from her.
As it turned out, I had to be the one to break the news as Dad hadn’t contacted her, and Uncle Miles did not have her phone number. Miles insisted I did not come, as Opa was too weak for visitors anyway. By 8pm, it was too late to catch the last ferry to the mainland. There was nothing more I could do but let my emotional exhaustion carry me to sleep. The quickest way to the mainland would be by seaplane, and I was prepared to shell out the big bucks for the 25-minute flight over the strait of Georgia.
Every time I visit Opa for the past decade, I know there’s a strong chance it could be the last time I see him. I did not see Oma for about a year before she passed away, but that was due to pandemic-induced distancing. My experience with Mom’s passing also came to mind. The last time I saw Mom, she was in bed at the hospice, barely lucid, but didn’t pass away until about a week later. The day she passed, most of the family met at the hospice, and I was offered some time with “Mom” before her body was taken away. I declined. She was already gone; what was left of her was merely her shell.
The last time I saw Opa was on his 99th birthday in October of last year, and I am relieved to say that may not be the case. I received an email from him a few hours ago: he’s back home. It seems unfathomable that a 99-year-old survived a heart attack, but he made it back home! It wouldn’t surprise me if he were the oldest Canadian to have survived a heart attack. I already had plans to head to the mainland on the 27th, so I’ll see him then!
The last time I visited the mainland was indeed for Opa’s birthday. This time, I’ll be there for Zoée’s birthday, which has already passed. I wasn’t as happy as I could have been when Zoée messaged me on Tuesday, thanking me for the embroidered patch of their cat, Greta.
The timing on mailing the birthday card and patch was good. The timing of Zoée’s confirmation that they received the patch and card was not; I’d seen their message when I received my uncle’s text about Opa’s hospitalization. I did not say anything to Zoée then as it felt inappropriate to bring my woes into what was a happy surprise for Zoée. A few hours later, I confessed: after all, I wouldn’t want my friends to withhold news like that because they’re worried about raining on my parade. Zoée is 44, not 14.
Life is full of joys and tragedies and everything in between. This is why I’ve kept this blog going: Instagram culture felt too insincere, and Twitter too misanthropic. Since my last post, things have gone mostly well for me.
Last night, while playing Tears of the Kingdom alongside Alexa, I finally earned Cece’s mushroom hat, which comes with shroom earrings and purple lipstick:
If only I were this stylish in real life.
My taste in home decor lends a better picture of my personality, and more than ever with the latest addition to my art collection:
Jason Limberg’s Raccoon Wizard linocut print. I hesitated to buy this print as it meant breaking my self-imposed boycott of US goods. Ultimately, I decided I was still comfortable purchasing from an individual, no matter their location. Even North Korea. Of course, I hope the artist’s political beliefs align with mine. For now, I’ll continue to convince myself that there’s no way a MAGAt could produce something that beautiful.
My abstinence from US produce has resulted in repetitive meals. I’ve been sustaining on eggs, BC-caught fish, and potatoes. Bananas are still doing a lot of the heavy lifting in my diet. Fortunately, gardening season is upon us! My gardening plot has doubled this year as the other tenants have moved out of the house.
I haven’t done much past ripping out weeds and last year’s aphid-riddled kale. It’s been a soggy March, but when I noticed it had stopped raining, I ran outside yesterday toting a pitchfork and started attacking the soil. The new patch is full of fat, juicy earthworms, some of which I’ve inadvertently split in half. Whoops.
No more US-grown produce for this gal. I’ll have a backyard from which to harvest. I may also grow some flowers, not to eat, but to sniff and gawk.
My last piece of blog-worthy news also took place under rain clouds. Alexa recruited me to lead the women’s bike maintenance clinic for International Women’s Day. The last presentation I gave to a group was in the 9th grade. I can’t remember what it was on, but I remember my hand shaking as I wrote on the blackboard. In the 9th grade, I would’ve been 14. How did 41-year-old Laura handle public speaking?
Oh, I crushed it. The fact that I was presenting a topic on which I’m knowledgeable to a group of people keen to learn put me at ease. I brought along a print-out of notes I’d prepared beforehand in case I blanked out on the spot and to ensure I didn’t omit anything important.
I built the lesson plan based on what I wish I had known before I started working in a bike shop in 2015. I had visual aids on hand, including a collection of super worn parts that I’d borrowed from my previous workplace’s “Board of Shame,” eg. disc brake pads that were worn down to their metal backing, chainrings so spiky that they could double as a weapon, a segment of a rim with its braking surface so worn that it was concave.
I concluded both clinics with a demo on how to replace an inner tube, wooing the participants as I expertly removed one side of my tire bead with a smooth swooping motion.
“I’ve done this thousands of times, so I make it look easy. Expect to struggle!”
I brought up to Saturday’s group how it’s always been women who’ve apologized for their lack of knowledge regarding bikes. Honestly, I’ve never had a man tell me that they knew diddly fuck. Based on the state of male-owned bikes I’ve worked on over the years, most men also know squat. And that’s okay: just be open to learning.
Sunday’s weather was a lot worse than Saturday’s. We had six tents set up, but water dripped down my shirt while traversing the tents. My hands were so cold and numb that I could barely undo the valve nut during my tube-changing demo. Finally, a man (Adam) had to jump in! Someone–I think it was Alexa–made a joke about it. Adam and Alexa were super supportive and contributed to the brilliance of Saturday and Sunday’s repair clinics. Also, the interpreter, Amanda, was only booked for the first hour of both 3-hour clinics but stuck around to interpret pro bono, which was cool. I told Amanda I’d happily trade my labour and fix up her bike on one of my days off.
The weather may have been cold, but my heart was warm.
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