Hand Me Down My Walking Cane

This past Sunday I drove my father over to the city's east end to see my grandmother. She'd been quite ill and my Dad had had his right hip replaced, so they were anxious to see each other. I have to admit that I got a little choked up when I picked my Dad up at the house and saw him walking more normally than he has in over two years. Plus he now has a cane to wave about when he's doing his belligerent old man schtick. It's very funny.

On the way over, we were listening to a program called the Sunday Edition on the CBC. They're currently doing a series on music that changed the world, and this latest show was about rap music. I thought it wouldn't be my thing, but it was actually very interesting and though very high level, hit on a lot of the essential points.

My Dad enjoyed it immensely and said that though he wasn't going to run out and buy a rap CD anytime soon, the show had very much informed his understanding of rap and its sensibilities, and that he had a lot more respect for it as an art form.

When we got to my grandmother's I was happy to see her looking better than I expected. She had a bad bought of viral pneumonia back in October and hasn't quite bounced back since. She was recently in the hospital with congestive heart failure.

I really feel for my grandmother sometimes because she is on her own, is old and has a lot of health problems to contend with. Granted, she has a good network of friends who stay in touch, but there's nothing like the feeling of being ill or not quite up to things and not having anyone around who could provide simple comforts of a cup of tea. I remember the year and a bit I was off ill, and it's those simple hurdles of day-to-day loneliness that I had to get over that I remember the most.

And that being said, at least I had Mojo my cat.

Plus at 80+, my grandmother is still as sharp as a tack. Inevitably, she also has to contend with people treating her like she's senile, particularly hospital staff. It all must get so tiring.

At any rate, we were all able to have a nice chat, sandwiches and coffee. I threaded two needles as my granny's eyesight isn't what it used to be and fixed her humidifier. My father waved his cane around at the appropriate moments.

I find as I get older that it is these little moments that stick to my heart and gain in importance. I can't wave a wand and make my grandmother better, but I can wash some dishes and thread needles and listen to her stories. She won't be here forever and will join the line of others I've already lost as I've travelled through life.

I often think about this and my niece Rosy. One day, God willing, she will be here still but me, my sister and my parents will all be gone. I cannot bear the loneliness of this thought for long because it usually isn't contextualized by the notion that she will be a grown woman with a family and friends of her own by then. I usually quickly shift my mind elsewhere when it crops up, because to me my niece will always be my little Rosy.

I suppose I also enjoyed the visit this weekend because the death of Natasha Richardson had been weighing on my mind quite a lot. Like most people, I can't get over the almost flippant quality the circumstances of her death have taken on. It's hard to fathom that one wrong spill on the bunny hill is all it takes.

I remember when I arrived in New York City in early 1993 that we were all abuzz with the fact that Natasha Richardson and Liam Neeson were starring in Anna Christie. Tickets, particularly for poor students were a complete no hoper and I was disappointed. At the same time, if I'm honest, I was also jealous. I coveted her family connections [which is ironic considering that by all accounts, Ms. Richardson moved to New York to escape them] because I saw them as a ticket to the artistic life I was working so desperately hard to have.

The closest I have ever gotten to a Redgrave was when we got free tickets from school to go see Shakespeare for My Father, Lynn Redgrave's one woman show. It was simply a tour de force, absolutely wonderful and afterwards, a group of us waited in the front lobby to perhaps catch a glimpse of her and wave hello.

Not only did we get to say hello, but she autographed my Playbill. I still have it. I will never forget how gracious Lynn Redgrave was. I'm sure she was exhausted, but still she took time to give us autographs, ask us about school, and generally just let us bask, if just for a moment, in the light she gave off.

I get emotional about this because I've heard in news commentary so many others speaking of Natasha Richardson in this same vein. Many reference her warmth, her great laugh, her fierce love for her husband and children, her love of her craft. I think she was at once relatable and inspiring because she struck me as someone who was genuinely enviable for having made the best of their talents, for being someone who seemed comfortable in their own skin. It was refreshing to encounter this in an era of celebrities famous for being wealthy, attending parties, or in general, just behaving badly. It has seemed unbearably cruel to see someone so competent and exceptional at what they do taken in their prime.

It is whimsy at its worst, so I take in the good moments as much as I can, these moments at my grandmother's, spending time with my parents the rest of the day, hearing more funny stories about my niece, having the Marine and my cats to come home to when the day is done.

No matter what else I may ever want out of my life, I have already been given so much. It's important to remember that.