​     On a sunny late January day in a crowded park, I told a stranger to fuck off.  And two days later, my heart thanked him.

My rottweiler, Monty, couldn't walk too far after a diagnosis of bone cancer on November 27, but he was social and I had a strong desire to take him to Stanley Park, to enjoy the sun and say hello to dogs. 

Stanley Park had been my place for peace and healing and I needed it too. I was exhausted. I was emotionally low. We hung out for an hour but only one dog walked by. And as I thought about nine years of shared good times in the park, my sunglasses could no longer hide my tears. It was time to go.

As I walked towards my car, a man sitting on the ledge watched Monty limp by and asked, "What's wrong with your dog?" 

"Um, he's got a tumor in his leg,” I said. 

"Is there an operation for that?" 

"No." 

"So you want to leave him like that?" he asked.

"Pardon me?" 

"You're just going to leave him like that?” he said, “why don't you take him to the doctor?" 

His words lunged and tackled me in the gut. My face burned as my vision narrowed on this man’s face. I no longer cared that 4-year-olds were playing within arm’s reach. I no longer cared that the seawall was wall-to-wall happy people. I saw the thousands of dollars – six and counting – that I had spent in the last six weeks, the ten-hour road trips for specialized veterinary care, the loss of income for closing my business for two months. All done with commitment and pure love, and, regretting none of it. 

"You have no fucking idea what I've done. Take him to the doctor? Fuck off. Fuck you. FUCK...YOU!" 

I yanked Monty to the car as I swiped at the tears that dripped off my lower cheeks. “Monty, c’mon, please!”

I clenched the steering wheel as I sped to West Vancouver’s Ambleside beach.  Monty needs dogs!  A few dogs came near but walked around Monty to go to the dog park. 

C’mon dogs! Come say hello to my dog! Please!

A lady walked towards Monty and he suddenly stood up, looked at her and wagged his stumpy tail. “Oh, and who are you waiting for?” she asked Monty with a big smile. Monty leaned into her legs.

“Apparently you!”  I said.  

"Oh, what a sweetie, is he okay?"

I didn't want to tell the story. I didn’t want to keep the cancer story alive. And if I opened my mouth, I’d cry. 

“Um, he's had cancer but I wanted to focus on his wellness now, he loves dogs, I wanted to bring him around other dogs--" 

And I burst into tears. 

“We’ve all been there,” she said as she looked me in the eyes and put her hand on my shoulder.

"I was okay until, just, right, now,” I said as I smiled and swiped under my sunglasses.  

She gave me a hug.

“Thank you,” I said. 

“He’s beautiful, enjoy him,” she said as she walked away. 

Monty and I drove the twenty minutes home. I picked him up and laid him on my bed. I stayed on my bed with him the rest of the day, that night and the next day too. I balanced quiet time with reading and watching movies on my laptop.   

I thought of the man-in-the-park. I told myself that he deserved my outburst. But that didn’t feel good.

Because it wasn’t true. 

I cannot control other peoples’ comments, only my feelings, my reactions, to them. I knew that if I reacted strongly, it was because it had triggered something within me.  

Why did I react so strongly to the man-in-the-park? 

I thought of my first homeopathic appointment I attended a few weeks before. While I’ve used homeopathy as part of Monty’s total health care, I never considered it for myself. A friend had mentioned a recent homeopathic seminar she had attended and the next day, I found myself in the offices of homeopath, Susan Drury. I had a general request for help with fluctuating emotions related to Monty's declining health, but I wasn't sure exactly why I was there. I suddenly remembered a question she had asked:

“I wonder what’s coming up that needs to be healed?” she said. 

Did I feel I wasn’t doing enough for Monty’s care? No. I was clear in my intentions and decisions I’d made for Monty. 100% percent. Fully committed.

As I rested beside Monty, I asked aloud again, “was this about Monty?”

No. 

What was this about?

What was coming up that needed to be healed?

"Okay, heart, I'm open to what this is about," I said.

Your Mom. 

Mom?

Did I not do enough for my mom?

My chest braced against the boulder that pinned me to the bed. My hand shot to my mouth and stuffed my cries back in my mouth. Tears leapt from my eyes. I yanked my wool comforter over my head. 

Myyy... Mom?

My bed shook for one or two minutes as I hid under my covers and wailed. 

My mom died in 2006. I wrote about us in My Mother’s Daughter. 

I whipped open my laptop and re-read the story. Again.  And again.

In the middle of the story, I wrote: 

“But after five years, my help wasn’t helping. So I distanced myself – maybe too much. I was sad when she lost her apartment, her business, her beloved sailboat. But I kept saying no. Even when an emergency room nurse said, ‘what kind of daughter are you, you won't pick up your mom?’  The worst kind I guess, but I don’t know what else to do.”

The italics. The only sentence written in present tense. 

I didn’t do enough. 

I wasn’t enough. 

Whoa.

How could I possibly allow in life's goodness if I had a deeply held belief of unworthiness? 

Let it go. 

I hugged Monty and wept for three hours. I let it all go. 

My tears evaporated. The boulder on my chest floated away. My hands unclenched and I stroked Monty's ear.  

I loved my mom and I did the best I knew how. It was enough.

I am enough. 

Yes. 

It's okay to Shine. I will allow light to Shine through me, around me and back into me too. 

Thank you for sharing your light, Monty. 

And thank you, man-in-the-park. 


Postscript: Monty passed away a week later on January 30th due to neurological complications of osteosarcoma... after two months, I'm beginning to share my stories again. 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------Thanks for reading my story, truly. If this theme resonated with you, I've written more in Standing On Life's Teeter-Totter.
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© 2013 Michelle Sevigny. www.michellesevigny.com. Reprint permission granted with full copyright intact.
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​

​     “It never rains in Ireland, that’s a myth,” Larry said as he walked the sun beam to our table and set down our teapot. 

Larry’s 1950’s-style, white, terrycloth half-apron protected his blue and white pinstriped dress shirt, hot pink sweater vest and dark grey, dress pants. His white hair tussled up for the third day. 

He made repeated visits -- in through one doorway and out another -- to deliver maple syrup, hot water and cutlery to four other people in the living room-turned-dining room. Mrs Fawlty? Mannn-uel? 

We had found Larry through a free reservation service at Failte Ireland's tourist information centre that we just happened to drive by after arriving into town. 

At 6:45pm. 

On a Friday night.

By the 7pm closing time, we had two nights booked for a twin room, on-site parking and walking distance to Galway city centre and Salthill Beach. All within our low budget of 25 euros each (about $32 CDN--convert). After we stalked the residential area, a woman in a Jaguar guided our rented Kia straight to our destination:

Dun Roamin Bed and Breakfast.

“It was our seventh house, and we were done roaming,” Larry said as he greeted us at the front door.

Our room, #3 of four, was at the top of the hip-width stairs. Down the hall, an open linen closest, white towels and sheets stacked like documents on a lawyer’s desk. Our windows opened to a dead-end street out front. Sun. Birds. Flowers. We had squished past the armoir with a 12" TV on top and flung our bags on the beds and keys on the linen-covered nightstand that separated them. Our 70’s green bathroom had an intermittent shower, not from lack of water, but from my elbows smacking the lever off every time I turned around in the phone booth-sized space.

Grandma's house. 

My travelling buddy, Kate, and I ate in silence as our minds processed the three-day backload of Galway memories.

Walking cobbled stones of Druid Street. 

Flipping coins to buskers with border collies named Keltie and Casey -- “after the randiest Bishop in Ireland!” Casey being disgraced Bishop Eamon Casey, who resigned in 1992 after fathering a son with an American divorcee.

Giggling and connecting with locals at the Tíg Coílí pub as a fiddler, bodhran drummer and acoustic guitarist jammed in the corner. “My country has a place called TOE HEAD?” asked Val, short for Valentine. "That's an unusual name for an Irish man, where's it come from?" I asked. "I don't know, my mom died 42 years ago and I never asked her," he said. 

Drinking Guiness at The Dail Bar. Darting into the Skeff pub to avoid a spontaneous downpour. Chips at McDonagh’s. Rolling our eyes at the green/white/orange fridge magnets and shot glasses in Quay Street shops. People-watching in Eyre Square. And following seagulls to beached fishing boats along the River Corrib. 

We finished the last of our breakfast -- scrambled eggs, half a tomato, two pieces of white toast cut on the diagonal and a slice of cantaloupe served on white china with cutlery from three different sets -- and pushed back from the table. 

As I shuffled towards the hallway, I looked again at the photos that were displayed on each wall and every shelf. Larry. Teenaged children in graduation caps and gowns. Christmas gatherings. Babies held in parents' arms.  

And a 3" x 4" snapshot of Elvis Presley.

I looked closer at Elvis. Then at Larry in his pink sweater vest.

“Hey, Larry? Is this, you?”

“Oh yes yes, in the south,” Larry said. 

“You’re performing?”

“Oh yes yes, I do wedding and parties,” he said, “thunk you, thuuunk-youverymuuch. 

It wasn’t bed head. 

It was rock n roll rebellion.

We gathered up our jackets and when I moved my bag, Larry’s concert sign peeked out from behind a small table. "Elvis Lives!"

While Larry wrote up a receipt, I looked closer at the watercolours that I admired on the first day. All three were signed with a two-letter signature in the bottom right-hand corners.

“Hey, Larry? Who’s Jo?” 

“My late wife, it’s short for Josephine,” he said and glanced at the lone 1950’s black and white photograph at the end of the hallway. “Buht her real name wuhz Pruhscilluh.”

“Larry, I bet you are the best Elvis impersonator in Ireland, eh?” I said.

“Thunk you, thuunk-youverymuuch. You a smaht luhdy,” Larry said as he walked us outside. “Lut’s get uh photo, wu’ll prutund it’s Gruhcelund,” he said as he stood in his front doorway. 

As I looked at Larry through my camera, I wanted to stay. I wanted to stay and hear stories about Elvis and Josephine. 

Go. Sometimes paths are meant to cross briefly. There will be more. 

Yes. Larry's story was a tidbit, a little something for the road – an fear gorta  --  as an Irish-speaking shopkeeper taught me when I darted in to buy a chocolate bar.

I stuffed my camera into my pocket and jumped into the driver’s side – the right side! the right side! -- of our Kia Ceed. Kate and I waved goodbye and I watched in the rearview mirror as Larry held his right hand high in the air. 

And his hips swiveled left, his knees right. 

Just a wee bit. 


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© 2013 Michelle Sevigny. www.michellesevigny.com. Reprint permission granted with full copyright intact.
Photo by Michelle Sevigny

“I’m going computer shopping,” said my friend Amanda, “want to come?”

My real 17” laptop died – okay, okay, I pounded on the keys in a stressful fit one night and sort of killed the hard drive -- and I’ve been creating on an ant-sized netbook for the past 2 years. It has Microsoft Office 1983. The speakers have been taken hostage by thugs. The mouse ditched its pad. The battery is a resident senior who will die if I leave my home office. The fan is in pain. And my David Blaine wanna-be fingers cause paragraphs to disappear as they feel for keys on the three-quarter-sized keyboard. 

My heart spoke. 

Go.  

“Um, my computer is okay, but I’ll come hang out,” I said.

We walked into the computer department of London Drugs and I bee-lined for the markdown table. I played on the full-sized keyboards. Laptops $399. When did computers get so cheap?

Daniel approached us.  Poor soul. 

“Can I help you guys with anything?” he asked. 

“Uh, hi Daniel, yes please, um, I’m not really into buying something today but, you know, if I was looking at computers, could you just crawl into my head and decide which computer would be perfect for me?” I asked. 

Daniel smiled. 

He’s your guy.

 “Ok, we’ve got these marked down and others on the shelves back there,” said Daniel.  

“Hey Daniel, I'm thinking a full-size laptop with a 15” screen, fast, with a long battery life, is under three pounds, thin so portable, has a simple design that is not distracting , no extra coloured ink for the French keys and oh, no loud fan, definitely no loud fan.”

Ok, maybe I have thought about it.

Yours is here. 

He led us to the back of the store and pointed out the computers on the top shelf. “These are called solid state, there are no moving parts, so fast, lightweight and quiet.

I stood on my tippy toes and smiled at a solid black sculpture that was as thin as the glass shelf it sat on. 

“What are you looking at,” screamed my mind, “you’re not shopping and definitely not up here!”

I landed on my heels like an Olympic gymnast and lowered my eyes to the waist-high shelf. Yeah, these computers were fine. They’d do.  

I typed on the keyboard of a $399 Panasonic that had black keys with red and blue ink that beamed like police emergency lights. Sunglasses? I picked up a Hewlett-Packard that weighed the same as one of my veterinary textbooks – all 2392 pages of it. Bicep curls?

Amanda grabbed the Panasonic  that sat next to mine -- she didn’t mind its colourful keys. 

“Hey, Amanda, can you hold this Asus for me?” I typed a few words. 

This is the one. 

I put it back. 

“These are the new Windows 8 priced at $1095 but we still have them with Windows 7 for $829,” Daniel said, “and I could give you an even better deal if you both wanted them.”

Daniel, Amanda and I chatted for twenty minutes about availability, warranties, return policy and store hours. 

It’s the one. 

“Um, Amanda, I’d like to go sit with this for a moment,” I said. 

We walked a block and settled into a cafe booth to chat. 

“I know that Asus laptop is the one yet I still go to the sales table.  I’ve never had such a nice computer. My mind is sitting right here between us, yelling at me to get off the top shelf,” I said. 

“Is it the money?”  

“Oh you know me well” I said, "I know I use that excuse a lot." 

“You don’t have a TV, you don’t have many things at all yet you work on your computer all day, every day, it’s your job.” Amanda said. 

Listen. 

“I know, it’s not about the money, it's something else,” I said. 

“Real computers are for real writers,” teased my mind. 

Ouch. 

Heart? 

There’s space for everyone on the top shelf. 

We walked back into London Drugs and five minutes later we each had a cardboard box in our arms. 

"Hey Daniel, you've been awesome, thank you," I said, "did you have as much fun dealing with us as we had fun buying from you?"

Daniel smiled. 

I got home, dimmed the lights, lit a few candles and held the box in my lap.  An Asus Zenbook. The purple and black box was nicer than my old computer. I removed the brown leather-like sleeve -- it has its own case too! This model was slightly different -- stainless steel grey – and could cause around-the- block-line-ups at the MoMA. 

I glanced at the empty top shelf of my book case. 

It’s yours. Use it. 

I charged the battery. I downloaded software. I transferred files. I changed the default settings. I personalized the desktop. And my dog, Monty, licked the screen. 

Then it was mine. 

-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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© 2012 Michelle Sevigny. www.michellesevigny.com. Reprint permission granted with full copyright intact.
Photo by me.