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My parents are out of town living their retirement dreams in Bali at the moment. I don't begrudge them their travel at this stage of their lives - my dad has really started to show signs of his age over the pandemic and I want him to enjoy travel and the retirement that he deserves. But I would be lying if I said I wasn't disappointed to be spending Christmas alone for the third year in a row (thanks for nothing, Covid!) Being an only child with no cousins who I'm close to, and being a single woman, the reality of an "orphan Christmas" in my future is very real and a little frightening. I am an introvert - yes - but the thought of being truly "alone" is disheartening, to say the least.
When a friend and her family very kindly invited me to join in on their Christmas dinner, I was relieved and grateful to accept it. To participate in someone else's warm and loving holiday dinner and fun is certainly much more enticing than spending it at home with my Korean take-out and only my (beloved!) cat for company. I have been looking forward to it and have been happy to share with co-workers and friends that I will not be alone for Christmas! Someone wants me to be a part of theirs! Isn't that great?
In the meantime, I have been performing my filial duties by driving to my uncle's house to shovel snow. It's a corner lot, which means extra sidewalk and back laneway to shovel. It has three decks, which means another extra hour. Every year when it snows, I tell my mom completely truthfully that I hate having to shovel this house and that I wish they'd sell it. With my grandparents' passing, there is now no longer a "family" that occupies it. My single, technically elderly uncle lives there alone. He does not cook, he does not clean, and he truly does not need a three-bedroom free-standing home all to himself, particularly in the current housing climate in this city. I would begrudge him less if he made any effort to learn these life-skills, but having been taken care of by his mother, then his wife, then his mother again, and now my parents, it's likely too late. It doesn't help that I have a complicated relationship with him, frustrated that as I grew older his treatment of me did not adjust accordingly. He is argumentative for the sake of "winning" debates that no one is interested in engaging in. Even when I have begged out of these unwanted debates, he does not relent until I have truly lost my cool, and then he plays the victim to my mom, because why would he deserve such an outburst like that? This was before the emotional meltdown I had at him over my grandmother and his refusal to accept her diagnosis of dementia. It has only gotten worse since then.
So yes, there is unfortunately a lot of resentment felt when I have to go over and shovel out the house he refuses to sell. And why does he refuse to sell it? Because - purportedly - he is keeping it to pass on to my cousin. My cousin who walked away from the family while I was in my first year of veterinary school. My cousin who reportedly has depression and is probably not doing anything to treat it. My cousin who is a widow at the age of 47 after just under 10 years of marriage to a woman who steadfastly refused to believe in the medical system and so passed away from breast cancer despite knowing her sister had been diagnosed with it (and survived with treatment) and finding a lump in her breast two years ago. My cousin who is - most pointedly - not here to live in and take care of this house.
A lot of complicated feelings.
Anyway, I shoveled out the house three times. Ryan (my mom's "kid" as I call him) also showed up twice, and my friend Lisa helped out once. I am ashamed to say that I am outwardly cold to my uncle, but it's almost a defense mechanism. If I don't engage with him, he doesn't have the opportunity to provoke me into one of his stupid "debates". My mood significantly improved with the appearance of my friend, but quickly soured when I introduced her as "my friend from Trek" (a high school outdoor program we both attended) and my uncle responded "But you weren't in Trek". Not a question, not asking for clarification about whether I had been in Trek and he had forgotten. He was so certain that he was right that he argued with me about my own life, even when I tried to correct him and laugh it off.
He invited me to stay for dinner, after having made Ryan drive across Vancouver in the cold and ice to deliver it to him. I declined.
When it snowed again on Friday, I had to shovel my way out of my apartment building (with another exercise in frustration with an old man) and asked my uncle NOT to shovel and to try calling 311 to see if they could organize a volunteer for him. He - of course - didn't listen. When I showed up he had cleared part of the sidewalk. And while I should be, I don't know, grateful?, that he did something on his own, I was more peeved that he could have injured himself and that could have resulted in a visit to the doctor or the ER and for me to "take care" of him. But I finished the rest of the sidewalks while he trailed me telling me how I was obviously doing "the easier stuff" that people had walked on. I finished the front path, the stairs, then moved to go into the house to do the porches. He told me not to do them.
Charitably, I know that it's his way of trying to be kind. He doesn't want me to do more than I need to. But in my mind, I am already here. I have made the drive out to shovel the house out and his not been easy. The drive back to my apartment will not be fun. If I am here, I might as well do things right and prevent the likelihood of my needing to return in icy conditions. The snow today is heavy, I explain. Freezing rain is in the forecast, which can make things worse. If we don't clear the snow and ice, the drains could get clogged and we could have issues with flooding. He tells me I'm wrong and everything will just melt. Exasperatedly, I tell him it's his house so he can do whatever he wants then.
I move on to start shoveling out the back laneway and he tries to stop me again. I explain that to safely LEAVE, I need to shovel this out as I do not plan to ping-pong down the icy death-trap that is the completely untouched back and side streets in this neighbourhood. I also point out that if he is planning to leave the house (which I had strongly recommended he not do), he will need this area shoveled as well, as does the rest of the people who live on this block. Finally, I note that it had already been cleared on the Tuesday when I came by, which means that the neighbour behind us had probably done it the previous days, and doesn't Jeff deserve a break too? My uncle tries to argue that Jeff doesn't have to shovel as much since he doesn't live on a corner lot, as if I didn't already know that having shoveled three times.
When I was finally done, my uncle asked me what my plans are for Christmas. I froze for a second, my mind racing through "he might want me to spend it with him" and "I should probably offer to spend it with him" and "I really do not want to spend Christmas with him". I have plans already, that are going to be fun and warm and happy. If I spend Christmas with my uncle, I have no idea what we'll eat (I haven't cooked for him since he ate ALL the curry I made for him once, leaving no lunch for me, and then turned around and complained to me about my cooking), and I know it will not be a fun and warm and happy time. I quickly tell him I have been invited to a friend's family dinner that I am planning to attend. I am needlessly brusque when he presents me with a $100 gift card to the mall again. I don't shop often, I don't need things, and these cards collect dust in my apartment. I tell him I appreciate the gesture, but please don't get me anything anymore, I don't need it. He has the grace to smile and tell me to gift it to someone who does then. I wish him a Merry Christmas, tell him to be safe, and leave.
My mom tells me people say I'm a "good kid" for shovelling the snow for him. I tell her how actively resentful I am for having to do it. That resentment is actively growing every year, I can feel it.
My friend Meghan texts me and I mention that I've had to go shovel at my uncle's house that day.
Meghan: Did you see Malcolm?
Me: I'm not aware that he's in town
Meghan: He told me he was coming for the holidays
Me: First I've heard of it
Meghan: That would be weird if he came and didn't tell your uncle and mom?
Me: I mean, it's possible they just haven't told me. And my mom is in Bali anyway
Meghan: He said he was coming the 21st
Me: Maybe his flight got cancelled. Anyway, I have no idea
I hate how emotionally riled up I immediately become with any mention of my cousin. I think it's the same defense mechanism I use with my uncle, I have to not care because I've felt so hurt and I don't want to be in that state again. But immediately, the possibility that he is in town and either 1) my mother has purposely not made me aware of it or 2) my mother is not aware of it herself is upsetting to me, particularly with everything she has done for him this year. The third possibility (he is not in town and lied to my friend) seems less likely. So! My feelings about having to shovel this house have become significantly more resentful.
Today, Meghan showed up to return my Harry Potter want and drop off some cookies. She pointedly asked if I would spend time with my uncle. As someone who has complicated relationships with her own immediate family, I'm surprised that she would care. I tell her that no, I'm going to a friend's place for Christmas instead. When she asks why, I tell her that I have made the choice not to be actively miserable on Christmas. My uncle and I are not a point where we enjoy each other's company anymore, and I don't want to spend my Christmas arguing with him and increasing my already growing resentment towards him.
But, of course, now I feel guilty.
Maybe there's no reason for it. Perhaps Malcolm is in town and he can spend Christmas with his son and they can try not making each other miserable. There's a possibility he could spend it with his on-again-off-again girlfriend of some twenty-odd years and her daughters. I would have absolutely hated spending time with her, that's for certain. She shares that same unearned, self-assured smugness that I dislike so much in my uncle. The two of them together is almost unbearable.
God, I hate that it is always my family (my uncle and my cousin and my dearly departed grandma) that always drive me to needing more therapy. It's not an expense that I really want to pay for, but I think if things keep spiraling in my head like this, I'll have to consider it.
But hey, I have Disneyland in January. Maybe if I hold out until then, that infuriatingly effective Disney Magic can fix me instead.
a) Just because my feelings are hurt does not necessarily mean circumstances have anything to do with me
b) If prioritizing something extracurricular brings me more stress and upset than positive feelings, then I probably should consider re-evaluating it's importance to me
I will still give myself room to have and experience these feelings, I am only human after all! But I should be able to let it go after that. Leaving it to fester has never and will never be productive.
This didn't mean I started watching a plethora of Hong Kong features afterwards. It was hard to find any in the rapidly dying Blockbusters, the bootleg DVDs in the tiny, cramped shops of Chinese strip malls in Richmond could not be trusted to have reliable and accurate subtitles, and trying to find an active torrent seemed an impossibility. Besides, where would I even start? My parents are hardly cinephiles and I didn't have a friend-group or community to glean recommendations from. I made a point to drag my mother out to any release that featured Chinese actors or stories heavily - even sitting through the very uncomfortable sex scenes in Lust, Caution in theatres with her - but that was the extent of it. Unsurprisingly, I gravitated towards films that focused on the experience of second-generation immigrants and their experiences, including but not limited to Saving Face, My Wedding and Other Secrets, Double Happiness, Crazy Rich Asians, and The Farewell.
Today, in an attempt to have a better appreciation for Tony Leung's immense talents and charisma while not feeling comfortable enough to brave the cinemas for Marvel's newest installment - Shang-Chi and the Legend of the Ten Rings - I sought out a way to watch the much lauded In the Mood for Love instead. Glory Hallelujah but streaming sites (legitimate or not) have made it so much easier to access more obscure titles, and once I found a link for this movie I jumped on it. It was as visually gorgeous and lush and as emotionally wrought and mildly devastating as I have read about for many (many, many, many) years. I knew of course that for Tony Leung this is a performance that is widely noted as career-defining, having won him the acting award at Cannes. And he was as captivating as expected - much is made of his expressive eyes and it cannot be emphasized enough how incredibly true and accurate all of those plaudits really are. If anyone has a particularly effective longing smolder for the camera, it's him (the last scene in the movie and everything leading up to the culmination of it, ugh). What I didn't expect was how much more this is Maggie Leung's movie, how quietly heartbreaking she is in a way that his character is not quite. Seeing her on her lonely nightly sojourn for noodles, sitting and watching others play mahjong with polite (dis)interest, covering for her boss and his own infidelity, contemplating on how complicated marriage is and the contentment of being single and alone, worrying about the morality of the situation and what the neighbours will think as she seeks emotional comfort from the one person she knows understands her own hurt...
I expected even less to be so emotionally impacted by the Shanghainese influences peppered throughout the movie. The dialect of the landlady and the elderly house attendant, the clothing, the hair, the architecture and personality of the narrow building and the rain-soaked streets, the anxiety about the imminent political changes. These are my maternal grandparents' people in the city my mother grew up in. This time and place - in some ways - has a part in the history of my family roots that I have not seen demonstrated before because I've never gone looking for it.
Perhaps In the Mood for Love was a melancholy way to spend an afternoon, all in the pursuit of staring into Tony Leung's dreamboat gaze. But it turned out to be emotionally productive, one way or another.
(ETA: A summary of our family history as a result of my rekindled Tony Leung infatuation.)
Also. Maybe I need a vacation.
When someone is taking advantage of you?
When there are irreconcilable differences in morality?
When you no longer share anything in common?
I have mostly been lucky in life - aside from a few bumpy patches - to have good friends in my life. At a (very) young age I was guileless enough to be charming and had two very best friends in pre-kindergarten and as good a social-standing as you can have at that age of 4. Moving away to the other side of the country in the early 90's meant the end of those friendships; at such a young age with no easy way to keep in contact and likely would not have been worth the effort. I found myself in precarious social-standing at my new school in Vancouver, being one of the very few Asian children, but found myself two new very best friends for the year and we became our own little misfit trio. But in the days of elementary school, your friendships were very strongly dictated by who you shared a classroom with, and so friendships started and faded every year.
High school was tricky in the first year, when one of my very best friends from elementary school suddenly decided she didn't like me anymore. I was baffled and hurt and incredibly lonely that first year. I remember being left to watch a circle of various belongings - backpacks, lunchboxes, etc - as members of my "friend group" each peeled away to leave me there alone, pointedly not inviting me to join them. I felt like a social pariah until Elaine unceremoniously breezed into my life and decided we should be friends. She is my Best Bud Forever to this very day and I will never forget how in that one act, she probably single-handedly saved my high school experience.
I came away with a few new strong friendships in university and had cemented some existing ones into what I expect to be life-long friendships. Vet school brought more of the same, and I walked away from my time in Melbourne with some friendships that would have made the whole experience worthwhile even if nothing else had come from it. I will never forget the feeling of loss when I left Melbourne, that things would never be like this again. I will never forgot how Joy immediately started sobbing and how loved I felt in that moment.
As my mother often says, "I count my blessings" with the people in my life now. I am very lucky to have good friends who I know care for me and will go out of their way to show it. Now more than ever, I appreciate those who've taken the time to check in on me in the midst of this pandemic. One group of friends and I joke about investing in a mansion together in our old age and hiring a caretaker to tend to our fragile, crotchety selves.
I've had my share of friendships that fizzle out, as we all do. Life gets in the way, schedules and commitments make it difficult to connect, and sometimes people just naturally grow apart. There are some people that I am not in close, continuous contact with, but I know if I was ever in need of help that they would provide it without question, and vice versa. There are people I think fondly of, but have not spoken to in many, many years. Facebook - while not without its problems - enables me to keep up-to-date with some people in small ways. It makes us feel connected even when we are ostensibly not really involved in each other's lives.
And then, I have had some friendships I have chosen to "end" in recent years though. I have garnered a bit of a reputation for being nice and patient, but what many of my close friends know is that I have a long memory and the unfortunate habit of holding a grudge. I can let little things lie, but when "infractions" increasingly pile on, my patience can start to wear thin, given enough time and incidents. When someone manages to cross beyond my "tolerance" threshold, I find that I am often unable to cross back over and will actively stop prioritizing that person in my life. It is not an admirable trait and it's one that I have tried to curb, by learning to speak up sooner than later about things that make me uncomfortable or unhappy.
It is interesting that most of the friendships I have chosen to "end" in recent years have been with men. One was a newer friend I'd made in Australia, a guy in the army who I ran into at a pop culture convention and we bonded over our shared love for Battlestar Galactica. He was fun-loving and outgoing and the kind of geeky friend I needed in this new environment. But we increasingly fought over a number of things (even joking about our friendship-break-ups) as we clearly had numerous different values and outlooks on various topics. Where I lost my patience was the time he point-blank told me that being stressed over my final exams in vet school was small potatoes compared to being pregnant and going through childbirth, so I should learn to handle it better. I was further pushed over the edge when he posted that only those of a certain body-type should be allowed to participate in cosplay at conventions, as the "non-ideal body-types" in costume disgusted him. There was such a heavy layer of misogyny and privilege underlying his happy-go-lucky exterior. How could I be friends with someone like that?
Deciding to "end" a friendship with someone I've known since high school was tougher. But I'd put up with over a decade of him showing up 1-3 hours late, which became increasingly hard to interpret as anything but a blatant disrespect for my time over his. He would only call when he needed to purchase food for his dog and then would expect me to be available to personally deliver it to him at all hours, regardless of my own schedule and commitments. He would cancel plans at the very last minute, forget to show up for things he had arranged, and would rely on others to pay for his meals. He was never able to step outside himself and consider other people, something that was frustrating in a teenager and intolerable in an adult. The last straw for me was when he wanted a last minute delivery of a large bag of dog food, and then was unable to pick it up from me because he had an "emergency situation" where he had forgotten to renew his passport ahead of his trip to Asia the next day. He had once sent me to deliver food to his house before, swearing to me that he had called home to ensure someone was there to open the door and take the food. They weren't. Needless to say, the dog food stayed with me until his return and then I told him in no uncertain terms that I no longer had time to be his delivery person and the he needed to find his own source of dog food.
I am now struggling with someone I have considered a close friend in the past few years. By virtue of us both being single, we had become food buddies and hung out quite a bit as a result. It had been clear that we do not see eye-to-eye on many topics (I had said that if he still wanted to be friends, then politics was off the table because we disagreed on so many things) but overall he has been a kind, caring, and generous friend. When he wanted to adopt a senior dog, I was wary and told him so, but since he had a regular 9-5 job now, he felt up to the task. Then he want back to his old job of jet-setting around the world and working odd hours, leaving his senior dog in the care of his neighbour for months at a time. When he didn't show for an appointment he'd booked for his dog, I called him and he told me he was at the pharmacy and was running late. We booked another appointment and I called him fifteen minutes prior to remind him of the appointment. He told me he wouldn't be able to make it, that he was caught in a work emergency and I told him how upset I was that he was not only disrespecting my professional time, but he was actively taking away an appointment spot that we could have given to a sick patient. I told him in no uncertain terms that if he did not show up for the third appointment, that it would be a mark against our friendship. After being away for a few months, he flew back into Vancouver right as the 14 day self-isolation recommendations were announced by the government in light of the COVID-19 pandemic. He put out a plea for someone to deliver toilet paper to him, which I did. I was anxious, going into a high-rise and therefore high-occupancy building, but I did it because he's my friend. When he noted that his dog had been vomiting and no one was able or willing to bring him to the clinic to be seen, I offered to pick up his dog in the morning before my shift. He told me I had to call his neighbour, and I told him I was not comfortable calling someone I didn't know to try and pick up his dog, especially that early in the morning. This was his dog and therefore his responsibility, and I was doing him a favour. He begrudgingly agreed. When I dropped his dog off at his apartment that evening, he had a cleaning lady in his apartment. Despite the self-isolation recommendation, despite the fact that I had - on two occasions - put myself in a position that was scary at that time to help him, he had broken the self-isolation rules for his own purposes. I went home and cried to my mother on the phone. When I received the labwork results for his dog (they were all within normal), I reported them, ensured the dog was doing okay, and then I reamed him out for being irresponsible in breaking his quarantine. When he lamely argued that his cleaning lady had told him it was fine, I was even more upset that he refused to take responsibility for his part, that he was pushing it onto her, someone who needed to make a living when I know it is fully within his capability to pay her and ask her to come back when his quarantine was over. I told him that taking these unnecessary and selfish risks was putting people like my parents in danger. When his dog became ill again, he would text me later at night to tell me his dog had been sick all day, when I was already at home and could not do anything about it. Despite my personal frustrations with him, I felt badly about Frank and the situation; it's not easy to have a sick pet. When he made the decision to euthanize, I met them in the parking lot because our protocols prevented me from being in the hospital when I wasn't at work. I told him to call me if he needed to talk about his grief over Frank's loss. However, I was still not at the stage where I was comfortable with him as a friend anymore, especially with his purposely inflammatory posts on Facebook during the pandemic. It is reaching the stage where I question whether our differences in values and morality are at the stage where continuing the friendship is no longer viable. I was hoping tincture of time would let my emotions about my various grievances settle down, but his actions continue to fan the flames and I wonder if it's worth it. I'm starting to think it's not.
(Spoilers: I did not, and have yet to cancel the subscription.)
I loaded "My List" with a number of different movies and shows from this fancy new package that I wanted to prioritize, and to my credit I watched maybe... three of the movies in the first month? That has to count for something, when you take into consideration that My Brilliant Friend is eight one-hour episodes. I didn't add that many other series - I'm sometimes a bit leery of making that kind of commitment because so often it doesn't pan out. But when Anna Kendrick's face popped up on a poster advertising Love Life, I thought, "Sure, why not? She's aggressively likable, right?"
While I would hesitate to say I'm a rom-com person, I do like rooting for cute or intense or "obviously-meant-to-be" relationships. And as I've noted before, I do appreciate when relationships are portrayed in a way that emphasizes how much work needs to be put into them sometimes, the ups-and-downs. Love Life is... fine. For a person like me - a shy, square, and risk-adverse introvert who has only had two serious relationships, and that is a miracle in and of itself - I certainly can't relate to everything Darby goes through. But there were moments that made me remember the giddy feeling of beginning to love someone, the isolation and loneliness of break-ups, the sheer "how the fuck did I get here" feeling when someone turns out not to be what you thought and threatens to kill themselves when you try to leave.
Yup, that happened.
The episodes that hit me most were the ones that explored Darby's relationship with her mother and best friend. While they were some of the more melancholy entries in the series, I appreciated that they did emphasize the importance of non-romantic relationships and how they can affect our lives, how things can change; they can be healed and they can just as easily be broken.
The whole reason I'm making this entry though is really to document this one thing, this one fragment of such strong emotion I experienced in these "unprecedented time", unrelated to any of the romance mumbo-jumbo. It was Darby going to see Hamilton with an old high school flame at the Richard Rodgers Theatre. Seeing the crush of people lined up to get into the theatre, seeing the merchandising booth and Darby giddy with anticipation, seeing "The Room Where It Happens" packed with excited theatre-goers... it gave me goosebumps. I was there four years ago in that exact location, feeling that same giddiness, surrounded by complete strangers who shared in the anticipation. I almost teared up at the scene, thinking about how it was both an extraordinary but still normal experience, and how returning to that "normalcy" is so far away. It was absolutely a feeling of mourning.
Oof.
Back to the romantic side of things though, the narrator with her soothing British accent announces early on that the average person has seven relationships before they find "the one". Watching this show is making me realize this may never happen for me. I joke that I take it as a sign that COVID-19 hit just as I had re-installed a dating app on my phone and was actively making an effort to try and meet new people, if only because I felt stable and happy and like myself again. But COVID-19 makes that nearly impossible, and I am not going to jeopardize my own health, the health of my co-workers, the health of my friends and family, etc to try and meet "the one". On the one hand, I have never really prioritized romantic relationships and I am not the kind of person to put myself "out there". I have said on many occasions (and truly believe) that I have never been miserable they way I am when a relationship is going south vs when I'm single. I am comfortable with my own company - and that of my cat, of course - though I may find it a little boring. But I am not unhappy.
I don't know if that's enough, but for now it will have to be.
Started the day a bit teary when my mom called from her trip in Europe to wish me a happy birthday and ask what I had planned. I could hear her disappointment that I had nothing special on the docket.
Received some nice messages from friends, including a harmonized song from The Best Friend Family.
Was treated to a nice "Happy Birthday" song from the work-family and a very cute Minnie Mouse card, where lovely things were written down.
Had a fairly breezy day at work until I had to perform a humane euthanasia on a young dog who presented as non-responsive.
C'est la vie.
Like the famous Mr. Darcy, I can't recall the exact moment it started but "I was in the middle before I knew that I had begun." I had a few "WInnie the Pooh" books as a child and grew up completely under the thrall of Disney, so the inhabitants of the 100 Acre Woods have been part of my life for as long as I remember. I can say for certain that I was earnestly fond of him in my preteen years and (probably rightfully) gained a reputation among friends about being a bit of an Eeyore afficionado from there. People have asked why, and I'm not sure that I've ever been able to pinpoint it.
"He's just so cute!" I would say, not sure how to verbalize that rush of real affection I would feel when I saw a particularly great representation of Eeyore, whether as a cup, a plush animal, a figurine, etc. It's the kind of emotion one feels when faced with tiny kittens or puppies, that squeezing of your heart when you want to love and protect something. I have amassed a small but significant collection of Eeyore items over the years, some that I purchased myself and others being gifts from various friends and family. It reached a point where I had to beg people to stop buying me Eeyore items and was forced to aggressively curate what I had to a more manageable - and meaningful - size.
Of course, much has been made over the years about what your favourite Winnie-the-Pooh character may say about you as a person. I never put much stock into that because Eeyore was a melancholy figure, and that was never a word that I associated with myself. My love for Eeyore was something I felt was a constant in my life, yes, but in the same superficial way that I love mangoes and the colour blue. Eeyore was always something that brought me back to feeling like a child again, when life was less complicated and more carefree. I nearly cried when the Eeyore mascot was out and about at Disneyland as a 21 year-old, knowing full-well that it was an adult in costume. It didn't matter; being able to interact with Eeyore and take a picture with him meant something to me. I begrudge the Disney Company a lot of things, but the magic and joy that their theme parks inspire is not one of them.
I laughingly tell people that the only reason I bothered to seek out the art museum during my 48 hours in Boston was because of the Winnie-the-Pooh exhibit they had on. Instead of posting pictures of the beautiful sights of that city, I waxed poetic about a very sweet Eeyore-centered greeting card I had found in a retail pharmacy store. My friends "ambushed" me in LA with a fairly big Eeyore-plush that I had to wrestle into my carry-on suitcase. I was "that Eeyore-friend" who had a quirky obsession with a childhood character.
Then these past few months hit.
To be clear, this is not my first foray into a state of desolation. Like so many people, I had my share of growing pains through my adolescence. I spent most of my first and last years in high school in a state of misery, and in my second year of university the stress from studies and my friend-group's specific social situation drove me to pinching myself to the point of bruising for some kind of release. A sudden break-up in my second year of veterinary school landed me in a sleepless state of distress, so much so that my family flew me home for two weeks during our short "winter" break. My first year of being a veterinarian saw me in a general state of despondence from the overwhelming pressure I felt.
This feels different though. In those other situations, there was a specific cause for my emotional state. These were things that would either be resolved with action or time. Of course, an argument could be made that I am still wrestling with some level of grief, but I'm not sure. It does feel like if it hadn't been for this confluence of events, I may have moved on like always. But they did happen and I feel... broken. Like I'm not sure what action can fix this or if time will have an effect. What if this new state of sadness is just who I am now?
I look at Eeyore now, and I see myself reflected back. I see a creature who isolates himself, who doesn't expect anyone to notice or care about him, who maybe isn't worth being noticed or cared about, and is resigned to his reality. He'll join in on the fun or gatherings when invited, and he hopes for but simultaneously never expects the invitation in the first place. He wants to be loved, but also rebuffs it because he doesn't trust it. And sometimes his friends don't come through, but sometimes they do.
Here's the thing - I love Eeyore. I've loved him for so long, not seeing any kind of connection. So maybe if I can love Eeyore as much as I do, I can forgive myself for sharing some of his depressive and pessimistic traits, right? Besides, he's not all doom and gloom and neither am I. He has his moments of sweetness and insight.
I suppose only time will tell.
After two weeks of feeling like I was taking steps towards being in a better state of mind, that things were moving in the right direction, it took ten minutes in my session today for me to be disabused of that notion.
I am on a high from finding something that makes me feel better, but it's not fixing my "core negative beliefs", apparently.
I walked away disappointed that I was feeling this level of upset and distress again. I almost felt angry, "Why am I paying $140 to feel this way?"
I know she's not wrong, but it's a tough pill to swallow. Especially as "mindfulness" still feels like such a foreign concept to me. I tried it for a week and ended in a full meltdown at work. "Paying attention to how the body feels" is difficult for me to wrap my head around. And it is so hard to find the time to "practice mindfulness" in my job, when I am so often working through my lunch breaks and putting out fires between appointments.
But.... I will try. If she really thinks it will help with my anxiety at work, that's the least I owe myself.
I woke up three days ago with tight, painful shoulders and neck muscles which did not abate with warm packs, warm baths, or my poor attempt at massaging them myself. It's like my body is fighting me as I'm trying to work on addressing my emotional mess at this time. I gave it three days and woke up this morning still painful and determined to find a registered massage therapist appointment for today. Of course I realize that trying to get a same-day appointment as a new client is a bit of a fool's errand, but I had to try! The idea of not doing anything about it for another four days was terrifying. Thank goodness for the internet and the convenience of "online booking"! I was able to find an appointment not too far away and dragged myself in to be expertly kneaded.
Let it be known that I am taking this whole "self-care" thing seriously!
Feeling slightly looser than when I arrived, I tackled the remainder of my chores and then rewarded myself with take-out sushi and a lazy afternoon and an Epson salt bath, making sure to "hydrate" myself as per the massage therapist's recommendations. We'll see how this week goes, but I am doing my best to aggressively wrangle my current scattered state into submission via rigorous organization and planning, amidst the very welcome but not-inconsiderable amount of socializing I did, what with visits out to PoCo and dinner with friends before they're off to Taiwan in advance of the birth of their daughter.
I did also manage to slip a bit of sweetness back into my life in the form of Pushing Daisies. That show has been my go-to comfort television since I first fell head-over-heels for it in 2008, and the bright-coloured whimsy, snappy dialogue, and Lee Pace's face have softened me up a little. It was just such a lovely show and I will always have a place in my heart for it. One day it will get its own proper write-up in this journal, even though I have devoted many written words to it already in my university years!
While the therapy sessions themselves are mostly me vomiting up my emotions and first-world problems, they are at the very least motivating me to try and get my life together. I'm going to try and use my new bullet journal to keep me accountable for my emotional state as well as the state of my apartment. Too often being in a funk means that chores and cooking fall by the wayside, and I really do need to get better at it after making what little headway I've gained in the past year. I haven't quite gotten there yet, but there are plans! Bullet journaling is very much out of my wheelhouse, after all, so it's going to take some getting used to!
But, I am proud of what I've accomplished so far and I hope that I can continue to use this as a tool to track (and improve!) my mental health until I no longer "need" it!
After two days of deep-breathing my way through a heightened sense of anxiety, all it took was me feeling like I was out of my depth and had once again made the wrong recommendation in trying to aspirate a suspected mass in the left anal sac of a sedated patient. With three of the clinic staff watching, I burst into tears.
Everyone was so kind.
My technician reached out to reassure me and told me it was okay to cry.
My ward nurse - the lovely woman we call Mama - gave me a hug and told me that I was their sweetheart and that they loved me.
My other ward nurse told me this was the first time she'd seen me break down and she's seen everyone do it. She told me to cry it out and that it was okay.
Another technician gave me a big hug and told me that this was my body's way of saying that it had enough, that I needed to do what was necessary to take care of myself.
One of my bosses sat me down, blocked off the rest of my day, and told me that any time I needed to talk - whether at work, over a coffee, whatever I needed - she was there for me.
Two of the staff members went to buy me a drink and a bunch of goodies from the shop around the corner to share with everyone at the clinic.
My other boss sat me down, apologized for not being good at pep talks, but reiterated that he would have done everything I did for my patient who passed away, that he thinks I am a good veterinarian and he values how dedicated I am to the job and my patients. He told me he is always available for a drink, a coffee, or dinner, and that if I am dreading coming to work at any point, he needs to know so he can help me.
Everyone reacted positively to me saying I had started therapy to help with my lack of sleep, that it was a culmination of some grief and guilt over my grandma along with some difficult and sad cases.
They were all so kind and made me feel so supported.
I am so lucky to work here.
In some ways, it feels like the culmination of everything that happened last month is still weighing on me. I haven't been able to pull myself together, not entirely anyway. It all came to a head last Friday morning. I had just spent thirteen hours at work the day before and dealt with a particularly sad case of a senior cat who deteriorated quickly from renal failure and having to walk a family with two young boys through the process of humane euthanasia when they weren't emotionally prepared to say goodbye. Suffice it to say, it was awful. I was prepared to drive down to Seattle to visit much-loved friends that Friday morning, but I woke up in tears after a restless "sleep".
One phonecall later to my mother, I was much calmer. I had decided to follow my friend's advice to seek out a therapist to see if I could get a handle on my work stress and anxiety, which is no doubt affecting my ability to sleep. I managed to finish a few chores that desperately needed doing, and then packed lightly for my short jaunt to Seattle. True, I set out on the road three to four hours later than my usual routine, but minor traffic issues aside, it was well worth it to not be an emotional mess.
This week has been a tough one at work. I had two end-stage renal dysplasia cases fall in my lap in one day - effectively doubling my experience with this condition in one go. The stress of both of these cases weighed on me heavily this week, with one scheduled for humane euthanasia, and the other culminating in the sudden and tragic passing of the pet in-hospital before the owners could say goodbye. I was heartbroken over both, but especially devastated over the latter. When my boss kindly called me to give me the news and reassure me that he would have done everything I did in trying to give this pet a fighting chance, I broke down in tears. It felt like a failure in so many ways. I had failed to ease the suffering of my patient. I had failed to give his family a chance to say their last goodbyes. I had failed.
If I had my choice, I would not have had my first therapy session today. I was a complete and utter mess, so emotionally fragile with what little confidence I had completely shattered. But the appointment was made, and so I went. There was mostly a lot of (very ugly) crying on my end. I expressed that I just want to sleep better, to develop a thicker skin, to learn to manage my stress and anxiety about work better. I was told that she was hearing a lot of self-criticism and judgement. What I got in terms of tools to use was not what I expected - mindfulness. My therapist asked if I was familiar with it, and I admitted that I wasn't. She asked me if I paid attention to my body and I really, honestly had no idea what she meant. I'm sure that I carry a lot of tension, but I don't feel it. Other than the occasional 3-day headaches, I don't feel any pain or tightness. My body and how it feels is the least of my concerns during my day.
I left with instructions to practice "mindfulness", to breathe deep, to focus on the moment with no judgement.
I am only a step above utterly confused.
My therapist would like to see me weekly until she feels that I have a handle on myself at work. I never anticipated that I would need weekly therapy, but at this point I feel emotionally in shambles, and my parents will also be away for a month. If ever there was a time that I would probably need it, it's now. This is the most extravagant thing I have ever spent money on myself for. And in some ways, it does feel like an "extravagance" for me, a person who is financially stable with a good job, a loving family, and very tolerant friends. How do people do it when they truly need it, especially when it is not covered under extended benefits? But that is a topic for another time.
In any case, I am committed to trying this out. So I am taking this "homework assignment" to heart and trying something new:
Bullet Journaling.
This is something I've always looked on with vague interest but never pursued because of my lack of artistic ability and my fear of making mistakes with the permanence of ink. But hey, at this point it's worth a try. We'll see how this venture goes.
When given the opportunity, I like to take my mom out and "pamper" her in what small ways I can. Whether it's a musical, a spa day, or a simple dinner, I like to make time for the two of us to catch up and to express my appreciation for her. And now that I have a stable income, she is much more likely to cave in and say yes.
(As an aside: I like to try and "pamper" my dad as well, but he's always a hard sell. Paul McCartney's coming to town for a concert? But why would he want to see Paul McCartney, he's not The Beatles! Tickets to the Seahawks game are available? He'd much rather watch the game from the comfort of his own living room anyway. How about going to White Spot for a burger? Eh, he'd rather just have A&W-- no wait, scratch that, he'd rather just have some food from home, thanks. The fact that he said yes to The Beach Boys at the PNE was a huge surprise to me, and that's how I ended up at a Beach Boys concert with six "seniors".)
Movies are an indulgence as well, but it's not often that there's something that both my mom and I are interested in watching. The only sure-bet has been movies featuring Asian characters, which has been far and few between for most of my life. One of my first Christmas presents to my mom was tracking down Ang Lee's The Wedding Banquet - a movie she professed to loving and hadn't seen in years. When Lust, Caution came out we watched it together (uncomfortable sex scenes and all) in theaters. I took her to see Crazy Rich Asians, even though I'd already seen it myself, because it was something I wanted to share with her. When The Farewell came out in theaters, it was really only a matter of time.
We had talked about going to see the movie before Bubu's passing, and afterwards we were either too busy or exhausted to follow through. But realizing that this was likely the last week to see it in theaters, I called her up and we arranged to watch it together with Auntie Clara - a family friend staying with my parents at the moment. When they came to pick me up, she told me that her husband had declined to come along and noted "This is the kind of movie only people like us would want to see", referring to her and my mom's shared status as social workers.
(Her point was made when we ran into old colleagues of my mom's who had just finished watching the movie in the showing before ours.)
The Farewell centers on Billi, an Asian-American woman who learns that her beloved grandma - Nai Nai - has been diagnosed with stage 4 lung cancer that is expected to be terminal. Her family has decided to keep the diagnosis a secret from Nai Nai and have cobbled together a fake wedding as an excuse for them all to return to her home in China to see her one last time. Written and directed by an Asian-American woman - Lulu Wang - based on her own experience, this is a movie that has so many small specificities that are unique and universal to being a child of immigrants; how we grow up with one foot planted in the traditions of our home country and the other foot planted in the expectations of our adopted country. And I couldn't help seeing parts of myself reflected in Billi and her relationships with her family, whether it was Nai Nai forcing food on Billi and immediately commenting on her weight at their reunion, her aunt commenting to the massage staff about how her Chinese is lacking, or having to grit your teeth and smile your way through endless "Hello Auntie! Hello Uncle!" greeting at big gatherings. I - of course - went into this movie still very raw from Bubu's passing. I was never going to be able to watch this movie without looking at it in the context of my own life as an Asian-Canadian and having lost both of my grandmothers in the past few years.
One of the conflicts of the movie involved Billie grappling with where she fits in these two disparate worlds and cultures, and that is something I have grown up with as well. Unlike Billi though, I can't remember a time before I came to Canada. I was lucky to grow up in two cities where I had extended family and a decently sized Chinese community to interact with. I had always identified strongly with my Canadian upbringing and I have parents who had both pursued university degrees in the US. My transition - and I suspect even my parents' transition - to living in Canada was a much easier and smoother process than Billi's family, and while they left Nai Nai behind in moving forward, my mom's parents had already moved to Vancouver and my dad's mother bounced around from Hong Kong to Canada under the care of her many children. I also have a much weaker connection to my roots than Billi. While she has distinct and happy memories of her childhood in China, I only have vague fond feelings towards a nanny I know I had in Hong Kong, and nothing more. My first visit back to Hong Kong at the age of six was not a particularly fun experience as I was eaten alive by mosquitoes and was generally quite miserable about it. I came away with a love for bubble waffles and stinky tofu and not much else. I didn't return until I was nineteen and managed to get sick from moving between the hot, sticky, humidity of the outdoors and the frigid blasts of air conditioning when indoors. Our quick jaunts to Shenzhen and Shanghai on that trip were mostly overwhelming and bewildering to me. I was stunned by the extreme poverty I encountered on the streets, and got trapped in a few crosswalks with motorbikes streaming around me, convinced that I was going to die. There was no question that I did not belong, with my limited, slanted, sing-song Cantonese and extreme discomfort in the bustling, raucous environment.
When my maternal grandmother - who I called MaMa - became very sick, my family tried to convince me that I needn't hurry back to Hong Kong to see her. They couldn't - or wouldn't - tell me what her diagnosis was and told me she would wait until May, likely in denial about how serious her condition was. Unlike Billi, I did not have a particularly close or loving relationship with MaMa. She had been dismissive of me and my parents in the past and my dad had not been on speaking terms with her for over five years. Still, she had mellowed out in those intervening years, and I remember commenting to my mom "I've never seen MaMa smile so much when looking at me before" after a short visit for tea and cake with her in 2013. Beyond all that, she was still my grandma, and I felt compelled to see her. So I chose to fly to Hong Kong for a very tough 5 days to say my own farewell. I read a review that talked about how the conflicts of Billi wanting to be able to properly say goodbye to her grandmother vs Billi struggling with her identity as an Asian and an American do not dovetail nicely and therefore interrupt the rhythms of the movie. But that's the complications of real-life, where you can't just set one or the other neatly aside to be dealt with later. In a different way than Billi, I struggled with both of these things during my time in Hong Kong. I visited MaMa every day, twice a day during that period, and there was only one time that she was awake enough to acknowledge me. But she smiled and nodded when my uncles asked if she knew who I was, and she held my hand. She passed away a month later.
I didn't even get to do that for Bubu. When I returned from my time in Washington, my dad drove me straight from the airport to the hospital. Bubu was sleeping fitfully, oxygen at 95%, heart rate jumping from 45 to 145 beats per minute. Even when she opened her eyes, she didn't seem aware. I had to return to work the next few days and wanted to wait until I could go to the hospital together with my mom. I planned to see her after work on Sunday evening; Bubu passed away early that Sunday morning. Despite being so close for most of my life, I didn't get to say goodbye.
The Farewell feels in many ways like it was made for me, even moreso than Crazy Rich Asians was. We don't all get to fall in love with charming men who are secretly wealthy, but we almost all have to go through the grief of losing a grandparent. And the struggle with fitting in to a culture that I don't feel a part of felt more personal and painful this time around. In one of the last scenes, I looped my arm through my mom's, leaned my head against her shoulder, and cried. I'd thought this movie might be cathartic for both of us, but the movie was so overwhelmingly Billi's that I suspect it only had that effect on me.
The days after Bubu's passing seemed manageable. I remember feeling a bit ashamed that I wasn't more tearful at 4am when I received the call from my mom, that I felt mostly numb when we were at the hospital 20 minutes later and she looked like she was still sleeping. Four hours later I was at work, a bit emotional when I had to tell my coworkers what had happened, but overall still very functional. The more people I told, the more smooth and collected I felt about it. Bubu had lived a long life - 98 years to be exact - and that she was still with us after being admitted to the hospital a year ago already felt like a small miracle. Besides, I would say to people, I've had concerns about her quality of life for awhile, and with aspiration pneumonia we had known that the chances of her pulling through were slim. She's not suffering anymore, and in some ways there is a measure of relief that she is at peace.
Still, I was on the receiving end of many hugs and received many verbal condolences from my sympathetic coworkers. Family can be complicated, but losing a grandparent is never easy. I reassured them that I was fine, that it was really my mom I worried about because she has spent the better part of two decades caring for elderly parents, and now she was at a loss for what to do with her time. To those of Asian descent in my office, I confided that it didn't affect my daily life in the same way because my mother had made the very conscious decision to release me, somewhat, from my filial piety duties; she reasoned that my job was stressful enough and that she didn't want me spending what spare time I had always at the care home. If they needed help from me, they would ask, but there was no expectation that I should participate in my grandma's feeding schedule (twice daily) otherwise. I think in the back of her mind, she also worries that as an only child, the reality is that caring for my parents as they become elderly will fall entirely to me.
I made it through my remaining days at work with no issues - keeping busy gave me little time to sit and stew in my grief. I went with my family to the funeral home to help organize the funeral service. I volunteered to put together a short slideshow to music and pored over the many photo albums Bubu had kept, coveting these little snapshots of her life. I ran a few funeral-related errands to help ease the burden from my mother. I surrendered my apartment to my cousin and his wife because he was complaining about back pain and sleepless nights on the pullout couch. Truthfully, had I remembered that I couldn't take refuge at my friend's home during this period (thereby bringing death into her household), I may have been less forthcoming with that gesture. My mom thanked me over and over, and all I could say was that I was doing this for her, because I love her. My cousin I still have very complicated and painful emotions towards.
Since I had plans for a weekday getaway to Victoria with my friend and old colleague, the decision was made that I might as well bring Kira to my parents' with me. I dropped her off at my parents' home in the afternoon and started a deep clean of my apartment, to make it presentable for my "visitors". When I received a phonecall at 10pm that night that there was a bouquet in the house with lilies - a bouquet I had walked right by and failed to register - I was a sobbing mess on my way to pick up my cat, hoping that my petty feelings towards my cousin hadn't led to renal failure for Kira. With great difficulty due to my rusty day-one skills and Kira's decidedly negative feelings about being restrained, I placed an IV catheter, drew blood, and left her at the clinic hooked up to IV fluids. I was a mess. The upcoming funeral, the possibility that my cat could have kidney damage, staying in a household of six and not having my own space to retreat to led to me feeling physically and emotionally exhausted. That Bubu's church was heaping added stress by insisting on sending 25 of their congregation when we had told them the chapel only seated 40 was not helping.
For the entire week, I had wondered how I would carry myself at Bubu's funeral. Thus far, I had shed a few tears but nothing beyond that. Maybe because I had been accepting for so long that her passing would be an eventuality, I would be less emotional. It certainly felt that way now. How would that look, a granddaughter not crying at her own grandmother's funeral?
I needn't have worried. I stepped into the chapel with my mother, saw Bubu lying - tiny and frail - in the casket, and proceeded to burst into tears. Seeing her there made it feel more real, more final. I loved my grandma and I had lost her, and I would always, always feel that I could have done better by her.
At work the next day, I walked in to find my cat covered in her own dried blood - she had managed to disconnect her IV line and it had been a little while before the night nurse had noticed. She was fine and voiced her protest about still being in a kennel, but I still gathered her up in my arms and sobbed into my bewildered cat, telling the ward nurse we call "Mama" that I was fine, really I was, it's just been an emotional few days. When I got to my desk and two of my bosses asked how I was doing, I proceed to sob facedown, proclaiming that I was fine, honest, I just needed a few moments. I joked that maybe next week I would be a normal person again.
It's been two weeks since, and I do feel a bit more like a normal person again. My getaway to Victoria with Christie, Kira continuing to seem healthy and happy, and having my apartment back has helped immensely. But there are moments when I still feel Bubu's loss keenly. Certainly differently than how my mom or my uncle or her long-time caretaker feels, but it is grief and remorse and mourning.
I love you, Bubu.
I have always lamented that I do not have a thicker skin - even when I know things are not my fault or that hurtful comments are undeserved, I still can't help but let it get under my skin for a day or two. At the beginning of last week, I was subjected to a five minute tirade by a client - one that I had helped with their dog before - because I had the audacity to address myself with the "Doctor" title while making a work-related phone call in the capacity of my job title. My call was not unsolicited - the clients had reached out and requested to speak to me about supplements for their dog and I had attempted to contact them at the phone number I was directed to use in the message left for me. I had left them voicemails detailing who I was (Dr. ________ from ________ Veterinary Hospital). When I attempted to follow up the next morning, I was lambasted by this client who felt that the fact that I referred to myself as Dr. ________ was unprofessional and arrogant, that it was unnecessary for me to declare my "doctor" status and that it was especially unacceptable for me to refer to myself as such to him in particular because I was half his age. He repeated this multiple times to me, discussed how the other veterinarians on staff never referred to themselves as "Doctor" (which is not true) and that he himself was a Doctor and never used that title with his patients and so he felt it was inappropriate that I did.
I was so shocked by this unexpected tirade that I could only reply "Okay" and "I understand" when he paused for my reaction. What do you say to someone when they are doing their best to belittle you and your professional status like that?
After he was finished, he then let me know that it was his partner who had been trying to get in contact with me and asked me to call the correct number so as not to waste anyone's time. As if he had not just wasted mine and his by going on this unrelated rant.
It took me a few moments to recover, but I quickly came to the conclusion that I had done nothing to deserve that kind of treatment and that I do not deserve that level of emotional and verbal abuse over an issue like this. So I did go to one of the partners of the clinic to tell her what had occurred and requested that I no longer see or communicate with these clients. It was gratifying that she took my concerns seriously and that she also validated my feelings about what had just happened. But it did colour the rest of my day, as I started to feel jittery introducing myself as "Dr" to clients I had never met before. My heart actually dropped when I spoke to the partner of the man who had yelled at me when I - unthinkingly - referred to myself as "Dr" when picking up his call. I steeled myself to be yelled at again.
I don't know what drove that client to feel he could speak to me in such a condescending way. Age obviously has something to do with it, but I can't help but wonder if my gender and being a visible minority play a part as well. It is obviously his issue and not mine, but I feel like it is going to take me time to get to the place where I can feel confident again in my professional title - one that I worked hard to earn.
