Where I am now? At that point I’ll be 74. Holding steady seems like a good goal.
Tracy
Travelling, writing, doing more photography, and hosting regular Sunday teas at our Toronto condo!
Tea
Martha
At my sewing machine making quilts, in the gym lifting heavy things, enjoying my books in my comfy home, eating all the yummy things with my family and friends.
Cate
On a floating city we’ve built to escape the ant people (quote from tv show Friends)
Rolls of fabric
Sam
Retired! Or at least not working full time. We’ll see. I still love my job and I’m looking forward to the end of my Dean term when I get to teach more again. And I’m looking forward to more time to write. And ride my bike, of course. Maybe owning a campervan to travel with bikes and visit friends.
Catherine
I see myself as more creative and arty– hopefully drawing and making and writing, taking what the world presents and turning it into something interesting or funny or meaningful, and maybe occasionally lovely.
The fancy gym I joined has some serious stairs. They’re the main way you access the weight room, the yoga studio, the cycling studio, and all the cardio equipment.
Oh, and also, up to the personal training studio.
I have “noped” out on those stairs and taken the elevator since joining. It’s slow and small but when I started I was waiting for knee replacement surgery. And then I was recovering from surgery.
But now?
After coming back from New Zealand where I did lots of climbing, I’ve started using the stairs at the gym. Go me! It feels good.
I’ve also started taking random other fitness classes at the gym. Things fill up quickly and so Sarah and I signed up for a kettlebell interval class because there were spots. Sunday morning at 9 am we got the studio to discover the interval bits were step class movements. The instructor was speed jumping on steps. Not at all knee friendly. I’ve had knee surgery and Sarah has no ACL. The instructor gave stepping up, instead of jumping, as an option and that was a good thing. Even if she hadn’t said a word that’s what we would have been doing. And we were not alone.
I wasn’t sure how this would feel. And you know what? It felt fine. I had zero competitive urge to jump. Zero.
So this week I was happy to see that I could feel good about climbing the stairs and not feel bad about about not jumping in step class.
Both taking the stairs and not feeling bad in the step class feel like wins. They’re victories of a different sort to be sure. But they are both victories in my books.
I learned that philosophy was a thing, and a thing I liked tremendously. I also learned that being part of group activities was big fun. This translated into joy through high school and college marching band. I still love me a good parade.
Natalie
In Grade 11? I learned to speak up when something is wrong. So much so in an assembly, where our principal was giving us a dress down,the 1,200 students were yelling in response. He asked if anyone was willing to come to the microphone. He was counting on us to be cowed. I stood up, made my way to the stage. I was so nervous but I knew what I had to say was important. Our principal was an institution who had been in place 40+ years and was a survivor of the WWII London bombings. Everyone ALWAYS deferred to him. I learned that day I’m not everyone, I’m someone who has a voice. And I haven’t shut up since. Hahahaha
Nicole
I learned I didn’t like feeling drunk and never got drunk again after the first time. I learned I enjoyed history and political science. I didn’t learn a lot of other useful things. Maybe that I had a good work ethic (part-time jobs) and that would serve me well.
Cate
I learned that doc martens make any skirt look better.
Tracy
In high school I learned that I wanted to be a writer more than I wanted to be an editor. And it remains true to this day.
Diane
I learned a few things. It’s okay to be unashamedly excited about not cool things (in my case, it was Jane Austen and Chaucer, thanks to great teachers). And maintaining friendships with everyone makes it easier to be that happy geek (being in a school too small for cliques helped a lot).
Martha
I learned I liked writing more than I liked science. I ditched my then life long dream of medicine for journalism. I hedged my bets though in the first two years of university taking half arts and half science courses and then settled into English lit, history and French for my degree. Essentially I learned to keep my options open snd always have a back up plan!
Sam
For me, it was a time of learning practical things. I learned to drive, and later I learned to drive a standard. I learned to work and to balance work with school. I learned to write essays quickly, the night before they were due. I learned to read quickly too. That’s not always good because when I started philosophy I had to learn to slow down.
It’s coming onto mid-April here in New England, which means rainy and chilly weather, the uncaring and riotous blooming of forsythia and daffodils, and the upcoming Boston Marathon, which is always held the third Monday in April. No, that’s not tomorrow, but rather a week from tomorrow.
As a preview to this year’s festivities (both mine and the city-wide ones), here’s a blog I wrote in 2023 about the Boston Marathon. Enjoy, and prepare for any kind of weather come April 20.
My morning coffee, spending time with excellent friends, watching English village mysteries with my honey, finding solutions to my client’s problems, and planning weekly suppers.
Cate
Playing with the cats, coffee, working on my novel, riding my spin bike, a good bath
Diane
Experimenting in the kitchen, cuddling with the cats, practicing pirouettes (I try to do 10 a day), chatting with my parents and my kids, naps.
Catherine
1) Eating clementines or similar citrus (the ones easier to peel). 2) Reading a book I’m 50-100 pages into that I find myself loving, and I know there’s lots more enjoyment to be had still. 3) seeing flowers– pretty much any kind will do. Am particularly grooving on the daffodils right now. 4) Walking and swimming, at a pace that suits me that day. 5) Meeting with a friend!
Sarah
Dogs, coffee, loved ones, bikes, naps.
Elan
My cat Theo, dancing with friends, doing something kind for someone that helps them or brightens their day, receiving well-earned praise, my cat Theo.
Sam
Dog walks, bike rides, cookies, coffee, and sunshine
I live with a feminist partner. We split things up based on what we enjoy doing and the rest we negotiate.
Michel is great at remembering to wipe down our bikes on the regular, oil our chains, clean gears. The ongoing preventative maintenance.
I, on the other hand, tend to do the bike part acquiring, dropping off bikes to the shop and some parts replacement. I’m deliberately focusing on growing my bike mechanic skills. It helps me feel independent and resilient on the road as well as provide better Support And Gear (SAG) wagon at events.
Michel’s old Motobecane. It’s seen a lot of distance but has lots to offer so it is on a mechanic’s stand in front of a plethora of bicycles and parts.
Since Michel has a new ride I’m fixing up his last bike to give to a young rider we know. The Silver Surfer is a titanium frame and will give its new owner many miles and smiles.
I have taken it twice to the Women Trans Femme (WTF) bike repair workshop at the Squeaky Wheel co-op and always learn lots about my bike and what other riders are needing to learn.
I also took my commuter bike, Myrna, in for her 100 km tune up at The London Bicycle Café. The cables had stretched and the mechanic just glanced at the rear wheel assembly and gave a quick twist of the little uh nut? On the cable next to the shifter.
“That should do it.”
I asked if he just eyeballed it. He laughed. Turns out there are little paint marks on the back assembly to show where the derailer limits should be.
Michel’s new bike needed seasonal maintenance as well as new tires, sealant (he runs tubeless, a new chain and cassette. He does a lot of distance so this is not unexpected.
Now we are all set to ride. I would like to see it a bit warmer. This spring has been chilly but perfect for getting maintenance done!
Hmm. I’ve made lots of positive changes in my life. I quit smoking when I got married at 24. That was a biggie.
Also, in that period of my life, I decided that if I was going to be big, I was also going to be strong and fit. I started weight training and riding a bike.
Those are the changes that led me here to this blog and to the book I co-wrote with Tracy, Fit at Midlife: A Feminist Fitness Journey. You can buy it here from the publisher.
I still like this cover better! The publisher recommended against it though because supposedly my tattoos would scare off UK readers.
So yes, overall, I’d say the biggest change is the swap in my thinking of fitness as something you do to look a certain way, namely thin, and instead think of fitness as being about strength and health.
I’m old-ish. Having just turned sixty, I’ve entered the third act of my life, which may be shorter than my first two. But I’m not old like my mother is old. She is 90, so she probably has entered the last decade of her life, unless she crosses the century line (Go, Mom!).
These are empirical numbers, however, and it’s caught my attention lately that the facts of aging don’t mean much to people talking about being “old.” Or rather, about being called “old.” We want to avoid being called “old,” apparently, because the label signals that we’ve lost a bounce in our step or in our minds. And sometimes just looking a certain way—like, growing in grey hair after years of colouring—can signal this decline or a willingness to let this decline occur. We need to look like we’re going to fight “old” every inch of the way.
We are all familiar with the description of post-menopausal women as decrepit crones, and one hopes feminists fight ageism when they see it, calling out the misogyny hidden in the word “old.” But I worry that for fit feminists, the temptation to stay on the younger side of “old” may complicate what we know and don’t know. We value our fitness and we work hard to maintain it. Competitive folks may like their AG (age group) wins. Even if our times get slower, we like being faster than our peers. All this is well and good, but it doesn’t necessarily bring us face to face with the cold hard truth: death is coming for us, sooner, in my case, rather than later. We watch the elderly struggle and pray that our cardio and strength training will preserve us. We pretend that the products our social media feeds are so keen to sell us will erase the lines we see in the mirror, that we can push through tiredness and ignore changes to our bodies.
But, as a friend of mine pointed out, those of us who are able-bodied are only temporarily so. Anyone, through injury or accident, can find their embodied lives radically transformed in an instant. And death will certainly put an end to all of us one day, whatever the tech-bros say. Are we ready?
In a poem titled “In the Waiting Room,” Elizabeth Bishop describes her seven-year-old self accompanying her aunt to a medical appointment. While in the waiting room, the child hears her aunt cry out in pain. The sound prompts a sudden realization of the humanity that the young Elizabeth shares with her older relative:
What took me
completely by surprise
was that it was me:
my voice, in my mouth.
These days, I’m trying to listen to the less steady steps of the elderly and to witness my own aging without simply imagining ways to avoid it. I am working toward giving up the dream of radical autonomy and accepting myself for what I am: a frail mammal given a brief moment to share this beautiful world with other living things who will also die one day.
Jane Goodall enjoying a wetland walk with an elderly friend.
What are your morning rituals? What does the first hour of your day look like?
Confession: Morning rituals are aspirational for me. In the first hour of the day, I listen to the CBC news and weather, often in bed. I drink coffee and eat breakfast. I peek at my email to make sure nothing has exploded. Then, I shower and get dressed. That’s pretty much an hour.
It’s true that some mornings I ride my bike on the trainer. One morning a week at least, we’re at the gym bright and early. These activities squish the activities in the first paragraph into under an hour and maybe the shower comes after. But there’s no routine or ritual about it, more of a mad rush.
What I’d like to add: A morning mobility and stretching routine and a quick walk with Cheddar. May 5th is my first Monday back in the Dean’s office. That’s my start date. Wish me luck!
My son and I were just chatting about fitness influencer Ashton Hall’s wild morning routine. Have you seen it?
I have been hoping to write an uplifting post soon. Alas, I had to put down one of my dogs this past Saturday and this post is about that grief. I understand if you choose to stop reading now.
This post is also about going for a run during that grief. Everyone says give yourself a break when you are going through this type of grief. But, you never know how your body and mind want to handle that grief until you are in it.
Barley had been struggling with what I was told was ataxia (a neurological disorder which affected his mobility) and mild kidney issues since late autumn. The ataxia was an educated guess by his regular vet because I didn’t take the referral to a neurologist to have an MRI done, to confirm that. The MRI might have confirmed ataxia, it might have confirmed a slipped disc, it might have confirmed a tumor on his spine. His symptoms didn’t seem that serious at first. He had to be carried up and down the stairs. He couldn’t jump up on the couch anymore and we had to make sure he didn’t jump down from the couch or the bed because if he did, it was terrible thud.
Then, there were subtle behavioural changes, despite various treatments, he took a sharp turn for the worse in the last month. February was hard for Barley. He refuses to put booties on. It was very snowy and icy this February in Toronto. That, along with his reduced mobility in his back legs, meant, I had to carry him to places to do his business. He couldn’t really walk. At one time, he got stuck in an icy puddle and I will never forgive myself for the way he wailed in that puddle. March was a bit better but he could still only walk a couple blocks and still preferred if I picked him up partway.
I didn’t think, a month ago, I’d be contemplating end of life for Barley, but it became apparent that he wasn’t eating enough, he was losing a lot of weight, his mobility was getting worse. The suggestions for major intervention did not promise to correct his problems and some were not advisable at his age and I made the decision, early on, not to put him through invasive procedures. I have some regret about that but I have to find peace in that decision. I did what I thought was best for Barley. I loved him. I wanted the best for him.
In the last couple weeks, it became a game of what morsel of food will Barley eat today and in the last week, almost nothing. There were other things happening and I started looking at quality of life scales for when one might consider euthanasia. Gavin and I looked at it a couple weeks ago and did the “quiz”, each on our own, and at first, we thought he was maybe just slightly over the 50% mark where you might start consider it. But, then, as he deteriorated more and more (quickly), and I tried to get more options from his regular vet and that didn’t help, we came to the difficult conclusion that he was suffering too much. I was thinking of putting it off another week but then he was barely eating a speck of anything. He wouldn’t even lick a bit of peanut butter or yogurt off my finger – previously, two of his favourite things. His whole demeanor changed. When I picked him up, his lower body felt skeletal. He started waking up every night around 3 or 4 am and he was restless, sometimes he needed to be taken out. Sometimes, he just needed to be snuggled and I would take him downstairs, because I was afraid of him falling off the bed in his restlessness (which did happen a couple of times).
Barley was a shih-tzu I adopted when he was “around 2” in July 2014. He came into my life when I was perpetually single, somewhat happy, in a new home, ready to look after another being. People who knew me well, commented, early on, how much happier I seemed, with Barley in my life. Then 7 months later, I met my husband and we became a family of two humans and three dogs – Barley, Miggy (mini Shnauzer) and Callie (Wheaton). Callie passed away in her sleep the following November and then it was our unit of four. Miggy and Barley were a team from then on.
Miggy and Barley on our front stoop.
Barley was not the perfect dog. He had some reactivity. He didn’t like being touched in certain places, his bum, his paws, his mouth. However, from the moment, he came into my home, he was mine. I had never had a pet before. He lept into my bed, snuggled up to my body, and woke me up with kisses, every morning. I would come home from work and I could see is tiny body jumping up enthusiastically in the window ready to greet me. He LOVED food and he did this little dart and then dancing spin all the way to his food bowl each morning. For almost 11 years he followed me around everywhere and loved me in his way.
After we came to the difficult conclusion that we couldn’t let him suffer anymore, I arranged for “end of life care” for Barley through https://themobilehospicevet.ca/our-story/. From the moment I chatted with Dr. Michelle Lam to the day she came to our home on Satuday, she was clear, informative, and so very caring. As difficult as the whole experience was, Dr. Michelle made it as bearable as possible and I will forever be grateful to her for that. She is incredible. My husband and I kept saying we don’t know how she does this but we mean that in the best way.
[warning, the next paragraph is about the day of Barley’s euthanasia]
I had a couple hours with Barley, in the morning, before Dr. Michelle arrived. I wasn’t planning to invite anyone in the morning, but I was anxious and, my cousin, who knew Barley well, and who had asked earlier in the week, came by to say goodbye. Barley refused any food that morning. When I went to try to give him a few different options from the “potential food that Barley will lick or put in his mouth and then spit out” counter collection, he wouldn’t take anything. I was balling from the moment I tried to feed him and he wouldn’t take it. I tried to give him anti-anxiety medication I was told to try to give him and he wouldn’t take it, as he wouldn’t take any food. Gavin tried to give it to him. I tried to squirt it in the side of his mouth and I’m still not sure if he got it all. When Dr. Michelle arrived, Barley suddenly had enough energy to walk to the door with his brother, Miggy. Gavin and I spoke to Dr. Michelle about the process that would take place. Because I wasn’t sure if he had taken the anti-anxiety medication, I wasn’t sure if he would let her put the first mild sedative on his gums. I went upstairs and she and Gavin tried to administer the sedative. True to form, he didn’t let them put it on his gums. The next step was the sedative via injection. I stayed upstairs for that part. Once that was done, I came downstairs. He was now sleeping heavily. I spoke to him through my tears. I thanked him for coming into my life. I told him I hope I did enough for him. I think I just kept saying thank you. I don’t remember exactly. I was able to hold him at that point. His head was floppy and needed extra support. His body was already limp. I held him and cried and talked to him and Dr. Michelle ensured it was OK to proceed and then injected the pentobarbital. She had warned me that his eyes may not close fully after that, when he was gone and they didn’t. I will never forget the way he felt in those moments or the smell of him – or the last “pfff” breath that came out of his nose. I spent some more time with him and Dr. Michelle helped me place him in a cozy basket with flowers and I was given the option of walking him to her car where she would taking him to his final resting place. When I had read about that part of the process in the materials she had sent me leading up to the day, I wasn’t sure if I would be able to do this, but I really wanted to be with him as long as I could at that point, in any form, and so I did.
The rest of the day was a blur. I felt nauseous and just grief ridden. Heartbroken. Guilty. All these things. But, at around 6pm, after I tried to eat a bit of dinner, and which is not the usual time I go for a run, I asked Gavin, if he would mind if I tried to go for a jog. I just felt I needed to move and get some fresh air.
I went for my jog. I told myself that if I didn’t feel stable, I could switch to a walk. All I know is that the action of moving my legs, in the fresh air, helped move some of the emotions around. It didn’t make it go away, but the familiarity of the movement, helped make me feel alive and grounded. I jogged slowly for about 25 min and then, as become a little bit more nauseous again, I decided to walk the rest of the way home. It felt like the jog helped clear my head up a little, although, it didn’t stop me from having “grief bursts” the rest of the evening, especially when I held the blanket he spent most of his time on to my face.
The next day, I had an exercise class scheduled at 10 am. I wasn’t 100% sure I should go. I didn’t want to bring my sadness to class or have it permeate the rest of the group. But, selfishly, I also knew the movement would be good for me. A couple people in the small group knew what had happened and gave me either a real hug or a “hug with their eyes”. They understood I couldn’t talk about it right then. I did feel that going through the usual motions of the familiar workout session, in a safe space, helped me have a tiny reprieve from my grief. It didn’t stop me from having another grief burst that evening. Especially, when I received a lovely follow-up email from Dr. Michelle that included ink prints of Barley’s paw and nose.
Throughout this experience of grief, my husband and I have had great support from close family and friends. I am grateful for all of the support. I am also grateful for the movement practice that I have developed over the years that gives me a place to move and heal through my grief.
In my feelings of heartache, I have wondered if I am worried about letting go of the grief, because, along with letting go of the intensity of emotions, I am letting go of Barley. His touch, his personality, his scent, his breath. That worries me but I know I won’t stay in this intensity. There is no doubt my memories with Barley will always be a part of me.
February 2015 – The day I met my husband and Barley and I spent quality time together first.
