He called

Opa called tonight. He brings Omi a salmon sandwich everyday - she likes them better than hospital food. Keep in mind the drive is 40 minutes each way, winter is here, and he will be 79 next month.

He sounded tired on the phone, but there was also a little bit of relief in his voice. It has been a hard, hard week. I worry about them both.

She is more comfortable and sticking to the regime the doctors have given her. Opa thinks it could be up to a week before they let her go home.

Day by day. Day by day for two people who have known each other since they were children and have been married nearly 60 years.

What lovely people my grandparents are.

Sitting my ice pack, worrying about Omi

My grandfather was supposed to call me tonight. I keep looking at the clock, counting forward by four hours and backwards by twelve. My grandmother is in the hospital again. Her latest chest infection, a by-product of her advanced COPD (Chronic obstructive pulmonary disease), has failed to improve.

COPD is a terrible thing. My grandmother can take a breath in but then can’t breathe out. Imagine a mucus-filled sponge that keeps you from being able to exhale. After seeing my grandmother’s condition continuing to worsen over the past few years, all the while knowing she was still smoking, I despise cigarettes with a new fury. What kind of monster keeps someone so tethered to it, even as it kills them?

Since I have been exercising my lung capacity has changed. Now when I take a deep breath, it feels like the breath goes all the way down below my navel, where it bulges pleasantly, kissing the shoreline of my pelvic floor before flowing back up and out again. So easy.

That said, this is the first time I have ever blogged while sitting on an ice pack. My gluteus medius are in spasm. Ie - some of my butt cheek muscles are freaking out. This is what is causing the majority of my lower back and hip pain. I am supposed to roll on a tennis ball to try to get them to ease off, but all I have is a golf ball and it hurts like hell.

I am frustrated because it affects everything I do - walking, bending, standing. It gets worse after I work out, and my hip flexors don’t feel like they have gotten any stronger with all this exercise. I am afraid it won’t get better, that this will continue to hold me up and I won’t be able to move forward. I need to feel like I am getting stronger, better.

John and I have spoken about the kinds of things we want to do in the coming year. I think of the things that I can’t do now that I am desperate to be fit enough to accomplish. I want to bag a Munro. Eventually I would like to climb Ben Nevis. And walk the Great Glen Way. I want to be able to have complete confidence in my body, to hike, flex, climb or hop.

Since our visit to Canada I have been determined to change my relationship with food. After seeing my grandmother’s decline I am equally determined to do my best for my body, to build its strength and stamina. To let my lungs celebrate breathing, because lately that is what it feels like they are doing. My chest feels wide open and clear and even my heart feels lighter.

Now if only my damn ass would cooperate, I could move on.

The clock says 20:53. Plus four hours is 7 minutes to 1 a.m., minus 12 hours is 12:53 p.m. B.C. time. He still hasn’t called.

Where it all began

Tell me this isn't a wonderful photo. That's my great aunt front and centre, with her daughter. And that wee man in the dark sailor suit? That's my dad, catching the boat from Germany to Canada when he was five years old. That's his mom, my Oma, beside him.

One of the best parts about the Canada visit was being able to sit down in one room with both sets of grandparents and talk to them about when they first arrived in the country. My Opa on my father's side came over on a contract with a farmer and worked to pay off the travel fare for which the farmer had paid. My Opa on my mother's side spent several months studying English with a colleague before taking the boat over to Canada. He was winging it - counting on his skills and language abilities to land him a job, which they did. In both cases the men went over first, worked and saved some money before sending for their wives and children.

This year my maternal family is celebrating 50 years in Canada. On my father's side we are tipping over 55 years. Their stories are remarkable, and I am so proud of our wee notch in the great history of human migration. What makes people leave all that they know and strike out for a foreign country, where they may not know the language or the customs? (My paternal grandfather spoke no English when he arrived. The same went for both my grandmothers). What would make people abandon the safety net of extended family and move to where they might feel alienated and vulnerable? My mother told me once of how she and her sister practiced saying "Toronto" so it would sound like the Canadian "Torono" instead of skipping with the heavy consonants of their native accent.

Tomorrow is Canada Day, and it is also my Oma's birthday. Tonight I am baking Maple Syrup muffins to bring to work, where I will spend the day wearing my Canada pin with the blinking lights. Hopefully no one with epilepsy comes into the shop.

And in other grand news, despite still being in hospital, I have reports that my little Omi is on the mend. This makes me happy.

Success!!

Let it be known that I am among the chosen ones!
My recent application to share in the five-pound chocolate bar won by my nephew Ashton was successful! Just today I arrived home to find that I had received THREE squares of the infamous bar of goodness.
"Due to the high shipping costs to Edinburgh we were only able to send a small portion," read part of the letter from the panel of judges. I believe this eludes to the possibility that my application was actually worth MORE than three squares.
I was cautioned to consume only one square at a time due to high calorie content. Of course, I ignored this advice. One does not acquire the name Sophia von RitterSportAlpenMilch following such guidance.
In other news, last night I saw the wonderful, glorious play that is Peter Shaffer's Equus. Prior to going into the theatre, fellow play-lover JP and I lingered on the sidewalk, watching the people wandering into the building. And WHO should walk by? WHO? Simon Callow, no less. I pinched John's arm and we gawked. Openly gawked at the great man, also known as "the guy who died in Four Weddings and a Funeral." He was fantastic as psychiatrist Martin Dysart. Magnificent. So was Alfie Allen, who played the passionate, horse-obsessed Alan Strang.
I loved the way the intensity built, I loved the way it pulled me into a different world, but also how it made this one somehow more...vivid. I just loved it.
Tonight it's another play, in which six characters search for an author. I am going to eat the last square of chocolate before I go. (Cue witchy cackle, complete with chocolate-smeared teeth).

Five Pound Chocolate Bar

My nephew Ashton recently won a 5 lb chocolate bar. My brother sent an email around, calling for applications to help them eat it. Applicants were asked to give reasons why they felt they were the best candidate for the job. The following is my contribution.

Greetings to you, oh grand posessors of the 5-lb chocolate bar,

I humbly put forward my application to be part of this magical eating process you speak of. As I understand it, others may have already sent in their applications, claiming they are best suited for the consumption of said delicacy of sweetness.

However, there can be no one better suited for this task than me.

When I was just a toddler, waddling precariously through the world, I saw fit to ignore my Christmas presents and give my sole attention to a plate of chocolate, thereby beginning my life-long dedication to chocolately goodness.

Years later I spent hours of awe wandering the hallowed halls of the chocolate museum in Köln, Germany, where I did sup from the giant, flowing fountain of chocolate. It was at the Schokoladenmuseum that I learned that the life of any chocolate bar begins with the cocoa bean, which grows on the low braches of the "Theobroma Cacoa," or cocoa tree. After growing in the humid, rainforest heat, the tiny cocoa pods (each pod can contain up to 40 beans!) are harvested and the beans ground before being mixed with those magical ingredients, sugar and milk.

The zenith of my chocolate experience occured in a small cafe on the Royal Mile in Edinburgh. It was at Plasir du Chocolate that I discovered the layered, beautiful monstrosity of the French chocolate gateaux. Three layers of sponge, weighed down by four hearty layers of chocolate ganache, so thick and gooey it was like cooled, chocolate lava. Combined with a generous smear of rasberry flesh, it was simply the best thing I have ever eaten in my life.

I understand that the distance of my application may be a hindrance to me. If it should be the case that my application is unsuccessful due to the girth of the Atlantic and the smudge of eight hours time difference, I humbly ask to be sent photos of others as they enjoy tearing into that block of teeth-rotting splendor.

Yours humbly,

Sophia von RitterSportAlpineMilch