Year: 2020

Complaint

Beverly Work

In 2008, when I was planning my future, I imagined what it would look like. I had no idea what was coming in my personal life but I knew what I wanted from my professional life. One day when I was particularly ambitious, I made this to go on the wall of my office. It says “Those who complain teach me how I can please others so that more will come. Only those who are displeased but do not complain hurt me, they refuse me permission to correct my errors and improve my service.” It has moved with me countless times over the years, but I refused to hang it until I was the person responsible for handling complaints.

Today one of our residents came into my office. She was frustrated, I could tell. In fact, I’d mentioned to our nurse earlier that she’d seemed a bit off these past few days. I haven’t known her long, but something was wrong.

I listened as she told me she didn’t like the pandemic restrictions I was putting in place, how she was mad about something another resident had done, that the door needed to be fixed. I explained that I have rules to follow that have been put in place to keep everyone safe, and this pandemic has affected so many people in so many unexpected ways; I told her that the common areas are for everyone but I would speak to the resident she complained about; and ohmygoodness that door is a thorn in my side and I am going to get it fixed if it’s the last thing I ever do! (Because it really is, and I really will!)

She laughed at that. But, still, there seemed to be something more. She seemed to be fighting back tears so I walked around the desk, pulled a chair closer (fully masked and sanitized, I promise), and took her hand. And the tears started to flow. Every time she tried to make herself stop, I urged her to let it out, reminding her that it feels so much better to let it out than hold it in. (She chastised me for trying to teach an 80-year old woman about life, and we both laughed at that.)

She told me about how she had taken care of her own aging mother, her husband’s mother, and her sister, so she understood that we all need help when we get older. Her husband took care of her after her stroke until he died of cancer two years later. She had been living alone ever since, until moving into our residence. In the past few months she’d met new friends and thought the staff is amazing, even the one she told me she didn’t like last week.

I told her how much I believed in the retirement living lifestyle, how I’d known so many people who were all alone, rarely seeing another human being, especially during this pandemic. I told her how important it was to me to do everything I can to keep her and everyone else safe from this terrible disease. Not because she was old and feeble, but because she was important, and we were her substitute family who wanted her to stick around a while longer. And through it all, she wept while I held her hand.

Then she took a deep breath, dabbed her eyes with a tissue and said she’d best get going, her friend was probably waiting for her in the lounge for their afternoon tea break. She smiled at me as I held the door open and my heart swelled to see that she looked like herself again.

Thank you for complaining, lovely woman. And thank you for letting me help you work through it. I think we are both exactly where we belong.

When I got home I dug it out; my framed motto will be hung on my office wall tomorrow.

Sister from another mister

Beverly Community, Friends, Life, Relationships, Work

I was working in the administrative office of a local retirement residence when I first learned of her existence. After studying industry tactics in other areas, I decided to approach my boss about getting the residence more involved in the community through working with some local seniors charities or advocacy groups. I was relatively new to the area and watching the local newspapers to see if I could come up with specific ideas.

This one woman kept coming up time and time again. Gwen Kavanagh from CARP Chapter 36 at the flag raising on World Seniors Day; Gwen Kavanagh says Barrie CARP to hold political forums next week; Gwen Kavanagh from CARP talks co-housing. She seemed to be someone who believed in something; someone who would stand up, speak up when it was needed. She was someone I wanted to know.

Unfortunately, my community involvement idea went down in flames. We were the #1 retirement residence in the area, why would we make the extra effort of getting involved in the community?? was the response I got, so I let it go.

Fast forward a few years later, I was doing community relations for a competing residence. It was my first month in the role and I was manning a table with my colleague at a seniors services trade show when I saw CARP on the list of vendors. I grabbed one of my business cards, forced myself to walk up to Gwen’s table (very out of my comfort zone way back then) and introduced myself. She smiled at me and took my card, I didn’t know what I was supposed to say next, so I waited. She suddenly said “Is that really your name?!” It turned out that her cousin was also named Beverly McGrath and had recently passed away. McGrath was her maiden name.

We aren’t related but I always thought that was a cool story. Manifest destiny kind of thing even. What are the chances? And she proved I was right about her dedication as she instantly recruited me to work for her cause and I joined CARP Chapter 36 as the Vice to her Chair. We’ve been friends and colleagues ever since.

Gwen has come in and out of my life several times over the years. She introduced me to two of my all time favourite people (that means you, Molly and Kelly! xx), she has encouraged me in my career, and anticipated new tales about my love life and career strategy during our frequent lunches. She was in the room when I had one of my great life epiphanies (although she didn’t know it), she cheered me on when I made a life altering leap of faith, she welcomed me home when that leap of faith went much differently than expected and, in some ways, she has unknowingly nudged me farther than I would have gone on my own.

Maybe not a lot of people have close friends who are 30 years their senior, but through this friendship I get support and kindness and family and growth. She’s my sister from another mister, my advocate, my mentor, and absolutely 100%, my friend.

Thank you for everything, Gwen. I’m so happy to have you in my life. xo

Yours ’til the kitchen sinks

Beverly Changethelens, Friends, Life, Relationships

A personal positive I have found with this pandemic tailspin is the extra time allowed me to renew my love of reading. I can’t remember a time that I haven’t had a book or three in the works, but this past couple of decades of personal growth has seen mostly non-fiction and text books. There was no time to read for pleasure – I was busy becoming!

I was a real reader when I was a kid. I recall often sitting in a corner of the school library, trying to find something I hadn’t already read. True to form, I usually brought Nancy Drew home but I secretly checked to see what the Hardy Boys were getting up to first. Judy Blume? Was my hero. Then Sweet Valley High to Harlequin to Danielle Steele and beyond as I advanced into my teens.

Romantic love stories became my jam. Everything became about love – it was all I saw. I read so many stories. And I loved loving people so I knew romantic love was going to be A.Mazing! And I wanted it. Oddly enough, Judy Blume’s characters grew up, too, and her stories were so relatable – Forever is one of the few novels that remains on my bookshelf. “I do love you. For now. But I could never say forever.” And I never have. (Because, you know, Wifey!)

My fiction picks evolved as I matured and I got into more mysterious stuff like John Saul and Stephen King. That was when I began going without sleep to finish a book. There was no glory greater than the book I couldn’t put down. In retrospect, I think The Celestine Prophecy significantly altered my life’s course. It was the first time I recall understanding that the concept of the self-fulfilling prophecy, which I had been warned against my whole life, could be used for good. Kind of like “be careful what you wish for because you might get it”… I was, like, okay! I’ll be careful, promise! As I packed my car and headed out west.

The need to read slowed considerably in my late 20s. Love and life were a lot different than I had expected, romance gave way to seven habits and reading became about learning. And I had questions, let me tell you. Why wasn’t I perfect at all times? What was I doing wrong? How could I do better? How could I be better? Surely I would be perfect eventually.

I read about how to make friends and influence people, I read about mars and venus, and I even read a surprising number of books written for dummies. I wasn’t offended. All of these books have value and helped me become the person I am today – tremendously imperfect and I like me just fine! – yet that prophecy I was trying to fulfill took me away from fiction for longer than I realized.

But what I’ve learned during this terrible time of isolation is that a good story can be really good company. Right now I’m reading The Hate You Give and it is so well written that the words on the page make me feel like this woman is sitting across from me and telling a riveting story of the time she witnessed one of her best friends being killed by a cop, and what it felt like to live in her shade of skin through the things that happened after. Very timely. Very enlightening. Very engrossing.

Anyway, while replying to an invitation to a nice, socially distanced B.Y.O.Lunch party my very dear friend is hosting next week, I was signing off and wanting to express my excitement in seeing them and was reminded of a story I read as a kid where pen pals would end their letters in the most silly ways like ‘Yours ’til the kitchen sinks’ and ‘Yours ’til Niagara Falls’. I used to have a lot of fun thinking up my own.

I don’t really know why I’m telling you this. I guess it’s just that, maybe, if you’re lonely, it might feel like I’m sitting across from you and telling a story about how I love to read, and maybe it’ll make you feel a little less alone.

Yours ’til the cookie crumbles,

Bev

Photographs and memories

Beverly Work

There is an old black and white picture of my mom, dad and older sister, taken in the hospital after Cathy was born that I have always loved. I remember looking at it when I was a kid and all I could see was the pride bursting from my dad’s face.

This was not the dad I knew, of course. He was similar but his hair didn’t have the grey that accentuated his curls, the 70s moustache wasn’t yet a thing, he looked smaller, almost innocent. He was a young man in love, he was loved, and he had made a human being to love with his love.

Even with my child’s eye, I remember understanding on some level that he wasn’t that man anymore. I mean, he was still that man, but he was also more. And I thought about all the things he had done since then.

He had adopted a son, my brother, Tom. He had another girl, me, which I figured must have been pretty boring because he had already done that. He had bought a new house, had studied every day after work to earn his high school diploma, and he even left his home and family for a year to learn a trade so he could get a better job that paid more money and didn’t have the hated shift rotations. He had become a volunteer fireman, a Scout troop leader, a player on a softball team. He took us on hikes and camping and to movies; he told us jokes and made up funny stories; he drew huge pictures on walls, and he even built other walls.

The dad I knew then always had a pencil behind his ear, a measuring tape clipped to his front pocket; he’d sit at the kitchen table, head down, tongue sticking out of the corner of his mouth. Planning, building, improving.

Whenever he saw my mom, he became a peacock. I couldn’t put it into words at the time but he came to life in her presence. He stood taller, she was like his compass, his north star. He loved to tease her, and he was a happier, calmer version of himself when she was in the room.

Those were the days when wintery Sunday afternoons were for playing Jim Croche on the stereo in the basement, my dad was usually singing along. I would listen to the words as I entertained him with my dancing shows. “Photographs and memories, all the love you gave to me, somehow it just can’t be true, that’s all I’ve left of you.” And somehow, even then, I knew he wouldn’t always be a part of my life, but I knew he would always be a part of me.

The beauty of a life lived

Beverly Changethelens, Friends, Life, Senior health, Work

Throughout our lives, we are taught to fight age, to do whatever we can to rage against the years. I’ve always thought that there is something beautiful about a life lived; it is our story, our own evolution.

Although there was a time when my reflection felt like my enemy, these days I look in the mirror and smile at the passage of time. Yes, I look different, but why does different have to be bad? I’m evolving, growing, ever becoming. My face is changing; my youthful freckles are fading and being replaced by more and more fine lines. My skin continues to loosen; my hair is thinning and has a completely different texture than it used to. My stomach shrinks and expands and shrinks and expands as the years go by (I’ve learned so many lessons about myself through that).

Society tells us that we don’t look as “good” when we’re older, but it seems I didn’t appreciate how I looked when I was younger, either, so I comfort myself with the possibility that it’ll be the same as now (someday I will look at pictures of me now and marvel at how cute I was).

Another harmful thing we learn about aging is that life gets easier. I promise you, that is not true. If anything, it gets harder over time. But that teaches grit and perseverance. I have known hundreds of seniors in my life and work, and they are the strongest, most resilient people I know. That doesn’t happen in a month, or a year, or a decade.

To age is to get stronger – no, not physically, but we become stronger inside, we become ourselves. A well-lived life will see you bottoming out, over and over (and over), only to rise again to see another day. The trick, I think, is to make life worth it.

I believe aging is a gift, and our faces and bodies are just wrapping paper. Inside, in our souls, is a treasure that is steadily increasing in value. (Will I still feel this way in 40 or 50 years? I’ll have to let you know. 😊)

There’s a skunk in my backyard

Beverly Changethelens, Home, Kids, Life

If you read the title, you will probably understand that I no longer have a backyard. It is now the skunk’s.

Other than a very close call a few years ago, sitting quietly with a friend late one night when a skunk wandered a little too close for comfort, I’ve never had any experience with these creatures. And, quite frankly, none is enough experience for me.

But then this stinker started coming around, and I started staying in. Will he never leave?

Curious, I began experimenting. One day I tested his response when I knocked on the window – tail up, head down, I’m not sure he hears very well. Another time I banged on the door frame – minimal reaction, maybe because of the vibration. I opened the door and let it slam closed – he’s really not too concerned or threatened. Well, he does have some heavy artillery behind him. A few times Luc gently chased him out of the yard but it doesn’t matter what we do, the little fella keeps coming back.

Today I just observed and chuckled as I realized it was like a reverse zoo. The yard is becoming a little overgrown now, the grass a rich green without daily baseball practice and obstacle courses and tree climbing. There are birds and bunnies, chipmunks and squirrels, dandelion and a big patch of forget-me-nots in the distance.

I’m starting to respect that skunk. He’s more beautiful than I expected, a slight little thing that works with purpose and vigour, markings of white behind his head and on the tip of his tail but not down the back as I expected. His nose is narrow and he uses it like a tool as he digs out fresh grubs, maybe to bring back to his kids. He’s not aggressive and, whether or not I’m using the correct pronouns, he’s definitely no Pepe le Pew.

Anyway, it’s hot outside and cool in my comfy leather chair, and I have my own little nature aquarium to keep me entertained. I’ll just use the front yard, little fella. It’s all good.

Pandemic wisdom

Beverly Changethelens, Life

A friend and I were talking about this crazy pandemic and he said he received some good advice from a co-worker: “You just have to take things in stride, man.” It made sense, he said, this guy is older, he knows things, he’s lived. Turns out the wise guy is the same age as me.

Am I wise? I guess in many ways I am. I’ve worked for big business and small business and everything in between; I’ve been the boss and the newby; I’ve been held in high esteem and I’ve been bullied. I’ve been a workaholic, I’ve been out of work, I’ve been on salary, and done piece work. I have lived on both coasts of Canada and finally found my home in the middle. I’ve had a few big romances, and was alone longer than all of them put together. I have held the hands of people as they passed out of this world, and I have lost many whom I cared for. I’ve had a gazillion dreams dashed, and a couple of really important dreams that came true. I have not been thin (there’s still time!) but I have lost and gained and lost and kept weight off for years, and now (thanks to the ‘COVID 15’!) I’m gaining again.

So, yeah, I’ve lived. Maybe now I can claim to be a little wise. And here’s what I have to say about ‘You just have to take it in stride’: it’s almost right, but it would help if you lose the word “just.”

You have to take things in stride, but that means your own stride. You don’t have to believe what I believe, you have to believe what you believe, be who you are, and get through this in your own way. If you tend to get anxious, let yourself be anxious and work your way through it. If you tend to be depressed, find someone to talk to, or stay in bed and cry and get back up when you’re ready. If you tend to tell jokes, find someone to tell them to, even if it’s strangers in cyberland. If you need to vent your energy, get up, move, go for a run, or a walk. Whatever you’re feeling, let it out and it won’t seem nearly as bad.

This wise old gal would also advise you to be kind. And, again, be kind in your own way, whether that means checking in on a friend or volunteering to help a stranger, if it means hugging your child, or simply keeping a harsh comment to yourself. Being kind to others is like sunshine and vitamins and winning the lottery… it makes you feel really good. Try it. And don’t be afraid to get addicted.

The most important thing to remember, I think, is that this is a point in time. Although it kind of feels like it these days, this crisis won’t last forever. It might seem that the world is crashing down on you, but never forget that the world revolves, and you will eventually be on top again. Hang on.