nana

On March 13, 2014 my Nana, Valerie Joan Hunter, shuffled off this mortal coil and since I so infrequently remember to blog my husby recommended that I post the eulogy I gave at her funeral.

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I, along with my two brothers and my sister-in-law, drove here to Halifax from Toronto to celebrate Nana’s life and we couldn’t be happier that we did.

That’s what she was to us: Nana.  But looking at all your faces and flipping through the albums at last night’s viewing, I realize I didn’t know her like you know her.

I didn’t know her as a work colleague, or an Eagle Point Drive neighbour, or a church friend, as many of you had the pleasure of knowing her.

I didn’t know her as a travel companion, or fancy-dress-party-goer, or best friend for decades.

I didn’t know her as an aunt, or a Big Sister, or a mom or a wife.

I didn’t even know her as Grandma, which was her East Coast alias.

I won’t even know her as my 2-year old son will one day know her: as Great Nana, from the stories we will tell him, and from the watercolour painting hung up in his room.

But I knew her as Nana.

Nana and Grandad’s visits to Toronto were always the happiest, fullest, most joyous memories for me.  It helped that they visited at Christmas and traveled with one suitcase exclusively dedicated to presents.  Nana was, to me, was and always will be a series of memories: pearl nail polish, putting her face on, a great laugh, “getting ogernized”, teaching me shorthand, and they way she said “Oh, Tony…”

It’s impossible to remember Nana - no matter how you knew her - without tenderness and admiration.  I think that’s because she filled every relationship, every conversation, every room with gentleness and light.

She always had something to say - an anecdote, a story, something optimistic, something helpful.
She always had something to give - like the Werther’s Originals she kept in her purse for the car drive to and from the airport.
She left something behind - when I saw the tiny hairs left on the car seat from her fur coat and remember her, or the music boxes she and Grandad gave me that played “It’s a Small World After All” which helped me when I missed them.

So that’s how I’d like to remember Nana.  By being more like her.  With always something optimistic to say, always something ready to give, and always with something to leave behind.

wifercize wednesday: let's get (a) physical

 

There are still moments that sneak up on me that remind me: you're not your own person anymore.  The in-laws, the shared accommodation, the bed, the I'll-let-the-dog-out-then-you-grab-the-breakfast-and-lock-the-back-door-while-I-start-the-car Sunday morning routine: all of these are reminders that I have become used to over two years of marriage.

The latest reminder was finding a family doctor.  Andrew grew up with a family doctor who delivered him and still remembered his allergy to peaches when Andrew visited in his 20s.  Then Dr. Tennenhouse retired.  

My experience was of a vaguely-remembered family doctor through infant and childhood, and several friendly but utterly forgettable doctors in walk-in clinics and E.R.s as circumstance dictated.  Since 2006 I have been registered with the marvelous Dr. Donna Edwards, but her office was close to North York General.  Which is not close to us.

So Andrew and I realized: WE need a family doctor.  A doctor for US.  After many months during which we realized that every MD in the High Park, Roncesvalles, Bloor West Village and Junction area (much like every house in the neighbourhood) was happily occupied and would most likely continue to be happily occupied by the offspring of their occupants until the end of time, we were given insider information.

Andrew's mom, a medical secretary, had heard of a new family doctor just southwest of us who was accepting new patients.  We booked an appointment.  We love him.  He's professional, relaxed, funny, works from an iMac, has an iPhone, and drinks from an Obama mug.

And, just like that, we have a family doctor.  We sealed the deal with booking physical check-ups for both of us in the same week (I mean, nothing seals a deal like having your nether regions prodded by the same doctor and giggling about it in the kitchen later).  

A family doctor for us to share, a family doctor to have for years to come, a family doctor to take our kids to, a family doctor who will, hopefully, still know our kids when their in their 20s.