The Mother-in-Law of Deaf
For most people, summertime means enjoying time outside, in the sunshine. Well, maybe not this year so much … but usually.
Some people like to do things like hike the West Coast Trail, or go para-sailing, or bungee-jumping. Others, like me, prefer to pick berries. Perhaps swim in calm water, and then dry off in the sun, with a book. And possibly a glass of wine.
But I’ve taken my share of risks. Glad I did ’em, even gladder I’m done ’em.
For example: Many, many years ago, my husband and I took our staff on a white-water rafting expedition, a team-building/summer party sort of idea. Unfortunately, none of us had ever done this before, and we had no idea what those numbers – Class 1, Class 5 – meant, in terms of danger. For the record, the higher the number, the greater the likelihood of violent death.
Ours was a Class 4-5.
We didn’t figure this out until we’d already driven the three hours it took to get there, undressed in front of a group of hippies, squirmed into our wet suits, signed the waiver stating that we understood any mishap would render our life insurance null and void, leaving our children impoverished orphans, and then listened to the instructions on what to do when – not IF but WHEN! – we got thrown out of the raft, dragged underwater and lodged behind a snag.
Oh well, in for a penny and all that.
The very first thing they did was dump each of us into the lake, so we’d be wet before hitting the river. Now, it was probably around 30 degrees C in the valley, but this is a glacier-fed lake, high up in the mountains. The water was the kind of cold that makes your innards shrivel, your lungs contract, your entire body seize. And this wearing a wet suit. Then, once you’re good and wet, muscles frozen, they tell you to climb back in the raft.
Right. I can’t move enough to stay afloat but I’m going to haul myself up and into a raft.
So, they grabbed me by my wet suit and dragged me back in, like a wounded manatee. The humiliation. Once we were all sufficiently drenched, quaking and aware of our own human frailty, it was time for the fun to begin!
The guide on our raft was an Aussie (aren’t they all??) with a delicious accent, who kept yelling at us whenever we weren’t paddling hard enough. I was having enough trouble hanging on, let alone paddling, so I got yelled at a lot.
Being a good guide and understanding the relationship of entertainment value to his tip, he’d named all the various rapids. The Roller Coaster. The Dragon. The Swirly Whirly. As we came up to each one, he’d call out the name, and then add “OF DEATH.” As in, “Alrighty mates, paddle harder, here comes… THE MOTHER-IN-LAW … OF DEATH!
But, with his accent, it sounded like he was saying DEAF instead of DEATH. And despite the likelihood of our own imminent DEAF, we kept laughing at him. And maybe because of the laughter, we ended up enjoying the day, even THE MOTHER-IN-LAW OF DEAF!!
I can say with certainty that I will never go on such a trip again, but I’m awfully glad I did it.
Mostly, I’m glad we all survived.
If You’ve Ever Considered Homeschooling Your Kids… Watch This!
- At July 23, 2011
- By Roxanne Snopek
- In Life, Roxanne Writes On
- 0
Or, if you’re an artist … or a lateral-thinker … or an entrepreneur… or you feel you were under-served by the public school system … or you’re a teacher, passionate about education, wondering why it doesn’t work for everyone…. or you just like cool cartoons, you’ve got to see this. It’s a little long for the modern attention-span, but trust me, it’s worth it.
[youtube http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=zDZFcDGpL4U&w=560&h=349]
Our three daughters stayed out of the system until grades 11, 11 and 10. For years, I had the faint, secret fear that I’d ruined their lives, that they’d all end up living in our basement, social misfits who couldn’t go to university because they didn’t know the multiplication tables and had never done macaroni collages. What was I THINKING???
Being me, I naturally took it to The Next Level. I envisioned my beautiful, talented daughters popping out illegitimate, cross-eyed babies – between cigarettes and during commercial breaks – who they’d fill with Coke and Twinkies before sending them upstairs to stay with Granny while they went off to pursue their careers as Wal-Mart greeters.
I think there was banjo music playing in this scenario.
Anyway. A little medication tweak and extensive therapy got me off the roof and it’s all okay now. The youngest is entering her senior year in high school, an Honours student. The oldest will graduate from UBC next year with her BA in English Lit, and plans to go on to teachers’ college. Our middle daughter, after getting halfway through her Bachelor in Fine Arts, is switching gears and entering nursing school. Both the older two have held down part-time jobs while studying. Both have struggled to figure out what they want to do with their lives, at least for now. Both have emerged victorious. I know the youngest will go through a similar journey, and will find her own way, too.
They may be a little fuzzy on math at times, but hey, there’s an ap for that. And being our daughters, I expect medication and extensive therapy may be in their futures, as well. It’s okay. I started saving for that years ago.
The main thing is this: they know who they are. That’s tough to learn in a factory school.
Babies in Our Backyard, Part 2
- At July 22, 2011
- By Roxanne Snopek
- In Life, Roxanne Writes On
- 0
Wednesday evening, my next-door neighbour Sherri came to our door in a panic.
“Is your husband home?” she asked. “There’s a fawn at the bottom of our road. We think it’s been hit by a car.”
People had already called the SPCA, the police, animal control, anyone they could think of, and nobody could help. Since my husband’s a veterinarian, and we’re kind of known as the local “animal people” – our three dogs and four cats might be a tip-off – Sherri thought of us.
As it happened, Ray wasn’t home yet, which meant he was still at the clinic, but that’s only about 5 minutes away. I told Sherri I could put the fawn in the back of my car and bring it to him.
If nothing else, I thought, we could at least provide humane euthanasia.
But when I got there, I found that the fawn had not been hit by a car. However, she had been wandering in circles on the road, where she probably would have been hit, so a couple of guys tried to shoo her into the woods, when they noticed a wound on her rump. They couldn’t get her off the road, but they managed to get her restrained on the sidewalk, where she lay, kicking and bawling.
For anyone who hasn’t heard a fawn cry, ooooh, shudder. It’s heart-wrenching.
A small crowd had gathered by the time I got there, and we noticed Mama-deer hovering nearby. I saw the wound, but since Baby was so feisty – really, those hooves are a lot sharper than you’d imagine – I suggested we let her up so she could get back to Mama.
But when we stood back, Baby just lay there. She was in shock, no doubt stressed from our inept handling, as much as anything.
While she was still, I took a closer look. Other than the laceration on her leg, she didn’t look injured, but it was a nasty cut, infected, oozing pus and serum. Plus, she’d scraped her face up on the concrete, struggling against her would-be rescuers.
By this time, a conservation officer had shown up. His mandate was also humane euthanasia, which he was prepared to do pretty much right then. And for a critical injury, it would be absolutely the right thing.
Now, this fawn wasn’t critically injured, but there’s a good chance she’d succumb to her infection, or be coyote or cougar bait. We couldn’t see Mama around anymore and the fawn certainly wouldn’t survive alone. We’d already intervened; now we were committed. Euthanasia or treatment, we had to do something.
“If you want her,” said the conservation officer, clearly relieved to be relieved of his duty, “this is your chance.”
Ray and I feel pretty protective of our mountain creatures, and Ray always plays Good Samaritan when he happens onto a dog or cat in distress. But deer are a little out of his area of expertise. So he called our friend Kenny Mac, a wildlife veterinarian, who thankfully, knows how to restrain a fawn without hurting it, and without getting clocked by those hooves.
Between him, Ray and me, we got Baby safely to the clinic, cleaned her wound, gave her antibiotics and fluids and a safe place to rest for the night. By morning, she was on her feet, bawling for breakfast, looking 100% better.
She’s now being cared for by Critter Care, a local wildlife rescue and rehabilitation center, and will be released back to the wild as soon as possible.
Maybe one day Baby will make her way back home. I hope so.