Jian and Other Pigs

"There is no kind of harassment that a man may not inflict on a woman with impunity in civilized societies." -  Denis Diderot

It happened a long time ago.  I was a young woman living in the big city, trying to find my way in the workplace.  It was a fact of life for women in those times.  We all talked about it, shared information about who to avoid, how to handle the attackers.  It didn't even occur to most of us to go to someone for help.  Those who had sought help from management or Personnel (as Human Resources departments were called then) were told to toughen up or just avoid the problem.  One woman was told to lock the door to the secretarial pool at 5 o'clock to keep out the man who routinely assaulted women when they were required to work after hours. 

It wasn't one incident, it was hundreds. There were the events that took place in my workplace when I had full-time work.  They range from being groped and fondled to dealing with a man who exposed his penis and tried to force me to gratify him orally.  There was the boss who hit me when I was trying to clean up the coffee I had accidentally spilled on the floor. There was the colleague who groped me in his car while he was driving 120 kilometers an hour on the 401.  I had asked him for a ride home from a company sponsored golf tournament that I was ordered to attend.  It was more than 100 kilometers away and I didn't have a car.  A very nice man on the executive team drove me there but once there he asked me to find another ride home.  Fair enough.  He didn't live in the city.  A man who had been harassing me jumped up to volunteer.  I didn't want to go with him so I asked another colleague who lived very near to me.  I thought I could trust him.  I thought he would protect me.

There was a time when I didn't have a full-time job.  To meet my rent, I temped.  Every new assignment was a minefield to be navigated.  Some of it was easy - the pornography, the disgusting notes that would be left on my desk when I went to lunch.  I threw them in the trash without reacting and moved on.  Much of it was harder - being grabbed or chased around the desk by men who seemed like the least likely aggressors.  Sometimes the other women would warn me who to avoid ahead of time.  But sometimes I think they were just grateful there was someone else there to take the hits.

I remember the first time I went to management with a complaint.  I worked in Human Resources and one of my responsibilities was to take new employees on an orientation tour.  The walls of the mail room which was on our tour, were covered with pictures of naked women.  I wanted them taken down.  I was accused of being a prude.  I wouldn't back down and neither would the manager of the department, a woman who had worked at the company for many years.  In his wisdom, the head of H.R. decided on a compromise.  On days I led the tour, the breasts and genitals on the offending photos would be covered up.  The other times that I needed to visit the mail room, I would just have to suck it up.

A couple of years later, I was assaulted by a member of management.  It was a vile attack that ended worse for him than it did for me.  I took my complaint to the company president.  It takes a special kind of stupid to assault an employee in the H.R. end of the business.  An investigation was launched and my attacker was dismissed.  The company kept things very quiet which I appreciated.  But soon after, the phones began to ring.  Women who had left the employ of the company, some of them without giving notice, called to ask if it was true he was no longer there and if so, could they come back to work.  Not a one of them had ever come to register a complaint - at least not to me. 

I've had a very long and very successful career and it has been many years since I was the woman facing sexual harassment and abuse aimed at me.  But I'm still in the Human Resources end of business.  I've investigated many complaints of sexual and workplace harassment over the years. Women are still getting groped.  Still getting assaulted.  Still getting harassed. By now, I'm shock proof.

Pornography isn't posted on workplace walls anymore. Reading the news about Jian Ghomeshi and the CBC, the complaints against Members of Parliament, Scott Andrews and Massimo Pacetti and the comments made on social media by OHL players, Greg Betzold and Jake Marchment, it would seem that little else has changed.

Healing at The Highway

"The wish for healing has always been half of health." - Lucius Annaeus Seneca

 

It has been an interesting week.  After eleven weeks of agony, my back problems mysteriously began to subside.  I'm not all the way healed yet but I have come far enough that I'm managing the pain with Advil and living a pretty normal existence.  I knew I had come a really long way when I managed using both feet to climb the stairs.  I was wondering if I would ever be able to do that again.  I've shopped, attended an all day seminar, done a significant amount of driving and even sat up and had enough concentration to make a couple pieces of jewellery.  

Like all Canadians I was hard hit by the death of Corporal Nathan Cirillo on Wednesday.  When I heard Friday morning that his body was being brought home that afternoon along the Highway of Heroes, I decided I would stand on the overpass alongside many others as a sign of respect.  I know Corporal Cirillo wouldn't see me, but I did it for his mother.  It was she who went to Ottawa to bring her baby home.  Brian and Geraldine were also planning to stand on the overpass and Cath decided to join us.  The hearse was expected to pass us at about 6 o'clock.  We arrived around 5 and waited.  It was a lovely day but when the sun started to set, there was a distinct chill in the air.  There were already about fifty people on the overpass when we arrived and more than a hundred by the time the hearse passed.  It was close to 7 o'clock.  The procession travelled much slower than was anticipated. There were thousands of people lining the highways and overpasses from Ottawa all the way to Hamilton.  It was dark by the time it reached us.  It was also eerily silent though we were many people.  The only sounds were waving flags and sniffles.  It was sad.  The rear window of one of the limousines in the procession opened and a hand emerged, waving an acknowledgement to the crowd.  A couple of moments later, it was gone.  We quietly returned to our cars, mumbling to the strangers we had stood with that we hoped never to meet this way again.  I remembered that is what we said to one another the last time I stood there in honour of a soldier killed in Afghanistan.  When we pulled out of that war zone, I hoped that was the end of my time standing in wait for a fallen soldier.  I certainly didn't fathom I would be there to honour a young man killed in our own nation by one of our own citizens.

I certainly don't regret the hours spent waiting yesterday.  But two hours on the concrete in the cold did set me back.  I ramped up my pain meds and have spent some time in bed.  I will heal.  I hope that seeing the outpouring of support and respect from a proud and grateful nation, will help Corporal Cirillo's mother to heal a little too.

Unthinkable

"Our belief is that people who are using violence to undermine democracy want us to be silenced and we refuse to be silenced."  - Kathleen Wynne

This morning Corporal Nathan Cirillo went to work, unarmed, to stand as an honorary guard at the tomb of the unknown soldier in Ottawa.  Corporal Cirillo was a reservist,  just 24 years old, a son, a brother, a father.  I imagine that his mother was quietly relieved that her soldier son had such safe duty rather than being posted on the other side of the world to fight a war that few of us understand.  Tonight, Corporal Cirillo's mother is without her son, his sister is without her brother, his son is without his father.  And all of Canada is without the sense of security that has always shored us up.

There is a great deal of chatter today about the gunman who killed Corporal Cirillo.  We know little of him.  What we do know is that he is another home-grown terrorist, a recent convert to Islam, the second in a week to launch an attack on Canadian soldiers.  Social media, as it is want to do, is filled with venom, with hate, with misinformation and speculation.  I suppose it is the nature of people in the absence of information, to try to fill in the gaps.  Anti-Muslim rhetoric is in full swing.  There is rampant speculation about the ethnic origins of the gunman.  It is sick and sad and more than a little frightening.  Judging from the gunman's name at birth, his ethnicity is as about as exotic as Wonder Bread.  When his face is not wrapped in a scarf, he looks like an average white guy.  He was born in Quebec.

As a nation, we face a few challenges in the next few days.  We must resist the urge to vilify a whole religious segment of the population and we must resist the urge to politicize these events.  Each of the three main party leaders made statements today about the situation.  Beyond platitudes, none of them had much to say with the exception of Mr. Trudeau who managed to rub some people the wrong way by suggesting that we need to figure out how we are contributing to the creation of home-grown terrorists.  He's right, of course, but perhaps it was too early and politically unwise to speak beyond platitudes today. 

I am beyond trying to figure it out tonight.  I've been crying all day for the loss of the innocence of a nation, for the loss of a good man and for another mother's broken heart.

Longing for Louboutins

"A shoe is not only a design, but it's a part of your body language, the way you walk.  The way you're going to move is quite dictated by your shoes." - Christian Louboutin

 

If you looked in my closet you would find at least a hundred pairs of shoes.  I like shoes.  It's the one thing I have in common with Imelda Marcos.  What you wouldn't see is much in the way of flat shoes.  There are are a couple of pairs of mocassins and a couple of pairs of Toms and even several pairs of running shoes in various colours.  But flat dress shoes aren't in my wardrobe.  It is week eleven of my hip and back saga with no end in sight.  Sandal weather is gone.  I'm trying to carry on with my life, within the limitations of my pain.  Last Friday night we attended a wedding.  I stopped on my way home from physio and bought a lovely pair of beaded ballet flats that were a terrible price but they worked with the black cocktail dress I was wearing that evening and I was in poor enough shape that I couldn't manage more than one store. 

Today I had a business meeting downtown and I once again faced the problem of what to put on my feet.  I ended up wearing those same shoes.  While they are a little dressy for the business dress I wore, they were a better alternative than the too casual choices available.  Tomorrow I will go and try to find some other shoes to buy that would be a bit more suitable for my business wardrobe.  On the way back to my car from my meeting today I popped into a shoe store to scope out their inventory.  I saw two wonderful pairs, one suede pair in the perfect hot pink colour I've been looking for to go with my pink leather jacket, the other in an electric blue.  Alas, both pairs have four inch heels.  The flats in the store were all so boring and so not me.

When I finally get over these problems, I think I might splurge and treat myself to a pair of Christian Louboutin shoes.  And of course, whenever possible, I will sit with my legs crossed to show off the red soles.  A girl can dream.

Broken

"All the king's horses and all the king's men, couldn't put Humpty together again." - Lewis Carroll

Week nine and still down.  The problems with my back have gotten worse.  One step forward, two steps back.  Three herniated discs, now mostly resolved followed by a dislocated hip that doesn't want to stay in the socket no matter how many times my physiotherapist puts it back. The as yet, unconfirmed diagnosis is a labral tear. The pain is breathtaking. 

I've been trying to carry on with some semblance of a life in spite of my current challenges.  I sucked it up long enough to attend a business lunch last week, even driving myself downtown for the meeting.  I spent the next two days flat on my back.  Sunday was the day on which I had long ago committed to attend the theatre with Courtney, her mom, Jan and sister, Sarah.  We had tickets to see Wicked, my favorite musical as a belated celebration of Jan's fiftieth birthday.  Given that Jan's partner had a serious heart attack last week, she really needed this celebration and the tickets were ordered many months ago.  I had told Courtney that I would take everyone out to lunch before the matinee performance and I was determined I would keep that commitment, no matter what it took.  There was a lot of ice and a lot of pain medication involved but I did it.  We had lunch at Joey and then three hours sitting at the performance.  Though I had a few tense moments when I wondered if I could sit any longer without fainting from pain, I managed to find my Zen space and I thoroughly enjoyed the show. 

Admittedly, I was pretty wrecked by yesterday.  A visit to my physiotherapist in the morning followed by a visit to my doctor's office and an xray clinic exhausted whatever little reserves I had.  Grocery shopping today, so sapped me that I sat in the driveway for about ten minutes after getting home today, my back and hip in spasm and me unable to get out of the car.  All things pass.  Eventually I got into the house, took some pain meds and collapsed on the sofa.  A half hour later I was revived enough to get up and put away the groceries.  Two hours later, I was able to make the bolognese sauce for tonight's dinner.

Clearly, I'm broken.  I hope the doctors have more luck putting me back together than the king's men had with Humpty.

Playing Hurt

"An injured lion still wants to roar." - Randy Pausch

 

I have little in common with most professional athletes.  I'm uncoordinated, plump and doughy.  I've never been an even adequate player in any sport.  So it is interesting at this late juncture in my life to find that I now have something in common with them.  I'm having to learn to play hurt.  

Playing hurt is a part of every professional athlete's life.  Now it is a part of mine.  Seven weeks into my back issues, I'm still often inconsolable with pain.  My hip is so inflamed that I cry out in the night when it goes into spasm.  I feel like hot knives are being thrust into my leg and foot.  But life does not stand still because I'm on the sidelines.  Bad enough that I missed real participation in my 25th wedding anniversary and Jacob's birthday.  And I didn't get to England for a long awaited family wedding.  But I did do some things.  I spent two days leading my crew team at The Weekend to End Women's Cancers.  I did it through a haze of pain, and from a chair, but I did it.  Last Saturday night, I attended a surprise party hosted by Brian's and Geraldine's kids to celebrate their fortieth wedding anniversary.  It was a lovely party.  A couple of hours in, I felt desperate to go home but I managed to hang on until the bitter end.  The moment I laid down when I got home, I burst into tears.  Hiding pain is exhausting.

I've got a number of events ahead in the next few weeks - an afternoon at the theatre with Courtney, her mom and sister, a welcoming party for a friend's new grandson and the wedding of the young man that I mentor professionally.  I'm praying that I will be doing much better by then.  If not, I'll just have to suck it up and put my game face on. 

Same Circus, Different Clown

"Just cause you got the monkey off your back doesn't mean the circus has left town." - George Carlin

 

I wouldn't wish ill health on my worst enemy so the health challenges of Rob Ford give me no satisfaction.  I hope he recovers from whatever his ailment turns out to be and goes on to raise his family and live his life - just so long as he's not doing it as our mayor.  Dropping out of the mayoral race is absolutely the right thing for him to do.  Having his brother Doug step into his shoes and run for mayor is absolutely the wrong thing to do.  And yet, here we are.  Rob for councillor.  Doug for mayor.

What is it going to take to rid our poor inflicted city of the Ford boys?  Haven't we suffered enough?  Rob Ford is a buffoon - moronic, crass and idiotic.  Doug Ford is just a more dangerous version of his brother.  God help us.  We're in for a bumpy ride.