I’ve arrived at the near-end of one of the most difficult years of my life. As a missbatesian spinster caring for a declining elderly person, the “caring” part was near-unsurvivable. My mother’s Alzheimer’s worsened and precipitated my near-collapse from lack of sleep, support, and respite. Then, suddenly, after five years of struggling, arguing, threatening, and cajoling for help from the Quebec government (I won’t detail-describe the labyrinthine, kafka-esque state of Quebec’s no-health-care system), she was finally called to a nursing home placement. A terrible period of adjustment followed. She is safe and well and I am slowly recovering from years of care-giving. My heart goes out to the care-givers, their solitude and loyalty. If you know of someone in this predicament, bring a casserole, pay a visit, offer respite time.
Throughout five intense care-giving years, though focus was weak, I could open a book, watch a film, listen to an audiobook or podcast to take me out of the daily crises. This year was no different, though my ability to write about what I read and listened to diminished. I hope to do better in 2026. The past weeks have been work-filled, visiting-my-mother-filled, and setting-my-house-in-order-filled, but I listened to Anthony Hopkins’s memoir, We Did Ok, Kid (narrated by marvellous Kenneth Branagh) and watched The Father. I didn’t think I would like Hopkins’s memoir, but there’s a surprising humility present and many delightful references to one of my favourite things, live theatre, because Hopkins knew and worked with the greats. I crowed gleefully when Hopkins recounted his viewing of a brilliant young actor playing Jimmy Porter in Osborne’s Look Back In Anger – Peter O’Toole – or his exchanges with the then-RSC-director – Sir Laurence Olivier. (more…)









