It is oft repeated that the winding down of one’s clock gathers speed with its amortization.  It is an adage that reflects the urgency of our impending ruin and one which besides has the authority of science.

The dwindling of time sparks a greed for the commodity or at least an earnestness to pack as much as possible into what remains.  The disposition compels me for example to address my more intimate (though admittedly frivolous) goals before the precious resource is exhausted.  It requires of me but a hurried glance backwards to reveal what have been my simmering though much neglected innermost aspirations. There are only a few dreams I hope yet to accomplish and none of them is especially exalted. There isn’t for example any insistence to travel the world, to write a book or climb a mountain.  Indeed apart from one remaining ambition (the detail of which is too impossibly trite to bear repetition) I am perfectly satisfied to indulge myself in the comparatively unimaginative liberties of getting out of bed after eight o’clock in the morning, lingering over breakfast while writing my endless codswallop, going for a bicycle ride along a country road on a balmy summer morn, getting the car washed, visiting family and friends for a cup of coffee, reading an improving book and going to bed with a unobstructed conscience.  Clearly those preoccupations are worthy of any man or woman and are ones which anyone should be happy to confess. The placated condition is further evidence of my conviction that life owes me nothing.  This stark admission does however only serve to heighten the significance of appeasing my remaining appetite.  I don’t want even the smallest grain of sand to slip through my fingers. In my haste to quell the particles of remnant temptation I have succeeded to swell what was once mere whimsical hope into manifest enterprise.

There remains in particular the fulfillment of one fanciful notion which I have nurtured over the years.  Its incubation was in my undergraduate days in Toronto when I regularly flew down Avenue Road from the Glendon Hall.  It was a time of my life when nothing but adventure and promise figured.  As with so many hopes its realization was at the time out of bounds but I never relinquished this one ideal.  It has lingered like the memory of a favourite line of poetry, haunting me to this day.  Paradoxically its mundaneness is the author of both its neglect and its attraction, no doubt more of that business about squeezing the last drop of liquor from the fruit of life.

While the anticipated accomplishment of this pesky purpose hardly qualifies as a journey’s end, it will nonetheless stand as one more thing off my bucket list.  Once again nature teaches us how to die.  Until then I rejoice in being able at last to translate the ambition into fruition.

The well-known adage, “Blood runs thicker than water” contains perhaps an unintended and unfamiliar paradox:

In modern society, the proverb “blood is thicker than water” is used to imply that family ties are always more important than the ties you make among friends. An alternative interpretation of the phrase is stated as “The blood of the covenant is thicker than the water of the womb” which means bonds made between you and the friends you choose are stronger than the bonds of the family you were born into.

When I was young my friends were highly important to me.  Most of my time was spent with them.  The paramountcy of friends over family was undisputed. Lately however the frequently less glamorous sphere of family has overtaken the once captivating influence of friends. Almost as though I have only so much substance which to share with family and friends, the balance of both interest and preoccupation has shifted from friends to family. No doubt the experience of others may be different. Some seem forever absorbed in what their family is doing and friends are of almost collateral or strictly commercial significance.

Unquestionably my heightened involvement with family is the product of aging, both mine and my family’s.  Equally undeniable is the persuasive effect of awakening need. On the heels of my father’s death I have felt a near instinctive inclination to lead and direct my family.  This is odd, first because I haven’t a traditional family of my own; and second, because for most of my life I have distanced myself from the daily concerns of my family (probably a product of having been at boarding school since age 13 years and never having returned home). It is possible that my current focus upon my family’s affairs is the result of having been a lawyer who regularly advised people upon matters of succession, not that all family matters are intent upon testamentary wishes or the inheritance of property but the training cultivates a readiness to address inevitability in all its manifestations.

Whatever the reason for the alteration of my attention, I find that dwelling upon the well-being of my family is appeasing. It gives me both purpose and gratification.  An unexpected corollary is that the depth of my complicity has had the effect of estranging me from people whom I once considered friends. My delight in friends has waned as my attentiveness to family has bumped up. This could of course be dismissed as merely the result of pressing need, much as flavourless necessity is the mother of inspiring invention. I am however convinced that the posture is driven by more than distress; family has trumped all else.  The strength of family outweighs the vigour of friends.  The grittiness of family has also forced an analysis of friends.  I am resigned to thinking that apart from the occasional social diversion of most friends, and the exceptional intellectual attraction of certain friends, family carries the day.  From time to time I am disappointed to imagine that the bond with friends was largely symbiotic even sycophantic.  Admittedly this proposition was initially advanced to me as the spin-off of my legal experience though I confess I was never aware of anyone seeking from me particular advantage or gain in that regard.  Nonetheless with the amortization of my career there is remarkably a corresponding diminution of my so-called friends.  This at first disturbed me but I now accept the attrition as being in line with the predictable evaporation of clientele generally.

The sting of this experience has fostered a degree of chariness in my perception of friends.  I am alive to what can only be dignified as the baser instincts of humanity.  Even though upon examination there is likely no one who would deny the propensity of people to seek to improve their position in life, it is seldom that we are so ready to acknowledge that we are a stepping stone for others.  To be caught in the traffic of desire is seldom foreseen.  It is in this respect in particular that the bond of family distinguishes itself. Family is very much a spectator sport until one makes the move to participate; and usually the motivation has little to do with reciprocity.  The impulse is virtually genetic.  It is a happy accident of the proclivity that it incorporates the biblical admonishment regarding the honour of one’s parents.  There is also an oddly attractive clinical element to the congress with one’s family; namely, it furthers an altruistic improvement of one’s immediate clan while at the same time fostering the betterment of society as a whole.  In an era when the role of family is evolving to support a wider class of membership (specifically children and grandparents now remaining in the same home), the relevance of the family bond is inescapable.  And when all members of the class can no longer claim entitlement to dependence, the need and desire to contribute to the overall well-being is intensified.

As with so many things in life, the enlargement of one entails the declension of another.  My empathy with the progress of those beyond my family is limited to casual information only.  My energy is now directed to my family.  I acknowledge that this dilutes much of the enthusiasm I once had for friendship; but I also concede that many friendships have disappointed me.  I certainly do not blame any of my erstwhile friends.  Our mutual bonds have dissolved with time. My only point in emphasizing this disintegration is to turn my deliberation from what is proving to be a dead end.  Sometimes it is just better to go it alone.

Post Scriptum June 16th, 2015

I am afraid this latest expedition has strung me out.  My affection for family has acquired the same poison that I earlier attributed to friends.  After having spent the entire day with my mother in an attempt to dispose of the garbage and junk of which she has complained for years, there is little of a charitable nature I can muster for her in particular and for family in general.  I enlarge upon the contamination because, after today’s painful experience, I attempted to relate the affair to my sister and encountered a similar persistent contradiction.  In case it matters, the problem was that my mother attempted to retake most of the debris which we had arranged to have carted away. When I asked her for example why we should keep four large pieces of plywood, her response was that she might need them some day!  She’s almost 90 years old! She has harped about the rubbish in the garage for eons!  I won’t expand upon the further preposterous pronouncements she made continuously throughout the day, but I can assure you they each contained the same element of nonsense.  For me now, going it alone is both sans friends and sans family.

Post Scriptum June 17th, 2015

It is only fair to record that my sentiments today are once again entirely altered. The metamorphosis began shortly after eight o’clock this morning when my dear mother telephoned to make enquiries about the upcoming plans to relocate her to the retirement residence.  I confess I hadn’t in my wildest imagination contemplated such a pacific enquiry from her on the heels of yesterday’s tribulations.  In any event, her mollification of the previous distress obliged me to contact my sister to share some additional advice and as a result that bridge is patched as well.  What a mockery I have made of my own impetuosity and lack of patience!  I still cannot however report such favourable reconciliation with former friends.

Alexander Graham Bell, if he were to come back from the grave, would no doubt be quite astounded to learn that the once terribly modern device called the telephone is imperceptibly being replaced by the SmartPhone.  After dithering upon the subject for about a year or more, we have at last taken the critical step of ridding ourselves of a landline telephone.  The so-called “home phone” is set to be discontinued effective June 21st next.  This evening we resolved without any fuss whatsoever that we would instead each have cellular phones.  Within all of 90 minutes of our decision we had concluded the purchase of a second mobile phone and cancelled our subscription to our historic land line. The only remaining vestige of the home phone is its last four digits (which we expropriated for the new gizmo).  Apart from that the hardware is so much junk.

While I won’t pretend that the modern cordless telephone has anything attractive about it, I nonetheless sense the smallest degree of remorse at the loss of the dated communications apparatus.  One of the instruments we have is a replica of the vintage models peculiar to last century.

Years ago when I assumed the law practice of the late R. A. Jamieson, QC and arranged to have new telephones installed I mistakenly returned to Bell Canada the old telephone desk contraption which Mr. Jamieson had been using for the past 52 years of his practice.  It was a sentimental misgiving only as it could never have competed with the redial, hold and transfer features of the modern telephone sets.  But the nostalgia of its design would clearly have blended with my antique office furnishings.

It will undoubtedly prove to be a casualty of the new purchase that it will succeed at least temporarily to monopolize a good deal of time, not merely the expected repercussion of having to notify numerous parties of the change of telephone number but also the popular malaise of becoming riveted to the instrument.  As a diversion the SmartPhone is incomparable.  There is of course no need to itemize the many elements of the gadget which provide endless hours of amusement and utility.  But even apart from its synthetic capacity I cannot but marvel that it heralds a monumental shift from what was at one time an unprecedented discovery.  And I’m sorry but I fail to see anything but the remotest similarity between the old telephone and the SmartPhone; that would be like comparing a typewriter to a computer.

On the other hand I congratulate us for keeping up with the times.  It now seems almost preposterous to be without a cellular phone, about as backward as insisting on mailing a cheque to pay one’s bills.  Certainly there is a token financial hit upon graduating from a land line to a SmartPhone but again the substantive comparison is hardly fair or realistic.  I confess that I am one of those people who has never been disappointed by technology (though I admit as well that I initially resisted it – but that was before I could even have imagined what it could do).  I have by contrast subsequently adopted the philosophy that, no matter how frequently the manufacturers change the product, on the balance it is most likely to be an improvement.  I have yet to be caught out on this bet.  While authors have written at length about the industrial revolution, I consider it my current pleasure to be in the swirl of the technological revolution.  If nothing else, I can report with astonishing import that I have witnessed the beginning of the internet.  Of course the SmartPhone is just part of the revolution and evolution.  Considering the speed at which these advances have been made (attested by the multitude of computers which I have owned and which I have successively replaced one for the other), it boggles me to think how archaic I might have been had I not tried to maintain the pace.  And to anyone who attempts to resile from the effort on the theory that it is far too complicated, I need only point to the facility of mere children to handle it. Or, as I like to say, if you can drive a car you can operate a computer.  And speaking of cars, the automobile has become one of the biggest computers on wheels.  The modern vehicle reflects the technological advances of society in general.  Tape decks and CD players for example are thing of the past, like old telephones.  Now SmartPhones are synced to the car or USBs are plugged into it.  And who in their right mind would consult a map to get anywhere! Technology rules!

I suspect many of us have from time to time done our best to impress our parents. For me anyway, it seemed that they more than most deserved the effort. As a child it is not uncommon to see children performing for their parents, seeking their approbation. Even adult children are known to dedicate considerable labour to proving themselves in the eyes of their parents though the medium changes from an acrobatic trick to a professional choice.

Lately I have been doing my best to impress my mother.  This time however the object of attention is not so much me as the apartment to which I am trying to motivate her to move.  Essentially this is a downsizing enterprise, a transition from a 2-storey 4-bedroom home to a retirement residence. The objective has not been without its ups and downs.  Yesterday for example we were openly discussing the move to the apartment and the sale of my mother’s house.  Today on the other hand I was backed into the corner defending my actions as though I had supplanted my mother’s wishes with a hidden agenda calculated to ruin her life.  This unfavourable twist came late in the day after I had spent a good deal of time in communication with the various people needed to make the shift happen successfully.  My mother summarily dismissed my industry as a waste of money and something which I could easily reverse.

Naturally my mother’s fickle nature on this subject is understandable but it also reinforces the need for the evolution. I perceive that her memory and general health are daily declining and it would amount to egregious neglect to ignore the present need for planning for her future.  Neither is it insignificant that she turns 89 years of age on June 12th next.  Thus in spite of the accumulative number of things which have been orchestrated to arrange for this retirement residence for my mother, it is impossible to characterize its propriety as a mere matter of discretion.  We are beyond choice.  The decision has to be made or both the opportunity and the desirability of the move will be lost.

In spite of the clinical logic of the move I nonetheless continue to be plagued by the need to impress my mother even if her capacity to comprehend my dedication is diminished.  Whatever else may affect the deduction to make the move at this time, the continuing thread is that I am determined to make the place look great.  The Executive Director of the residence has even fanned the fires of my enthusiasm by noting her personal interest in seeing the result.  I have perhaps spoken too glowingly of what I anticipate doing with the place!  I may have to eat my words!

The basic apartment appeals to me.  It is on the third floor so it captures a sense of reserve and security for that reason alone.  Upon the suggestion of the Lifestyle Consultant I had a closet removed which separated the dining area from the living area.  Now the light from the two windows in the living area will filter unimpeded throughout.  The adjoining bedroom is effectively one large parallel room which also has two windows.  I feel the place will be bright.  The paint is a standard off-yellow or light brown colour which matches most other colours.  The views out the windows are pleasant, a mixture of mature deciduous and coniferous trees, with partial views of the exterior stone siding on the building.  The bathroom is spacious and the shower is easily accessible with an area for seating.  The living area has hardwood floors; the bedroom area has broadloom.

As for furnishings we are taking exclusively mahogany and other hardwood furniture.  The dining area will have a table, four chairs, small sideboard and a corner display cabinet (stocked with expensive china). A new Oriental-style rug will be on the floor under the dining table. A crystal fruit bowl and kettle will figure on the small counter space above the bar fridge (next to the tiny sink). We’ll stock enough cups and saucers, etc. for a tea party. On the walls will be a my mother’s portrait and other works of original art.  The living area will have three smallish chairs, no couch, a walnut TV stand (with the CD player set on a shelf), a small games table and an oval display table.  More original works of art.  The lamps will all be brass or antique.  There will be a Chinese rug in the centre of the living area. The bedroom will have the bed, side table, dresser, hi-boy, desk, chair and paintings. More lamps and paintings.  We’ll deposit whatever knick-knacks seem appropriate.

Assuming the apartment decoration is suitable, it is likely the most compelling feature will be that it is all on one floor (that is, no stairs).  While my mother purported to object to the move on the basis that she couldn’t prepare her own meals and that she would be obliged to go to the dining room to eat, the truth is that we’re uncertain how regularly she eats in any event.  In all the time that I have visited my mother (which is virtually every day) the only time I have ever seen her eat anything was a muffin.  She would still be able to put a muffin in her fridge.  We have arranged to have the staff administer her medication daily.  Laundry is located on the same floor as the apartment (unless mother prefers to have us arrange to have the staff take care of it).

The scope of my world has never been especially wide; however, recently the spectrum of my activity has been uncommonly narrow even for me.  Since our return from Hilton Head Island mid-March I have been dedicated almost exclusively to two things:  1) getting my mother and her affairs in order; and, 2) planning for our return to Hilton Head Island.  While the first may sound altruistic and the second far less so, in fact the two are for me commingled and neither stands happily without the other.

I am pleased to record that as of today my mother has seemingly embraced the prospect of both moving to an apartment and selling her home.  This is not a statement I would have advanced so cheerfully no less than a week ago when her disposition was decidedly mercurial.  While I have my theory about what has pushed her at last to approach this undoubtedly trying decision with determination, the important thing is that she appears to be there.  This morning she spoke of two significant details – selling the house and the disposition of her belongings.  Admittedly her resolution is partly tainted with resignation in that she has ostensibly abandoned the element of her personal satisfaction in this transition.  For example she no longer voices her sense of loss of independence and possession; instead she is addressing issues which reflect upon preparation for her departure (however that may be interpreted, whether physically or metaphysically).

My view of the same set of facts is quite different.  I see the change as a success not a mere accommodation.  As I have related to my mother, her level of independence will in my opinion enlarge upon moving to the retirement home.  She will no longer be dependent upon the goodness of others for groceries, for travel to medical appointments, for medical appointments period, for cooking or service of food, for household cleaning or laundry, for beauty treatments or for social interaction.  There are also practical advantages, like not having stairs to climb; like having a spacious bathroom with a shower built for being seated while showering; like not having to worry about property maintenance or the amount of fuel in the tank or the payment of a myriad of routine management bills.  I suspect mother hasn’t yet any appreciation of the prospect of not having to be alone at night; not having to eat alone; not having to be estranged from society.  I fashion this move as a step in the direction of dignity.  She will live in a highly desirable stone building in an equally desirable residential area along the renowned Rideau Canal on the fashionable Driveway.  She will literally have a chauffeur at her disposal.  I am making every effort to ensure that her new apartment is choc-a-bloc with her most desirable furnishings and personal effects, mahogany everywhere, precious Persians, silver and original works of art.

Like any properly crafted decision, this venture is also characterized not only by emotional and visceral appeal but also forward-thinking pragmatism.  It is inescapable that the amortization of our mortal existence exposes us to heightened medical and physical needs.  Getting a foot into this retirement environment includes the possibility of transitioning to higher levels of care without having to do so precipitously and without having to leave the immediate space.  Just as entrusting one’s financial affairs to a corporate trustee includes the element of perpetual existence so too the capitulation to a retirement residence offers the remedy of on-demand care and attention without having to rely upon what might turn out to be the declining buoyancy or availability of family.

As a matter of record only I wish to note a few details about the unfolding story of mother’s move to the Colonel By retirement residence.  Tomorrow morning we are scheduled to meet with Homefree Organizational Services to review the proposed schedule for moving furnishings into the Colonel By Lodge and for disposing of junk which has accumulated in the basement and garage.  This meeting will be important because it sets in motion the mechanics to implement the move to the apartment.  The anticipation of this meeting has naturally concerned me as its success is critical to the plan.

I have already dilated at some length upon mother’s daily habit of reversing her posture on this proposal; that is, each time we discuss it, she resists the intent but later comes around to accepting it, only to reverse herself on the following day after she has “been thinking” (as she puts it).  Today began as no exception to that routine performance.  It must however have been a mark of my unwavering determination to make this happen that I resisted getting into an out-and-out argument with my mother on the topic.  Instead I spoke quietly and characterized the move to the retirement residence as the key to the preservation of her independence (independent of me, my sister and my niece to buy her groceries, to arrange her medical appointments, to deal with trades people, etc.).  Given that my mother would even have a chauffeur at her disposal, weekly cleaning of her apartment and laundry, white linen dining service and wine being poured for her at the evening meal, not to mention the company of others and the prospect of playing Bridge, the accommodation of this residence is not exactly a deprivation!

Several hours after we had discussed this matter at length and left my mother’s house, and after I had related the latest news on the subject to my sister, I telephoned my mother to ensure that she was fine.  To my delight, she began by addressing the issue of the security of her home during her absence! This naturally represents a marked detour from what I have customarily encountered on this once delicate proposition.  I have since abbreviated the proceedings to both my sister and my niece, both of whom appreciate the value of what is taking place incrementally.  I am now confident that I may discuss the arrangements openly without feeling the necessity to disguise what we are doing, which after all is perfectly normal for anyone approaching her 90th year and who is clearly suffering increasing disabilities.  We seem at last to have acknowledged what was once the unspoken truth or the elephant in the room.  It is noteworthy too that my niece (who is my mother’s confessed favourite) spoke to my mother in support of the move which I and my sister have been encouraging.  I understand from having heard my mother relate this information to me that she was unusually moved by her granddaughter’s influence.  Although my mother suggested that I had put my niece “up to it” there was nothing of the kind, not even a conversation between us touching this matter.  I also reminded my mother today that her physician (whom my mother subsequently dismissed as “an asshole”) had also recommended the move to Colonel By Lodge.  Notwithstanding these lapses into the vernacular and the previous rejection of the propriety of the proposal, it now seems that things are on track as we round the bend.

Post Scriptum – June 8, 2015

Rather than attempt anything resembling a literary narrative, permit me to add that this morning we met with the Judy the “moving lady”.  My mother happily bestowed upon Judy the approbation of being a “nice person” which is code for the approval of all she said.  We have now scheduled the removal of “junk” a week hence (pointedly following the celebration of my mother’s 89th birthday on June 12th); and then two days later we move the furnishings to the new apartment.  Theoretically mother should be prepared to move into the apartment that evening and commence what I hope will be here stay there.  I suspect I shall have to enlist the support of my sister to ensure my mother arranges to take the personal things, including whatever clothing would be appropriate for the time of year.

I have already spoken with the real estate agent to provide a progress report.  I anticipate listing the property for sale soon after June 18th so that we can get on with it.  We will likely have to itemize the household effects and hold an auction of sorts to get rid of what “the family” doesn’t want to keep.  All in all it is warming up to be a busy summer!

The deep blue sky was remarkable throughout the entire day.  We capitalized upon the June summer morning by bicycling along our customary route up Country Street to the Rae Road then along the Eighth Concession.  Afterwards in our snug apartment we lingered over coffee and an ample breakfast of fresh fruit, bacon, bangers, eggs, cheese, avocado pear and homemade tabouleh. This was the calculated preamble to our calendarized late afternoon luncheon with my sister and her family in Ottawa South.

The appointed time to collect my mother (who celebrates her 89th birthday six days hence) was 2:30 p.m. and we arrived at her home dutifully as instructed.  Our leisurely drive around Dow’s Lake to my sister’s home off The Driveway was cheered by blossoming flowers, boating enthusiasts and athletic runners and cyclists. All was verdant and abundant.

The household was fully in gear upon our arrival.  My niece Julia was there with her boyfriend Matt and her sylph-like girlfriend Michelle, a long-time high school colleague.  The younger set (who contrived to visit Ottawa this weekend from Toronto and Sarnia for a high school 10th year reunion) contributed a welcome vibrancy to what might otherwise have been a sedate enterprise.  No doubt the Bloody Caesars expertly prepared by Denis contributed as well.  Before long we withdrew from the sunroom where we had all been chatting furiously to the living room to watch photos of my niece’s and her boyfriend’s recent jaunt to Cuba.  While the photos did nothing to distinguish themselves as an artistic expression, they nonetheless delighted the proud and adoring parents and grandparent (my mother) who watched attentively.  I on the other hand privately reflected, “This is why one must never show home movies!” though naturally I too unequivocally confess the redeeming profit of the familial activity.

At table we were treated to delightful barbecued fresh salmon grâce à my brother-in-law Ed and a medley of summer salads (one of which was skilfully prepared by my niece Julia who has become an accomplished cook).  The spirited table talk alighted for a moment upon the upcoming plans of Julia and Matt to venture to Los Angeles in pursuit of their acting, entertainment and writing careers.  I can only imagine what titillation they must experience to fathom what is to become of their lives!  As I opined to Matt it is a modern-day Christopher Columbus adventure!

We rounded out the toothsome meal with a superb homemade Swedish cream topped with strawberries and goldenberries and strong, black coffee.  After retiring to the garden for a final moment of conversation in the declining afternoon sunshine we took our leave amidst hugs, kisses and best wishes!

Lately my mother’s effect upon me is reminiscent of how Clouseau (the inept and incompetent police detective in the French Sûreté) transformed his direct superior Chief Inspector Dreyfuse into a homicidal psychotic.

It is now virtually assured that every day I shall be treated by my mother to a repeat recital of the reasons for not moving from her house to the retirement residence.  It is immaterial to my mother that virtually everyone, including her beloved granddaughter, her physician and her children, have exhorted her to take this step as she approaches her 89th birthday and incrementally declines both mentally and physically.  She remains however in that blurry sphere which is partially demented and partially incapable so the powers of reasoning are of diminished persuasiveness.  Mother also holds fast to her most dear possession, her house, and all that is therein.  She is convinced that the encroachment of the hounds is at her very doorstep.  Once again logic and necessity entirely fail to address her complaints.

The mercurial disposition of my mother vis-à-vis the venture makes for plodding progress and exhausting repetition. Meanwhile I have orchestrated for my mother the reservation of a charming apartment at the retirement residence and the transfer of furnishings to it. Contemporaneously we’ve had meetings with real estate agents to appraise the house and plan its sale. Nonetheless as my mother’s inclination to the project shifts by the hour I have progressively deteriorated from a posture of cooperation to one of blunt determination. There appears to be no room whatever for compromise or initiative on the part of my mother.  This is a sadly trying predicament because it highlights the imperative to make decisions which are temporarily unpopular.

The legal device of a Power of Attorney was originally conceived largely as a commercial tool to free busy corporate directors from the mundane duties of bureaucracy.  Pointedly it was not the purpose of empowering an attorney to appoint someone to act for you when you hadn’t the capacity to act for yourself.  Indeed it was a logical extension of the standard Power of Attorney that the attorney (that is the person empowered by you to act on your behalf) was only capable of doing that which you could do.  Thus the theory was that if you were incapable so too was your attorney. While this seeming paradox may fly in the face of what is commonly considered to be the whole point of a Power of Attorney (that is, to help people who cannot help themselves), it is nonetheless a fact even though it was honoured more in the breach than its observance (particularly by banking institutions who were clearly anxious to facilitate daily commercial transactions).  It is only relatively recently upon the enactment of the Substitute Decisions Act (Ontario) in 1992 that the concept of “Continuing Power of Attorney” (that is, continuing after one becomes incompetent) was codified:

Continuing power of attorney for property
7. (1) A power of attorney for property is a continuing power of attorney if,

(a) it states that it is a continuing power of attorney; or

(b) it expresses the intention that the authority given may be exercised during the grantor’s incapacity to manage property. 1996, c. 2, s. 4 (1).

Note: Subsection 7 (1), as re-enacted by the Statutes of Ontario, 1996, chapter 2, subsection 4 (1), applies to powers of attorney given before or after March 29, 1996. See: 1996, c. 2, s. 4 (5).

Same
(2) The continuing power of attorney may authorize the person named as attorney to do on the grantor’s behalf anything in respect of property that the grantor could do if capable, except make a will. 1992, c. 30, s. 7 (2).

Most properly drawn Powers of Attorney are not conditional upon a finding or adjudication of incapacity of the grantor of the authority. This may be considered a moot point when the competency of the grantor is undisputed. Where however the grantor continues to have even the partial appearance of competency, or worse objects to the tactics of the attorney, the implementation of the authority risks running afoul of the authority not to mention the creation of a transactional hiatus and family strife.  At this contentious juncture it is incumbent upon the attorney to recall the reason for which he or she was appointed and to exercise that care and skill which are in the best interests of the grantor.  The accommodation of the expressed wishes of the grantor is irrelevant if it collides with what is in the best interests of the grantor.

Assuming that my theses are correct, it is predictable that the outcome will prove satisfactory.  In the meantime however the annoyance of unnecessary conflict and anxiety continues to haunt the process of change.  As understandable as the fear of change may be, as sympathetic as one may be to the perceived sense of loss upon moving from one’s longtime home, as enthusiastic as one may be to protract the inevitable, the greater burden is to acknowledge the demands of time, inevitable declension and to plan accordingly.  The magnitude of the change means that the modification is equally substantial and addressing these features requires more than a moment’s attention.

I can barely recall what I did today.  Things were in a muddle this morning. After having awoken during the night several times, once at midnight (which is becoming a habit) then later at three o’clock and five-thirty, it wasn’t until 8:30 a.m. that I finally had the urge to get out of bed, and this after having retired only minutes after 9:00 p.m. last evening. Even after almost twelve hours of lying in bed, it was all I could do to muster the inclination to get up. All this rubbish I have had to endure the past several weeks, slipshod work from tradesmen, a mendacious merchant and a tardy car dealer, has evidently worn me to the ground.  Normally when I oversleep my back is stiff in the morning.  Not today however.   When I arose I discovered that my haircut appointment was for ten o’clock not ten-thirty as I had imagined.  Not that it put an incredible strain on things but it certainly kept me moving.

My haircut appointment went well as it usually does.  Simone – my hair architect – is a talented professional.  She knows what she is doing and I like what she does.  As is so often the case, when leaving the hair salon, I dislike the windswept look I’ve been given, but the cut is good and I can soon water down the hair sufficiently to restore my accustomed mediocrity.  Simone told me more than usual today about her trans-gender child, Maya, whose picture I saw and whose latest CD I heard (at least as much as one can possibly hear anything through the speakers of an iPhone in a hair salon).  Maya’s photo was quite extraordinary, very much along the lines of what one expects to see of models in magazines but otherwise bordering on hyperbolic.  I focused instead on Maya’s conviction and determination.  Considering my own silly preoccupation with hair at my age I shouldn’t criticize Maya for her concerns about appearance.

We drove to Ottawa to see my mother and to inspect the newly installed oil tank (which my mother decided last night when she telephoned me is an abomination and a detraction to the value of her house, convinced that it is misplaced even though I tried in vain to explain to her that the problem is not the size of the tank but the necessity to connect the feeder lines above ground).  We all descended into the basement this morning and I demonstrated as best I could to my mother that the location of the new tank was suitable for a utility room and that there was ample room remaining for a rumpus room in the basement if a subsequent owner felt the necessity to construct one.  Mother was clearly in a foul mood.  She suggested she was in the middle of some household chores.  Apart from telling her how to take the new over-the-counter medicine we brought her, we didn’t linger.  I relished being able to tell her that, for the first time in what seems like weeks, we haven’t anything on the agenda for tomorrow.  The only commitment is a late luncheon with my sister on Saturday.

Our cleaning lady attended today so we had to ensure our absence from the apartment during the afternoon.  We decided against Gananoque and headed instead to Cedar Cove.  Once through White Lake we discovered the road to Cedar Cove was under construction so we detoured to the Centennial Restaurant in Pakenham.  There we ordered a Lebanese salad and a Mexican pizza (which was laced with cinnamon, something I found off-putting).  We both succumbed to homemade rice pudding topped with whipped cream.

We meandered along the back roads from Pakenham through Blakeney to Almonte then onto Stittsville where we shopped for groceries at Sobeys.  We were back home after five o’clock.  We had a minor disagreement involving a reference to my constant repetition of things I have already voiced before.  I construed the attack as an unfavourable comment on my needless statement of frivolous information whereas I was later told that the concern rather was that I am developing something resembling the early stages of dementia in that I forget what I have told people already.  Either way it wasn’t assuaging and as a result our subsequent communications have been muffled. We sought to afford a digression by going for an evening bicycle ride along Country Street and back.  Admittedly it was healthful and welcome but did little to improve our toleration of one another.  Oh well, just one of those things which close acquaintances must learn to endure.

I transferred my disturbance to Facebook by deleting the names of several so-called friends, people who have lately proven themselves to be anything but friends and who upon even the most cursory analysis I find I can live without.  As a result I have whittled my roster of friends to nine in number.  These are at least people whom I admire for one reason or another even if we are not in constant communication.  The Facebook thing is merely a metaphor for my on-going internal debate about people with whom I once associated.  It shouldn’t alarm me to discover myself reacting unfavourably to almost everyone, including my own mother.  Lately I seemingly have no generosity for others.  I excuse my overt anxiety by fashioning it as delayed remonstrance, thinking that I have withstood the annoyances of others for far too long.  As usual this type of thinking  gets me nowhere; I always live to regret it.  Thankfully the only person to whom I have spoken directly about my feelings is my mother and I have every reason to suspect that she hasn’t any recollection of what I said in any event.  As for the rest I content myself with mere disguised comments or quietness.  And then of course there’s the lethal action of “unfriending” someone on Facebook.

I am at least grateful that we are slowly rounding out the transition of my mother from her two-storey four-bedroom house to an apartment in a retirement home. I am convinced I will be able to make the place look very comfortable and I am equally positive that doing this now is none too soon.  My mother’s condition, physical and mental, declines incrementally every day.  It will be a huge relief to know that this coming winter she will be properly cared for and that the house will be sold (the next step to happen in the next four months before our departure).