{"product_id":"a-funny-kind-of-paradise-isbn-9780735278820","title":"A Funny Kind of Paradise","description":"\u003cb\u003eA poignant, uplifting, brilliantly insightful story of one woman's end-of-life reckoning with her past, her lost daughter and herself, for readers of \u003ci\u003eThe Unlikely Pilgrimage of Harold Fry\u003c\/i\u003e, \u003ci\u003eStill Alice\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eElizabeth Is Missing\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhen her husband left her with a baby, a toddler and a fledgling business, Francesca managed--she wasn't always gentle or patient, but the business thrived and Chris and Angelina had food to eat. At nearly 70, she feels she's earned a peaceful retirement. But when a massive stroke leaves her voiceless, partially paralyzed and wholly reliant on the staff of an extended care facility, it seems her freedom is lost. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eHowever, Francesca is still clear-headed and sharp, and she knows one thing: she wants to live. She savours her view of a majestic chestnut tree through the hospital window, and speaks in her mind to her beloved friend Anna, dead for two years. The daily tasks and dramas of the rotating crew of care aides tether her to the world: Young Lily, eager to fall in love and regularly falling apart when things don't work out; Michiko, with her spiky hair and tattoos and wicked sense of humour; Molly, endlessly kind and skilled in her work; Blaire, cold and enigmatic. \u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAmidst the indignities of bed baths and a feeding tube, Francesca is surprised to experience flashes of hilarity and joy, even the blossoming of a new friendship with a fellow patient. But as she reflects to Anna on her dutiful son and her troubled and absent daughter, regrets and painful realizations rise to the surface. For the first time, there is nowhere for Francesca to hide from her own choices, and she must reckon with her past before it's too late. \u003ci\u003eA Funny Kind of Paradise\u003c\/i\u003e is a warm and insightful novel about one woman's opportunity for reinvention--for unconditional love, acceptance and closure--in the unlikeliest of places.“[An] affecting debut . . . Owens’s believable, touching portrait of Frannie and the loving care of her aides is loaded with moments of beauty amid the swirl of regret and nostalgia. . . . These powerful final reflections of an irascible, regretful patient illustrate the unremarkable yet profound experience of nearing death.” —\u003ci\u003ePublishers Weekly\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“Owens, a care aide for more than 20 years, captures the skill and tenderness of caring for someone at the end of life in direct and unvarnished prose. . . . Each [care aide] . . . is richly drawn and complex . . . [and the novel] serves to illuminate a vital profession that has been rarely documented in fiction.” —\u003ci\u003eVancouver Sun\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\"Like pulling rabbits from a hat, Jo Owens manages the magic of reaching into the most abject places of the human heart—and other parts of the anatomy—and finding joy, humour and redemption. She gifts the reader a story told with elegant wit and irreverent humour, and characters brought to life with love, often of the tough variety . . . and there is nothing more tender. I love this book.\" —\u003cb\u003eAnn-Marie MacDonald\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e“Jo Owens’ achievement is astonishing. She has created a heroine whose zest for life is as unstoppable as her curiosity about the caregivers and patients in her long-term facility, and whose capacity for change is sometimes painful and frequently funny. What a delight to be privy to Francesca’s blunt, ribald, exasperated and tender reactions to a life she never planned.”  —\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eKatherine Ashenburg\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003eSofie \u0026amp; Cecilia\u003c\/i\u003e and \u003ci\u003eHer Turn\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003ci\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“\u003ci\u003eA Funny Kind of Paradise\u003c\/i\u003e is a gorgeous and original novel that explores a reality too often looked away from. A deeply compassionate examination of human life and its immeasurable value.” —\u003cb\u003e\u003cb\u003eKevin Patterson\u003c\/b\u003e\u003c\/b\u003e, author of \u003ci\u003e\u003ci\u003eNews From the Red Desert\u003c\/i\u003e\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cb\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003c\/b\u003eJO OWENS lives in Victoria and has worked as a health care aide for twenty years. \u003ci\u003eA Funny Kind of Paradise \u003c\/i\u003eis her first novel.My  room  is  a  five-bed  ward.  I  survey  my  domain  from  my  corner. Four  other  beds,  four  other  souls,  four  other  poor  sods  stuck  here like me: my roommates.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI  know  the  most  appallingly  intimate  things  about  them.  And they  about  me,  those  who  are  still  capable  of  knowing,  which  does rather  narrow  it  down.  We  are  not  as  we  were,  let’s  put  it  that  way. (But unlike me, you are forgiving. You always were. Even now I am counting on your generous spirit.)\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThe  bed  on  my  left,  in  the  darkest  corner,  belongs  to  Janet. Diabetes has made her blind and has taken her legs, amputated just below  the  knee,  a  fact  that  terrifies  the  new  aides  until  someone teaches them how to position Janet’s sling properly to ensure her safe  transfer  to  the  wheelchair.  Once  in  a  while,  she  complains about pain in her feet; sometimes she remembers they’re gone and sometimes she doesn’t. The nurses take her blood sugars, twitter about  “spiking”  and  “dropping,”  adjust  her  insulin  and  tell  the aides  to  push  juice  or  back  off.  Janet  says  she  doesn’t  care.  Janet hates the food.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMary has the other bed with a window, but while my head is at the north wall, hers is on the south, so we face each other. Mary is the quintessential little old lady, with her permed hair in stiff white curls, her  dentures,  and  a  tissue  up  the  sleeve  of  her  cardigan.  She  is  the darling,  everyone’s  favourite,  loved  for  her  smile  and  her  sunny nature. She was still walking with the help of the activity aides when I first came here, but she’s on the slow slide, and no one would ever try  to  transfer  her  now  without  the  overhead  lift.  She  stiffened  up gradually, and she talks a little less every day. We, her roommates, are grateful  that  she’s  passed  the  stage  of  calling  out  constantly,  “Hey, are you here for me?” thinking that someone was coming to take her home to her mama. Mind you, we do miss some of the more innovative  excuses  the  staff  used  to  try  to  convince  her  that  her  mother wasn’t  going  to  be  too  worried  about  her  whereabouts.  “You’re  so considerate  of  your  mama!”  they  would  coo  on  a  good  day.  “Your mama knows you’re here and she’s glad you’re safe.”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e“You’re  ninety  years  old  and  your  mama  died  fifty  years  ago!” they’d mutter under their breath on their way out the door.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAlice’s bed is perpendicular between Mary’s and mine, the head at the east-facing window and facing the door. Alice rarely rests. No wonder she’s such a scrawny pack of bones, shuffling from bed to bed, night and day, looking for her children or maybe her purse. There’s no malice in her, and if there ever was, she’s forgotten her spite. She acts like there’s something she should have remembered, on the tip of  her  tongue  or  tangled  in  the  plaque  in  her  cortex,  thoughts  like fishes  struggling  in  a  net.  Poor  anxious  soul,  endlessly  tapping  and sifting,  sorting  and  folding,  a  worried  expression  on  her  face.  Why they have her in the middle bed, open space on both sides, so exposed, I’m sure I don’t know. If I had to sleep there, without the comfort of a wall at my back, or a corner to turn my face to when I need to pretend  I’m  alone,  I’d  be  anxious  too.  Even  with  the  curtains  pulled, Alice’s is the worst bed in the room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eKitty-corner to me is the woman I know only as Nana, and of her, dearest Anna, there is not much left to say. She has reached that stage of living death where she lies completely passive. Perhaps some distant signals reach her or perhaps she has truly gone, leaving nothing but an empty shell. At any rate, if she has a family, I have not seen them yet, and there she lies, day after day, while the nurses shift her from side to side,  tucking  pillows  between  her  knees  to  prevent  skin  rubbing against skin until it reddens and then rots. They raise her ankles so that the weight of her own feet pushing her heels into the bed won’t create sores  (great  blackened  holes  that  must  be  dressed  and  never  heal,  as happened to the poor woman who had Janet’s bed before her.) Nana’s skin is like tissue paper; a careless fingernail may rip it. One day an aide tried  to  turn  her  over  by  grabbing  her  wrist,  instead  of  placing  a  flat hand on her shoulder blade and she left a bruise the shape of her—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e \u003ci\u003eSnap\u003c\/i\u003e!  The  lights  are  on,  and  I’m  seeing  stars.  Molly’s  voice,  the specific tone she uses for training new staff, fills the room.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003e. . . just going to follow me, to get the idea of what the rhythm of your day is going to be like. You don’t need to help. I’m not interested in training you  in  nursing  skills—if  you  don’t  have  those  by  now,  you’re  screwed.  My object is to show you how to do a day shift. You need to know what it looks like to take care of six people by yourself, cuz that’s what you gotta do. Oh, she’s wet, draw the curtain, will you, we’re gonna take the top pad off, I don’t want her sitting in that.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMolly is talking about Nana, and now I can hear the sound of the electric bed whirring into the flattened position that allows Molly to move Nana most easily. The blankets flip back with a swish.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eMost people are nice here, and they’ll set you straight as to who to do first and such, but they have their own workload, you know what I mean.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eOkay.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eEvery now and then you’re gonna run into an asshole, that’s reality; just tell yourself, “Oh yeah, Auntie Molly told me there’d be days like this,” and try not to let the negativity stick, cuz most people here are really good, thank God . . .\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eOkay, I’m just gonna fold this top pad over, like this, see, and then one quick flip and it’s out and she’s on her back, got it? Now we can sit her up for breakfast. Give me a lift up the bed, will you, her chin’s going to be on her toes. Yup, that’s right. Nice body mechanics, Gayla, you got it. There you go, Nana!  Good  morning,  sweetie!  Did  you  just  finish  your  training,  or  have you been doing this work before?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eI just finished. I did my practicum at Aberhart.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eOkay then. Well, the good news is that unlike at Aberhart, you’re not expected to get everyone up for breakfast in the dining room at nine here.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eYeah, so I heard. That’s why I wanted to work here. It’s brutal, that morning rush. Get everyone up, so they can sit there looking at the dining room wall.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eYup, it sucks for the nurses, and it sucks for the patients. I’m telling you when  I’m  ninety-five,  nobody  is  going  to  be  getting  me  outta  bed  at  seven fifteen unless I’m drugged to the hilt cuz I’m gonna fight it. All these years of early risin’ for the seven a.m. shift—no bloody way I’ll be getting up so I can sit  on  my  ass  getting  pressure  sores.  Forget  it,  baby.  These  people  deserve breakfast in bed, I figure.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eAt Aberhart, by the time breakfast comes, everyone’s up and you’re so tired you just want to go home.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eToo  right.  Hey,  Janet,  I’m  gonna  sit  you  up  for  breakfast,  here’s  your napkin.  This  is  Gayla,  she’s  our  newbie.  Don’t  bother  giving  Frannie  a napkin, she’s a tube-feed, right Fran? Good morning, sweetie!\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI  wave  with  my  good  arm  and  Molly  blows  me  a  kiss  before moving on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eFirst  floor  gets  breakfast  first.  It  comes  up  from  the  kitchen  at  seven forty-five, so you gotta get everyone sitting up, but look, second floor, breakfast comes at eight, so if you’re quick you can get a couple of people washed up, and on third floor it comes at eight fifteen. Of course you’re starting casual, so you’re gonna be working everywhere, all groups. It’s a little rough at first, but  it’s  good  experience.  You  learn  to  be  flexible.  Sink  or  swim.  You  gotta think on your feet, you’ll get used to it, don’t worry. It’s best if you can pace yourself. That way you can treat the residents a little nicer, take the time to do that little extra, eh? After all, most of us went into this job thinking we could spread the love a little, same time as we aim to put bread on the table for those kids, right? You have kids?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eYeah, one. She’s five.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eSingle mom?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eYeah.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eYou got your daycare lined up? When you’re on call, sometimes you don’t get much warning. It’s so tough at first. Sweetie, sit down. Breakfast is coming. This one’s pretty restless, aren’t you, honey? Sit down, sweetie. That’s right. Here’s  your  napkin.  Breakfast  is  coming.  That’s  it,  love.  Usually  I  get  her washed up first, she’s quick, but we were a little late getting started today, no worries. We’ll make it up. Not all these people are in my group, but Michiko, she sits mine up across the hall, and I sit hers up here, saves time, right?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eIs she in your group?\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eNana? No.\u003c\/i\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eMolly pauses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003ci\u003eI know what you’re thinking and you’re right. Some of the girls don’t like you  to  touch  their  resident,  but  Michiko  and  I  are  on  the  same  page.  Besides, Nana’s mine next month, and I don’t want her wet, cuz group change is com\u003c\/i\u003e—\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eAnd that’s it. Molly and her charge are out of the room, on to the next task. I can’t hear any more, but it doesn’t matter because I’ve heard Molly’s training spiel more times than I can count. We, the thirteen residents in the North Wing, are divided into groups of six and seven and  assigned  to  an  aide.  Molly  is  about  to  explain  that,  like  all  the regular  staff,  she  and  her  partner  will  trade  groups  on  the  first  of every month. Molly and Michiko have the permanent day shifts in the  North  Wing.  Blaire  and  Bettina  cover  their  days  off,  then  go down to the East Wing to relieve the two permanent staff there, but their  shifts  don’t  line  up  exactly,  so  sometimes  Molly  works  with Bettina instead of Michiko, and sometimes Michi works with Blaire. The evening shifts work the same way, but there are only two aides for the whole floor on nights.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI like the system. While it’s nice to see a familiar face at my bedside, frankly by the end of the month my aides and I are ready for a change from each other. Of course casuals cover the regular staff for sick  days  and  holidays;  they  have  to  fly  by  the  seat  of  their  pants. Sometimes  they’re  fresh  and  enthusiastic;  sometimes  they’re  so green I’m afraid they’re going to drop me.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eWhat can I do? I don’t get to choose my nurses.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThese girls, these women and sometimes men literally and figuratively  touch  us  in  the  most  intimate  way.  They  come  and  go  like  the staff  in  your  diner,  Anna.  There  are  the  lifers,  who  always  make  me think of mine-shaft ponies: solid, dependable beasts of burden, trudging along. Some are hopeless, some cheerfully resigned, some are even passionate about their work, but they just keep working steadfastly on.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eThen  there  are  the  aides  who  are  passing  through.  Molly  or Michiko or Blaire train them, with varying degrees of cynicism and enthusiasm, because far less than half of new hires will last for long. Molly’s good; she’s a natural teacher, and she continues to treat every newbie as if she might stay. The work attracts all kinds of people, but it burns them out fast too. Some can’t stick it out on call long enough to  get  their  own  regular  position.  Some  injure  themselves  or  grow afraid that they will. Some are on their way to bigger, better things; they’ll bridge into nursing or work part-time here while going back to school. Some are still searching for what they want to do, but they’ve got to do \u003ci\u003esomething\u003c\/i\u003e.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eBut no matter what their motivation for choosing this job, everyone starts at the bottom of the casual call list, flying in to work at a moment’s  notice  because  who  knows  when  they’re  going  to  get around to calling the last person on the list again? And that’s the way it is until you move up the list enough to be confident you’re going to get sufficient work to pay the rent.\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eI know what you’re thinking, my darling Anna, you’re thinking, “Why, Francesca! You’ve changed! You sound almost compassionate!”\u003cbr\u003e\u003cbr\u003eYes, my dear friend. I’ve changed. Living here will do that to a girl.","brand":"Random House Canada","offers":[{"title":"Default Title","offer_id":46300789571813,"sku":"NP9780735278820","price":16.95,"currency_code":"USD","in_stock":false}],"thumbnail_url":"\/\/cdn.shopify.com\/s\/files\/1\/1842\/7735\/files\/9780735278820.jpg?v=1767720478","url":"https:\/\/k12savings.com\/products\/a-funny-kind-of-paradise-isbn-9780735278820","provider":"K12savings","version":"1.0","type":"link"}