awake: a cry of pain in another room
you crumpled to the floor like a
suddenly string-less puppet
screaming, running, 911
blue eyes slide away
blue lips
...this is it… oh god don’t let this be it!!!
mouth-to-mouth, wiping away spittle and vomit
counting on your chest
stillness…
pounding on the door, uniforms pour in
worker bees buzzing
...dialysis, perma-cath in his chest, fistula in his arm, no codeine!
...m’am, would you like to put some clothes on?
address book and a purseful of pills in the elevator
staring out the police car window
...did the siren sound like the screaming in my head?
the video in my head plays on a loop
sometimes in slow motion,
always in colour
the muffled soundtrack echoes
the video in my head plays on a loop
rated R for disturbing content
.
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Showing posts with label grief. Show all posts
Tuesday, July 14, 2009
Tuesday, April 28, 2009
Unexpected visitors
My mother used to tell the story of time her mother came to visit her. I wish I had paid more attention to the details of that story. As much as I peer into the thick darkness of that memory, I can’t remember when Mom said that Grannie Armstrong came to visit. But I do remember that it was after she had died.I never met my mother’s mother. She died suddenly from a stroke, at the age of 70 – the year before I was born. When my mother got married and moved to Canada, she never saw my grandmother alive again. They were very close and I don’t think my mother ever got over the shock of that loss. She wrote of it in her diary. I hear the loneliness in her voice, thinking of being so far from ‘home’, trying to be a good wife in a strange, cold country.
My mother was not given to flights of fancy and, despite her struggle with depression, she did not experience hallucinations. She was a creative but also quite a practical person who worried that I was too “airy fairy”, as she often referred to my childhood day-dreaming. When my mother told the story of the night her dead mother visited her, I got goose bumps. Not because I was afraid but because I felt it to be so absolutely real and unarguably true.
My mother said that she awoke in the middle of the night, uncertain of the time. My father was working shift work that night and so she was alone. She described being suddenly wide awake, not struggling to shake off the cobwebby feeling one often has when roused from a deep sleep. Looking up she saw her mother sitting at the foot of the bed, hands folded in her lap. She smiled at my mother and my mother smiled back. They shared a long and loving gaze before my grandmother simply disappeared. My mother said she hadn’t been afraid and I could tell she was deeply comforted by the love and warmth of that singular experience.
I wasn’t able to be with my mother when she died and after she passed away I secretly hoped that I would receive a farewell of some kind from her. I had travelled to visit with her only weeks beforehand and she had rallied from a period of illness. Despite struggling with advanced Alzheimer’s she still knew me at our last visit. I spent hours with her each day, helping her eat, looking at pictures, telling stories. On our second-to-last day together, I remember telling her that I loved her and, being unable to reply in a full sentence, she pointed to me and mumbled “Love” with a smile. Perhaps that was her goodbye. I just wasn’t ready to hear it.
I desperately hoped for a visit from Chris after he died. His sudden and unexpected passing left a huge gash of emptiness inside of me and I thought that if I could see him once more and say goodbye, it might provide some comfort… some closure. Someone he knew had a dream about him soon after his death in which she saw him floating up in the sky with the energy of being free. In her dream he told her that it was so wonderful in the afterlife and that he was pain free and feeling vibrant again but that he was so sad to be away from his beloved Sandra.
I was jealous that she had heard his voice. Why hadn’t I heard from him!? All the irrational, insanity of that time left me questioning my own perceived openness to alternate realities, the depth of my love for Chris, etc, etc. So many painful, questioning nights laying in bed staring at the ceiling, hoping for a vision, a voice, anything that would signify communication from my beloved Chris… I often prayed to awaken from what I had begun to hope was a long nightmare. But the visit never came.
So it was a shock when I did get an unexpected, early morning visit back in January. I remember waking up very suddenly, my eyes literally snapping wide open, and my senses being very sharp as if the volume on my hearing had been turned up. Not more loudly but more crystal clear, the constant hum of life and my own busy mind suddenly quieted. Someone was in the room with me but I wasn’t afraid as I obviously would normally have been. I continued to lay on my side, not turning to look about but simply feeling this intense presence in the room.
No words were spoken. No voice was heard. No touch was felt. An overwhelming sense of comfort and calm filled the room and then, as suddenly as it had quieted, the hum reasserted itself and the visitor left. I don’t know if it was Chris or one of my parents. I don’t know if it was even someone I knew. I do know that I was left feeling more peaceful than I had in a long time.
I remember a couple of months after Chris died, a bitterly comical scenario played out in my imagination: Mom and Dad are hanging out in the afterlife (whatever form that may take) and in walks Chris. “What the hell are you doing here?! You’re supposed to be back there with Sandra! You promised to take care of our little girl!” cried my parents to Chris. He shuffled his feet in embarrassment, chewing his lip, and struggling to find something reasonable – or even witty – to say that would appease them. Nothing came to mind…
I hope they’ve forgiven him.
.
Monday, April 27, 2009
When a stranger calls...
It was the telephone that woke me up, jangling insistently like a rude alarm clock.
I sat up, struggling to find my even keel in the middle-of-the-night darkness. My throat tightened as I hesitantly said hello. Phone calls in the middle of the night are never good news… or so I thought.
“May I please speak with Christopher Dixon?” asked the voice at the other end.
“May I ask who’s calling?” [at such an ungodly hour, asked the voice inside my head.]
“It’s the transplant unit. We have a donor kidney for Christopher.”
I breathed, listening to make sure I remembered that moment.
Chris was a very sound sleeper and I had to literally shake him awake, he hadn’t even heard the phone. “It’s the transplant unit, they have a kidney.” I said – quite calmly in retrospect – before I handed him the phone, making sure he was awake.
We were both wide awake now. I sat on the bed beside Chris and never took my eyes off his face as he answered and asked questions for a few minutes. When he hung up, we looked at each other, our eyes filled with hope, anxiety, nervousness, love.
Surprisingly, you’re not expected to run red lights when you get that call. “Take your time, don’t panic, bring a few things in a small overnight bag… we’ll see you when you get here.” And so we did just that. I packed socks, underwear, pyjama pants, razor, toothbrush/toothpaste, my list of people to call, and a roll of quarters that we had kept in the drawer for just this occasion.
We were out the door in 15 minutes flat. The taxi ride to the hospital was quiet. We held hands as we watched darkened houses rush by our windows.
The hospital was brightly lit but the hallways were empty as we quickly made our way up to the transplant unit.
Things happen pretty quickly once you get there. You’re assigned a room – always private, for fear of infection in immune-suppressed transplant patients. Blood is drawn for last-minute tests. X-rays are done to check for infections. Electrodes are mapped out across the body to monitor heart activity on an EKG machine.
In between tests, you sit and wait. Your mind racing. Your heart racing. The thumping isn’t loud enough to drown out the fears, the excitement, the what if’s. Transplants are not a miracle cure – they’re a therapy, an interim measure. They don’t last forever. The surgery – like any surgery – is risky. Chris and I had had all those conversations many times. So we sat and we waited, wondering which room along the hall sheltered the other anxious kidney recipient. I watched the sky turn indigo and then golden pink as the sun crept up to meet us at the horizon.
I called Chris’ parents to tell them that we were at the hospital, that there was a donor kidney for Chris, that I would call later when I had an update.
I remember the nurse coming in. “I’m sorry, but the kidney isn’t a close enough match.”
Eyes blinking. Empty silence. As suddenly as it began, it was over.
How to put into words that floor-falling-away feeling? The adrenaline and exhaustion suddenly colliding inside your head, your heart, your stomach which minutes before had been churning with anxious elation. Sitting in the patient lounge, our arms limply encircling each other, as the rising sun shot through the drapes and bled down the wall.
We quietly checked out and walked down the hall, leaving ‘our’ kidney to the next candidate on the list. The list really is life…
The rest of that day is a fog in my memory. I know that we both stayed home from work, sleeping a bit, eating a bit. I know I called Chris’ parents to break the news but I don’t remember calling them.
I’ve never had a miscarriage and I can’t pretend that it’s the same feeling but it’s the closest thing I can imagine – coming home empty-handed and empty-hearted instead of joyful. It was a very quiet day, a sad day.
We went for a walk and thought about the person who had died, their family who had consented to organ donation – who were they? We thought of the other people like us who had received long-awaited calls for lungs and heart and liver and corneas and kidneys. Were they in surgery or in recovery by now? Their families waiting anxiously for news of a successful surgery, preparing for the possibly bumpy road to full recovery.
We wondered when the next call might come.
.
I sat up, struggling to find my even keel in the middle-of-the-night darkness. My throat tightened as I hesitantly said hello. Phone calls in the middle of the night are never good news… or so I thought.
“May I please speak with Christopher Dixon?” asked the voice at the other end.
“May I ask who’s calling?” [at such an ungodly hour, asked the voice inside my head.]
“It’s the transplant unit. We have a donor kidney for Christopher.”
I breathed, listening to make sure I remembered that moment.
Chris was a very sound sleeper and I had to literally shake him awake, he hadn’t even heard the phone. “It’s the transplant unit, they have a kidney.” I said – quite calmly in retrospect – before I handed him the phone, making sure he was awake.
We were both wide awake now. I sat on the bed beside Chris and never took my eyes off his face as he answered and asked questions for a few minutes. When he hung up, we looked at each other, our eyes filled with hope, anxiety, nervousness, love.
Surprisingly, you’re not expected to run red lights when you get that call. “Take your time, don’t panic, bring a few things in a small overnight bag… we’ll see you when you get here.” And so we did just that. I packed socks, underwear, pyjama pants, razor, toothbrush/toothpaste, my list of people to call, and a roll of quarters that we had kept in the drawer for just this occasion.
We were out the door in 15 minutes flat. The taxi ride to the hospital was quiet. We held hands as we watched darkened houses rush by our windows.
The hospital was brightly lit but the hallways were empty as we quickly made our way up to the transplant unit.
Things happen pretty quickly once you get there. You’re assigned a room – always private, for fear of infection in immune-suppressed transplant patients. Blood is drawn for last-minute tests. X-rays are done to check for infections. Electrodes are mapped out across the body to monitor heart activity on an EKG machine.
In between tests, you sit and wait. Your mind racing. Your heart racing. The thumping isn’t loud enough to drown out the fears, the excitement, the what if’s. Transplants are not a miracle cure – they’re a therapy, an interim measure. They don’t last forever. The surgery – like any surgery – is risky. Chris and I had had all those conversations many times. So we sat and we waited, wondering which room along the hall sheltered the other anxious kidney recipient. I watched the sky turn indigo and then golden pink as the sun crept up to meet us at the horizon.
I called Chris’ parents to tell them that we were at the hospital, that there was a donor kidney for Chris, that I would call later when I had an update.
I remember the nurse coming in. “I’m sorry, but the kidney isn’t a close enough match.”
Eyes blinking. Empty silence. As suddenly as it began, it was over.
How to put into words that floor-falling-away feeling? The adrenaline and exhaustion suddenly colliding inside your head, your heart, your stomach which minutes before had been churning with anxious elation. Sitting in the patient lounge, our arms limply encircling each other, as the rising sun shot through the drapes and bled down the wall.
We quietly checked out and walked down the hall, leaving ‘our’ kidney to the next candidate on the list. The list really is life…
The rest of that day is a fog in my memory. I know that we both stayed home from work, sleeping a bit, eating a bit. I know I called Chris’ parents to break the news but I don’t remember calling them.
I’ve never had a miscarriage and I can’t pretend that it’s the same feeling but it’s the closest thing I can imagine – coming home empty-handed and empty-hearted instead of joyful. It was a very quiet day, a sad day.
We went for a walk and thought about the person who had died, their family who had consented to organ donation – who were they? We thought of the other people like us who had received long-awaited calls for lungs and heart and liver and corneas and kidneys. Were they in surgery or in recovery by now? Their families waiting anxiously for news of a successful surgery, preparing for the possibly bumpy road to full recovery.
We wondered when the next call might come.
.
Tuesday, March 24, 2009
An unbroken bond
I just returned from a one-week whirlwind visit with several dear friends. The original timing of my vacation (aside from getting away from my wet basement) was arranged to coincide with the birthdays of two of these aforementioned dear friends who just happen to have been born one day apart. A gathering of the 'clan' was set into motion and a flurry of excited e-mails flew back and forth amongst this group of friends who met [--] years ago in university. We try to all get together at least once a year and, so far, I think we've done pretty well.
We've muddled through life's adventures, lending a shoulder or a hand whenever needed. We've shared a lot of tears but even more laughter. We've been to each others' weddings (but under some unspoken pact, never as bridesmaids - must be the dresses!). Helped each other move (thank god those days are over!) and consoled each other over broken hearts (remember 'I hate men parties'?). We're as different as any group of women could be but we argue and love without question. The bond is taken for granted but not the gratitude or the responsibility it holds.
So it seemed that fate brought us all together again this time, not just for birthday festivities as planned but for other unexpected life-changing events. One of our group received thrilling news of admission to a prestigious graduate program at an Ivy League university. We shared cheers and tears of joy and a bottle of champagne was ordered from the bar! Another of our group experienced the heavy-hearted loss of an elderly relative after a lengthy illness. We shared hugs and consolation and glasses were raised in honour of a passing soul.
And so life goes. Our weekend together was in many ways typical of our long-standing friendships - the celebrations, the losses, many a glass of wine, mugging for the camera, the comfortable mundane catching up on each others' lives late into the night, and the goodbye hugs before returning to our day-to-day adventures... each taking with us the strength of our friendship, topped up for another year.
Thanks for the memories girls, and for all those yet to come!
.
We've muddled through life's adventures, lending a shoulder or a hand whenever needed. We've shared a lot of tears but even more laughter. We've been to each others' weddings (but under some unspoken pact, never as bridesmaids - must be the dresses!). Helped each other move (thank god those days are over!) and consoled each other over broken hearts (remember 'I hate men parties'?). We're as different as any group of women could be but we argue and love without question. The bond is taken for granted but not the gratitude or the responsibility it holds.
So it seemed that fate brought us all together again this time, not just for birthday festivities as planned but for other unexpected life-changing events. One of our group received thrilling news of admission to a prestigious graduate program at an Ivy League university. We shared cheers and tears of joy and a bottle of champagne was ordered from the bar! Another of our group experienced the heavy-hearted loss of an elderly relative after a lengthy illness. We shared hugs and consolation and glasses were raised in honour of a passing soul.
And so life goes. Our weekend together was in many ways typical of our long-standing friendships - the celebrations, the losses, many a glass of wine, mugging for the camera, the comfortable mundane catching up on each others' lives late into the night, and the goodbye hugs before returning to our day-to-day adventures... each taking with us the strength of our friendship, topped up for another year.
Thanks for the memories girls, and for all those yet to come!Wednesday, February 11, 2009
The ghost of Christmas yet to come
Every once in awhile, you have those moments when you take a deep breath because you know you're about to go through an experience that will stop the world from spinning - if only for that singular moment - and then you exhale.
Sometimes those moments pass and, in retrospect, aren't as life-changing as you think they're going to be. Sometimes they leave you feeling quite differently than you had anticipated. Sometimes they're strange but you're not quite sure what to make of them and so you squirrel them away for future contemplation.
I had one of those moments just before New Year's when I walked through the cemetery to visit Chris' grave. I took a different route than usual and was walking towards his grave from behind when I suddenly saw that his headstone had finally been installed. My breath caught in my throat and my step wavered for a moment for I knew what I was about to see: my own name.
Despite having spent months e-mailing back and forth with the cemetery representative who very patiently indulged my micro-management of endless and minute aesthetic details like font sizes and 'white space' of the headstone that I had designed, I was about to look upon the real thing. The key facts, literally set in stone.
It’s an extraordinary and difficult concept to try and grasp: one’s own mortality. I can’t. Despite having experienced the loss of so many loved ones in recent years, I still can’t really wrap my head around the idea of my own death. I guess that’s a good sign! Obviously it will happen some day. Hopefully I’ll be ready for it – or unaware of it happening. Who knows…
And so there I was. My name cut into the shimmering black granite below Chris’. Waiting patiently, without time, beyond time…
.
Sometimes those moments pass and, in retrospect, aren't as life-changing as you think they're going to be. Sometimes they leave you feeling quite differently than you had anticipated. Sometimes they're strange but you're not quite sure what to make of them and so you squirrel them away for future contemplation.
I had one of those moments just before New Year's when I walked through the cemetery to visit Chris' grave. I took a different route than usual and was walking towards his grave from behind when I suddenly saw that his headstone had finally been installed. My breath caught in my throat and my step wavered for a moment for I knew what I was about to see: my own name.
Despite having spent months e-mailing back and forth with the cemetery representative who very patiently indulged my micro-management of endless and minute aesthetic details like font sizes and 'white space' of the headstone that I had designed, I was about to look upon the real thing. The key facts, literally set in stone.
It’s an extraordinary and difficult concept to try and grasp: one’s own mortality. I can’t. Despite having experienced the loss of so many loved ones in recent years, I still can’t really wrap my head around the idea of my own death. I guess that’s a good sign! Obviously it will happen some day. Hopefully I’ll be ready for it – or unaware of it happening. Who knows…
And so there I was. My name cut into the shimmering black granite below Chris’. Waiting patiently, without time, beyond time…
.
Wednesday, February 4, 2009
Turning the page...
As I've mentioned previously, I've been thinking about my writing and this blog and my journal and my journey, and I had a bit of a revelation that's helped me to make a decision.
Last week I finished reading one of the several books I had on the go: The Alchemy of Loss. (It was on my Christmas list but didn't make it under the tree, I guess Santa thought it was a bit grim!) Now before you get all worried because you think I'm reading too many 'widow' books, read on...
This remarkable book was written by a young Canadian woman, Abigail Carter, whose husband Arron died at the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. She wrote her story as a way to recover, a way through the fog of her widowhood, a remembrance for her young children who will have very faint memories of their father by the time they're old enough to understand what their mother struggled through… As she wryly notes, she wrote the book that she had hoped to find when she was struggling through the early years of her loss.
What especially struck me about Abigail’s story was the raw honesty of her writing. She talks candidly about her ever-changing roller coaster of emotions, ranging from crushing love to raging frustration with her children; gratefulness and anger at her parents; disappointment and eagerness in her eventual albeit tentative re-entry into the dating world; disillusionment and gratitude with her husband’s company legal representative; and so on across the cast of many people who helped her along her journey.
I couldn’t help but wonder what they all thought when reading passages about themselves in this book. Whether Abigail told all these people what she had written or gave them a preview before the book was published is unknown; she does thank many of them in her introduction. But I was impressed by her unflinching honesty. She told her own story – in all its pain and rage and love and helplessness and appreciation and humour and oddness. It was her way forward and she knew that the people who meant most to her would stick by her, for better or for worse.
When I began this blog, I thought it would be a communal place where Chris’ loved ones could bring their stories and we could share our memories and our sadness. But in the end that wasn't really what it was about… it was about me and my journey. Because I knew that many of Chris’ friends and family were reading this blog, I kept many things to myself (or to my counsellor!). But in recent months, I’ve found myself feeling constrained in my writing by the knowledge of who many of my readers are. I didn’t want to upset people or worry them but I’ve grown frustrated by that self-imposed embargo.
I considered abandoning this blog and perhaps beginning another one – anonymously, without notice - where I could express my pain and joy without judgement or fear of causing worry among loved ones. Or I could simply continue self-editing and use my journal – and my counsellor – to breathe… or both… or neither…
But then I read Abigail’s story and I realized that I was tired of worrying about what everyone else thought and that I just wanted to tell my truth. So dear readers, loved ones and strangers, you may read a different shade of me now. You may read things that are upsetting or worrisome. You may also read things that are amusing and deeply personal. If you know me, you'll recognize me - if you don't, you'll get to know me.
Fear not, I’m not falling into a dark pit of despair. Like everyone, I have dark days and light nights interspersed with humdrum errands and busy appointments. You mustn’t fuss and fret. I wouldn’t have thought it possible a year and a half ago but look how far I’ve travelled. I’m making up the roadmap as I go along so let me stretch my legs - I couldn’t have come this far without you.
.
Last week I finished reading one of the several books I had on the go: The Alchemy of Loss. (It was on my Christmas list but didn't make it under the tree, I guess Santa thought it was a bit grim!) Now before you get all worried because you think I'm reading too many 'widow' books, read on...
This remarkable book was written by a young Canadian woman, Abigail Carter, whose husband Arron died at the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. She wrote her story as a way to recover, a way through the fog of her widowhood, a remembrance for her young children who will have very faint memories of their father by the time they're old enough to understand what their mother struggled through… As she wryly notes, she wrote the book that she had hoped to find when she was struggling through the early years of her loss.
What especially struck me about Abigail’s story was the raw honesty of her writing. She talks candidly about her ever-changing roller coaster of emotions, ranging from crushing love to raging frustration with her children; gratefulness and anger at her parents; disappointment and eagerness in her eventual albeit tentative re-entry into the dating world; disillusionment and gratitude with her husband’s company legal representative; and so on across the cast of many people who helped her along her journey.
I couldn’t help but wonder what they all thought when reading passages about themselves in this book. Whether Abigail told all these people what she had written or gave them a preview before the book was published is unknown; she does thank many of them in her introduction. But I was impressed by her unflinching honesty. She told her own story – in all its pain and rage and love and helplessness and appreciation and humour and oddness. It was her way forward and she knew that the people who meant most to her would stick by her, for better or for worse.
When I began this blog, I thought it would be a communal place where Chris’ loved ones could bring their stories and we could share our memories and our sadness. But in the end that wasn't really what it was about… it was about me and my journey. Because I knew that many of Chris’ friends and family were reading this blog, I kept many things to myself (or to my counsellor!). But in recent months, I’ve found myself feeling constrained in my writing by the knowledge of who many of my readers are. I didn’t want to upset people or worry them but I’ve grown frustrated by that self-imposed embargo.
I considered abandoning this blog and perhaps beginning another one – anonymously, without notice - where I could express my pain and joy without judgement or fear of causing worry among loved ones. Or I could simply continue self-editing and use my journal – and my counsellor – to breathe… or both… or neither…
But then I read Abigail’s story and I realized that I was tired of worrying about what everyone else thought and that I just wanted to tell my truth. So dear readers, loved ones and strangers, you may read a different shade of me now. You may read things that are upsetting or worrisome. You may also read things that are amusing and deeply personal. If you know me, you'll recognize me - if you don't, you'll get to know me.
Fear not, I’m not falling into a dark pit of despair. Like everyone, I have dark days and light nights interspersed with humdrum errands and busy appointments. You mustn’t fuss and fret. I wouldn’t have thought it possible a year and a half ago but look how far I’ve travelled. I’m making up the roadmap as I go along so let me stretch my legs - I couldn’t have come this far without you.
.
Tuesday, January 27, 2009
Doggie dreams
I had an odd dream the other night.
I was in a large sunny living room looking out the window when I saw Chris walking towards the building. Beside him was a medium-sized, brown and black dog - sort of a Heinz 57.
In my dream, I knew that Chris was dead so I was elated and overjoyed to see him alive. I rushed to the door but when I opened it, only the dog was there, coming towards me.
I closed the door and went back to the window where, once again, I saw Chris and the dog. Once again, I rushed to the door but again I saw only the dog.
A third time and the same sights appeared to me. Then I woke up.
Anyone who knew Chris and I knew that we longed to adopt a dog. Chris firmly wanted to wait until we had a house and I was - and still am - torn over bringing a new animal into Sprockets' quiet, sunset years. Chris used to tease me that if someone were pushing a baby stroller and walking a dog, I would push the stroller out of the way to coo over the dog. It's an easy way to my heart!
When I read Marley & Me several years ago, I wept my way through the last chapters like a baby. All the while Chris sat rubbing my legs and handing me tissues, gently suggesting that perhaps I should put the book aside since I was taking it so hard. "I c-c-ca-can't stop." I blubbered and then the dam really burst as I closed the book.
I should have known better when I went to see the movie. Obviously I knew I would cry (you'd have to have a heart of stone not to!). But sitting there in the dark watching the heart-breaking ending unleashed a torrent of emotions and memories. All those corny Hollywood images of family-time and crazy doggie antics just made Chris' absence all the more painful. He never did get a dog of his own - our own - a dog to make us a family. And watching Owen Wilson say goodbye to Marley at the clinic just reminded me of saying goodbye to Chris at the hospital.
God I was a mess! I just couldn't stop crying - really sobbing, long after most people had pocketed their tissues and left the theatre. I think Chris' mom and grandma were a bit freaked out, not sure what was going on or what to do. Of course I finally got myself together after hiccuping out all these feelings and memories.
I've been thinking about that dream. It's easy to fill it with symbolism and meaning from beyond the veil. Chris is bringing a dog into my life, telling me to get one; reassuring me that I could do it on my own; reminding me that he's no longer alive but that he will always be looking out for me; I'm looking for something outside of myself to bring my life new meaning; I'm ready to open new doors but perhaps not ready for what I might find there; and so on and so on... The interpretations are as endlessly varied as my moods and one's perspectives. Just like life I guess.
I hope that Chris is happily playing in sunny, wide-open field with his beloved Sasha along with Pippen and Stella and Arbus and Charlie and all the puppies in heaven.
Chris' beloved Sasha
.
I was in a large sunny living room looking out the window when I saw Chris walking towards the building. Beside him was a medium-sized, brown and black dog - sort of a Heinz 57.
In my dream, I knew that Chris was dead so I was elated and overjoyed to see him alive. I rushed to the door but when I opened it, only the dog was there, coming towards me.
I closed the door and went back to the window where, once again, I saw Chris and the dog. Once again, I rushed to the door but again I saw only the dog.
A third time and the same sights appeared to me. Then I woke up.
Anyone who knew Chris and I knew that we longed to adopt a dog. Chris firmly wanted to wait until we had a house and I was - and still am - torn over bringing a new animal into Sprockets' quiet, sunset years. Chris used to tease me that if someone were pushing a baby stroller and walking a dog, I would push the stroller out of the way to coo over the dog. It's an easy way to my heart!
When I read Marley & Me several years ago, I wept my way through the last chapters like a baby. All the while Chris sat rubbing my legs and handing me tissues, gently suggesting that perhaps I should put the book aside since I was taking it so hard. "I c-c-ca-can't stop." I blubbered and then the dam really burst as I closed the book.
I should have known better when I went to see the movie. Obviously I knew I would cry (you'd have to have a heart of stone not to!). But sitting there in the dark watching the heart-breaking ending unleashed a torrent of emotions and memories. All those corny Hollywood images of family-time and crazy doggie antics just made Chris' absence all the more painful. He never did get a dog of his own - our own - a dog to make us a family. And watching Owen Wilson say goodbye to Marley at the clinic just reminded me of saying goodbye to Chris at the hospital.
God I was a mess! I just couldn't stop crying - really sobbing, long after most people had pocketed their tissues and left the theatre. I think Chris' mom and grandma were a bit freaked out, not sure what was going on or what to do. Of course I finally got myself together after hiccuping out all these feelings and memories.
I've been thinking about that dream. It's easy to fill it with symbolism and meaning from beyond the veil. Chris is bringing a dog into my life, telling me to get one; reassuring me that I could do it on my own; reminding me that he's no longer alive but that he will always be looking out for me; I'm looking for something outside of myself to bring my life new meaning; I'm ready to open new doors but perhaps not ready for what I might find there; and so on and so on... The interpretations are as endlessly varied as my moods and one's perspectives. Just like life I guess.
I hope that Chris is happily playing in sunny, wide-open field with his beloved Sasha along with Pippen and Stella and Arbus and Charlie and all the puppies in heaven.
Chris' beloved SashaThursday, January 15, 2009
With this ring...
I recently read The Pilot's Wife - not sure why I hadn't read it earlier but whatever. The plot (for those who haven't read it this is not considered spoiler info) centres on a woman who's husband - the Pilot - dies in a dramatic plane crash, along with all the other people on board, and the secrets she discovers about him after his death.
Oddly, the widowhood angle didn't really send up any major warning flags for me before I started reading the book - I just thought it looked like an interesting story. D'OH!! But it was OK - I didn't get all freaked out and ricochet off on some wild emotional roller coaster (hmm, maybe that is weird...). Her reactions and emotions in the aftermath of her husband's death were startlingly real and very well portrayed. I think I read somewhere that the author, Anita Shreve, did do quite a bit of research into grief responses, etc. when writing the book. (Ultimately, I was disappointed by the book - the plot was quite predictable and contrived, it left me bored.)
Anyhow, one scene that struck me was when Kathryn throws her wedding ring into the ocean where her husband's plane crashed. Without getting into plot spoilers, it was interesting to ponder her reasons for doing so. In the book she thinks to herself: To be relieved of love is to give up a terrible burden.
When my mom and dad each died, I buried their wedding rings with their ashes. I didn't really have any interest in keeping their wedding rings for myself (sentimental reasons or whatever) and I have no children to pass them onto so it didn't seem to make sense. I supose I could have had them melted down along with some other pieces and made into something else but I didn't.
I didn't keep Chris' wedding ring either. I had the funeral home place it in the urn with his ashes along with his boyhood dog Sasha's collar tag that he kept on his keychain. (He forgot his keys at home when we went to Barbados and I swear he fretted every day worrying that he had lost Sasha's tag.) I don't know what I would have done with Chris' ring had I kept it - I felt that it belonged with him, it was part of who he was... and it was a part of me that would always be with him. It was sweetly inscribed S loves C.
A friend of mine kept her husband's wedding ring after he died and she wears it on a chain around her neck but she still wears her own. Another widow I know wears her wedding ring on her right hand now. I still wear mine on my 'wedding' finger. I know that some think that it's time for me to stop wearing it but I don't really care. In my heart I still feel married. I'm still in love with Chris. I'm not ready to stop wearing it. Besides, it's a beautiful one-of-a-kind ring that I really like.
Perhaps love is a terrible burden in some ways. Remember the scene from Love Actually when Liam Neeson gently pries into his step-son's worries and laughs upon discovering that the young boy is love: "...I thought it would be something worse." To which Sam replies "Worse than the total agony of being in love?"
I don't feel pain or sadness when I look at my wedding ring. It reminds me that I was once so fortunate to love and be loved - C loves S.
.
Oddly, the widowhood angle didn't really send up any major warning flags for me before I started reading the book - I just thought it looked like an interesting story. D'OH!! But it was OK - I didn't get all freaked out and ricochet off on some wild emotional roller coaster (hmm, maybe that is weird...). Her reactions and emotions in the aftermath of her husband's death were startlingly real and very well portrayed. I think I read somewhere that the author, Anita Shreve, did do quite a bit of research into grief responses, etc. when writing the book. (Ultimately, I was disappointed by the book - the plot was quite predictable and contrived, it left me bored.)
Anyhow, one scene that struck me was when Kathryn throws her wedding ring into the ocean where her husband's plane crashed. Without getting into plot spoilers, it was interesting to ponder her reasons for doing so. In the book she thinks to herself: To be relieved of love is to give up a terrible burden.
When my mom and dad each died, I buried their wedding rings with their ashes. I didn't really have any interest in keeping their wedding rings for myself (sentimental reasons or whatever) and I have no children to pass them onto so it didn't seem to make sense. I supose I could have had them melted down along with some other pieces and made into something else but I didn't.
I didn't keep Chris' wedding ring either. I had the funeral home place it in the urn with his ashes along with his boyhood dog Sasha's collar tag that he kept on his keychain. (He forgot his keys at home when we went to Barbados and I swear he fretted every day worrying that he had lost Sasha's tag.) I don't know what I would have done with Chris' ring had I kept it - I felt that it belonged with him, it was part of who he was... and it was a part of me that would always be with him. It was sweetly inscribed S loves C.
A friend of mine kept her husband's wedding ring after he died and she wears it on a chain around her neck but she still wears her own. Another widow I know wears her wedding ring on her right hand now. I still wear mine on my 'wedding' finger. I know that some think that it's time for me to stop wearing it but I don't really care. In my heart I still feel married. I'm still in love with Chris. I'm not ready to stop wearing it. Besides, it's a beautiful one-of-a-kind ring that I really like.
Perhaps love is a terrible burden in some ways. Remember the scene from Love Actually when Liam Neeson gently pries into his step-son's worries and laughs upon discovering that the young boy is love: "...I thought it would be something worse." To which Sam replies "Worse than the total agony of being in love?"
I don't feel pain or sadness when I look at my wedding ring. It reminds me that I was once so fortunate to love and be loved - C loves S.
.
Tuesday, January 13, 2009
Hello?
It's been a long time... not sure who's still out there, waiting, hoping, reading, listening but I'll ramble on a bit.
I've been worried that I'm losing my voice. My writing voice.
It's not that I haven't been writing - I've been scribbling pages and pages - but I've been unsure of how and even whether to set them free on the blog. I spent some time back in December re-reading some of my early postings from the first six months or so. It was an eye-opener. The first thing that struck me was how eloquently I was able to express myself, given that my husband of nine months had just died unexpectedly. I don't mean to sound full of myself but I was honestly quite taken aback at reading some of those entries. I don't know how I did that... or if I still can.
That's when I realized that I was only now beginning to really feel the pain of my loss. The translucent veneer of shock that I've lived in for the last year has begun to crack and shafts of white hot light have begun to uncover my raw heart. I've warily re-visited memories that were too painful to really look at and I'm trying to carefully ponder those experiences. If I have to carry those memories - better to hold them under the light of day and learn from them than to shut them away where they may cause more pain in the long run.
Maybe I'm just wallowing... it's hard to know when you're this close to the heart of the matter.
Or maybe it's just winter blahs...
Or maybe this blog is nearing the end of its purpose... There are lots of ideas that I scribble down - sometimes pages and pages of real stream-of-consciousness stuff, but therein lies my dilemma: do I want to expose my naked brain (and heart) to you, my readers? I would have to trust myself - and you - to let my words and my thoughts simply be. Don't know if I can do that, don't know if I want to do that.
Maybe I'll take a long walk in the snow...
.
I've been worried that I'm losing my voice. My writing voice.
It's not that I haven't been writing - I've been scribbling pages and pages - but I've been unsure of how and even whether to set them free on the blog. I spent some time back in December re-reading some of my early postings from the first six months or so. It was an eye-opener. The first thing that struck me was how eloquently I was able to express myself, given that my husband of nine months had just died unexpectedly. I don't mean to sound full of myself but I was honestly quite taken aback at reading some of those entries. I don't know how I did that... or if I still can.
That's when I realized that I was only now beginning to really feel the pain of my loss. The translucent veneer of shock that I've lived in for the last year has begun to crack and shafts of white hot light have begun to uncover my raw heart. I've warily re-visited memories that were too painful to really look at and I'm trying to carefully ponder those experiences. If I have to carry those memories - better to hold them under the light of day and learn from them than to shut them away where they may cause more pain in the long run.
Maybe I'm just wallowing... it's hard to know when you're this close to the heart of the matter.
Or maybe it's just winter blahs...
Or maybe this blog is nearing the end of its purpose... There are lots of ideas that I scribble down - sometimes pages and pages of real stream-of-consciousness stuff, but therein lies my dilemma: do I want to expose my naked brain (and heart) to you, my readers? I would have to trust myself - and you - to let my words and my thoughts simply be. Don't know if I can do that, don't know if I want to do that.
Maybe I'll take a long walk in the snow...
.
Tuesday, December 16, 2008
"Night is the blotting paper for many sorrows."
It's when I'm lying in bed, after I've put aside my book and turned off the light, after I've nestled into a comfy, warm place under my duvet, after I've let go the busy thoughts of the day just ended and the day to come...
That's the time when I feel Chris' absence most - the time of day when we would talk quietly of our day, of little adventures and grand plans, of trivial disagreements and stubborn holdouts, making up stories to fall asleep by; the time when we would snuggle together and kiss, have tickle fights, make love, and drift into deep dream-filled slumber nestled against each other.
That's the time when the ice-water shock of Chris' death hits me afresh once again; when the horror film video in my mind plays out the memories of the moments of his passing from alive to dead. It still shocks me, lying there in the darkness - remembering, re-living his re-dying. It awes me, to try and grasp the enormity yet the utter minuteness of his heartbeat, his pulse, his breath suddenly stilled - forever - beneath my fingers. And he was gone. So ridiculous, so unreal, and so agonizingly painful.
Like vertigo, I sometimes feel myself being pulled inexorably down into the dark vortex of that morning's memories where Chris is still so close to being alive - where he was living only moments earlier - and the possibility of his recovery still seems real. But that is a painful, futile path that only leads to the past where Chris lives but where I cannot. It's a place I have to pull myself back from, as enticing as it may be.
And so the moment passes and the tears dry on my pillow, and I fall asleep and dream of tomorrow.
.
That's the time when I feel Chris' absence most - the time of day when we would talk quietly of our day, of little adventures and grand plans, of trivial disagreements and stubborn holdouts, making up stories to fall asleep by; the time when we would snuggle together and kiss, have tickle fights, make love, and drift into deep dream-filled slumber nestled against each other.
That's the time when the ice-water shock of Chris' death hits me afresh once again; when the horror film video in my mind plays out the memories of the moments of his passing from alive to dead. It still shocks me, lying there in the darkness - remembering, re-living his re-dying. It awes me, to try and grasp the enormity yet the utter minuteness of his heartbeat, his pulse, his breath suddenly stilled - forever - beneath my fingers. And he was gone. So ridiculous, so unreal, and so agonizingly painful.
Like vertigo, I sometimes feel myself being pulled inexorably down into the dark vortex of that morning's memories where Chris is still so close to being alive - where he was living only moments earlier - and the possibility of his recovery still seems real. But that is a painful, futile path that only leads to the past where Chris lives but where I cannot. It's a place I have to pull myself back from, as enticing as it may be.
And so the moment passes and the tears dry on my pillow, and I fall asleep and dream of tomorrow.
.
Tuesday, September 23, 2008
Til death do us part...
Two years ago today, that's what Chris and I promised each other.It's hard to celebrate - especially if people don't want to bring it up or forget what day it is... I guess they just don't know what to say. "Happy Anniversary" does seem somewhat incongruous given the circumstances. But it was such a beautiful day and the memories are full of love and I guess that's what it's all about. I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat!
Happy Anniversary Chris - wishing you sunshine on the other side of the rainbow. All my love, your Кошенька
Thursday, August 28, 2008
Sígur Ros and ghosts at the foss
The whirlwind is beginning to wind down - hard to believe that we will be heading home to London tomorrow. We've had more adventures since my last post and miraculously, the weather although overcast (as is common) has been co-operative and we've managed not to get drenched except while standing near foss (waterfalls). The food continues to be delicious and my pants continue to get tighter!
We had another great road trip out to the "Golden Circle" consisting of Þingvellir (gotta love language-specific keyboards!), Geysir, and Gullfoss. Þingvellar is not only the birthplace of the oldest democratic parliament in the world - 1000 year anniversary was held in 1930 - but it is also the place where the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates are tearing apart at the rate of 2cm per year. Amazing geography/topography as well as a beautiful vista - reminded me of Northern Ontario, somewhat Group of Sevenish. When you think of how old all this history is and that people congregated here over a THOUSAND years ago to elect representatives...
We drove on to Geysir - after which all geysers are named - and met Icelandic capitalism face-to-face. This was probably the most commercial site we have visited so far but compared to North America it was very low-key and tasteful! We bought some souvenirs while the rain poured and when it let up we went out to watch Strokkur spout. Geysir is dormant but the smaller Strokkur is still impressive to watch simmer and blow.
The grand finale of our day - and what felt like a grand finale before our trip winds down - was our visit to Gullfoss, Iceland's best known and possibly most impressive foss. It is very wide and roars as it tumbles over two sets of rocky outcropping. Ridiculously, there is a narrow well-traversed path along side the foss with only a low rope dividing the no-go zones from the path. We walked right up onto the rocky outcropping over the falls - slippery, wet, NO BARRIERS - stunning views, soaked with mist, rainbow!! Incredible experience - all FREE!
But the real gift was awaiting me on the far side of the falls where David pointed out a single white swan resting on the rocky shoreline. Suddenly all the overwhelming emotions of this trip came pouring out and I stood there sobbing in the thunder and mist of this beautiful wild place, missing Chris more than I had at any other point during this trip. He brought us to this place and showed us things that we would never otherwise have seen or thought of visiting. I watched that swan resting by the water and told Chris how much I loved him and thanked him for giving us this singular breath-taking moment.
Our trip home was a quiet one - I think we were all lost in our own thoughts and memories and emotions. Dinner was another decadent gourmet feast at a hidden gem in the resort area of Laugarvatn: reindeer pate (tastes like Christmas according to Mark!), smoked trout, fresh pan-fried trout, grilled lamb, and of course decadent chocolate mousse for dessert!
Oh I forgot to mention - at the outset of our day we dropped by the Sundlaugin studio where Sígur Ros recorded their first four albums and David played the piano there!!!!
A few sight-seeing spots to still hit and some shopping before tomorrow´s departure. :-(
Bless bless (bye bye)! See you soon.
.
We had another great road trip out to the "Golden Circle" consisting of Þingvellir (gotta love language-specific keyboards!), Geysir, and Gullfoss. Þingvellar is not only the birthplace of the oldest democratic parliament in the world - 1000 year anniversary was held in 1930 - but it is also the place where the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates are tearing apart at the rate of 2cm per year. Amazing geography/topography as well as a beautiful vista - reminded me of Northern Ontario, somewhat Group of Sevenish. When you think of how old all this history is and that people congregated here over a THOUSAND years ago to elect representatives...
We drove on to Geysir - after which all geysers are named - and met Icelandic capitalism face-to-face. This was probably the most commercial site we have visited so far but compared to North America it was very low-key and tasteful! We bought some souvenirs while the rain poured and when it let up we went out to watch Strokkur spout. Geysir is dormant but the smaller Strokkur is still impressive to watch simmer and blow.
The grand finale of our day - and what felt like a grand finale before our trip winds down - was our visit to Gullfoss, Iceland's best known and possibly most impressive foss. It is very wide and roars as it tumbles over two sets of rocky outcropping. Ridiculously, there is a narrow well-traversed path along side the foss with only a low rope dividing the no-go zones from the path. We walked right up onto the rocky outcropping over the falls - slippery, wet, NO BARRIERS - stunning views, soaked with mist, rainbow!! Incredible experience - all FREE!
But the real gift was awaiting me on the far side of the falls where David pointed out a single white swan resting on the rocky shoreline. Suddenly all the overwhelming emotions of this trip came pouring out and I stood there sobbing in the thunder and mist of this beautiful wild place, missing Chris more than I had at any other point during this trip. He brought us to this place and showed us things that we would never otherwise have seen or thought of visiting. I watched that swan resting by the water and told Chris how much I loved him and thanked him for giving us this singular breath-taking moment.Our trip home was a quiet one - I think we were all lost in our own thoughts and memories and emotions. Dinner was another decadent gourmet feast at a hidden gem in the resort area of Laugarvatn: reindeer pate (tastes like Christmas according to Mark!), smoked trout, fresh pan-fried trout, grilled lamb, and of course decadent chocolate mousse for dessert!
Oh I forgot to mention - at the outset of our day we dropped by the Sundlaugin studio where Sígur Ros recorded their first four albums and David played the piano there!!!!
A few sight-seeing spots to still hit and some shopping before tomorrow´s departure. :-(Bless bless (bye bye)! See you soon.
.
Wednesday, July 2, 2008
365 days
365 days... how can they have passed so quickly?
how can they have passed so slowly?
how can they have passed so slowly?
**********************
Trying to Get Through
By Hothouse Flowers
Spend a long time on my own last night
I think I spent a little bit over the top
It's just something in a bottle
Made me feel right
And I think that's why I couldn't stop
The man beside me
Had the warmest look of understanding in his eyes
As I went on about the laws the barriers and things
That came upon me and my kind
I'm just trying to get through
We have words but sometimes words say too much
But they don't say enough
The boy meets the girl
Sometimes they sail smoothly
And sometimes it's rough
I remember like a little child
Kicking against a stone wall
That I built myself
I won't give in now
I won't feel guilty
I'll just rise up
I'll have to be myself
I'm just trying to get through
I'm just trying to get through
So help me
I'm trying to get through
Can't you see I'm trying to get through
Help me through
So listen people what I tell you now
Life is hard but it's worth keeping on
Listen people what I can tell you straight
It's not too late to try and get through
I'm just trying to get through...
.
Trying to Get Through
By Hothouse Flowers
Spend a long time on my own last night
I think I spent a little bit over the top
It's just something in a bottle
Made me feel right
And I think that's why I couldn't stop
The man beside me
Had the warmest look of understanding in his eyes
As I went on about the laws the barriers and things
That came upon me and my kind
I'm just trying to get through
We have words but sometimes words say too much
But they don't say enough
The boy meets the girl
Sometimes they sail smoothly
And sometimes it's rough
I remember like a little child
Kicking against a stone wall
That I built myself
I won't give in now
I won't feel guilty
I'll just rise up
I'll have to be myself
I'm just trying to get through
I'm just trying to get through
So help me
I'm trying to get through
Can't you see I'm trying to get through
Help me through
So listen people what I tell you now
Life is hard but it's worth keeping on
Listen people what I can tell you straight
It's not too late to try and get through
I'm just trying to get through...
.
Tuesday, June 10, 2008
I'm grieving as fast as I can
I have been through the wringer this past week or so, mentally speaking that is.
I’ve been out with friends, laughing and enjoying life in all its wonderful weirdness. I’ve lain despondent on the sofa staring at the ceiling feeling very sad and lonely. I’ve been boiling furious – screaming in anguish to peel the paint off the walls one night at about 3am (leaving me worried when no one did call the cops!). I’ve been excited about new ventures and adventures to come. I’ve been sharply disappointed at judgments made in my absence.
Maybe it’s just the heat and humidity…
Grief is a lonely journey – whether we travel with family and friends or not. Everyone who lives through the death of a significant person in their lives goes through a different experience. The variables are truly endless and can differ wildly even within one family or close knit group.
Each person’s relationship with the one who has died will colour the way they experience that loss as well as how they work through their grief. Their own life histories and personalities and beliefs will equally affect that experience. One person will experience each death that occurs during their lifetime in a different way as the layers of their life deepen and intertwine. Their past and their memories will become part of their future and their dreams.
Grief doesn’t come with a standard manual or a recipe. Grief has no universal timeline or predetermined expiration date. Grief is as individual as a fingerprint or DNA.
Some days it's enough to get out of bed and eat breakfast, other days are for taking on the world. Only I can decide which is which and when is enough.
.
I’ve been out with friends, laughing and enjoying life in all its wonderful weirdness. I’ve lain despondent on the sofa staring at the ceiling feeling very sad and lonely. I’ve been boiling furious – screaming in anguish to peel the paint off the walls one night at about 3am (leaving me worried when no one did call the cops!). I’ve been excited about new ventures and adventures to come. I’ve been sharply disappointed at judgments made in my absence.
Maybe it’s just the heat and humidity…
Grief is a lonely journey – whether we travel with family and friends or not. Everyone who lives through the death of a significant person in their lives goes through a different experience. The variables are truly endless and can differ wildly even within one family or close knit group.
Each person’s relationship with the one who has died will colour the way they experience that loss as well as how they work through their grief. Their own life histories and personalities and beliefs will equally affect that experience. One person will experience each death that occurs during their lifetime in a different way as the layers of their life deepen and intertwine. Their past and their memories will become part of their future and their dreams.
Grief doesn’t come with a standard manual or a recipe. Grief has no universal timeline or predetermined expiration date. Grief is as individual as a fingerprint or DNA.
Some days it's enough to get out of bed and eat breakfast, other days are for taking on the world. Only I can decide which is which and when is enough.
.
Monday, May 19, 2008
Love is a mix tape
Anyone who came of age during the 80's or 90's has no doubt been the creator and/or the recipient of a mix tape. I certainly was, I even have memories of taping songs from the radio onto my funky white plastic portable cassette recorder/player (it was the late 70's, cut me some slack).Mix tapes heralded the beginning of individuals creating, in effect, soundtracks for their own lives... self-publishing before the world of YouTube existed. The mix tape was the first step towards what we now take for granted in the modern world of 'pick & choose' MP3 music.
Most of you will remember the popular movie High Fidelity, based on Nick Hornby's book of the same title - a classic tribute to music and love and mix tapes. There was even a Friends episode in which Chandler gives Monica a mix tape for Valentine's Day - sufficed to say that despite his good intentions the evening did not end well.
Chris made me several CD compilations over the years. The first he titled Here's Hopin' and gave to me the summer we started going out - apparently he was smitten and wasn't afraid to let me know! Others included one for Valentine's Day entitled Better Than Flowers (hmmm) and a blues-themed one I received for a birthday entitled Don't Nobody Know My Troubles but God. He also made compilations for family and friends - sharing music was his way of telling them he loved them.
A while back a fellow librarian, knowing of Chris' death, recommended a book entitled Love is a Mix Tape by music journalist and life-long creator of mix tapes Rob Sheffield. The autobiographical book recounts his time in Charlottesville, Virginia during the 1990's where he fell head over heels in love with fellow mix tape aficionado Renée Crist "a hell-raising Appalachian punk-rock girl". Not quite six years after their wedding, Renée died very suddenly from a pulmonary embolism at the age of 31.
In many ways this book is Sheffield's tribute to Renée but it's also the story of his slow and sometimes painful musical journey back into the world of light and laughter. It's been described as the happiest, sad story you'll ever read. This is a funny and well-written story - I smiled and laughed throughout this book. Of course I cried as well - how could I not?
I think Chris would have enjoyed the story of Rob and Renée - he would have recognized wry similarities in the 'opposites attract' stories. (Although I'm sure he would have taken issue with some of the musical selections or the way they were put together. Like most music junkies, he was very opinionated about how to put together a great compilation - how the songs worked together was just as important as the songs themselves!)
If you enjoy a good mix tape, you'll enjoy this book. It will bring a smile to your face.
.
Sunday, May 18, 2008
Another kind of family
Last month I attended the annual dialysis memorial service organized by the staff of the hospital dialysis program. This very touching event is becoming more and more common in dialysis clinics as staff come together with families to share their grief at the loss of people who are more than just patients.
Unlike most other healthcare settings, dialysis staff and patients spend many hours together several times a week over the span of months and often years. Despite rotations in shifts and changes to schedules, patients and staff get to know each other well - sharing stories of children and grandchildren, work goals and travel photos, happy news and difficult struggles.
I visited Chris fairly often at dialysis. We would catch up on our day or watch TV together... I once got corralled into refereeing a trivia challenge. Family members are welcome in the unit and I got to meet many of the "other women" in Chris' life - especially the hardworking, kind, generous, funny nurses who took care of his dialysis regime while he was hooked up to the machine. There were also nurse practitioners, doctors, dieticians, and technicians who all played vital roles in maintaining Chris' health - indeed his life.
For these staff, the losses of patients each year must take a difficult toll. Like cancer care, death is sadly an all too common part of dialysis care but the people who choose such a career path seem to be especially resilient and caring individuals who somehow manage to share the burden of chronic illness but also the joys of life.
This year, 44 dialysis patients who passed away last year were honoured at the memorial service. Several staff spoke from their hearts or read poems, their voices thick with emotion. Families and friends were invited to light memorial candles. The theme of this year's service was The Spirit of Transformations and that transformation was represented by butterflies which was especially touching to me... almost like a secret gift. I felt Chris smiling with me at the bittersweet coincidence.
I will be forever grateful to the staff of the dialysis unit who helped Chris live his life to the fullest. There were many other places he would rather have been but if he had to be there, I'm glad he was in such caring and capable hands. Thank you for all you do.
.
Unlike most other healthcare settings, dialysis staff and patients spend many hours together several times a week over the span of months and often years. Despite rotations in shifts and changes to schedules, patients and staff get to know each other well - sharing stories of children and grandchildren, work goals and travel photos, happy news and difficult struggles.
I visited Chris fairly often at dialysis. We would catch up on our day or watch TV together... I once got corralled into refereeing a trivia challenge. Family members are welcome in the unit and I got to meet many of the "other women" in Chris' life - especially the hardworking, kind, generous, funny nurses who took care of his dialysis regime while he was hooked up to the machine. There were also nurse practitioners, doctors, dieticians, and technicians who all played vital roles in maintaining Chris' health - indeed his life.
For these staff, the losses of patients each year must take a difficult toll. Like cancer care, death is sadly an all too common part of dialysis care but the people who choose such a career path seem to be especially resilient and caring individuals who somehow manage to share the burden of chronic illness but also the joys of life.
This year, 44 dialysis patients who passed away last year were honoured at the memorial service. Several staff spoke from their hearts or read poems, their voices thick with emotion. Families and friends were invited to light memorial candles. The theme of this year's service was The Spirit of Transformations and that transformation was represented by butterflies which was especially touching to me... almost like a secret gift. I felt Chris smiling with me at the bittersweet coincidence.
I will be forever grateful to the staff of the dialysis unit who helped Chris live his life to the fullest. There were many other places he would rather have been but if he had to be there, I'm glad he was in such caring and capable hands. Thank you for all you do.
.
Saturday, April 26, 2008
"A gift is a gift, no matter how long it lasts."
"Grief comes in waves," wrote Joan Didion in her remarkable book The Year of Magical Thinking.It can also blindside you when you least expect it. I had been thinking of writing about the spate of babies bursting into my world this year, the circle of life, all that kind of stuff, but I'm putting that aside for another day.
As I sit here writing my eyes are filled with tears, my throat tight and my heart filled with anguish and sadness. Why? Because this morning I turned a page in the Focus section of the Globe & Mail and read words that broke my heart, unleashing a torrent of emotions and memories of Chris' death.
Amelia Bruce died on April 5. She was 27 years old.
I didn't know Amelia but last August her grandfather, Toronto writer Stephen Gauer, wrote a very personal and touching article in the G&M about his experience as a living kidney donor for Amelia. He wrote lovingly of his sunny, resilient, smart, and outgoing grand-daughter and how she lived her life like any young woman, despite - or perhaps because of - her kidney failure.
Amelia received a donor kidney in 1997 but in 2005 it began to fail and she faced the prospect of going back on dialysis and a wait of up to eight years for a second transplant. Her grandfather volunteered to be tested and was found to be a good match and on June 26, 2007 they both went into surgery. The transplant was a success but months later something went wrong and Amelia began to experience a series of setbacks that frequently sent her to the hospital. In recent months though her health seemed to stabilize and she was looking forward to moving into her own apartment which her grandfather was painting for her. But then it all went terribly wrong.
Stephen Gauer's follow-up article in today's G&M is entitled Goodbye Amelia. It is a raw and heart-breaking love letter to a little girl and a young woman. It's also a personal recount of his own journey alongside Amelia watching her growing up and what it meant to say goodbye to his grand-daughter. He responds to those who asked him if he regretted giving her his kidney, "I believe with all my heart and soul that if donating a kidney to Amelia made her life better, easier, less painful, more hopeful, happier, less exhausting for even one day out of those 284, it was worth it."
As you can imagine, many thoughts crashed through my mind as I read this heart-breaking news today. So many similarities resounded, odd little things like Amelia's mother hearing her alarm ringing on and on and discovering her daughter dead in bed. The night before he died, Chris had set his alarm for an early wake-up. When I went back to the apartment later the next afternoon to pick up some clothes, I froze in my tracks upon hearing the clock-radio blindly roaring to an empty bed. It had been playing all day.
The article recounts Amelia's mother's anguished protests, "This is completely wrong. This is bullshit."; Amelia's memorial service where over 130 people came to share their grief, love, and loss; Stephen's wonderment at the unexpected serendipity of gaining a delightful grand-daughter when he met and fell in love with Amelia's grandmother; all these experiences touched off a firestorm in my own heart...
Memories of my own horror at realizing that the moment we knew would some day come had actually come far too soon; trying to reach Chris' parents and not knowing what I was going to say when they answered the phone; the hundreds of kind, supportive people who came to Chris' visitation and memorial service; and some of the strange things people said to me out of discomfort or tactlessness.
I'm drained by this day. I've cried for Amelia, for Chris, for myself. So many unfulfilled dreams, so much pain, so much love.
.
Monday, April 14, 2008
The "w" words
I've now been a widow for longer than I was a wife.
9 months, 1 week, and 2 days... well not quite 2 days, more like 1 and a 1/2 days.
That was how long Chris and I had been married when he died so suddenly in my arms early in the morning of July 2. Last Thursday marked that same period of time since Chris' death. I now find myself adrift in uncharted territory, unmarked time... A.C. (After Chris) if you will.
I spent more time planning our wedding than I spent actually being married! It really would be ridiculously funny if it weren't so achingly sad.
I never even got used to being a wife - to figure out what it meant to me, what kind of a wife I was and would become. A number of "w" words began to pop into my mind as I began writing this entry: woman, womyn, wife, widow, wench, witch, weaker sex, whore... all of these words heavy with meaning and emotion, each representing something different to different people in different cultures and different times.
Who am I? What am I? Just myself... whatever that may be.
.
9 months, 1 week, and 2 days... well not quite 2 days, more like 1 and a 1/2 days.
That was how long Chris and I had been married when he died so suddenly in my arms early in the morning of July 2. Last Thursday marked that same period of time since Chris' death. I now find myself adrift in uncharted territory, unmarked time... A.C. (After Chris) if you will.
I spent more time planning our wedding than I spent actually being married! It really would be ridiculously funny if it weren't so achingly sad.
I never even got used to being a wife - to figure out what it meant to me, what kind of a wife I was and would become. A number of "w" words began to pop into my mind as I began writing this entry: woman, womyn, wife, widow, wench, witch, weaker sex, whore... all of these words heavy with meaning and emotion, each representing something different to different people in different cultures and different times.
Who am I? What am I? Just myself... whatever that may be.
.
Thursday, March 20, 2008
Lost voices
There was an interesting little story in yesterday's news about an elderly gentleman in New York state whose wife passed away in 2005. Catherine Whiting had left a voicemail message on their answering service before she died and her husband Charles had listened to it each day since her death, finding comfort in the sound of her voice. When their service was upgraded however, the message was lost. After hearing his story, the phone company launched a database search and were able to retrieve the digital recording of Catherine Whiting's voice. The wonders of digital technology.
Several days after Chris passed away, I was going through old messages on our answering machine and there was one from Chris that he had left only a few days before he died. Still stunned from his sudden death, I remember the shock of hearing his voice. I can't even describe how bizarre and wonderful it was to hear his warm voice streaming out of that little silver box, wrapping me in comfort and slapping me in the face all at the same time. It was a breezy, affectionate little message like any other he had left a thousand times before. He signed off - like always - saying "love you".
That message was lost to me several weeks afterwards when our power went out for a brief time. The moment it happened I knew that Chris' voice was gone. I was so angry, so frustrated that a brief accident of lost electrical current could snatch away that tiny precious moment of intimacy Chris left to me. I remember yelling at the answering machine when the power came back on, viciously pouring all my frustration and anger over it's ability to come back to life when Chris could not. Stupid *#^% machine!!
When I was emptying out my parents' house after they had to move into a nursing home, I found a reel to reel recording of speeches made at their wedding reception. What a wonderful moment, holding that treasure from the past in my hands. Not even knowing of its existence! I had a CD copy made and now I can listen to the voices of my Grandpa Charles, my uncle Doug, and my dad - all of them now passed away. Hearing their voices makes my memories of them so much more real.
.
Several days after Chris passed away, I was going through old messages on our answering machine and there was one from Chris that he had left only a few days before he died. Still stunned from his sudden death, I remember the shock of hearing his voice. I can't even describe how bizarre and wonderful it was to hear his warm voice streaming out of that little silver box, wrapping me in comfort and slapping me in the face all at the same time. It was a breezy, affectionate little message like any other he had left a thousand times before. He signed off - like always - saying "love you".
That message was lost to me several weeks afterwards when our power went out for a brief time. The moment it happened I knew that Chris' voice was gone. I was so angry, so frustrated that a brief accident of lost electrical current could snatch away that tiny precious moment of intimacy Chris left to me. I remember yelling at the answering machine when the power came back on, viciously pouring all my frustration and anger over it's ability to come back to life when Chris could not. Stupid *#^% machine!!
When I was emptying out my parents' house after they had to move into a nursing home, I found a reel to reel recording of speeches made at their wedding reception. What a wonderful moment, holding that treasure from the past in my hands. Not even knowing of its existence! I had a CD copy made and now I can listen to the voices of my Grandpa Charles, my uncle Doug, and my dad - all of them now passed away. Hearing their voices makes my memories of them so much more real.
.
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