Adrift...

Goodbyes are hard. It's not something I'm good at. As much as I tell myself to be strong, tears well up and I get that familiar ache in the back of my throat until I set them free. It's that first tear that opens the flood gates and there's no telling when it will end. Especially if there are tears not spent over things past. I didn't inherit this teary trait from my Mother.

She was stoic when it came to goodbyes. I know she suffered from unspent tears as much, if not more than me. After all, she lived through hard times; the Great Depression; World War II; and the inability to close the gap between loved ones as easily as we can today with the telephone, computers, fast cars and air travel. Maybe it was all the goodbyes she experienced that exercised those tiny little muscles that controlled her tear ducts. Whatever the cause, as a result she became an expert at goodbye.

I was witness to this skill she possessed the summer I moved her to Edmonton. She was eighty-seven at the time and had lived every second of those many years in the same community. Her friends were still there; childhood friends; friends she and my Dad had as a crazy-in-love young couple; church friends; writing friends; new friends. In between packing up her belongings I took her to visit these people who were so important to her, so she could say farewell. Time after time I watched as they hugged and said their goodbyes with nary a tear, even knowing this was likely the last time they would ever see each other. I watched from the puddle of salty tears I was reduced to shimmering on the floor. I know she felt a deep sadness at leaving them. I know because she wouldn't look me in the eye. Tears are highly contagious and they weren't something she wanted to catch. She'd suffered much loss over her brothers, her sister, her eldest daughter, her husband, her sister-in-law, and parting with the home she grew up in, but I never saw her cry. She had ducts of steel.

Tracy, Me, Wise Young Yoga Instructor, Janice, Cherie and Mabel

I have ducts of fluff. This week I said goodbye to my wise young yoga instructor. She's getting married and moving to Calgary to start a new life and as much as I am happy for her, I have been a shimmering puddle all week. Of course some of these tears are unspent tears for my Mom. There might even be some in there over the failings of my first marriage, the suffering of my children, the vanishing of my sister, the loss of my Dad, the passing of aunts and uncles, the sorrows of friends, and numerous dogs and cats I've known and loved. When those flood gates open they all come spilling out. It's like a tear-fest over so much lost. 

I've lost another wisdom-keeper in my life; losing two in such a short span of time is devastating. I feel rudderless; adrift. Both their missions in my life are complete and so they've moved on. My Mom fulfilled her mortal toil and my wise young yoga instructor is in greater need elsewhere. It's up to me to ensure the wisdom they imparted; the blessings they bestowed; are put to good use. I guess I'll start by focusing on breath and putting one foot in front of the other. 

Still standing... namaste.

Ripples...

Years from now, if civilizations unearth our remains as we have those before us, they will think we were made of paper. I spent several days this week scouring nearly forty years of paper belonging to my parents. They saved everything. 

I read Worker's Compensation reports confirming that my Dad had Asbestosis, notifications of the monthly pension amount he was allotted, and the annual statements of increase. I read letters from lawyers my Dad had hired to file complaints against the City of Medicine Hat because the work they were doing in the remote area where they lived was polluting the air he breathed. I read snippets of poems my Mom never finished, and leafed through income tax filings and bank statements. It was a mountain of paper that my shredder struggled to digest. This was my parent's life that I was feeding into this temperamental machine. It was paper their eyes and hands had touched.

This notion gave me pause. My mind's eye conjured up misty images of them holding these papers; my Dad's strong hands, my Mom's long, slender fingers. I imagined them alive, intact, and living in the old house going about their lives as they had always done. It was a pleasant thought and in a way, I felt like a kid sticking my hand in the cookie jar. These were private matters significant to their livelihood and off limits to me. 

In life, they would never have discussed these matters with me, their youngest and least educated child; their baby. But here I was, an unwitting voyeur, peering into their lives and privy to their business. Death seems to lay us bare. Things we held close to our chests in life are suddenly unleashed, secrets are squandered and truths are inadvertently told. It made me wonder why we bother to conceal those things we have no choice but to leave behind. Yet no great family secrets were revealed to me. 

I didn't find any papers to confirm my childhood suspicions that I was adopted. There was no money being funneled to offshore accounts and my Dad didn't have another wife and family in Wisconsin. The only noteworthy item I found and spared from the jaws of the shredder was a letter from my sister's childhood friend, Bonnie. She wrote to my Mom thanking her for the farewell tribute she gave at Bonnie's Mom's funeral and how much that meant to her. She also thanked Mom for her influence and everything she did for Bonnie as she was growing up. In capital letters she wrote, "I THINK YOU ARE A GREAT LADY!"

 
While chiseling my way through this mountain of paper I'd unearthed a treasure, a gem, a nugget of truth. It reaffirmed that my Mom left her handprint on more hearts than just my own. She wasn't a poor little black girl from the backwoods of Mississippi who rose up from obscurity and made a big splash. She was a quietly remarkable person, who gave of herself and made a difference; content just to make ripples. 

The rest is pixie dust...

Breath...

This week, I was blessed to be present at the birth of my friend Amanda's second baby. I was her doula, coaching her with breath, gentle touch, and words of encouragement. I was also doula at the birth of her first baby. Both girls, both beautiful, both plump, and perfect. I was there when both babies took their first breath. 

This is a momentous event for me because I believe that with the first breath the soul enters its mortal home and begins its temporal journey. In simpler terms, it's when a spiritual being starts trying to be human and breath becomes the quiet rhythm of that existence. 

It's a rhythm so quiet that we think little of our breath. The computer we call the brain has the function of breath built in, like an app. Even so, there are times when we forget to fill and empty our lungs adequately. Breath is there to help us cope with life and labour. It brings oxygen to our blood and precious cells, relieving stress and pain. 

Amanda breathed her babies into life. Both were birthed naturally using the power of her breath and the strength of her body. This is an accomplishment that embodies a woman with super powers and grants her that 'walk on water' euphoria that follows childbirth. With each push fueled by the power of breath, Amanda's baby gradually came into the light and her own first breath. Then she was wrapped in loving arms, kissed, caressed and cuddled. Gabriela was welcomed to the world and her journey began.

I wonder if our journeys end in a similar fashion. With our last breath, are we launched toward that waiting light and welcomed by loving arms? I'd like to think so. I'd like to imagine all the familiar faces who were there to greet my Mom; the happy reunion, the comfort of returning home, the celebration of a journey completed with valor. It makes my heart glad. It helps me breathe easier. It really is all about breath.

Breath is precious. The first and last are like the quotation marks of mortal life. We need to make what's in between count, one sweet breath at a time. 

The rest is pixie dust...

Guilty Bones...

Dementia is a thief. It invades the mind and steals things more precious than gold and gems from its victims. But unlike a common thief, Dementia lingers and offers its victims brief glimpses of things snatched before returning them to the dark depths of its loot bag. Sometimes its as though moments are held just out of reach or behind a gauzy veil. For anyone witnessing this heinous crime, it's like watching your loved one slip through your fingers like sand in an hour glass. I stood by and watched as Dementia pilfered my Mother's precious gray matter, feeling powerless and frustrated.

At first it was just occasional absent-mindedness. She would forget appointments or lunch dates with friends. Then the assisted-living facility where she was a resident called me to say that she was forgetting to take her medications and they would have to begin administering them to her. Eventually, the call escalated to recommending that I move her closer to me in order to ensure she get the care needed. This was easier said than done. 

Mom had lived in the same community for eighty-seven years. She was a social butterfly, had lifelong friends there, was a member of the local Writer's Club, attended regular meetings at the CNIB ever since she was diagnosed with Macular Degeneration in her sixties, and felt at home in Chinook Village, the assisted-living facility we had found for her after my Dad died five years earlier. Prior to that, she had lived in the same house since she was three years old. This was not someone accustomed to being uprooted, even though she had adapted well to facility living. I discussed the move to Edmonton with her and she agreed, it was probably a good idea. So the U-Haul wheels were set in motion. 

I found her a suite in an assisted-living facility downtown, near where I worked. My nephew, Chris and I, packed up her things and relocated her by August. We thought the new suite was great, much roomier than the one at Chinook Village. But Mom thought it was quite a long walk to the bathroom and was unimpressed with the view from her ninth floor window. She got lost on her way to and from the dining room on the second floor and the morning after her first night there, I saw a woman I didn't know. I would describe Mom as unmoored and it frightened me. I hoped she just needed time to settle in.

But there was little time for that, what with the first hip fracture in October and the second in January. Anesthetic is Dementia's ally, so after two surgeries her mental state was even further diminished and it was deemed that she would require placement in an extended care facility. This was the last thing my Mother's right mind would have wanted. 

Her right mind enjoyed independence, helping others, playing cards, pool, shuffleboard, writing, reading, visiting, walking, laughing. There was little of that left. With all the moving around she thought she was either constantly traveling to destinations unknown or waiting for the next train. Every day I would unpack her pillowcases and she would be so surprised to see me. Not long ago, I found a sentence she wrote in a journal in Dementia-scrawl that said, "Survived the first night in the Hell Hotel.". That summed up how she felt about being in a nursing home quite eloquently. But that was just the beginning.

Eventually, she lost her mobility, her sense of taste and smell, was unable to comprehend more than simple sentences and some days, I was a stranger to her.  I kept a journal for her to read when I wasn't there so she would know that she was loved and cared for. In it, I documented our immediate family tree, including dates of birth and death. Occasionally I would find scribbled on one of the pages, "Thank God for writers!". But that brilliant idea didn't last. 

Soon she forgot the journal even existed and began tearing up old photographs and books of poetry she'd written. I was forced to remove what was left of these precious artifacts for safekeeping. I began to feel more like a jailer than a daughter. The telephone in her room was her only link to the outside world but she had forgotten how to use it months before. That is, until Dementia opened its loot bag and gave her a glimpse of that memory. 

It was just a month before she died, early in the morning, shortly after breakfast. I had wheeled her back to her room for a ride to the toilet on the mechanical horse when her phone rang. It was the city police asking if everything was all right. Apparently, they had received a call from the RCMP detachment in Medicine Hat. A concerned citizen had contacted them after my Mother had called them at 3:15 a.m. that morning saying she had fallen, was hurt, and needed help. I assured them that my Mother was fine, that she was incapable of getting out of bed on her own volition and that it wouldn't happen again. Then, like any good jailer I disconnected the phone. But the best was yet to come.

It was a month after her passing that Dementia decided to rattle my chain one last time with the arrival of Mom's final phone bill. When I opened it, I noted that the number she dialed in the middle of the night was her old home number in Medicine Hat; the number she had for decades and left behind when I moved her to Edmonton nearly three years earlier. I can just imagine the wry smile on Dementia's face when it gave her a gauzy glimpse of the old house and my Dad at home waiting for her. Perhaps it even held her feeble hand and helped her dial the number. If I hadn't already known just how desperate and alone she had felt, I certainly did at that moment. Damn Dementia.

I know I did what every good daughter would have done to care for her beloved and ailing Mother. The should haves, would haves and could haves are a waste of precious breath. I keep telling myself to lay this bag of guilty bones down. But Dementia has cast its shadow on my life and I am forever altered.

The rest is pixie dust...

The Coulee...

I come from Medicine Hat, a land of creeks and valleys... and coulees. It's a lovely little oasis on the desert that is Southern Alberta. When I was growing up, we lived in the house of my Mother's childhood, on a remote street called 'Kipling'. Seven Persons Creek snaked its way through the quiet valley and at the end of the long street was a wonderful place called "Kin Coulee". It was a huge city park, complete with playground equipment, a band shelter, barbecue pits and a ski hill. I spent a lot of time there as a kid, not so much on the playground equipment or ski hill, but climbing the steep, abrupt cliffs of the coulee.

It was parched, dry, brown-dirt country. Trying to gain a foothold was a three-steps-forward and ten-steps-back activity. At the end of a day of scrambling in the dirt, you were camouflaged in a fine layer of the stuff, had cactus needles piercing various body parts, may have had a close encounter with a garter or bull snake, and if you were really lucky, there might even be a small scorpion or two in the folds of your clothes. Sometimes you made it to the top, and sometimes you simply gave up and slid to the bottom, leaving attempts at ascent for another day and trod home on prairie-dirt insoles. This is not unlike trying to scale the abrupt cliffs of life. 

I call it "The Coulee Theory". I can't take credit for its creation, that belongs to a wise counselor I had years ago after my first marriage ended and I was estranged from my children. A friend at work was knitting a lovely baby sweater and brought it in to show it off. I took one look at that baby sweater and was reminded of my own babies, not babies anymore, for their innocence was long gone, but when times were simpler; when I saw them, smelled them, and cuddled them daily. This innocuous baby-sweater-encounter sent me reeling. I was seized upon by grief so intense that I was at home for three days curled up in a fetal position, experiencing waves of sorrow like contractions. I was afraid I'd gone over the edge. 

My counselor confirmed my worst fears when I called him between contractions. He told me that ground-shaking life events were like falling over the edge of an abrupt cliff into a deep coulee. On the way down, you roll in cactus, encounter snakes and scorpions and end up covered in the grime of a long, hard, rock-bottom fall. But eventually, you dust yourself off and start making your way up the side of the cliff. Progress is often slow. Some days you make great strides only to lose your footing and any ground gained the very next day. But you keep trying and eventually, you make it to the top, stronger, wiser, and braver. He was right.

His wisdom has served me well through events since then, most recently, my Mother's death. Some days I'm rock bottom, other days I've gained some ground. I have no idea when I will reach the top, but I know that strength, wisdom and bravery are acquired on the journey. I might have prairie-dirt insoles but I'm still standing. 

The rest is pixie dust...

Separation Anxiety...

What is grief but separation anxiety multiplied a thousand times? That's what it feels like to me. I've always suffered from separation anxiety. When I was a kid, I couldn't lose sight of my Mom in a store or I'd panic. I was lucky, she was tall and I could usually see her towering above the aisles in Woolworth's. 

Once when we were shopping in a local ladies store, Mom strapped me into a little seat attached to the wall and handed me a book. I was supposed to sit there and read until she came back for me when she was finished shopping. I waited what seemed like forever and finally, when I was sure she'd abandoned me, I wriggled myself out of that seat and raced to the fitting room area looking for her. I caught a glimpse of what I thought was her muskrat coat through the curtain of one of the change rooms and barged right in, wrapping myself into the familiar softness of the fur and letting out a muffled holler of, "Mom!". The nice lady unwrapped me from around her waist and said, "I'm not your Mommy sweetheart but I sure wish I was..." My own Mother heard the commotion and came looking for me. She apologized to the nice lady and took me home without saying much. I'm sure she was tired of having me for her shadow seven days a week. That's why she left me at home with my Dad some Saturday mornings so she could shop in peace. 

Dad was quite capable of taking care of me but he wasn't Mom. I was fine the first half hour or so. Then, I'd start working myself into a frenzy thinking she wasn't coming back. I'd find a piece of clothing she'd worn, lay down on my bed, bury my face in the smell of her and cry inconsolably until I either fell asleep, or she came home, whichever came first. Usually, by the time she came home, I was in such a state that I'd run to greet her and throw up at her feet. I'm sure she thought I'd outgrow it eventually. But even after I got married at the tender age of sixteen, my heart ached for my Mom. 

We were always good friends and not being 'permitted' to see each other because of the circumstances surrounding the marriage was unbearable. So we arranged clandestine meetings at department store lunch counters or at her home on afternoons when we knew we wouldn't be found out. Mom was everything to me. 

It's only been seven weeks since she took wing and still the grief is so fresh. My wise young yoga instructor says that we carry our Mothers with us in our heart chakras and that's why the grief is so raw and close to the bone. I believe that. Mom and I missed spending only a handful of Mother's Days together. Because I was born on Mother's Day we usually celebrated both events around the same time. When I was growing up Mom always told me that I showed up on the doorstep on that blessed Sunday morning in a pretty box tied with a big pink bow. Imagine my surprise when I read her journal entry that simply says; 

"May 11 - Catherine Ann arrived Mother's Day at 10:42 a.m. Admitted to hospital at 8:30 a.m."

My Mom wrote a journal nearly all of my life. These yellowed pages are a gift to me now. To be able to look back on special occasions or life events and read her impression is like time travel. I wonder if she had any idea how precious her words would be to me someday; that they would be like the article of clothing I once buried my face in to keep her close. I wonder.

The rest is pixie dust...

Sage Advice...

I received a letter from Grace, the daughter of one of my Mom's girlhood friends last week. She had attended my Mom's service and said how much she appreciated the personal touches we shared in the eulogy and tributes. She went on to say that she remembered my Mom giving her some advice when she was a young woman. First, she offered some housekeeping shortcuts and second, she told her what laxative to use in pregnancy. Grace said she never used the housekeeping shortcuts but the laxative sure came in handy! Mom also told her that everyone should go to Disneyland at least once even if they have to borrow the money. 

Mom went to Disneyland in the Spring of 1975 when I was just sixteen. I wasn't living at home. I had eloped the previous September and was in the process of moving from Calgary back to Medicine Hat. She would've just turned fifty-four, only a year older than I am now. She took one of those motorcoach excursions with a dear old friend. I think she was gone three weeks, which must've flown by for her, but for those at home it seemed like forever. Mom did so much for all of us, so much that we all took for granted until she removed herself from the equation of our lives. My sister and her little boy, Chris, then just three years old, were living with Mom and Dad. She wrote her concerns over Mom's traveling in a verse called, "With Love to Granny";

Granny has gone so far away, I hope she's having fun today.

All of us at home in the Hat, can't help but wonder where she's at

Disneyland or Palm Springs, Who knows what she's seen.

I hope when she comes home to us, she won't be making a lot of fuss

To travel again. Although we may not tell her when she's near

Life is pretty difficult without her here. 

We love her and we need her far more than I can say.

So Granny when you come home to us, please make it home to stay. 

This house is not the greatest, it's cold and old and wet.

And why you've called it "Home" so long is a mystery to me yet.

And so I sit and worry, all these long days through.

That you might not be missing us, as much as we miss you. 

Mom must have had the time of her life in Vegas, Palm Springs, and Disneyland. But I was too wrapped up in my own life to listen to her traveling tales. How selfish and self-absorbed I was! What would it have taken to sit down and hear her impressions of what she saw and how much fun she had? I wasn't able to give her that much when she gave me all she had and then some. But Mom didn't let that phase her. She came home and got right back into the routine of our lives without missing a beat. As though Disneyland didn't exist.

I admit, I was surprised by the Disneyland advice Mom shared with Grace. She never said as much to me. But then again, why would she? 

As your child I'm not the greatest, I'm self-absorbed as I can get.

And why you've called me wonderful is a mystery to me yet.

And so I'll sit and ponder the rest of my days through

Whether you are missing me, as much as I miss you.

Putting one foot in front of the other... and still standing.  

The rest is pixie dust...