my happy

motherhood
audrey’s giggle
noah’s sparkle in his eyes
music
effortless writing
feeling connected
running
the woods
making a difference
sunshine
feeling understood
laughing
friends
feeling part of something bigger
campfires
meaningful conversations
lattes
Saturday paper
helping others
sleep-ins
good food
good wine
...with friends of course
autumn
BC fresh air
Christmas trees
Kitsilano
a ski in fresh snow
Grand lake
a morning paddle
feeling hopeful
living in the moment

Hope

I think hope is a feeling that comes from within. We can choose to feel hopeful or we can surrender to hopelessness. What makes the difference? How is it that some people can find a reason to be this way while others simply can’t? Is it our circumstances? Is it the way we were raised? Could it be the amount of hardship one endures that presents the defining hopeful gene?

I wonder about the beauty of this feeling. It can change the way you see the world. I have dug deep for this feeling many times only to discover one simple truth about it. It’s not a magic feeling that falls over you like rain with minimal effort. It’s not something you wait for. Hope is not free, and sadly it seems to come at a price for most.

I have sat in this very spot and felt both extremes. Hope hasn’t always prevailed. I remember the night Mark was given his probable diagnosis of leukemia, we had to wait till the morning for another test to confirm it. The two of us sat here that night, we cried, we talked and we hoped. I remember hoping for a chance that it was all a mistake, I hoped for it so badly that I ached. The following day we returned from the hospital and spent the night lying on this couch. We watched TV just to do something normal but it didn’t mask the reality. Mark’s tests had confirmed our worst fears and he was diagnosed with cancer. The absolute desolate, flat, hopeless feeling from that night is one that has set my barometer for everything else since.

I have felt deep hopelessness since, but in a surprising way my desire to feel hopeful again has grown. Watching Mark slip away has given me a renewed desire to chose hope whenever possible. It doesn’t always come easily, nor has it been an instant transformation, but I do have a cause for optimism about the world that I never had before.

I see the impact Mark has on me mostly when I am faced with a choice. In the past, things used to seem more complicated, defining what was important and what should weigh more heavily wasn’t always so clear. Now, it feels natural to feel hopeful when I can because I know it can change in a heartbeat. What’s important to me now is clear and there’s no guesswork involved.

The amount of energy it takes to feel hopeless is exhausting. When I look at Audrey and Noah, I know that I owe them the effort of making that choice. There’s nothing to be gained from dwelling on the past or worrying about the future so for now, I choose hope because it feels right.

My little Nutcracker Angel

Shift

You keep changing on me. Every time I get used to where you fit in my life, something shifts, is it me? Am I the one who’s changing? I can’t tell. It used to be such a constant. I was just sad all the time, I missed you and it was so easy to identify. I missed you with intensity because you were stolen from me. I was sad and I was angry, left to raise our kids and watch them grow without you. I felt a hole in my heart that I grew to accept as a part of me.

As time passes, the empty hollow feeling seems to come and go rather than persist. It hangs in the background and I am able to brush it aside with less effort than before. I feel as though there are times when I can choose to be sad rather than have those times choose me. Have I just learned to wrangle this grief or is it really, truly fading? The answer to this question changes depending on what challenge I face today or the next.

Each time I watch our children do something amazing, whether it be Noah printing his name for the first time or Audrey dancing in a recital I am caught between two opposing feelings. At first, my heart feels heavy and aches because you aren’t here to witness them; your absence is never forgotten. Sadness still creeps in when I catch our kids growing before my eyes. Then, I remember the way you used to smile when Audrey did something so ordinary. I remember how Noah’s squeal as a babe made you smile ear to ear, I can picture you clear as day nearly three years since you’ve been gone. You were in awe of our little ones from the day they were born; you cherished them like precious little gifts without any direction from anyone.

This true delight you took in our kids is something that trumps the sadness every once in a while for me. I can’t say I don’t get bogged down by my circumstances because I do (and I vent and I cry). But as time passes, I feel like it’s becoming easier to catch Audrey and Noah being kid-like and to let go of this pervasive gloom that has become a part of me. I try not to forget that you would give anything to have another moment with them; I’m now learning to be thankful that I get to have a lifetime with them.

Connected

There are people with whom we rub shoulders with everyday, be it on the bus, in a line up at the grocery store, or strangers that sit across your desk each day that can instantly jolt you back to another place and time in your life. Maybe it was a good time, or a time we would rather forget. Sometimes it’s a look, maybe a smile, or the tiredness you see in someone’s eyes that makes you remember.

I met a woman today who looked like she hadn’t slept in a year. I knew the look well having seen it in my own reflection for months on end. I felt an admiration for her and at the same time an absolute sadness overwhelmed me. A total stranger, evoking an emotional response in me that was more than what I was prepared for at 3 o’clock this afternoon. I felt such an ache for her knowing that she was doing what any other wife would do in the same situation. As our conversation evolved she confirmed what I had suspected after exchanging only a few words with them. Husband, diagnosed with cancer and has been fighting the disease for five years. The outlook, getting more challenging as the days pass and complications arise from the 5 types of cancer he has been fighting.

One of the hardest parts of being a widow is simply belonging to this stupid club. Having this premature knowledge of knowing what its like to lose your husband is cruel in it self. I felt pain for this woman today, a total stranger, knowing how much sorrow she is in for. I felt so sad for her knowing how helpless she feels now and how devastating it will be to watch the person she loves deteriorate and ultimately die from cancer. I wanted to take it away from her, the burden of responsibility to have to be strong enough for two. It made me think of the other women in my life and how they too might have to endure this cruel reality one day.

It seems that some sort of heartache, its foolish to think otherwise, touches everyone. It makes you wonder how when submerged in it and living that reality everyday, how does one smile? And then, I remembered…

Her husband was quiet, but strong in a silent kind of way and very sweet, he called her “Tootse” like the Tootsie roll. He was trying to take care of some financial matters without stating the obvious, all the time being very sensitive and respectful of her feelings. When he spoke to her, it made me smile. Then it dawned on me. His demeanor reminded me of Mark and how Mark used to take care of me. He used her nickname, which he had probably called her by for over 40 years and took care of things in a quiet, noble kind of way, in a very “Mark” sort of way. He was taking care of his “Tootse” and that’s all that mattered to her today. Even when your world is crashing down, I believe that when you feel connected to another person, you can smile and face anything.

Steel

Big wide wold of JK...with a little help.

Wakefield Steam Train

Fishin'

Birthday girl

Sailing!

Thank you

There are times in one’s life when your perspective can be given a gentle nudge. A push that reminds you you are part of something bigger in the world. It can be as simple as catching your child giggling, maybe it’s an event or simply the company of good friends. This weekend was one of those times.

As I fly over the Rockies on this unbelievably sunny afternoon, I am sad to be leaving the city that Mark and I called home for over nine years. Each year away makes the returning trip all the more bitter sweet. Seeing old friends and celebrating Mark’s life “Relish style” was once again, amazing, emotional and an eye opener to the kindness and generosity that surrounds my little family.

Old friends and the new friends I met this weekend reminded me that I am part of something bigger than words can describe. Because of Mark’s lasting friendship with these people long after he’s gone, I get the privilege of feeling like the luckiest person in the world. Having over 120 people turn out for this event and seeing all the hard work that was put into it to make it a success made me realize that Mark is in no way forgotten. If anything, his stamp on this world has grown.

Strangers thanked me for letting them be a part of the tournament. I couldn't understand why they were thanking me at first. I wanted to hug everyone and thank them! It took me a while, but my instincts tell me that they were probably grateful for the twist in perspective they gained from the day. A reminder that life is precious.

Thank you Jason, Todd, Lee, Chris and everyone who helped create a weekend to remember. You all are making a difference in my life, my kids’ lives and those who fight this disease everyday.

Mark would be proud.

Dear Mark,

As I sit here on the back deck of a house you’re never seen, in a neighbourhood you’ve never been, living a life so far removed from what we once knew, I wonder how I got here almost every day. You would have been celebrating your 38th birthday today and I find it hard to believe it’s been nearly two and a half years since you’ve been gone.

I think you would be relieved to know that my life here is one that has evolved into something familiar, something with predictable patterns in the everyday. The kids are settled in as though they were here always, a little bitter sweet for me. At the same time, there has been nothing predictable about the direction my life has taken. I still manage to be surprised when things don’t turn out as I’d hoped they would. It’s almost silly in a way, considering my life has been nothing but unpredictable. Let’s face it, it’s not like 90 percent of women are faced with the same circumstances I am, so why should I expect that to be the case now? Maybe wishful thinking…maybe hopeful…maybe foolish. It’s hard to say.

Every now and then I get bogged down with this train of thought. Why you? Why me? Why our kids? How is it that our children have to grow up without you as their Dad? No matter how accepting or how open minded an individual can be, it still defies any possible sense. Put simply, it’s unfair. You would think that living with this reality for this length of time might soften this question. And it has to some degree, but there are times when I surrender to this feeling of injustice. The only way to describe it is… I just break. I break, I cry, I collect myself and I dig. I dig deep for a reason to appreciate my life when yours was cut so short.

You affect me everyday even though I can’t feel your presence anymore. As time passes and my life changes, I know that I am responsible now for teaching our children the things that we set out to do together when we chose to become parents 7 years ago. This responsibility overwhelms me when I remember how easily these things came to you. I feel your absence the most when our kids struggle with missing you in these moments. When a hug or a simple squeeze from you would easily squash their child hood tears.

I know that with time, these moments will change. It is something that I look forward to and dread in the same instant. I look forward to a time when Audrey’s sadness isn’t so raw because time will have passed, but it makes me ache to think she’ll have trouble remembering you. Noah is already caught between these two worlds and thankfully, his innocence has some protective qualities to it.

When I think about your birthday tonight, I don’t think about all that never came to be for you, your life seemed so full and complete already. Your smile and attitude was that of a person fulfilled and content with your life at any given moment. A quality I think we all strive for each day.


I do however think about how our lives continue to unfold, day by day, hour by hour. Whether we have been propelling it along with goodwill or not, each day unravels itself into the next . Did we smile at the girl who handed us our coffee this morning? Did we tell the person in our life how much we love them? Are we patient with the ones we love? You did this and it came so naturally. This is what I remember about you tonight on your birthday. Not what you would have become had you had the chance to turn 38, what you were and always will be.


all my love,
Leslie

When I'm...35

As I sit here on the eve of my birthday with the kids tucked in and their very first downtown fireworks under their belt, I think about the year that has passed and all that has happened. Birthdays always seem to have that affect on me, as I’m sure they do for most people, it’s a day to take stock and step back. I try to rewind my life to when I was young and think back to what I thought I’d be doing when I was this age. Where did I think I would be way back then? And, have any of those ideas ever come to be as I hit these milestones in life?

One thing is certain, I never ever thought I’d be a widowed single mother of two small children starting over at the age of 35. I can’t really say what I had in mind years and years ago when I pictured my future, but this most certainly was not it.

This year, this birthday has been on my mind since I realized the dates a few months ago. As I enter this new year in my life, I will have caught up to Mark in age. By the end of this month I will be older than him and this just makes no sense at all. A minor detail to most anyone else but it’s a bit of a stumbling block for my brain. It’s as though the rules have been changed on me without any warning.

When I think about Mark and the fact that he died so young, I can’t help but wonder about his last year of life. If he had known that 35 was going to be it, I wonder if he would have done anything different? Would he have made different choices? Would be have taken more risks or less? Would he have been more impatient or just the opposite? When our days are numbered why do we behave differently?

I remember asking Mark one day in January if he knew he had seven days left, what would he do? Little did we know at the time, he had less than thirty. We sat for a long time and to my surprise, he didn’t have a “bucket list” type answer like I thought he might. At first he said nothing, he said he couldn’t think of anything that he wanted to do. I think by then the disease had taken a lot of his energy and drive away. But then he said simply, he’d kiss our kids, read them a story and then watch me fall asleep so he could remember us… I cried.

So now I sit here in my 35th year thinking about that conversation. Wondering how to pull it together in spite of everything and gain that sense of appreciation that comes with a time line…

Maybe when I wake up tomorrow, one day older and one day wiser it will come more easily to me.

My Dad

Stuck...

It is so easy to get stuck.

Every now and then I feel the weight of my circumstances hanging over me. As milestones come and go and our life moves forward without Mark, I am reminded of what my kids have lost and what is missing from their lives. As Audrey grows wiser, she too is all the more aware of her circumstances.

As my life has changed over the last 3 years I have changed with it. At times, I cope better than others and it’s hard to say what nudges me forward and what sucks me back. I have an idea but nothing that will change the world that’s for sure.

As I stood in the hallway tonight stretching my “weekday-mummy-multi-tasking-self” between three tasks (switching laundry, folding laundry and washing Audrey’s hair) and two rooms, the phone rang.

As anyone could guess, the last few days around our household have been challenging and somber to say the least. The tasks of the day keep piling up high, my impatience building and my early morning rise (5am Noah!) catching up to me. The ringing phone seemed to add to the hysteria of the bath time chaos, but I knew the person on the other end was someone I had been anxiously waiting to hear from.

Our discussion was quick, due mostly to the noise level in the background at my end. We casually discussed the fact that she was on her way up to the hospital room where her mom is fighting for her life (another victim of blood cancer.) It seems almost surreal that we could be discussing such thing as we both tended to our other motherly duties while we chatted. The story turned to a friend of hers, a neighbour who lost her husband just this Sunday.

This friend of hers reminded her of me, so she told me her story. A mother of three, youngest babe only 7 months old, now widowed. Her husband, aged 36 had lost his battle with Leukemia after being diagnosed less than a year ago. The common threads in this story made my heart ache instantly for this stranger, this mother. My irritability and impatience with the day gone.


I was instantly brought back to the days of walking up the steps of the hospital making quick calls to friends to fill them in on the latest. Now I’m at the other end as she stands in the doorway of her Mom’s hospital speaking to me about this stranger. She is going to sit at her Mom’s bedside, another Mom is about to bury her husband who died tragically on Father’s Day and I stand at the door of my bathroom looking at my kids. I look at them, the laundry and the soapy hair and I realize, I don’t feel quite so stuck tonight.

My Little Ballerina

Change

Why is change so hard?

Don’t we always grow and learn from change? Isn’t it the one constant in our lives? Shouldn’t we welcome change instead of fear it? Why does our heart resist when our brain knows it is essential for growth? Change is imminent and it is the only thing I am certain of in this world. Nothing is static and nothing stays the same.

Why then, is it so difficult to adjust to and accept change? Not only when it is thrust upon us, but also a choice one makes consciously. More often than not, when we listen to our instincts and honour them, the change that ensues from these leaps are positive ones. Changes that (in retrospect) are necessary to grow.

I have thought about his pattern before. Questioning myself when confronted with change. My brain knows it is necessary, but it seems to take an extra long pause before the rest of me catches up.

My brave girl in this big world.

"Moments"

Moments that define us aren’t always the huge ones that you would expect them to be. Most often, they are in our daily exchange of words with someone, a glance or a moment that simply sticks. Sometimes it’s a feeling of shared understanding that two people come to discover without any sort of road map in hand.

This appreciation for the beauty in such moments is one that ebbs and flows for me depending on the day, depending on the childcare workload and the daily grind. Ironically, it has taken an enormous life changing moment and months and months to uncover this simple truth.

It’s not always easy to catch them at first, it takes practice and a little nudge sometimes. The trick is to have your eyes (and your heart) wide open to see them. And once you see, you see – and you’ll wonder how you missed them all along.

Big Sister Hugs

Mr. Noah turns 4!

Frozen

There are moments in life that stick with you and that seem to freeze time, whether it be pure joy or a harsh bite of reality. The two oppose one another and make their counterpart all the more strong by comparison.

Noah’s giggly laughter and smile sparkles more than seems possible when put against the backdrop of the daily battles of this strong willed little person. His smile and laughter are like sweet chocolate, you just want to eat it up and of course you want more. Maybe the sound of him laughing is so rare these days that it strikes me how innocent and joyful it sounds. I realize how beautiful, yet how fleeting these moments have become.

As I tuck him in each night after he has fallen into a deep sleep I stare for a moment and wonder what his future holds. I think about Noah and Mark, and how I see his Dad in him everyday as he grows older. I soak in the peace and quiet and I search for that moment. I try to ignore the harsh bite of reality of an evening filled with negotiation and battles over bedtime. I stand there and wonder what tomorrow will bring…