Wash over me

I put the kids to bed and fought the tears until I found refuge down here on the couch. Safely out of earshot of the kids, I feel my cheeks flush and the tears start to roll down my cheeks. The lights on the tree blur as I let my sadness come to the surface. I sit here and I cry the tears that have been brewing all evening. I am discouraged by my somber mood.

I walked down the stairs with a familiar heaviness in my chest. I dislike this feeling that has been at bay for so long. I have grown accustomed to feeling in control of my sadness, choosing when to let it wash over me and when to channel it into something hopeful. I know that it is my choice, yet I don’t always feel the strength required to make the better choice.

Why do we choose to be sad? Is there some biology at work sabotaging our good intent? What lens am I looking through today that makes me feel depleted? Why do we feel more resilient some days and others just the opposite? I have asked myself this question many times over the last four years and I find myself sitting here again tonight wondering the same thing.

There are too many variables at work to hold just one accountable for our moods but there must be triggers for each of us. Tonight, I am sad for what my kids have lost…will this ever go away?

Oh Christmas Tree

 

Tree time

 

 

 

 

Re-fuel

I wonder, I question, and I doubt. I find myself having this conversation in my head repeatedly as my patience and energy dwindle. My fresh can-do attitude fades as I look at the circles beneath my eyes in the mirror each morning. I work along side co-workers who comment on how tired I look (ps. telling someone they look tired is the same as telling someone they look like shit) and I wonder if this is all worth it.

I toss around various scenarios in my head wondering which variable would relieve some of the stress I feel each day. I apply my mascara and look back at myself, staring into the freckles in my eyes and I see this exhausted woman staring back at me. I don’t feel young anymore. I don’t feel like the bubbly Vancouver mom I used to be. This single-parent-widowed thing is a tough gig.

My mind flickers back to quick snapshots of family times when things seemed easier. It feels like eons ago, and as though I’m recalling someone else’s life. I search for that recent memory of feeling replenished and well rested but it escapes me. I don’t remember the last time I felt unhurried in my day. As I drive from home to the daycare then work and back again each day in scramble mode, I wonder who else feels like this?

The days feel long and my eyes are heavy as I finish the lunches for the following day (my most dreaded task aside from emptying the dishwasher). I can’t seem to find the 2 minutes it requires to pull over and collect my mail from the mailbox on the corner, or to stop for gas even when the gaslight has been glowing for a day or two. To sacrifice the 6 minutes it takes to fill my car would make me “ultra-late” instead of the usual late so I push it. I test the fuel range setting on my VW as it ticks down to 10kms until empty. I exhale in frustration standing in the cold as I fill my car at $1.13/litre…of course, wishing I had done it the day before.

As I listen to the pump clunking away I catch it’s rhythmic sound. It sounds nice…un-hurried, steady, and not in a rush in the least. I envy the gas pump and it’s simple purpose and patient way. I suddenly realize, this is the first time I’ve stood still for more than 5 minutes all day.

D-e-t-e-r-m-i-n-a-t-i-o-n

I have stood in the hallway outside Noah’s door and cursed his persistence. His unwavering need to always control a situation. His desire to consistently get what he wants. I grab at that silver lining in an effort to look for the positive. I tell myself, this quality WILL come in handy when he’s an adult. His persistence will grow to be less trying and more profitable for him when it is not at the expense of my sanity.

And then I see.

I watch as my little 5-year-old falls over 50 times and gets up, determined to master the latest new skill. He does not get discouraged, or even ill tempered. He skates and falls, and skates and falls, and tries to keep up to his sister.

Watch out Audrey, it won’t take him long…

Dear Mr. G

You have a way of sneaking back into my everyday when I am just fine. Really, really, fine. It irritates me and corrupts my joyful mood, with a thump. (Ask Audrey and Noah, they are my unlucky, innocent bystanders.) You have a way of doing that. I am growing to resent your sneaky ways. I used to be thankful in the early days for the relief from you. I’d have a few consecutive days where I realized that you were not a constant and I smiled at this. I could operate and be “un-grief-like”; I’d go so far as to say, downright chipper.

This process of shedding you unconsciously came about at it’s own pace. No amount of willing it would do any good; I learnt this lesson early on. I felt triumphant when I did more than just muddle my way through the conversation that makes most people stare at the floor when you answer “No, I’m not married…(long pause)…I’m widowed" I filled the silence and made it okay that they asked an innocent question.

Today…
You crept back in and I’m sick of you. I’m sick of your little reminders that make me feel alone when I am not. I tire of the surprise visits and the popping in when I’m doing regular mom stuff. Carving pumpkins, making dinner, mediating the relentless bickering of children, you know…regular everyday things. Why do you need to pinch me just to hang out for the afternoon and leave that bitter, ripped off taste in my mouth? Enough already.

I don’t need any reminders that you are still here. I was there, remember? Grief has no finish line. Jerk. I’m rebuilding my life and I don’t need to feel thankful that you’re not my everyday anymore. Just give it a rest and let me nudge myself forward when I want to.

Got that??
Beat it grief.

I didn't need you today, come back some other day if you must.

Yours truly,
Leslie

Ps. Sorry I called you a jerk.

Nightlights

It’s been nearly a week since we attended the Light the Night Fundraiser and the last few days have been filled with memories from years past. Our team, “Just Keep Swimming” was very successful in raising money for the Leukemia Lymphoma Society this year, we nearly reached our ambitious goal of $2000. The messages I sent seemed barley adequate to express my gratitude to those of you who supported our fundraising efforts.

I couldn’t find the right words to express all that I have been carrying in my thoughts these last few weeks. I watched proudly as Audrey and Noah got excited at the prospect of raising money for leukemia research. Their loss and sadness was not tied to these efforts. They didn’t pair this event to a sad day in their lives; they pounced on the opportunity to find something fun and positive about it all. I was amazed at their enthusiasm.

I was reticent to even propose such a thing to them. Thinking the whole time, how do I expose them to such an emotionally loaded situation? Most kids in our neighbourhood are selling chocolate bars for the local bowling league while mine are soliciting donations in memory of their Dad?? This seemed wrong on so many levels. I began to feel angry and sad that this was their reality and questioned my involving them at all. Wondering, and again doubting my judgment as to whether they were ready for something like this.

As this week has unfolded, I have come to think that maybe it was my own vulnerability that I was afraid of exposing, not so much theirs. I am afraid to see my kids hurt, they have had a lifetime worth of pain in their little lives. I am afraid to see my kids cry and miss their Dad; it breaks my heart to watch and feel it unfold. I feel helpless at times knowing that my hugs are not enough to fill the void

Thankfully, in true Audrey and Noah style, they surprised me. They walked and laughed and embraced an evening that was devoted to helping other people touched by this disease. Yes, we had some tears late that night but the general spirit of why we were there was not lost on them. I should know by now that they are my little nightlights when I need them the most. Their Dad would be proud of them.

Clear Skies and a Crisp Night Please

I love fall.

I love the cool nights, the cozy duvets, and the sunny brisk afternoons. Walking the path on a Sunday afternoon and catching a hint of wood smoke in the air. This state of summer-end and autumn brewing in the background is my favourite time of year.

It’s not as though you can swim or ski. You can’t really do much in terms of seasonal sports at this time of year, but there is something about this change in season that evokes warmth and a smile from me.

I have fond memories from when I was about 6 or 7, stacking chords of wood and smelling the woodstove burning for the first time each year. I can remember walking through the byward market on sunny afternoons, buying pumpkins for the doorstep and picking up fall daisies on the way home.

Each year when fall is upon us, I am surprised, but pleased that the memories that are dormant inside me all year long can be easily summoned by a walk in the woods on a sunny morning or a fire nearby in somebody’s woodstove.

A memory that is very close to the surface for me tonight is that of the Light the Night Walk in October of 2006. As you may know, I am fundraising for the 2010 walk to raise money for Leukemia research and I have invited the kids to share this experience with me this year.

I walked the event with Mark that year and it was a perfect evening for it. It was brisk but clear and we walked along English Bay with hundreds of others. I remember noticing the stars for part of the walk and thinking to myself that fall was the perfect time for an event like this. I was in awe of the venue as we walked beside the ocean listening to the waves lapping at the beach. The crisp fall air kept us moving as we made our way back to Stanley Park where the large fir trees waited for us at the finish line. It was a perfect night for it.

As I prepare for this years’ walk I know it will be very different. I’ll have Audrey and Noah at my side this time and Mark in my heart. I’ll be keeping my fingers crossed for clear skies and a crisp night...

Click on the link below to see the details for our walk.

http://my.e2rm.com/personalPage.aspx?registrationID=989027

Leavin' on a jet plane...

412 Squadron

Prepare for take off!

Checkin' out the flight deck...and the almighty chocolate bar room!

4th Annual Relish Mark Allan Memorial Golf Tournament

As I sit and type on the plane, Vancouver is fading away to my left. Beautiful sunny big skies with the North Shore Mountains taking their familiar spot on the skyline. The 4th Annual Relish Mark Allan Memorial Golf Tournament was a success. As in past years, it was a day filled with laughter, golf, good times and good friends.

The weather was wet, the greens soggy but the general spirit of the day was not lost. If anything, there was a mood of perseverance to complete a full18 holes on the wettest day Vancouver has seen in nearly 2 months. As we rolled by the clubhouse half way through, there was a thought to pack it in. It was apparent the rain was not going to let up, but the desire to finish overtook and the 4 of us golfed, drank and shivered our way to the end. A full 5 hours in steady rain seemed insignificant as we finished; soaked through by the second hole we were happy to have completed such a feat.

As we drove through the rain and spent the day on the course I couldn’t help but wonder what Mark would have thought about the day. I catch myself wondering this each time I am witness to something amazing. Whether it’s Noah learning how to master a childhood task, or hanging out with friends laughing and having a good time. Things I may have brushed off as ordinary before now have taken on an extra special quality. Sad in one way as they conger up painful reminders that Mark is no longer here, but then I feel the need to scramble to fix the moment permanently in my memory, simply because I am here, and I can.

Spending a weekend with people who knew Mark and thought to come out and celebrate, to me is nothing short of amazing. My emotions have been brimming beneath the surface throughout this weekend thinking about how much I loved living here and the life I once knew. Trying to resist the tendency to think about Mark, especially when I am in Vancouver is something I have come to accept as a wasted effort. There is no separating the two. Thinking and remembering is a sobering exercise, painful as it is, it is one that helps me make more sense out of the present.

I spent the latter part of the game watching (and shivering) more than playing and couldn’t help but notice the birds swooping around our cart as we motored from hole to hole. I don’t ever recall seeing birds come so close or hover around in such a way. It was as though they were following us and keeping us company. Later, sitting in the conservatory listening to speeches as the rain dripped down the panes felt comforting in a familiar sort of way. The weather outside felt just as it did on the day we all said goodbye to him over 3 and half years ago.

In spite of the grey day around us, the room was filled with an air of celebration. I listened as Mark’s friends spoke about him in a less somber sort of way this year. It was nice to feel the weight of his loss lifted just a little bit more as his friends remembered him and played the game that he loved the most.

On our Way

My blog has stood at a stand still for some time. I haven’t been very good about finding time in the day, or more appropriately the evening to post or write lately. When I go back and read old posts I see my old pattern of being drawn to the keyboard when times are tough. When things are coasting along smoothly my blog seems to fall to the way side. I remember thinking to myself after reading it once (in its entirety) I wish I had posted more when things were good, during “happier” more simple times.

If someone was to write the Coles Notes version of my life as summarized by me, in my blog, they might think having had the last 4 years as a sample, that my life was full of tragedy and struggle with little room left for joy.

Had you asked me this question two years ago, I might have to agree with this summary. It has been one big consuming struggle ever since Mark’s diagnosis in 2006. But, with his 4th annual memorial tournament less than a week away I am happy to be able to blog tonight about lighter, simpler things.

Audrey and Noah have had a month filled with sleep over’s, cottage nights, and new friends. The hot summer days of July have been enjoyed at lakeside, Lac Bernard and Grand Lake, catching frogs, learning to swim, bon fires and poker nights “kid-style”. I’ve had the luxury of waking up only 40 min before work and not having to race the daycare clock home for a week this summer. Thank you Chris and Maria!!! Audrey has thoroughly enjoyed 10 days of intensive dance camp and Noah has ventured out on his own “sister-less” to his own multi-sport camp for a week. He spent the mornings playing team sports and the afternoons swimming; having never taken a bus I was thrilled when the highlight of the day was taking a noisy school bus to and from the pool.

As I sit here with my Air Canada itinerary glowing in the background (and my email, face book, MSN, weather and iTunes!) while I write, I realize just how much my life has changed in the last year. For the first time, I’ll be sharing my weekend in Vancouver with someone. The person in my life who understands me the most, grief, widow stuff, tears and all. The idea of going back out West to the place I miss dearly seems less emotionally charged than in past years. Albeit, blending a little bit of my former Keg/married/westocast life with what has become my new life will certainly bring up some emotion, I couldn’t imagine doing it any other way.

I wouldn't miss it for the world...see you there!

http://www.relishthepub.com/relish/golf10.asp

Dear Mark,
On the eve of what would have been your 39th birthday I am flooded with a mixture of emotions tonight. They are not the easy identifiable ones; they are more mixed on days like these now.

I glanced at the date this morning on my way to work, the route very familiar to me now having driven it for nearly two years. I drop the kids at daycare and have to weave my way back through several stop signs to get to the main road. It’s the place where I mentally prepare for the day and transition from daycare mom to career mom. It’s not a deliberate act; over time it’s just sort of evolved that way. As I exit the school parking lot, I feel a sense of lightness that I accomplished the first part of my day, everyone in tact. Now for act two.

A quick stop for coffee and I’m usually well into the planning stages of my morning. I feel a relief to have my mind occupied with prioritizing my day but as I drove this morning I found myself thinking about you.

I caught myself by surprise when I noticed the date and didn’t immediately fall into a slump for the entire day. I thought about you often today but in a different way than I have on past birthdays. There hasn’t been the same anticipation and lead up to today. I caught the date flash across my phone and I waited for the usual sadness to weigh me down when I realized the day, but it was softer. It was kinder to me than I expected.

I sipped my coffee at the intersections and thought about this idea. This realization that time changes us, whether we are willing participants or not. I felt downright thankful for this fact. Without the passing of time, how would we cope?

I wonder sometimes how I cope, and I wonder why or how this all happened. It’s hard not to get rocked backwards on significant days. It’s easy to embrace the unfairness of this and get pulled into a sad place. When I look at Audrey and Noah, I ache for them but at the same time I admire their ability to roll with their lot in life. They have adapted in ways that I never thought possible.

I have oscillated between missing you, feeling sad for what you endured, and anger for having had this happen. I have been overcome with sadness today and then caught myself smiling within minutes when a song or something significant jogs a memory of you.

As the invitation to the 4th annual Mark Allan memorial tournament landed in my inbox tonight, I was again reminded of how you continue to impact so many lives. It amazes me still. I think of how our friendship and marriage taught me to open my heart to others and how my life today is changed because of that. I wish everyday that Audrey and Noah could have gotten to know you, their time with you was too short. Hopefully as time passes and they grow, they will learn about the person that you were from the people who’s lives’ you touched the most.

So in your absence, it only feels natural to celebrate you tomorrow.
We'll be thinking about you as we blow out your candles and remember you. Dad, husband and best friend.
Love,
Leslie

Please

How do you undo a pattern? The negative kind that makes you wonder how it got so out of control. A pattern of behaviour that begins each day at the crack of dawn and ends with the little person upstairs finally falling asleep from exhaustion. How does he do it every day??

The constant explosions and negotiations for one more this, one more that, I’m hungry, I need another book. I need a glass of milk, I need…more. He is unfillable! He doesn’t see the erosion of good will that is being sucked out of me day by day. The desire to be kind falling deeper within and harder to draw from when needed the most.

As I sit here and listen to him I wonder what he’s thinking. I wonder what he wants. Is it just me? Does he just need more of me? Is he screaming for boundaries, or revolting against them? How can he be so relentless? I have to be both for him. The nurturer and the boundary setter. Is this possible? Can one parent be both? Can he find both those roles within me?

I have armed myself with information and advice from other parents, some solicited, some not. I have read articles and countless parenting blogs only to discover one common thread in all these readings. I am in for a battle of a lifetime. I am in for years of undoing the negative pattern that has erupted in my household. And it’s all up to me.

As I read about the parenting “team strategy” and the united front one must keep when dealing with a persistent school ager my mood started to slip. Then the importance of being able to take turns and take breaks from the challenging child, you know, for your own sanity... ? I stopped reading mid paragraph.

It’s hard not to feel bitter and a bit sorry for myself when I feel the weight of both roles sitting upon my shoulders. The only part of this mess that doesn’t completely suck is that I have the privilege of getting to know Noah at age 5, his Dad never got to. I have to remind myself of this when I feel overwhelmed. I get to see them grow and the price I pay is being both nurturer and boundary setter, their Mom and their Dad. So when you see me struggling with my kids and trying to stay sane, be patient with me, please. A sympathetic ear or a hug will do.

Oh Canada!

 

 

 

Oh Canada!

 

 

Oh Canada!

 

 

 

 

Freedom from Fear

In preparation for an event that I attend each year in memory of Mark, I found myself sitting on the floor of my closet rummaging through boxes. Boxes I had carefully packed away before leaving Vancouver. I remember the finality I felt when I slid the lids onto those boxes.

I sat in my bedroom only weeks after Mark had died knowing I needed to preserve these things for Audrey and Noah. I felt frantic about keeping just the right things to one day show the kids. As I carefully chose each item and thought about where we might be one day when they were old enough to see them I felt sick with a hollow feeling inside. I cried as I remembered each moment that was tied to the treasures. Everything seemed so wrong, so unreal as I stared at the things in the box. I felt myself switch onto autopilot as I put the things away. I felt flattened by my cruel reality. These things, that were just things had taken on such significance I couldn’t bear to look at them, nor could I bear to get rid of them. They brought comfort and pain in the same minute, two opposing feelings that have been tangled inside me since.

I packed them away not knowing when I might have the courage to open the boxes again.

The boxes sit in my walk-in closet, visible from my room as I walk by. They have been neatly organized on the top shelf where they sit proudly, out of reach and secretly. No one else has ever looked in them and for now, the children are oblivious to what is inside the pretty flowered boxes. To me, they are merely a slice of Mark’s life. Not even one one thousandth of what he was. To the kids, the contents of these boxes will represent his whole life. It will be all they will ever hold. Tokens, pictures and letters about the person who they knew was their Dad, but never got to know as their Dad.

These boxes have sat idle for nearly three years. There have been times when I have been tempted to test my fragility and look inside them. I have on one or two occasions only to find myself soaked in tears and feeling mad at myself for trying such a self- destructive thing. The pain of looking at hand written letters from Mark has been something that has brought heart ache…not the happy go-to memory that I was hoping to draw from in a moment of need. At least this has been the case until a few nights ago.

I have often commented to those close to me that I don’t always understand what drives me to move along and other times I can’t seem to move even an inch. It is difficult even for me to understand let alone try to explain to another. This thing we call grief can empower me and it can render me hopeless. It can break my spirit on any day of the week or it can give me the freedom from fear that we all crave.

Who doesn’t want to feel enlightened and empowered to trust their own instincts? Who doesn’t want to feel good about appreciating the ones they love? Or leaving fear at the door and taking a chance and believing in somebody? I have stopped, breathless on many occasions to find myself seeing my life through a new lens…all of these feelings, sadly are the result of paying the ultimate price. I get mad about this price I’ve paid. I am saddened by what my kids will never have…and then I am gently reminded here and there about the life that has changed mine forever.

I sat on the floor and read the letters and I smiled as I wept. I remembered how happy I was and the butterflies I felt the first time I read the letter 12 years ago. I looked at pictures of us before we were married and remembered the way we held hands on the way to work on chilly mornings in the market. I poured through an album his Keggers made for him realizing how he touched all their lives in a meaningful way. I pulled out a video I had never had the courage to watch until now from his celebration of life and I watched in amazement.

I watched as people cried, listened and came together to celebrate Mark. Watching the day unfold again reminded me how lucky I was to have had him in my life. I feel changed, again three years later watching this event. For the first time, I was able to see these things, these pictures and videos stand on their own, separate and apart from the heartache and sadness that has been tangled up in them for so long.

I have been so fearful of lifting the lids of these boxes for such a long time. They sit there each day up on the shelf in my closet, but now when I glance up at them, I see the memories instead of just the sadness.

Mothers Day

6:50am…Little foot steps, whispering, clanking of glassware on a tray and smiling little faces peeking through my door.

6:52am…door creaks open and the ruffle of tissue paper as Audrey and Noah reveal their hand made creations from behind their back before they even make it to the side of my bed.

“Good morning Mummy…Happy Mudders Day!”
“Happy Mothers Day Mummy, you are THE best mom ever!”

I am greeted with a bowl of corn bran in banana yogurt, cinnamon toast with the crusts cut off, fresh cut strawberries and a latte….Noah’s favourite breakfast, minus the caffeine.

As I ooooh, and aaaaah over the preparation of a perfect breakfast in bed (and try to rub my tired eyes awake) I can’t help but feel immediately melted by the pride I see in Noah’s face. Audrey sits beside me touching my arm softly just to be close and waits patiently for me to uncover all the treasures wrapped in tissue one by one. Noah’s excitement is making him jiggle on top of the covers. He points to all the items on the tray (stwabeerries, and cornnn, bwan) and tells me what they are. I jokingly tease him about making such an awesome coffee for his tired mother. And when did he learn how to operate Mum’s barista machine? He laughs and rolls his eyes. Audrey quickly sets me straight…Lindsay made it Mom, don’t be silly!

I unwrap each present with a detailed explanation of exactly how they were constructed at school. A handmade steppingstone for the garden, a glitter covered picture frame and some print screens made at a workshop. Lindsay sits with us on top of the covers while I read the poems and carefully printed cards from each of them. The two of us comment on how beautiful and how hard they must have worked on each little detail. Her presence feels fitting and natural. I try not to think about her getting on her plane in a few hours from now to return to Vancouver.

I nibble on my breakfast and listen to them talk. Audrey turns to me and says “What should we do for Fathers Day? Let’s have lemon meringue pie in bed for that. That was Daddy’s favourite!” She seems excited at the prospect of pie in bed. Noah then suggests that HE should get breakfast in bed, and then laughs at the notion of us bringing him breakfast on a tray, like a king.

I can’t help but marvel at their ability to think the way they do. For a moment, I feel like I’m watching the scene of a play, only its taking place right before my eyes…on my own lap. Noah leaps onto me and smothers me with hugs, and centers me back into reality, Audrey joins in.

I sip my latte and realize how especially cozy my bed feels while we listen to the wind howl outside. I am thankful for their smiles and hugs on this cold Mother’s Day Morning.

Me & Mac

Over the last 4 years, my laptop computer has become an essential “must have” integral part of me. (Yes, I can survive a week at the lake without it!!) But as I find a cozy place to park myself at the end of each day and gently open the lid and watch the screen light up, I realize the degree of comfort I draw from this little machine. Is it because it’s my connection to the world outside of banker/mummy/widow/lunch maker/caregiver/homework helper/bike repairer/laundry do-er?? Probably. Sure, I like this sleek, thin, aluminum little Mac book with its Apple-esque prettiness to it. But it is a connection to so much more.

I think about how I scramble through each and every day. From the moment I hear footsteps flitting across the carpet (at 5:49am!!) to the moment when I sit down and lift the lid on my laptop nearly 14 hours later, the weight of the day sits upon my shoulders. As I tap the iTunes icon and the music fills my quiet sleeping house, I feel the weight of the day begin to roll off my shoulders.

I open up my browser to the world, the non-bank world, and I catch up. I get myself up to speed on the minutia that fills people’s lives all day. And I enjoy it. I like to read about the sometimes trivial and often unfiltered thoughts of people I know (and also the people who have tracked me down after 20 years). It’s like sitting on someone else’s window ledge and watching the world go by from their side of “the wall” One’s wall can be so revealing when read in sequence.

After I get my fill of status updates I read some fluffy news and check my circuit of favourite blogs and websites. After only minutes, it feels as though the connection to something lighter is in full swing. I dance from page to page and song to song and I don’t really think about the battles that occurred in the hours that preceded this. Discovering new music and connecting with the world outside of my little banker/mummy world can sometimes be enough to wash away the stress of the day. Sometimes.

On the days when it’s not and I’m overwhelmed, I use my computer to connect. I connect with others, sometimes with my past and often I am drawn back to my blog in an effort to find a path towards the future. It’s not always simple and obvious when you’re sad. I know myself well and I know that I will surf aimlessly in an effort to procrastinate. I often try to distract myself but there are times when even the best website, song, or collection of pictures isn’t enough to wash away the weight of the day. It may take me a while but this is where I come. I come home to my blog.

Sometimes I read back, all the way back and I can barely believe that I’ve lived these moments. It’s as though I’m reading about someone else’s life. I read it and I cry. I swing between feeling anger and sadness, and then a sense of pride that I’ve made it this far. I remember back to when my life was filled with such sadness and devastation and I feel thankful for my sleeping babies upstairs. I connect with my past by reading about it. There are times when it holds me back, but other times it pushes me forward. It depends on the day.

Writing and blogging seems to help me connect with what will become my future. When you can make sense of the chaos in the moment and untangle it, the future doesn’t seem so impossible. On the days when music sifting and webpage hopping isn’t enough to distract, I rely on this little machine to guide me back here.

Lucky Pennies

The feeling never really goes away. For a while, I thought it might have – but I was wrong. It just becomes a part of you and you cope with it better some days than others. I thought for sure that I was over “the feeling” one day. I was walking in the woods behind the house, it was sunny, there were crunchy leaves beneath my feet and there was a crisp bite in the air, a perfect day. I was so proud of myself for stepping outside my own head and realizing the beauty I was surrounded by.

I thought for a second, this is a feeling I remember. One of light joy and happiness, an airy sense of gratitude for simply being alive. I hadn’t felt it for so long it was like hugging an old friend. For a moment, I had a sense of balance between my worlds. The before, and the after. I felt like my sense of gratitude had finally squashed the angry and sad ripped off girl.

Standing in the path and absorbing that moment felt like gold. I wanted to put it in my pocket like a lucky penny. I would wrap my fingers around it whenever I needed a little help. And I was sure I could use it later, most likely at bedtime, the hardest time of the day at my house.

I was sitting on the steps tonight after yet another battle over bedtime and I wanted so badly to just feel thankful. Not angry, not sad and most of all, to not feel ripped off at times like these. It benefits no one. I sat and I waited. I thought about my kids and all that they miss out on each day without their Dad. I thought about how helpless I feel each night when both my kids cry and want me in two different places at one time. I thought really?? Why is it that these are the moments that feel like forever, when the other ones seem so fleeting?

As I sat and waited for the kids to fall asleep, I wondered to myself… how do I fill my pockets for nights like these?

A new Beginning

'On Tofino' is the place that I call home now. It’s a cozy dead end street in the suburbs of Kanata nestled up against the woodlands of the NCC. It’s the place where I’ve planted roots for the second time in my adult life. This place is more than just a neighbourhood; it’s my new life, a new beginning for my family. A life that I was petrified to face alone has turned out to be one full of surprises. I have made connections with special people along the way that have made my journey here more than bearable.

I remember the day that I accepted this fate.

It was October, Mark had been admitted into the hospital with a critical blood clot and no matter how deep we looked for hope that morning, we just knew. We spent the morning together crying in his hospital bed. We couldn’t bear to leave one another (or even look away from one another) now that we had opened this door to the possibility of the end. It was surreal, the emotions we both felt that day felt like waves crashing down on us. There was no sense to be made of it in the moment. We just felt our way through those few hours, crying, sleeping and then more crying. There wasn’t any need for words.

After Mark had fallen into a deeper sleep, most likely from exhaustion, I slipped out from underneath his arms. I had to escape the tiny room where my life had taken a turn for forever. I spent the next 2 hours wandering the streets of 12th and Granville. No umbrella, it was misting, raining just enough to put your hood up and hide beneath it.

As I walked, the hot tears streamed down my face, the rain felt good against my cheeks. I thought about what it all meant. The diagnosis, the transplant that was once a slim possibility was out of reach forever now. No chance for remission, no cure, no possibility of survival…Mark was going to die. He knew it that day and so did I. This was the only piece of information I could process as I walked and wandered aimlessly.

I couldn’t look ahead and see this (today), my future. It was too painful to even imagine, a life without Mark didn’t seem possible. I walked and walked and I knew I couldn’t go back and face him until I faced the fact that he was going to die. I couldn’t look him in the eye until I had come to some sort of internal agreement within to not feel sorry for myself and to do what I could to help him.

How do you help your husband die? How do you make it easier? How do you fix the unfixable?

I hurried back afraid that he had woken up to find me gone; the 15 floors up to the unit seemed to take forever. I was anxious to see him, but afraid that I wouldn’t be strong enough to keep it together. I wasn’t sure I had it in me to be what he needed as he struggled to face his mortality that day.

As I sat on the edge of the bed, not sure what to say, he looked at me thoughtfully. We were both lost for words. It was probably one of the only times ever that I couldn’t speak. I couldn’t find words to express what I was feeling; nothing seemed to be big enough.

Mark looked at me again and said, “ Les, you have to go back to Ottawa, all your family is there, you have to go. “ I couldn’t speak. I just looked at him and listened (and cried). He kept talking. “You should go back to Ottawa so Audrey and Noah can grow up with their cousins and their Aunts and Uncles. You should go back to Ottawa and build a new life after I’m gone. I don’t want you to be alone. Just promise me, you won’t be alone forever, you can’t be…”

As I write about that day it seems like it was a lifetime ago. The thing I remember the most is the courage he had that day. I was so bewildered with how he could face his mortality with such strength. He forced me to look ahead on what was one of the darkest days of my life. Maybe it was our own way of coping with the unbearable moments we were submerged in, looking ahead in an effort to soften the blow of the present. Maybe, but I pulled a strength from his courage. Mark gave me a reason that day to face my future and ultimately build my new life here ‘On Tofino’.

Year Three

Dear Mark,
On the eve of three years without you, I think about the love we shared together as a family. It is this love that I pull strength from each day. The hope and joy we knew helps me believe in the possibility of hope and joy again. You are never far from our hearts, we miss you and remember you every day.
Love Leslie

Standing

Grief is cruel.
It sneaks into your day when the mind is idle. Distracting oneself is easy when grief is fresh. Making an effort to keep busy is simple and deliberate in the beginning. Everyone expects this behaviour from someone who has suffered such a loss. That’s what new widows do best, they care for others, tend to tasks, distract, putter. We keep busy to give ourselves a fighting chance at survival.

It’s not denial so much as a safety mechanism. I’ve come to think of it as an essential part of what got me through the early days of losing Mark. The question I get asked over and over by others is how did you do it? How do you do it?? I usually answer I don’t know, because I don’t really know. You just do it, there’s no luxury of choice. Most often, after I have one of those conversations like I did just the other morning, I spend the next few hours remembering things that I can’t believe I did. And I was there! I wonder to myself…how did I ever get through that?

Now, its not so fresh. Thankfully. I don’t think anyone could operate if the pain of losing someone never changed. It doesn’t fade necessarily, but it evolves and becomes a part of you. It changes you forever and there’s no undoing. This can be a gift and a curse, as sadness is always a bi-product of this change.

So now that the immediate shock of widow-hood has worn off, so has an identity that was thrust upon me the moment I lost Mark. It has been one that has defined me for the last three years. I have hated it, and in the same moment ran towards it for shelter. Relying on it as a crutch for comfort and then resenting it because I’m so much more than that.

Being a widow has two edges to it. There are times when I feel grateful enough to wear it as a badge and I feel like a survivor. It’s sharp and defined. I feel appreciative for what life has given me. I don’t shrug off the significance of how this has changed me for a moment. I see and feel things with a clarity I never knew before. But then, there is a slippery edge. I feel like I’ve been standing on this slope and at times, grasping for ways to keep a float. The daily grind of responsibility, coupled with the sadness of losing your husband and the father of your children makes it easy to lose your footing and fall into the easier role of “widow”.

It can be easier to stand still and identify with this tragic event rather than grow. It dominates your thoughts and stamps a sadness within you that is hard to shed. As time goes by, you realize that it’s comforting to tell and retell your story. In the beginning it helps to process the events, but as time passes it can hinder your ability to push forward beyond the day that changed your life forever. You begin to forget what it was like to be a complete person. Life before widow seems like a distant memory. It’s easier to claim widow as your identity when the people around you feel sorry for you and empathize with your loss.

As I face my third year without Mark, I realize that “widow” will always be a piece of who I am…but I have come to discover that it’s not the only piece, nor is it the biggest. I can’t fight the calendar, this much I know. The milestones this month will bring tears and a desire to tell my story but my hope is that I’ll be able to find my footing when standing on the edge of the slope.

The Right Fit

I’ve flipped and flopped on this issue many times when it comes to the kids. I wonder where Mark is supposed to fit in their lives. I have the luxury now of knowing where Mark fits for me. It just kind of happened, hard to explain but it just is. I feel a certain peace with what my life has become over the last 3 years. Most often, I can be angry or sad when I choose to, and can almost welcome it when I feel like I am due for a good cry. These words are much easier to say with Christmas behind me but for now, I feel a sense of direction I didn’t have before.

I was faced with this question of “where does my Dad fit?” just the other night. I will admit I wing-it an awful lot and I don’t always know what the right answer is. I find myself staying up late (as I am now) to ponder these things only to realize that there is no right answer.

I have always taken a very direct line with Audrey and Noah when it comes to Mark. I wouldn’t even know how else to do it now. I feel the disbelief (and hear it in people’s voices) when Audrey and Noah are so matter of fact about it. Audrey volunteered the information to a paramedic we spoke to at a flu clinic just last month. “Yup, my Daddy died. That’s why I’ve seen the inside of an ambulance before”. As I stood beside her holding her hand, I counted the seconds before he answered. He was shocked and seemed to be thinking of an appropriate response. The pause seemed like forever. He then said “What was your Daddy’s name?”

I think about how it just is this way for Audrey and Noah, they don’t know any other way. Noah has lived longer without Mark than with him and come this year the same will be true for Audrey. With each year that passes their memories are fading. When I think about my kids growing up without their Dad every bone in my body wants to keep his memory alive. But then I wonder, is it more for me, or them?

How do I walk the tight rope of remembering and cherishing versus remembering and pointing out the painful truth. I’m beginning to be more frugal with my “Daddy memories” in front of the kids as they grow older. Their reactions now can range from jubilant smiles to sobbing depending on the day. I sometimes feel like I’ve shaken a giant cowbell of sadness in the air when an innocent comment about Mark sends Audrey flying into tears. I struggle with defining how much remembering is good and how much is painful for them? This line is never in the same place from day to day, what makes the kids smile one day brings tears to them the next.


There are times however, when my kids surprise me and Sunday night was one of those nights. I had decided to donate some of Mark’s clothes to a charity that helps people who are starting over. I had spent a few evenings going through some of his things and it felt like the right time to do something meaningful with them. I carefully packed the clothes and stacked the boxes in the hallway. I stood there for 10 minutes when I was done staring at them wondering what the heck to do. Do I leave them here for the kids to discover and question me about the curious boxes in the morning, or do I hide them and shelter them from this act of giving away their Dad’s things? I contemplated both options and went with the latter. I wasn’t sure how Audrey would take it so I lugged the boxes out to the car and essentially hid them there until I could decide how that conversation might go. I drove around for over a week with Mark’s clothes in my trunk. I couldn’t think of how I’d explain to a four and seven year old that I was ready to say goodbye to their Dad’s things. It just seemed too adult like to share with them.

The kids and I were having dinner the next night and the temperature was near 20 below. We were talking about how cold it was and how nice and toasty we were in our house eating our supper and the conversation turned to homeless people and families who didn’t have enough money to buy food. Noah couldn’t fathom that some people had nowhere to go or live, he was perplexed by the idea. He asked lots of simple questions (with a squinty look on his face) which made me realize how sheltered my kids really are.

The two of them began to brainstorm ideas, the more they talked the more excited they got. I sat back and listened and wasn’t sure where the conversation might go. They concluded that we should give the homeless people some money from their piggy banks, food, hats, neck warmers and toys (those were Noah’s suggestions) then Audrey asked if we had any clothes we could give to the Daddies who had no homes. She said it in a sad sort of way but with such thought behind it. I asked her in as delicate a way as possible whether we should find some of Daddy’s warm sweaters to give to them. I held my breath while I waited for her to answer. She immediately jumped up and insisted we make cards for the homeless Dad’s. She thought it was sad that they would have to be outside in the cold and have no jobs and not be able to see their kids. It concerned her that these Dad's would never get art or pictures from them.

...and I was worried about the boxes?? That they wouldn’t be able to handle it?

We abandoned dinner and spent the rest of the evening writing cards to go with Mark’s sweaters which read:

I hope my Daddy’s sweater keeps you warm tonight
From Audrey and Noah Allan