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.