2008...What does it hold for us?
As I sit here and ponder that question, I wonder if those close to me are holding their breath for us. It seems fitting to be hopeful for a chance at happiness and a new beginning but also at the same time, risky. Having experienced enough heart ache to last a lifetime , it is with a cautious, reserved optimism that I look forward to 2008.
The year that is behind me makes me wonder how I’ve changed as a result of it. Has it made me stronger, or broken my spirit? Do I leap because I know what can be lost, or play it safe in order to preserve myself? My renewed appreciation for life is at times fleeting. I want to embrace the feeling of savouring each moment because I know firsthand how fragile life really is. But how do you welcome this appreciation when your kids miss their Dad so much? When they cry, what are the words that can at the very least, make them feel safe?
Christmas was especially tough for Audrey (and me) and as I pack away the last of the decorations tonight, I wonder what my frame of mind will be the next time I touch them. There are so many years of memories all contained now in just two giant boxes. I looked at them this afternoon in my garage and thought about what a neat, tidy package of memories it was. There are 12 years of togetherness in those boxes and it really made me stand there and pause. I guess, ironically... it made me savour the moment.
Saturday, January 5, 2008
Thursday, December 20, 2007
As December Fades
As December fades around me and I sit surrounded by snow, in a new city, a new house and ultimately - a new life, I feel pangs of disbelief still. My life on the West Coast seems like a distant memory. My life as somebody’s wife and partner in life hardly seems like it was less than a year ago. But here I sit, 10 months after losing Mark finding it hard to believe that we endured those hardships together.
Maybe it’s because I’m so far removed from everything that was my everyday back then. All the daily trips to VGH, hours on the road, hours in the clinic. Watching the IV pump drip with packed red blood cells had a way of making time stand still. In retrospect, each transfusion he received probably gave him an extra day or two of energy he may not have had.
Christmas Eve last year was one of our longest days in the clinic at VGH. Mark was determined to be home for Christmas with me and the kids. His plan was to get all the fluids, antibiotics and red blood cells he needed to tide him over Christmas Day and Boxing Day then return on the 27th for anything else. Little did he know that day that his numbers were at rock bottom and we were there from early morning to past supper time. Probably over 8 hours. I remember distinctly the impatience and frustration we both were feeling as we felt the day slip away from us. Just when we thought he was done, the lab called and announced that his platelets were dangerously low and he needed to stay for another transfusion. Two hours later we were still there. Mark was the last patient to walk out of the clinic that evening. It was tough to watch everyone else finish up then go be with their families.
As long as that day was, we did have Christmas together. It was joyful but sombre as we all knew it would be our last together. Now a year later, having trudged through a lot of ‘firsts’ I wonder how to get through this one.
Maybe it’s because I’m so far removed from everything that was my everyday back then. All the daily trips to VGH, hours on the road, hours in the clinic. Watching the IV pump drip with packed red blood cells had a way of making time stand still. In retrospect, each transfusion he received probably gave him an extra day or two of energy he may not have had.
Christmas Eve last year was one of our longest days in the clinic at VGH. Mark was determined to be home for Christmas with me and the kids. His plan was to get all the fluids, antibiotics and red blood cells he needed to tide him over Christmas Day and Boxing Day then return on the 27th for anything else. Little did he know that day that his numbers were at rock bottom and we were there from early morning to past supper time. Probably over 8 hours. I remember distinctly the impatience and frustration we both were feeling as we felt the day slip away from us. Just when we thought he was done, the lab called and announced that his platelets were dangerously low and he needed to stay for another transfusion. Two hours later we were still there. Mark was the last patient to walk out of the clinic that evening. It was tough to watch everyone else finish up then go be with their families.
As long as that day was, we did have Christmas together. It was joyful but sombre as we all knew it would be our last together. Now a year later, having trudged through a lot of ‘firsts’ I wonder how to get through this one.
Monday, October 29, 2007
Stepping
It’s the first night it’s been cold enough to use the fireplace and I suspect that we will wake up to frost covered roof tops again tomorrow. As I sit here at my desk as I do most every night, the heat gently wafts at my back and keeps me company while I ponder my options. For once, they are decisions that can wait. They are decisions that aren’t life altering like so many of the ones that have come before this. There is a certain lightness that comes with deciding what bedspread to buy and which boxes to unpack first. It does however, feel like I’ve been waiting a lifetime to be where I am tonight.
It feels almost impossible to believe that I am here in the house that will be my home for years to come. Maybe it’s because it’s been months since I was in a place that was truly my own, or because my life in Vancouver feels like a distant memory, but the hard to believe feeling is difficult to shake.
I don’t know what I pictured for myself when Mark and I talked about me relocating here with the kids. It was only a year ago that we first discussed it and now, looking back I can’t even believe we had those conversations. The further away I get from those moments, the more amazing and courageous Mark becomes to me. His concern for us was always his first priority and it outweighed any fears he had about his own future. Reflecting back, it seems unbelievable how he could have been so strong in the face of such adversity. There are moments in each of my days that I wish I could be as strong as he was.
The excitement of a new place to call home is (at times) enough of a distraction for the kids. They are loving the new neighbourhood with the forest just steps away and a new friend on the street already. I’m starting to feel like this is the beginning of something. Almost like, there’s been a line drawn in the sand and I’ve just stepped over it. It’s taken me months to get here and over 4000kms but this is where I’m supposed to be.
It feels almost impossible to believe that I am here in the house that will be my home for years to come. Maybe it’s because it’s been months since I was in a place that was truly my own, or because my life in Vancouver feels like a distant memory, but the hard to believe feeling is difficult to shake.
I don’t know what I pictured for myself when Mark and I talked about me relocating here with the kids. It was only a year ago that we first discussed it and now, looking back I can’t even believe we had those conversations. The further away I get from those moments, the more amazing and courageous Mark becomes to me. His concern for us was always his first priority and it outweighed any fears he had about his own future. Reflecting back, it seems unbelievable how he could have been so strong in the face of such adversity. There are moments in each of my days that I wish I could be as strong as he was.
The excitement of a new place to call home is (at times) enough of a distraction for the kids. They are loving the new neighbourhood with the forest just steps away and a new friend on the street already. I’m starting to feel like this is the beginning of something. Almost like, there’s been a line drawn in the sand and I’ve just stepped over it. It’s taken me months to get here and over 4000kms but this is where I’m supposed to be.
Monday, October 8, 2007
Patiently waiting
As I sit here at my desk I am very aware of how different my life has become. Last year on Thanksgiving I was cooking a turkey for Mark and his brother Chris while they got a game of golf in. It was unseasonably warm and the guys went in t-shirts. It was the kind of fall day that makes you love living on the West Coast. I am often teased for the phrase "It's always sunny in Langley" but it really is the truth. No matter how miserable the rain was, it always seemed to clear around four in the afternoon and our kids experienced more rainbows living there than I have ever seen in my lifetime.
I'm sure Mark suspected that each game of golf may be his last but I really don't think it was on his mind that day. It was a time when there was a lull in his treatment and he was feeling the best he had since his relapse in September. Mark had completed his salvage chemo and was waiting for his counts to rebound. Chris had been staying with us as he did for weeks at a time and Mark was happy to have some 'healthy' time with his brother. The two of them went to Swan-e-set where Mark sufficiently whipped his brother at his favourite game and they came home to find a turkey on the table waiting for them.
I specifically remember how I felt sitting at our table that day. The afternoon was warm and I had had the windows and sliders open all day. The smell of turkey had filled the house and when you went outside you could smell it coming up the stairs. As I sat there I felt very happy with myself to have prepared a turkey for my guy (it was one of his favourite things) and the day felt normal, almost perfect. We sat with the kids, Noah in his high chair and Audrey eating off one of the big 'special' plates and Mark talked about their game in a lighthearted way that was refreshing to hear in his voice.
Earlier that month Mark and I had gone shopping for our new dining room table (very exciting for a woman!) We were tired of having my Dad sit on the step stool when they visited. As we had our turkey that evening I commented on it being our first dinner ever with a guest at our new table and no one had to sit on a makeshift chair. I felt a sense of optimism for our future but then at the same time was reminded that this could be the first and last time I sit with Mark and our family at this new table. Looking back, it's funny how a simple piece of furniture can stir up such conflicting feelings at the same time. Tonight, that same table sits in blankets standing on end in my garage waiting to be moved to our new home next Thursday. It's as though it's been waiting there for me patiently to create new memories.
I'm sure Mark suspected that each game of golf may be his last but I really don't think it was on his mind that day. It was a time when there was a lull in his treatment and he was feeling the best he had since his relapse in September. Mark had completed his salvage chemo and was waiting for his counts to rebound. Chris had been staying with us as he did for weeks at a time and Mark was happy to have some 'healthy' time with his brother. The two of them went to Swan-e-set where Mark sufficiently whipped his brother at his favourite game and they came home to find a turkey on the table waiting for them.
I specifically remember how I felt sitting at our table that day. The afternoon was warm and I had had the windows and sliders open all day. The smell of turkey had filled the house and when you went outside you could smell it coming up the stairs. As I sat there I felt very happy with myself to have prepared a turkey for my guy (it was one of his favourite things) and the day felt normal, almost perfect. We sat with the kids, Noah in his high chair and Audrey eating off one of the big 'special' plates and Mark talked about their game in a lighthearted way that was refreshing to hear in his voice.
Earlier that month Mark and I had gone shopping for our new dining room table (very exciting for a woman!) We were tired of having my Dad sit on the step stool when they visited. As we had our turkey that evening I commented on it being our first dinner ever with a guest at our new table and no one had to sit on a makeshift chair. I felt a sense of optimism for our future but then at the same time was reminded that this could be the first and last time I sit with Mark and our family at this new table. Looking back, it's funny how a simple piece of furniture can stir up such conflicting feelings at the same time. Tonight, that same table sits in blankets standing on end in my garage waiting to be moved to our new home next Thursday. It's as though it's been waiting there for me patiently to create new memories.
Tuesday, September 18, 2007
Something lost
The sadness that encompasses my life each day can be fleeting and overwhelming all in the same hour of a day. It makes me wonder how much see-sawing a persons’ soul can tolerate. How is it that one minute things can feel almost normal only to disintegrate before my eyes in minutes, sometimes even seconds?
It has become evident to me over the last 7 months that this is part of the deal. You don’t always get to choose when you feel like being happy or sad, it has a way of choosing you. The sometimes random nature of this roller coaster is what makes things feel quite impossible at times. Then there are those days that the calendar dictates. These are hard in their own way. All the anticipation leading up to the day and all the family members who are at a loss for words and who want only to comfort you.
How does one coast through these anniversaries without feeling bitter or deprived of what is rightfully theirs? How do you re frame something that is lost, into something that is good? This question begs for an answer from anyone who has loved and lost. Somehow Tennyson's words don’t fill the gap in my heart. It may well be that “Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all. " It just feels harder to believe tonight.
It has become evident to me over the last 7 months that this is part of the deal. You don’t always get to choose when you feel like being happy or sad, it has a way of choosing you. The sometimes random nature of this roller coaster is what makes things feel quite impossible at times. Then there are those days that the calendar dictates. These are hard in their own way. All the anticipation leading up to the day and all the family members who are at a loss for words and who want only to comfort you.
How does one coast through these anniversaries without feeling bitter or deprived of what is rightfully theirs? How do you re frame something that is lost, into something that is good? This question begs for an answer from anyone who has loved and lost. Somehow Tennyson's words don’t fill the gap in my heart. It may well be that “Tis better to have loved and lost Than never to have loved at all. " It just feels harder to believe tonight.
Sunday, September 9, 2007
Eve of Kindergarden
On the eve of Audrey's first full day of Kindergarden I am yet again drawn to my computer. These milestones and firsts are undeniable and they have a way of refreshing the mind and heart of what is lost. I have been excited for Audrey and Noah and all they will encounter this month, both are starting school (Kindergarden and Nursery school) and it is the first step out of toddler hood for my baby.
Audrey will board the bus tomorrow morning at 8:10am around the corner from our new house and Noah and I will meet his new nursery school teachers. The two things seem almost unbelievable even though I have been waiting all summer for them to happen. The children are ready and I will welcome the freedom it will give me but my heart hasn't caught up yet. My reluctance to embrace this new found role is difficult to shake.
Fall is the time for cozy sweaters and changing leaves, crisp sunny days (in Ottawa!) and walks in the Gatineaus'. All the things I love about fall are all the things I loved doing with Mark. We met in August of '95 and spent the rest of that year falling for each other. A lot of my early memories of Mark and I are of our days together living in the market. We'd walk home from work together on crisp nights and our hands would be freezing by the time we reached our doorstep. He didn't care though, he always held my hand on walks home. All of these simple memories seems so clear to me almost 12 years later. I wonder if they would be so close to the surface if things had been different...
Remembering these early days is good for a moment, then incredibly sad. I don't think I'm far enough away from losing Mark to have a feel good memory that lasts that way in my mind. I long for the time that I will remember and be grateful, rather than remembering with sadness. There is no pre-determined set of instructions to follow to achieve this gracious mind set and it seems to have become the hardest part of grieving for me.
But, what can you do? It can't be fixed, or changed. Hoping for the impossible is tiring and hard on the soul. My mind tells me to plow through the sadness and hold it together for Audrey and Noah. I just have to talk my heart into it, one day at a time.
Audrey will board the bus tomorrow morning at 8:10am around the corner from our new house and Noah and I will meet his new nursery school teachers. The two things seem almost unbelievable even though I have been waiting all summer for them to happen. The children are ready and I will welcome the freedom it will give me but my heart hasn't caught up yet. My reluctance to embrace this new found role is difficult to shake.
Fall is the time for cozy sweaters and changing leaves, crisp sunny days (in Ottawa!) and walks in the Gatineaus'. All the things I love about fall are all the things I loved doing with Mark. We met in August of '95 and spent the rest of that year falling for each other. A lot of my early memories of Mark and I are of our days together living in the market. We'd walk home from work together on crisp nights and our hands would be freezing by the time we reached our doorstep. He didn't care though, he always held my hand on walks home. All of these simple memories seems so clear to me almost 12 years later. I wonder if they would be so close to the surface if things had been different...
Remembering these early days is good for a moment, then incredibly sad. I don't think I'm far enough away from losing Mark to have a feel good memory that lasts that way in my mind. I long for the time that I will remember and be grateful, rather than remembering with sadness. There is no pre-determined set of instructions to follow to achieve this gracious mind set and it seems to have become the hardest part of grieving for me.
But, what can you do? It can't be fixed, or changed. Hoping for the impossible is tiring and hard on the soul. My mind tells me to plow through the sadness and hold it together for Audrey and Noah. I just have to talk my heart into it, one day at a time.
Tuesday, September 4, 2007
HOW
How do I hold my head high
How do I hold my head high
when I want to weep
how do I sit on the stairs and listen to our two year old cry
how do I sit on the stairs and listen to our two year old cry
when he doesn’t want to sleep
How do I not feel alone
when everyone else is part of a pair
how do I pull myself out of a slump when I want to
but feel only despair
How do I watch our baby start kindergarden
with only me at the door
how do I be satisfied
and not want more
How do I move forward
and try to enjoy each day
how do I know what to do for our kids
how do I know what to do for our kids
and what to say
We didn’t choose this
nobody would
life shouldn’t be this hard for our babies
I know you’d change it if you could
I miss you I love you and I feel so alone
I wish I had you to share it with Mark
I wish you could come home.
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