On Being Wrong
1 hour ago
Tuesday, June 17, 2008
Saturday, June 14, 2008
Father's Day
A voice inside of me has been nagging at me to do something about this day...this mood... this heaviness that hangs around me this afternoon. As Audrey drew the pictures on the pavement today, I waffled between absolute amazement (at her) and a sadness that makes the tears come to the surface in an instant. Audrey joyfully asked, "Where's the chalk Mum? I need to draw a picture to celebrate Daddy because it's almost Father's Day." As she drew, she explained the picture and what we were all doing. Once done, she stood up and said "Look Mum, this is our family, Daddy, you, me and Noah." She sounded almost triumphant, so proud of her art work.
Inside, I was (and still am) stuck between two emotions. A sadness at watching my kids grow up without their Dad, then a need to feel thankful for their naivety. Sadness always prevails on days like these but I know that I will gain nothing from holding onto it.
As Noah's head bobbed at the supper table over pizza, Audrey continued to think aloud. Mentioning that; " It sure was sad that Daddy wasn't alive on earth anymore. And, (sigh) isn't it sad that her and Noah's Daddy died?" Such unprovoked honesty from her makes me want to jump across the table and hug her and take it all away. Of course, if I did this she would be thoroughly confused and wonder why I was getting upset about something that just IS.
This thing about my life that just IS, is harder to accept gracefully when the big days come up. When I am confronted with bundles of occasions at a time (preschool and kindergarten graduations, recitals, Father's Day) my resilience as a person is tested. How is one supposed to face these occasions without an asterisk beside them?
When I pose this question out loud to myself, the answer becomes clear. I am grateful to my family and friends who put up with my grumpy moods on these big days. To the ones who let me lean (and cry), and listen when I tell the same story over and over, and for my friends who are there when I pick up the phone to talk about the occasion of the day, or anything but.
Sunday, June 8, 2008
Audrey Rose
She danced on stage
As proud as can be
Your little Audrey Rose
Was beaming
Her face
Sun-kissed with freckles
And a joy so pure
Our little one is growing
A smile, a look
Is all that it takes
I catch you everyday
In her face
She has your twinkle
Your contagious spark
She dances for you
With all of her heart
As proud as can be
Your little Audrey Rose
Was beaming
Her face
Sun-kissed with freckles
And a joy so pure
Our little one is growing
A smile, a look
Is all that it takes
I catch you everyday
In her face
She has your twinkle
Your contagious spark
She dances for you
With all of her heart
Monday, May 5, 2008
Today
I have sat many times to write and reflect in the past few months, but the blog has remained at a standstill since February 12, 2008. A significant date no less, one that was anticipated with dread but also with a desire to be done with as soon as humanly possible. Wanting to hurry through the last year just to get on with the next is an exhausting way to live, but in retrospect - a completely natural way to feel when you miss someone so dearly.
Over the Christmas Holidays last year, a friend gently reminded me to savour the moments and try to enjoy each day with my kids. This seemed like an impossible request. How on earth could I watch my kids unwrap gifts and experience the magic of Christmas without their Dad? It was as hard as I imagined it to be. All the reminders of Mark were heightened by the season, we all felt overwhelmed with loss and I recall thinking to myself, I just want Christmas to be over, this is too hard, too painful for my kids (and me), I just want it done.
As January melted into February I wanted it all back. The season that was so painful to endure at the time, was something that really was full of joy for us. It was hard to appreciate when the absence of Mark weighed so heavily upon us. The kids still laughed with their cousins and visited with friends, we had fun attending parties and hosting our family. We did all the things that we usually do (and more) and I wished it all back in an instant when February came.
I think we all anticipate the next step, the next stage and look forward to our future; it’s natural to look ahead. I am guilty of wanting to rush through the moments so I could be just one more day away from the intense sadness I felt when Mark died. This year has been incredibly hard, but also full of surprises for us. We have met amazing friends on the street that make our new beginning here feel like this is where we belong. The new friendships we have forged with neighbours, friends (old and new) siblings (and parents!) have made this year as bearable as one could ask for.
The logical side of me tries to keep us afloat by focusing on the things that are in my control. I can’t change that Mark isn’t here, but I can try to make the most of the moments. I’m sure with this warm weather upon us I will catch myself longing for the days of summer, rushing through spring just to get to the blasting heat of July. But won’t we all complain and wish it was more like today? A sunny 20 degrees with the kids riding bikes in the cul-des-sac as the sun sets?
Over the Christmas Holidays last year, a friend gently reminded me to savour the moments and try to enjoy each day with my kids. This seemed like an impossible request. How on earth could I watch my kids unwrap gifts and experience the magic of Christmas without their Dad? It was as hard as I imagined it to be. All the reminders of Mark were heightened by the season, we all felt overwhelmed with loss and I recall thinking to myself, I just want Christmas to be over, this is too hard, too painful for my kids (and me), I just want it done.
As January melted into February I wanted it all back. The season that was so painful to endure at the time, was something that really was full of joy for us. It was hard to appreciate when the absence of Mark weighed so heavily upon us. The kids still laughed with their cousins and visited with friends, we had fun attending parties and hosting our family. We did all the things that we usually do (and more) and I wished it all back in an instant when February came.
I think we all anticipate the next step, the next stage and look forward to our future; it’s natural to look ahead. I am guilty of wanting to rush through the moments so I could be just one more day away from the intense sadness I felt when Mark died. This year has been incredibly hard, but also full of surprises for us. We have met amazing friends on the street that make our new beginning here feel like this is where we belong. The new friendships we have forged with neighbours, friends (old and new) siblings (and parents!) have made this year as bearable as one could ask for.
The logical side of me tries to keep us afloat by focusing on the things that are in my control. I can’t change that Mark isn’t here, but I can try to make the most of the moments. I’m sure with this warm weather upon us I will catch myself longing for the days of summer, rushing through spring just to get to the blasting heat of July. But won’t we all complain and wish it was more like today? A sunny 20 degrees with the kids riding bikes in the cul-des-sac as the sun sets?
Tuesday, February 12, 2008
Dear Mark,
A year has passed since you died and I can’t help but wonder where we would be today if you were still here. Would you still be sick, would you be in remission, would you have had the bone marrow transplant we both desperately hoped for? All these questions seem to hover around me as February unfolds.
I can’t decide if time has stood still or flown by? It varies with each day and with each emotion that makes itself comfortable inside of me without asking permission first. I overflow with sadness at times when I least expect it. It creeps in and floats with me for a while, then slowly softens as my tears dry upon my cheeks. One of the hardest parts of living without you at my side is the emptiness I feel when these waves of emotion flood over me. I miss having you to cry with, laugh with and talk to. Our long afternoons at B4 seem like heaven to me now. What I would give to spend a few hours at your bedside knitting, sipping on our coffees, chatting while you do the crossword or doze. (I still haven’t finished that scarf!)
I think about all that has happened and I wonder how we got through it. How did we get through those long nights knowing you were fighting a disease that would ultimately steal you away from us? I try to think about your courage each day when I feel overwhelmed. The day to day challenges have been wearing me down and I wish I could be stronger for you, for Audrey and for Noah.
This new identity of mine is a tough one. I am no longer half of the everyday “Mark and Leslie” that everyone has come to know me by, I am Leslie, the young widow. How sad... It’s hard not to feel the pity ooze off of those around me, but as time goes on, I am getting practice with dropping the truth in a way that doesn’t make people immediately want to run. I think I’m pretty honest and open about it. It’s not as though it’s a secret to be ashamed of. It’s just terribly sad. Audrey usually breaks the ice too, she loves to talk about you. She is able to remember you and the moments you shared without the complexity of reality hanging over her. She remembers the moment with fondness, not sadness. You would be so proud of her.
Noah is doing all sorts of things that would amaze you. When I think about all the new tasks that he has mastered in 12 short months I try to force myself to pause and appreciate the moment. It’s hard to do when I ache for you to be the one running alongside his bike, but I pause... once for you and then once for me. This summer, Noah learned to swim with his lifejacket on, ride a two wheeler and drive Grandpa’s boat. He can use the mouse on our computer and navigate to any website, check email and load up Daddy slide shows. Noah and Audrey have experienced a true Grand Lake summer and we are now under a blanket of snow for probably the 20th time since November. All these things are “firsts” that I wish we could do together as a family. It’s hard to watch them grow before my eyes without you .
As for me? I think about how losing you has changed me. It’s hard to put into words. I definitely have a finer appreciation for life, our children, friends, music, nature...the list is endless. Everything just seems more important and real to me now. I catch myself watching large snowflakes drop from the sky. I stare at sunsets and look for stars each night. The beauty of clouds in the sky and the way the sun reflects on the water makes me want to soak it in for as long as I can. I drag the kids out for walks just on the off chance that we might see a deer. Maybe it’s an escape for me, I don’t know.
I’ve been listening to all your CD’s and rediscovering some great music that you shared with me the year we met. I’m beginning to remember the good times we had before your illness and it is a welcome discovery for me. For so long, all I could remember were the last few months and how much pain you were in. Music has been a bit of a trigger for me to think back to our Cathcart/Frank Street days. You were so passionate about music and so eager to share your newest album(s) of the week with me. Now I understand. The late nights at The Black Tomato after close, listening to the latest off the beaten path sort of stuff (and having chocolate peanut butter pie!) hardly seems like over 10 years ago.
As delighted as I am that I can remember some good times now, there is still a part of me that longs to feel your presence. It feels almost foolish to want something so impossible, but the heart is far from logical. I stand in front of the family collage I made you for Christmas and look at your pictures. Your smile looks so real I want to reach out and touch you. You always had a way of looking right into the lens of the camera. I guess no matter what, I would always want one more moment, one more chance to look into your eyes again.
I’d like to think that you’d be proud of us today. Looking back over this year I am amazed at myself really. It’s hard to believe that I’ve held it together enough to move us across Canada and get the kids settled into this new life that you and I discussed so many times on our drives home from VGH. Back then, it seemed impossible that we talked about such things, so surreal. But, here we are today. You would be so proud of the kids.
Audrey and Noah have been pretty amazing. We went out to the mall to do some fun stuff to celebrate rather than be sombre today. We made teddy bears full of your “love”, looked at some pictures and video and topped it off with a fancy dinner at a restaurant. Audrey chose her clothes based on what Daddy likes and hugged her new bear throughout dinner. No tears, just long thoughtful hugs. She told me that when she closes her eyes and hugs her bear, she’s thinking of a Daddy memory. Noah bopped to the music in the car and never failed to remind me how each song was one of your favourite songs. He’s so cute that way, tries to be like his big sister remembering things about you.
My brain tells me that this is what it’s all about now, keeping you alive in our hearts. I won’t say today was easy (it was far from it), but the kids helped me to see how lovely a memory can be if you untie the sadness from it. Like Audrey often reminds me, our invisible strings will keep us all connected. Forever.
All my love,
Leslie
I can’t decide if time has stood still or flown by? It varies with each day and with each emotion that makes itself comfortable inside of me without asking permission first. I overflow with sadness at times when I least expect it. It creeps in and floats with me for a while, then slowly softens as my tears dry upon my cheeks. One of the hardest parts of living without you at my side is the emptiness I feel when these waves of emotion flood over me. I miss having you to cry with, laugh with and talk to. Our long afternoons at B4 seem like heaven to me now. What I would give to spend a few hours at your bedside knitting, sipping on our coffees, chatting while you do the crossword or doze. (I still haven’t finished that scarf!)
I think about all that has happened and I wonder how we got through it. How did we get through those long nights knowing you were fighting a disease that would ultimately steal you away from us? I try to think about your courage each day when I feel overwhelmed. The day to day challenges have been wearing me down and I wish I could be stronger for you, for Audrey and for Noah.
This new identity of mine is a tough one. I am no longer half of the everyday “Mark and Leslie” that everyone has come to know me by, I am Leslie, the young widow. How sad... It’s hard not to feel the pity ooze off of those around me, but as time goes on, I am getting practice with dropping the truth in a way that doesn’t make people immediately want to run. I think I’m pretty honest and open about it. It’s not as though it’s a secret to be ashamed of. It’s just terribly sad. Audrey usually breaks the ice too, she loves to talk about you. She is able to remember you and the moments you shared without the complexity of reality hanging over her. She remembers the moment with fondness, not sadness. You would be so proud of her.
Noah is doing all sorts of things that would amaze you. When I think about all the new tasks that he has mastered in 12 short months I try to force myself to pause and appreciate the moment. It’s hard to do when I ache for you to be the one running alongside his bike, but I pause... once for you and then once for me. This summer, Noah learned to swim with his lifejacket on, ride a two wheeler and drive Grandpa’s boat. He can use the mouse on our computer and navigate to any website, check email and load up Daddy slide shows. Noah and Audrey have experienced a true Grand Lake summer and we are now under a blanket of snow for probably the 20th time since November. All these things are “firsts” that I wish we could do together as a family. It’s hard to watch them grow before my eyes without you .
As for me? I think about how losing you has changed me. It’s hard to put into words. I definitely have a finer appreciation for life, our children, friends, music, nature...the list is endless. Everything just seems more important and real to me now. I catch myself watching large snowflakes drop from the sky. I stare at sunsets and look for stars each night. The beauty of clouds in the sky and the way the sun reflects on the water makes me want to soak it in for as long as I can. I drag the kids out for walks just on the off chance that we might see a deer. Maybe it’s an escape for me, I don’t know.
I’ve been listening to all your CD’s and rediscovering some great music that you shared with me the year we met. I’m beginning to remember the good times we had before your illness and it is a welcome discovery for me. For so long, all I could remember were the last few months and how much pain you were in. Music has been a bit of a trigger for me to think back to our Cathcart/Frank Street days. You were so passionate about music and so eager to share your newest album(s) of the week with me. Now I understand. The late nights at The Black Tomato after close, listening to the latest off the beaten path sort of stuff (and having chocolate peanut butter pie!) hardly seems like over 10 years ago.
As delighted as I am that I can remember some good times now, there is still a part of me that longs to feel your presence. It feels almost foolish to want something so impossible, but the heart is far from logical. I stand in front of the family collage I made you for Christmas and look at your pictures. Your smile looks so real I want to reach out and touch you. You always had a way of looking right into the lens of the camera. I guess no matter what, I would always want one more moment, one more chance to look into your eyes again.
I’d like to think that you’d be proud of us today. Looking back over this year I am amazed at myself really. It’s hard to believe that I’ve held it together enough to move us across Canada and get the kids settled into this new life that you and I discussed so many times on our drives home from VGH. Back then, it seemed impossible that we talked about such things, so surreal. But, here we are today. You would be so proud of the kids.
Audrey and Noah have been pretty amazing. We went out to the mall to do some fun stuff to celebrate rather than be sombre today. We made teddy bears full of your “love”, looked at some pictures and video and topped it off with a fancy dinner at a restaurant. Audrey chose her clothes based on what Daddy likes and hugged her new bear throughout dinner. No tears, just long thoughtful hugs. She told me that when she closes her eyes and hugs her bear, she’s thinking of a Daddy memory. Noah bopped to the music in the car and never failed to remind me how each song was one of your favourite songs. He’s so cute that way, tries to be like his big sister remembering things about you.
My brain tells me that this is what it’s all about now, keeping you alive in our hearts. I won’t say today was easy (it was far from it), but the kids helped me to see how lovely a memory can be if you untie the sadness from it. Like Audrey often reminds me, our invisible strings will keep us all connected. Forever.
All my love,
Leslie
Saturday, January 5, 2008
A New Year
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.
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.
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.
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