Death's Shadow

An aged woman possesses grey and tangled hairs of wisdom, finely etched creases and imperfectly mapped lines of experience, and eyes that see less of what is tangible and more of what is perceptible. 

I am not that woman, not yet, but she does breathe inside of me. 

The older I get, the more death’s shadow crosses my path. Others get sick. Others have diseases for which there is no cure. I don’t understand how it is that some get sick, and others are spared. It confounds me. When someone is diagnosed, I wonder, Why them? As others die, I attend celebrations for their life, and I look around, Who is next? Will it be one of us? 

I know, I am creeping you out with my morbid thoughts, but death has to serve a purpose for the living. 

A woman that Ward and I have known for a long time went into hospice this week after attempts to resect and subdue a fast growing tumour in her brain, were not successful.  

Another friend of mine, lost an uncle to lung cancer.  

Both, in their sixties.

In these moments, we have no choice but to pause and think about life—the precursor to death. We celebrate the aspects of their lives that made us joyful, and the moments that signified their success, uniqueness and worthiness. However, the loss mirrors our own mortality, and that of those who are closest to us. We pull our loved ones near, or berate ourselves for not being able to. 

Slogans remind us: 

“Carpe Diem (Seize the day)”,

“Live life to the fullest”

“Live—Laugh—Love” 

“You only live once”. 

While sitting in thoughtful memory of someone who has recently died, it seems not only possible but imperative that we change our wicked ways. However, the sun lazily melts the shadow of death, just as it lifts the fog from the coastal shoreline. With imperceptible amnesia, we return to our lives. 

But memories, with fleeting insistence, sink us in reality. Thoughts of those diagnosed, undergoing treatment, dying, or already gone, appear suddenly—like hiccups. With grievous sadness, we say goodbye to the person that we knew and loved, and remember the shape of them in our lives. And we learn, as the old woman knew in her bones, that we are changed people for the experience of knowing others. 

***

The Ship

I am standing upon the seashore. A ship at my side spreads her white sails to the morning breeze and starts for the blue ocean.  She is an object of beauty and strength, and I stand and watch until at last she hangs like a speck of white cloud just where the sea and sky come down to mingle with each other. 

Then someone at my side says, “There she goes!”

Gone where? 

Gone from my sight ... that is all. 

She is just as large in mast and hull and spar as she was when she left my side and just as able to bear her load of living freight to the place of destination.  Her diminished size is in me, not in her. 

And just at the moment when someone at my side says, “There she goes!” there are other eyes watching her coming, and their voices ready to take up the glad shouts “Here she comes!”

This is how I see and understand death.

Henry van Dyke (1852 - 1933)

Weak-long Roller Coasters

Many have likened difficulty journeys to a roller coaster. A roller coaster ride lasts four minutes -or less. Almost anyone can endure that.

Our daughter left the safety of our house, and chose to spend her nights with a rough crowd.

She said she just wanted to have fun. 

We are not fun. 

In her mind’s eye, joy and danger lived across a valley from each other. 

She couldn’t see the thread that ran between them, or the rock slide that would heap one atop the other. 

We became scared.

The police couldn’t bring her back. 

But then she did come back . . . in a harmful rage. 

Then the police took her away.

She was safe for eighteen days, and I finally slept. 

But, still I couldn't cry. 

My mom came.

Our remarkable family pulled together.

I called upon a village of women to stand beside me, and they did—even thought their own shit came up. 

Reaching out for help is not my modus operandi, especially during intense personal relationship struggle. I generally buckle myself in, scream and cry, and hope like hell that it doesn't last very long. 

This is different. 

What do you do when parenting requires something of you that you either aren’t willing or aren’t able to give? How can I get beyond this state of mind that keeps telling me I can’t do it, I shouldn’t do it, I don’t need to do it…that this is basically bullshit. How can I lift myself up when I have so fully fallen on my face? How can I be successful in one area of my life and such a floundering lunatic in another? And why are there so many questions, and  so few answers?

For Better. For Worse.

When Ward and I married in 1997 at Parkdale United Church; we wrote our vows. While we didn’t include the traditional words of “honour and obey”, we agreed to honour and respect each others thoughts, feelings and unique traits during times that are easy, and those that are challenging.  

Creating the words, and then speaking them was the easy part of the journey.

Recently, our family shared the wonder of marriage at the wedding of Ward’s oldest son Fraser, to his long-time sweetheart Chelsea. They looked young, beautiful, and in love. They too, created their own vows. With strong and steady voices, each spoke of the gift of the other, the joy of spending their lives together, and the love they share with one another and their daughter Ava. I know they assume that the word “love” is enough of a promise. But love, or the fear of losing it, can create distance over time. It undermines its own greatness. Wedding vows are not about present love, but a mutual promise of future love. I heard their proclamation of love, but not their pledge to stick by each other through all kinds of circumstances, for better or worse. 

Why is this a sticking point for me? Because I have spent the majority of my life believing that love “should” be enough. I felt certain that love was the antidote for pain. I imagined that if you loved someone, relationships would be easy. I thought that joy was born in the arms of love. I’ve learned that love, unequivocally necessary for relationships to exist, is not the main ingredient. Risking vulnerability—showing up and being seen—regardless of the response you get, is the mortar that binds us together, and connection is the reason we risk being our authentic selves at all. 

No love is more vulnerable, more fear-full than the love of a parent for a child. The five children we’ve parented together, share only a last name, but together make up a unit, comprised of distinct and separate parts . Each one is MORE for having the other four. But even love and support in a family unit is no guarantee for happiness. Brené Brown, author of “Daring Greatly” writes, "Because true belonging only happens when we present our authentic, imperfect selves to the world, our sense of belonging can never be greater than our level of self-acceptance."

Faven joined our family five and a half years ago. She has not experienced a sense of belonging in our family, or community. We understand that there are valid reasons for this, however, we continue to be confused by her stalwart resistance. Nonetheless, we come alongside of her discontent, and listen for clues to figure out what she needs. Faven has regular triggers, and by regular, I mean normal activities like asking her to put a banana peel in the garbage, that will prompt an emotional reaction, the volume of which we have no control over once it has started. Despite extensive support, she does not yet have the skills needed to manage her big emotions, and her circuits easily get flooded. As soon as that happens, she fights or flees, and usually both. It is only recently that she has chosen to flee from our house. Having her in the house, angry and railing is no picnic, but having her out of the house brings a different kind of stress.

Thinking about wedding vows has me thinking about my commitment to my kids. Do I pledge to love and cherish my kids “for better or worse”?  Doing what is best, sometimes looks like walking away. Protecting the rest of the family, and myself feels like disengagement. Loving a child enough to allow them to make mistakes, and live in the mess of it…appears mean. Disappointment creates sadness. Ward and I are in the difficult position of parenting a child who does not want to be parented, loving a child who does not love herself. We cannot ignore that living has rules, and actions create outcomes, but this is really tough.

Over the last nine years, I have engaged in many parenting seminars, and attended a psychologist-facilitated book club. My desires for my kids come down to this one goal: I want to help my children grow into thoughtful, independent adults, capable of loving, and being loved. 

 But, what if that doesn’t happen? What if there are circumstances larger than any amount of loving support? When do I let go? Each of them has sparked in me a love that is so intense, and joyful, and painful—and when they are hurting, I am hurting too. When a child decides they do not want to be with us, how far do we follow them? How much do we interfere in their decision, knowing that they are immature, and inexperienced. Moreover, when a child has special needs, unique considerations, who do we involve to ensure their safety?

What are the sacrifices we are willing to make, the burdens we will carry…

for better, 

for worse?

The Five Flemons Children

It’s a matter of perspective

This morning I was joined in bed first by Lauren, and then by Yohannes.  As they chattered back and forth (without breath or thought), I bemoaned the fact that daylight was already here.

Lauren asked, “How did the polar bear get such a short tail?”

Yohannes raised his hand enthusiastically and said, “Oh, I know, I know”.

I mumbled, “The beaver bit it off!”

Both kids simultaneously said, “Maw-om”.

“Can I say?” Yohannes politely asked.

“Yes Yohannes, you can go ahead”, Lauren said, as crisply as any schoolteacher.

“Well, it was the fox,” he started.  “He led the polar bear to a hole in the ice and told him to stick his tail into the hole.  The polar bear did, and when he woke up in the morning, he got up, but his tail was frozen into the ice and broke off.”

“I still think the beaver bit it off,” I said.

“The beaver doesn’t even live in the Arctic” Lauren informed me.

“We-ell . . .  he was going to visit his grandmother and he accidentally got on the wrong bus.  Everyone knows that beavers can't read.  The next thing he knew, the bus stopped in the Arctic and the driver told everyone to get off.  The beaver, who by now had been on the bus a very long time, was very hungry.  He wandered off the bus and saw a sleeping polar bear – at the back end of the polar bear, there was a marshmallow sandwich.  The beaver went over and bit it off!  And that is how the polar bear lost its tail.”

Both kids fell back with laughter.

And then Yohannes asked, “But I’m right aren’t I?”

“Yes Yohannes, you are right,”  Lauren knowingly said. 

         

 Ahhh........ I wish my life was so simple.

Champ

Today, I am pleased to have a guest blogger, but first, let me give you some background.

We are a foster family for the Calgary Humane Society. In mid-December, I went to pick up a lone black kitten, for socialization and weight gain. Easy. Unfortunately, there was a paper mix up, and I stared at a picture of a black and white kitten, one that we had purposely NOT chosen because his write up said that he was shy and scared, and wouldn’t do well in a busy house. 

When I went to retrieve him, there were five black letters written on his cage: 

F - E - R - A - L. I did not know completely understand what this meant. At the back of the steel enclosure crouched the most miserable looking kitten I had ever seen. Fur was matted in balls around his neck like bobbles on a necklace, and his nose, covered in dirt looked as if he had been using it to dig his way out of prison. But the most remarkable thing about this kitty, was his eyes—as wide as a full moon on a dark night. I recognized the fear, and it shot into me like a surge of adrenalin. 

Unable to grab this fiery feline, I asked for assistance. Jenn, the Foster Program Coordinator, threw a blanket over him, scooped him, and pitched him into the carrier like an abductee. I watched in horror. I carried him to the van wondering what I had gotten us into.

The wretched kitten took f-o-r-e-v-e-r to warm up to us, well most of us. Laurèn immediately jumped in; she wore double magic gloves, and told the kitten that she knew he wanted to be loved, but that he was scared. Then, she scooped him in a fleece blanket, and cradled him in her arm like a baby. She rubbed behind his ear, and he immediately started to purr. His saucer-like eyes looked up at her with adoration. I stared at her, amazed by her lack of fear. Within days she had trained him to come when she snapped her fingers. Laurèn continued slowly and patiently with him. 

After two months, and an unbelievable transformation, I returned him to the shelter. Laurèn said goodbye to him, and loaded him into his carrier. She cried openly. When I bent down to pick up the carrier, he jumped and hissed, and struck out between the bars at me. It broke my heart; he had come so far, and in an instant, he snapped back to his feral state. I covered the carrier and took him to the van. 

Three days after his return, the Foster Coordinator contacted me to tell me that Champ (our foster) had gone into full attack mode, after recovering from his neuter surgery. She said that Animal Health staff were unable to handle him, and check his incision. She asked if I would be able to bring Laurèn in to see if Champ would relax. Champ was being considered for the Barn Cat program, and not for adoption. 

_____

I would like to introduce my guest storyteller. Laurèn will turn thirteen this week, she has always had an affinity for animals. She is one of my delightful daughters. 

We cautiously walked into the room filled with box size cat apartments. There was constant mews and meows that sounded like crying and wailing. Jenn, who is the foster program coordinator at the shelter, opened one of the cages and I could see a familiar, tiny black and white face peering out from underneath the blanket. Jenn carefully peeled back the blanket; she wore gloves that looked like they belonged to an eagle trainer (she had to use them because he had gone into full attack mode). The black and white kitten flew backwards and gave a spitting hiss at her before fleeing to an opening that led to his litter box.

He growled long and hard and I stepped in hoping he would remember who I was. I snapped my fingers and he immediately stopped growling and watched as I snapped again, his arched back lowered. I snapped a few more times and he started to mew. I reached through the opening and stroked his head and he pushed against my hand. Then he walked confidently out from where he was hiding, back to the main compartment, and fell right over and started to purr. 

A smile crossed my face as Jenn and the cleaners in the room stared at me with mouths that seemed to drop to the floor and eyes wide as baseballs. I picked up the kitten and cradled him in my arms. He purred louder and turned his head to look up at me with tired, pleading eyes. I whispered “I missed you Champ.” He gave a mew as if to say “I missed you too.”

After playing and cuddling Champ for awhile we said our goodbyes and put him back in his kennel. My heart melted when he started wailing for us to open the door and pet him again. It kind of reminded me of my favorite quote , “an animal reaches for your hand but touches your heart”. But Champ didn’t just touch my heart, he grabbed it and wore it around his collar. 

So the next week Champ came home with us—furrever—and he now comes in to my room every morning and wakes me up for school.

I Carried You

Yohannes and Wendy in Ethiopia, May '06.

***
"Mom", Yohannes yelled, "Come here!"

I hurried out of the bathroom, and came to the railway in the hall that overlooked the front door. Yohannes was standing there, vibrating with excitement. "What?" I asked.

"I got a letter from Grama. Look at what she sent me!"

"What?" I said.

"Just listen to this. One night I dreamed I was walking along the beach with the Lord. Many scenes from my life flashed across the sky. In each scene I noticed footprints in the sand. Sometimes there were two sets of footprints, other times there was one set of footprints. This bothered me because I noticed that during the low periods of my life, when I was suffering from anguish, sorrow or defeat, I could see only one set of footprints. So, I said to the Lord, "You promised me Lord, that if I followed you, you would walk with me always. But I have noticed that during the most trying periods of my life there have only been one set of footprints in the sand. Why, when I needed you most, have you not been there for me?" The Lord replied, "My precious child, the times when you have seen only one set of footprints, it was then that I carried you." Can you believe that Mom? The Lord carried him. That's so cool."

"It sure is."

Yohannes taped the poem to the wall near to the stairway leading upstairs. His eleven-year-old self was filled with wonder, and it was such a joy to see.

Thank you Mom.

Yohannes with Grama Linda, 2006

Lean in to discomfort

Sun setting at Ghost Lake - January 2015

The word “retreat” has a few different meanings.

-  to treat again, 

-  to withdraw,

- and, a place of refuge, seclusion or privacy. 

I am in the midst of all three. 

Each year I take a FULL+ week away from family to re-charge my batteries—usually with solar power. This is my fifth year in a row. I feel quite proud of that, because the years prior, I just suffered in silence…out loud. I didn’t tell anyone I was suffering, but everyone knew it anyway. January, the month of my birth, is my least favourite time of the year. The marriage between darkness and cold drags me down. In past years I went to Southern California, where I could walk on the beach, listen to the surf, shop at the outdoor market, read for lengthy hours with my feet in the sand, and write whenever I wanted to. 

This year, I started my time away at a Yoga Retreat…my first one. I learned that Yoga and Retreat should not be used in a sentence together. Yoga is physically demanding. The first day, I had to take a nap. By the second day, I had run out of food, and YES, I did take a whole cooler full! Yoga can be uncomfortable. Our fitness coach encouraged us to lean in to the discomfort, but NOT toward pain. I’m wired to avoid discomfort. Some people aren’t—like Iron Men and Women…and apparently Yogis. I did lean in, to the point of almost falling over. 

The weekend —as a whole—felt great. I had the pleasure of being around women all weekend, and kicking off a habit for 2015. 

Namaste. 

***

After the yoga, I returned home for a day; the school scheduled a PD day right in the middle of my time away. How inconsiderate! Truthfully, I didn’t need to go home, but the mother in me just couldn’t drive by. Moreover, I had to stop and change bags, and pick up my retreat companions: the dog, the cat, and my computer. We arrived at the cottage, at Ghost Lake—not the California coast line—but it was 12 degrees and no snow in sight!

As you know, my main job is as mother. Oddly, I do not know any other mom who takes scheduled breaks from their family. Not one. Why is that? Has everyone else got the balancing thing, the stress management thing, the battery re-charging thing figured out? If so, then please tell me. Truth is, I didn’t always need to take time away. Time away used to be with Ward, while my mom stepped in. I started solitary confinement five years ago, but I have parented for over seventeen. Right now, it is an essential piece of my stay healthy, happy, and out-of-jail plan. 

For the first few days I am away, an internal wrestling match goes on. Standing on one side of the ring is the Critical Judge, who says, “You are such a shitty mother for leaving your kids, and OH, your poor husband”, and on the other side is the Yogi, standing confidently in Warrior II, she says, “Breathe…in through your nose...out through your nose”. Of course, the Yogi triumphs over the Judge…only because the Yogi won’t engage, and the Judge eventually gives up. 

Yoga on the beach in 2009.

***

The weather has been amazing this week. Sunshine every day. On Monday I hiked, Tuesday I rollerbladed, I walked every day, and on Saturday I went cross-country skiing. Yup…only in this part of the world can we have all seasons in one week. I feel blessed. 

Just before leaving home, a friend stopped by with a “retreat” basket for me. As many of you know, I am doing a challenge this year, called “One Looney Idea”, whereby I will spend an average of a loonie a day for 365 days straight. Yup, crazy, I know. So, she stopped by with a basket of re-gifted items for my retreat: candles, tea, body butter, hummus, crackers, Brie, a bottle of wine, and eye make-up remover, to name a few. I love the fact that everything was re-gifted, it goes along with my idea that we can all live with less. Her less, is my more! Thank you CT. 

When I am in California on retreat, there is so much more “white space’” in my schedule and the days feel longer. I can’t figure out what is different here. I thought I would be amazed by my daily accomplishments. Instead, I realize that time is precious wherever you are. Once you use it up, it’s gone, whether you used it for good or not. I have been writing a lot this week. Writing is not like housecleaning or cooking; at the end of a great session, you can’t look around and see how tidy and finished everything is. Words simply beget more words, and more coffee.

***

Every retreat has some component of growth to it. And this one has been no different. 

On my birthday this year I got my nose pierced. George—the body piercing artist—told me to soak my nose in saline every day. I wasn’t sure how I was going to do that since my nose is attached to the middle of my face, so I stared at her, the same way my dog stares at me when she doesn't comprehend. George told me that some people use a Neti-Pot. I had heard of a Neti-Pot, being a long time nasal sufferer, but the thought of sticking something up my nose did not appeal to me. Instead, I tried a nasal “shower”:  spraying my nostril aggressively with a saline mist. Despite my exemplary efforts, my nostril has been swollen and irritated since it was lanced, two weeks ago. Some mornings I wake up and the piercing is embedded into the tissue of my nose. You can’t even see the bedazzled jewel (talk about leaning in to discomfort). I decided to try the Neti-Pot. 

If you are considering trying this natural remedy that allows liquid to flow through your nasal cavity, like magic—into one nostril and out the other—please read this first. It is not magic, even though the little pot looks like a genie’s lamp.  

I’m going to do a visualization with you. Close your eyes. Think back to a time when you were 11 or 12 years old. You are at a picnic with your favourite cousins. It is so much fun when you get together, they always make you laugh. It is hot. Help yourself to an ice cold pop from the cooler. Now, just as you tip the bottle back (they didn’t have cans when you were a kid), think of your cousin saying the funniest thing he has ever said. Yeah. As you catapult right into raucous laughter, the pop shoots straight out your nose. Remember that painful, fizzy feeling. 

That is what the Neti-pot is like. 

It’s like snorting salt water…from a pool…through a straw…while hanging upside-down. 

I'm not making this up. 

The thing is, I don’t even know how the water goes in one nostril and out the other, but I can tell you that there is a time delay, and I think it’s because the fluid is routing through your brain! 

You have a choice here…not like the time when your cousin made you shoot pop out your nose.  

Even though it has been around for centuries, and even though it originated with the Ayurvedic Yogis—which is not surprising given their ability to lean in to discomfort—I wouldn’t recommend it for anyone who doesn’t like discomfort, or mild pain, or feeling like your drowning at your own kitchen sink.  

I did a lot of reading on-line, and nowhere did I see Neti-pots as a treatment for embedded nasal piercings. I did learn on wikipedia however that “the practice is generally well-tolerated and reported to be beneficial with only minor side effects”. Generally well-tolerated?  I suppose the same could be said of nasal piercings.