There is a part of me that can gravitate toward the melancholy

Soaking into sadness like landing in a feather bed

candlelight intoxicates

Allows me to lament,

and

I can lament, for I have lost

my sister, my father, my mother

Those I have loved and cannot hold.

Where would they be in this state with me

Lighting a candle as well?

Listening to Leonard Cohen

“And I’ll bury my soul in a scrapbook,
with the photographs there and the moss.”

There is no shortage of photographs

memories to sink into

I run my fingers over them and cannot believe

they are all I have.

Concert day, time to leave the house.

All music in hand.

Dress shoes, stand light, extra ties

If I could make it to the church quickly,

I will get my quiet time before it starts to fill with anticipatory excitement

hurry, hurry, hurry.

Running to be still.

And, whamo.

There it was, to stop me in my tracks.

The clouds unfolding on the horizon of homes,

sunset coloured rays bursting through the rippled clouds

The basketball hoop, silhouetted against the painted scene

Dad and Mom bought that hoop for the boys.

A breathtaking sunset.

Deep red, dark orange, floating yellow

Through the backdrop of your favourite sport.

 

You used to love to stand in your back yard,

when your were done inspecting the tomato plants,

watching the Winnipeg clouds unfold through the reds and oranges and yellows,

the smoke from your cigarette picking up the rays

 

Perhaps love of sunsets is an inherited trait,

for I find them soothing. Intoxicating.

I wonder what conversations we may have had

if I had joined you out there. I am not a smoker,

it never dawned on me to go and interrupt your quiet time.

 

Today, I stop for a moment before I get into the van

Take a deep breath, capture the scene on my phone

realize it must be a visit from you,

wishing me well for a concert that you very likely would have come to.

A hello, I am still here, from my Dad.

Deep reds, dark oranges, floating yellow.

 

I am Grief.

I am not your friend, but I am your companion.

We first met when you were 16, 1984, when you lost Grandad. The one who bounced you on his knee and flashed his false teeth to make all the kids laugh. Who was encouraging and loving. He was 67, that was not supposed to happen. It was just after Christmas, he was supposed to be going on a trip with Grandam. And then all those relatives descended upon your home, and whispered. Whispered alot. You forgot your flute lesson, your teacher phoned home during the reception. This was not like you.

Then in 1989, you lost Granny, and I found you again. She was 96, that was likely to happen. She with her full head of hair, and very sound mind, who you used to visit and have tea and soggy cheddar cheese. Lillian. I will name a daughter Lily, if I ever have a daughter.

Then I stayed away for awhile, and let you be, happy and young, becoming the person who you are today. Funerals were just for people your parents knew, once or twice removed from you.

It would be 2003 before I would come again, and that would start a period of very regular visits in our companionship. Just as you were about to give birth to your third son, it was time for Uncle Rod to move on. Laura and Steven’s Dad, the most entertaining storyteller, and the one, I was told, who was most like Grandad. He had cancer, this was not supposed to happen, but I was there. But, he did get to walk his daughter down the beautiful outdoor aisle on her wedding day, a ray of sunshine bursting through the clouds to shine on both of them. Magical.

And in 2004, Uncle Rod’s sister, Mom’s sister, Auntie Deanna. My Auntie Deanna, who called me Lady Di, and took me out to A&W for onion rings and root beer. Who hosted me on exciting trips to the USA and made me feel so special. Gone from this life. She died of Liver failure. Turns out all those sodas she used to have in her glass were more than just soda. She had ‘stopped drinking’….or so we all thought. So I’m not sure that was supposed to happen, 67 seems too young, but I was there again.

But that was not our only visit in 2004. I came back and made you very angry. Joyce, your Mother-in-Law, full of cancer and didn’t even know it. That was not supposed to happen, but I was there. Mother to the Love of your life, gentle, calm woman, dear friend to you. An amazing Grandma to your boys. “People just don’t go into the hospital and die!” You shouted through your tears. And then you had to explain death to your boys. Immediate and incomprehensible, all at the same time. And Mom and Dad came then, drove from across the Prairie to be with us all. And Patrick was a baby, and will never know her. And I was there.

And 2005, it was time for Grandma to join her son and daughter in the next life. She was 90, that was likely to happen.  And I was there. She lived a long, happy, and very classy life. Your sister said at her funeral that she was like our own Queen Elizabeth. Impeccably dressed, colour coordinated, weekly hairdos, always protected with a head scarf.  She had dementia, and couldn’t wait to be reunited with her sisters. She was in a place surrounded by her photos, but it was not her home. She just wanted to go home. And I was there again.

And in 2006….well, I refused to leave you alone. Your darling sister Karen, the wild one, the courageous one, the sibling most like you, the one who fought huge odds battling IPF since she was 14. Who was given new life with new lungs 5 years earlier.  Who we all assumed would beat this disease because she was so strong. She was not supposed to live past 19, instead she lived until she was 44. She defied those odds, but could not allow you to defy another visit from me, and so I was there. Ready to hover when she passed just 10 days after you moved across the country and were living close to her. Mourning as a stranger in a new town, with all your anchored friendships back in the prairies.

2007 brought cancer into your life again. Your high school buddy, Marina. Colon cancer, metastised to the Liver, which is what took her. You did not get enough visits in with her in your adult years, not enough at all, and you were a lot alike, you would have been great friends as adults. But I was there again. You will call her Mother when you can, and let her know you remember her daughter.

And then, you had a bit of a break from me. The funerals were church related….you attended to give music, to support the family, to sing, to pray, to listen, to play flute. You were obligated, and I only stood by as a reminder that I am no longer far removed from anyone. I will be there.

The reprieve was nice, you thought, you may even have had a full year with no funerals to attend. Your children grew, and your life stayed full and busy, busy and full.

And in 2012, it was time to come again. Your children still had 3 grandparents, but now it was time for another to pass on. Gentle Doug, father-in-law, Grandpa to the boys. Deep thinker, and deep mourner. Never the same after Joyce passed on. Homebody. Reflector. Writer. And my children know death again. 14, 12, and 8. Lost a Great Grandma, and Aunt, a Grandma, and now a Grandpa. The prince of having children late in life, children meet me sooner than they used to. When he couldn’t fight the cancer anymore, Grandpa was gone and I was there.

And in 2013, it was time to visit you again. Not once, but twice. Not spread even months apart, but just 15 days. Between December 2012, and June of 2013, your parents crossed some kind of age threshold. They became old. They became unwell. The athletes they had been started to fade away. The sharp mind your Dad had, started to become confused. Your Mom was very tired. And had trouble breathing. Over and again, she knew something was not right, but no one could figure out what. This was not planned. And I was there to see her weakness take over their lives. I was there to see your Dad wait on your Mom 24 hours a day. To see him get tired, and ignore his own health symptoms. And she was in the hospital, and Dad was at home on his own. And he was not well, and no one knew. What no one realized was that as much as Dad was caring for Mom in these ill months, Mom was always, always, Dad’s caregiver. “Go to the doctor, stop being so stubborn”. Without Mom at home to tell Dad that, he could ignore poor health symptoms every day, and not go to the doctor. Perhaps it was just his stubbornness, perhaps it was the dementia that had begun to invade his brain. Whatever, he did not get antibiotics for an easily curable infection, and before we knew what had happened, he was gone.

And I was there when you saw the text from your brother, “Call me NOW!” and when you ran outside to call your husband back in as he was driving away to the baseball game. I was there when you were all the way on the other side of the country, when you broke down on the street during the choir tour; after hearing a choir rehearsing “I was there to Hear your Borning Cry”. All those tears that you kept at bay getting ready for the tour, I was there, letting them overflow and spill out on that street. “My Dad is dead!” you cried out. And before the tour was over, I was there when you received another text, this time from your sister, that said, “Call me now. It’s Important.” You walked to sit down in that chair because you knew what was coming. You thought you should dial sitting down. And then you couldn’t get up. That was me, there with you, keeping you from moving. And Craig and Carolyn held you up. That is what husbands and dear friends do. They hold you up. And so your boys, the ones who still had three grandparents just 18 months prior, suddenly had none. None of that was supposed to happen. And I was there.

Almost 12 months later, you realize I have helped you become a funeral officiando. You have joked that you could go into service planning. Having worked as a church music director, having attended more than a fair share of services. Two more in 2014, a dear friend’s mother, an old friend from University days.

And you joke that there will be no more “Call me Now” messages, no need for any more bereavement days at work, because so much of your family is already gone. You are a 46 year old orphan. There are no more Mother’s Day calls to make, no more Fathers’ Day cards to send. No cards with a cheque for the kids’ birthdays. No more phone calls you decide you’ll pick up later.

You have almost made it through a full year since this most heavy of losses. And I watch and see you, and know that you have seen some changes. Your brother calls you now. Your brother, who was always rather stand offish where family was concerned, talks regularly about the importance of family. Your sister, always close to you, has now put distance between herself and youi wi, unable to discuss her grief, unable to come at Christmas. Unable to process her loss. He processes with closeness, she processes with farness.

But I am grief. I can be friend to your brother and enemy to your sister. I am with you, I am with them. I am neither close nor far. I weave deep and mysteriously through your life and your life events. It only stands to reason that I will be back. You can be assured of that and accept me as your long term life companion. Sometimes you can ignore me, sometimes you can embrace me. For I will come again. I will be there. Whether it is supposed to happen, or not supposed to happen. You will curse me, you will acknowledge me, and you will learn from me.

I am your companion.

 

 

 

 

 

What you don’t know, I wish you would never have to, for you will be forever changed, and not in any way you would desire to change. On the flip side, I wish you comprehension of what could be, and perhaps it might change the way your are. I have a dear friend who often uses this benediction, “Life is Short, and we know not how long our journey will be….” It is the truest cliche there is. One of my best friends the other day, upon knowing it would have been my Dad’s birthday, and that it is almost one year since I lost both parents said, “I can’t imagine”. And the reality is that noone can. It will change who you are. My Dad taught me about optimism, my mom was a pretty joyful person, so my answer to “How are you?” had previously always been “Good!” My answer for many months after their passing was ‘okay’….it was the best I could muster out in response to that question. 

What does not show is that grief is like that path of water flowing under the thin layer of winter ice upon a creek, it just flows and rumbles beneath the surface. It may have a gentle sound, but occasionally, but when the water breaks through the ice, a refuge is needed and necessary. Sadly, it hits you at the most random times. It might be someone talking about the ‘sandwich’ situation they are in with little ones at home and a parent moving into assisted care, it might be a colleague responding to your ask about her recent trip sharing that she surprised her Dad on his birthday in Florida; it could be rushing to pick up a ’10 year old’ birthday card and then your eye catches the ‘Happy Birthday, Dad’ cards in the next section. Sudden realizations of things you will never get to do now, in this new normal. An underlying sadness, ready to come to the fore front and odd and random times. 

A few times I would get angry with myself for these random releasing of tears….people saying, “are you okay?” “No, dammit, I’m crying, I’m NOT okay. I. AM. GRIEVING.” In those times I would just visualize my bed, and my covers, and want to be there NOW. And other times, it was different, and I discovered this: You can also trust people more than you expected. Colleagues at work have now become friends because I can talk to them about my loss. I was terrified heading back to school in the fall that I would have a random outpouring of tears at an inconvenient time – there is, in fact, few private places in my school. I shared that with a few other teachers in the fall, and they offered their support however I needed it. And one day, I did. Right before the bell, right before I had to greet a class of twent-five 9 year olds, and tears were running down my face. And their teacher, my friend, said, ‘take what you need, I will be here until you are ready’. (I teach music, and am also planning time relief for the classroom teacher) You will find empathy from those you don’t expect. 

So what I would tell you, if I could address you, is partially found in the rest of that benediction: “Life is short, and we know not how long our journey will be; so let us be quick to love, and hasten always to kindness.” Things that are a big deal to you now, will not be as significant once you are forever changed. Things you may have felt compelled to fight for before, may now just be accepted with a resignation you did not used to have. Your perceptions will change, and sometimes, that might be a good thing. The topic of conversations you have with others may seem less significant, now. You may be able to hold the ones you love gently and tenderly. Share with them your love, your words, let them know how they impact your life. Talk to them. Find time, time in this hectic, fast paced world to be with those you love. Hasten always to kindness. People will do that for you, start early for them, do it now, be there, be present, be kind. For it is not their fault they don’t know. Tell them, let them know. For what does not show cannot be imagined, cannot be interpreted. The empathy of others, though, might shed some light on you, and on them. 

I don’t have a name. I don’t know what to do. I am not the person I used to be…

I had a cheering section. I had someone who shared stories with me, often when I had absolutely no interest in the person, or the story. Often when I had no time to listen. I had someone to come when I needed. Who would drive 9 hours across the prairie for me. Who would buy a plane ticket on credit, never minding the balance at the end. Who would boast, who would share, who would hover, who would say, “Look at my amazing daughter”.  

I had an introvert, with an influence of calm, and stillness, and patience.                                                                                                     I had an extrovert, with a laugh that could fill the night sky across a still lake.                                                                                              I was grounded with instructions, and confidence, and faith. 

I was navigating through steady and certain waters, and then the first wave came, washing over my landscape and shifting the anchor. And before the water stilled, before the sand rested on a new plain, the second wave hit, the anchor floated away, and with it, my first beginnings, my new beginnings, my home. 

 

 

I rediscovered my love for the flute this past month. I chose music, prepared, rehearsed and practiced like crazy for a recital with my good friend at the piano. We decided to hold the recital to raise money for my Children’s Choir’s trip to Festival 500 this coming July. Delving deeply into a flute sonata after many years of playing a lot of church hymns, offertories, Preludes and Postludes in church, was a very enriching experience.

My understanding of music, melodic line, phrasing, and amazing writing is at a much deeper level than back when I was studying flute between the ages of 18 & 23.