Happy Birthday, Daddy

I am taking advantage of the fact that you are visiting at Baby Sister's for this birthday and so she can show you this, your birthday blog. I can't believe that you are 81 years old, Dad. You don't really seem to age these days. I just came across these two old pictures of us the other day, and I've been looking at them and thinking about them.

The first picture was taken when I was four months old.You are wearing a tie, so you had either just come home from work or you were dressed up and ready for a typical Saturday night party with the Aunts and Uncles. It still amuses me that you and the Uncles always wore ties when you all got together to tie one on.

I wonder what you were thinking as you held me tightly and gazed down at me. I mean, other than that I was surely the most beautiful daughter that a guy could ever have. I think you must have liked me a great deal when I was as tiny as I was in the picture. Finally, a girl after two rotten little boys. Girls are so much better, don't you think?

This second picture is my all-time favourite of the two of us. I think it is taken at the farm in Rockburn, but you would have to confirm. I could make up a story about why I was leaning my head on your lap, your arm wrapped around me, your eyes on me. Maybe I was tired. Or not feeling well. There is every possibility that you were comforting me because my two rotten older brothers wouldn't let me play with them. Whatever it was, thank you. I know that your care and comfort made things better. It always has. I wish I could remember what you said to me, I'm pretty sure you would have been saying something.

I had a pretty great childhood, and I thank you for that. You've been a great Dad, for most of my life. You weren't perfect. You tended to be a little uptight and cranky during the week. As you may recall, I haven't always been a perfect daughter either.

Some highlights and memories of having you for a Dad as a little girl:

• You were a wonderful provider, and we had a beautiful home
• You made us skating rinks in winter, and tended to our pool (obsessively) in summer
• Sometimes you let me sit on the stairs and watch you and the Uncles play darts and you'd give me my own little glass dish of peanuts and a glass of coke.( I felt very special)
• I loved that you came home from work early most days, although in retrospect you probably did it because my brothers were so rotten
• You always sang a wicked rendition of Holy Night, although seldom at Christmas (still do?)
• You and Mom bought me a yellow dresser with a bookcase for my Nancy Drew books, and I thought I had died and gone to Heaven
• You have always nurtured us with good cooking (still do)
• Watching Hockey Night in Canada was always a blast, you sure did get excited (still do)
• You loved my Mom, and it showed (still does)
• When you were a bit drunk at a family party, you would dance the cha cha with me
• When I played Marilla in Anne of Green Gables, I could tell that you were really proud of me

No need to get into details about my teenage and young adult years, really. It's your bloody birthday, why would I want to make you mad? Suffice it to say, these were my less than perfect years. You probably remember more about those years than I do. I know that you had a rough couple of years in there too, for reasons very different than mine. I am glad that things worked out for you. And for our family.

Flash forward to summer, 1987. I called you and Mom to tell you that I was going to treatment to deal with a an addiction problem. You knew that I had some struggles in that area. (Not quite sure why you never brought it up, but that's okay, things were different back in the day). Mom was clearly upset by my call, but I think I heard a hint of hopefulness as well as concern in her voice. She handed you the phone. I will never, ever, for as long as I live forget what you said to me. You told me that I was doing the right thing and that there was no shame in getting help for a problem. And then, just before you handed the phone back to Mom you said “You have always had balls, you can beat this thing.” Your words have stuck with me for over twenty years, Dad. Clearly, if I do have balls, I inherited them from you. So thanks. I guess.

That was a turning point for me. And you were a big part of it, and Mom too. The next decade was wonderful, until 2000. Again, it's your birthday so I won't make you cry but I am so sorry that you lost your best friend. I lost her too. We'll never get over it, will we? But we have gotten through it. And you had some really wonderful years with somebody else, until we lost her too. Crikey. What's with that?

But seriously. I have gotten to spend more time with you this past 10 years, and gotten to know you better, than any time earlier in my life. And I really like you. And I thank God for your continued health, and I pray for your happiness. I treasure the time we spend together, here in Paradise. I am grateful that you share your time with me, and I know that Baby Sister and those two rotten brothers are grateful for the time you spend with them too. (I don't really think they are rotten. I even wrote them a blog earlier this year, to prove it).

I hope that you are still cooking us spaghetti and screaming at hockey on the television until you are 101. I know that last year was a good birthday for you. I hope this year's is too. I love you, Dad. And this is another favourite picture of you and I. Your arm, still around me.

Gratitude, Turkey, and Me

I shit you not, embracing imperfection this year has been a blast.

And let me just say, I quite love that a few days of each year I get to pair gratitude with turkey. I love turkey as much if not more for the tradition as for the drumsticks.

Yesterday we had an unusually low key Thanksgiving Dinner (we are Canadian) at our house. Just Soul Mate (who cooks the turkey dinner every holiday since I can't cook worth a damn), First Born and Hockey Dude, and Yoga Kid and Soccer Guy. Dress code was extremely casual. I actually wore pyjama pants, and not because I planned to fill myself to bursting. Having given up sugar and wheat this past month, there was only one difficult moment for me as the pumpkin pie with whipped cream was passed around. This was clearly the first turkey dinner that I have eaten in five decades where I skipped the stuffing and the gravy. I was proud of myself for abstaining.

As much as last night was about the meal, it really wasn't just about the food. It was about the company. Highlights included getting the inside scoop from Hockey Dude on our local WHL (Western Hockey League) team - our newest obsession. And watching Soccer Guy experience his very first bite of pumpkin pie, ever. (He's from way far away). Teaching First Born how to crochet was fun (she calls it crotchet). And Yoga Kid, well - it's always amazing to watch this only vegetarian in the family enjoy a turnip and tomato dish that Soul Mate prepares just for her. There isn't a holiday that goes by that I don't think of the people who aren't here with us, of course. But I give thanks for them, wherever they are.

I have been through a lot this year, but it has been a kick ass year. I give thanks for my nervous breakthrough in February, and for the declaration from my oncologist last month that my cancer is "cured." I give thanks for my Dad's and my Parents-In-Law's continued good health, and for my healed relationship with my Baby Sister. For my nieces nephews, stepsons and grandchildrens' happiness. For all of our friends, old and new, far and near. I am thankful that I know more clearly today what my shortcomings are, and am more hopeful than ever that they will not always and forever make me miserable. I've overcome a few of them, lately. I am thankful for the profession that I am in, and for the one that I have, at least temporarily, let go. I am grateful for a therapist who has helped lead me back to myself, and even grateful for the situations at work that led me to the therapist. I may be a workaholic, but I am a recovering workaholic.

I am thankful that 99% of the crap that happens in my life these days, happens in that space between my ears called my head. It can be pretty awful, but there aren't too many witnesses to the worst of it. I figure that by this time next year, I'll have it down to 89%. I'm going to just keep on figuring out how to be okay, with just being okay. I'm amazing in some ways, or so I am told. I'll keep working on believing that too.

Life is good here. I hope it is where you are too.

And Just Like That, It`s Autumn

It doesn't seem to matter how much time passes, there are still times when I miss my mother so much that I want to crawl under the covers and sob myself to sleep. On those days, I feel a deep, almost tortured longing for one more phone call, another shared cup of sweet, hot tea at her kitchen table.

Today is not one of those days. 

The sadness that has visited me off and on throughout this day, is a new version of my usual grief. Today, I just really feel like sending my mother an email with an update on my life. My Mom died in April, 2000. Before 9/11. Before my sister came into recovery. Before I finished my PhD. Before, before, before. So very much has happened. What an email it would be.

Dear Mom,

I'm sorry I haven't dropped a line in over eleven years. Been busy. So much has changed since you left, I hardly know where to start, really. Here's a list of some rather trivial nonsense that you might be interested in:

• Just after you died, George Clooney and Juliana Margulies got back together on ER.
• Something tragic happened on September 11, 2001 but I'm guessing you know about that already. 
• Larry King retired and evenings on CNN have never been the same (I can't remember if Anderson Cooper was around when you were last here, he's really great but I still miss Larry).
• Elizabeth Taylor died earlier this year, I know how you loved her.
• Televisions are flat now.
• I see Baby Sister every week for a visit, even though she lives over a thousand miles away. (It's this thing called Skype).
• Dad figured out how to do the telephone banking, he's quite a pro at it.
• Dad and Auntie Claudette got together and were really happy for five years, then she died too. (Don't be mad at her when you see her, they were both very lonely and it was a really good thing).
• Your youngest son fell in love online (on the computer), got married and moved to Mississippi. I know that this must totally freak you out.
• Your oldest son bought a Harley when he turned 50. Also quite freaky.
• In 2005, I ended up in emergency surgery after coming very close to dying. Don't worry - it was just cancer and I am fine now.
• Your grandkids are all fine (you have two new ones, very cute), and so are your greatgrandkids (you have two more of them too, also adorable).
• A hell of a lot of people have trouble with wheat now. I am not sure if you have ever even heard of gluten, but it's not good.
• You can read books on this little computer-screen type thing called a Kindle now. Yes, I am serious.
• If I wanted to, I could send you this email (complete with pictures, if I wanted) from my phone. 
• There's this thing called Facebook now. It`s hard to explain. Let's put it this way - if Facebook had been around when I was a teenager, you probably would have figured out I was up to no good a lot sooner than you did.

Well Mom, I could go on and on. So much is new, so much has changed.

It's fall here. The seasons don't change quite as radically now that I have moved to the West Coast. I don't even know or remember if you liked autumn. I know that you loved spring and summer. I can only guess that like me, you didn't mind autumn in the years that you knew you were going on a holiday down south. I remember that you used to curse the damned leaves that fell on the acreage, there was no end to them, you used to say.

I know you loved Christmas, but hated snow. It doesn't really snow where I live. If you were still alive, I bet you would move here, because I remember you cursed the snow as much when it fell as you did the leaves. One day when Dad was visiting after we first moved here I asked him, "Do you think Mom would like it here?" And he told me that you would for sure, that you loved the ocean. I hadn't know that about you. It comforts me, because I have fallen in love with my ocean.

Dad`s coming to see us in a few weeks. He`s doing okay, Mom. He`s an older, maybe even gentler version of the George you left behind. He sure keeps busy running around the continent visiting between the four of us. When he gets here, I'll ask him if you liked the fall. We still talk about you often, he and I. Not in the way we did in the beginning, just after you left. Those talks were heartbreaking and hard. Now we keep it light, or try to.

I have learned a great deal about grief, Mom. It changes like the seasons, but it comes around, just as surely. Just as surely as how much I miss you. As how much I love you.

Forever yours,
Dawn

Money, Cancer, and Me

In June 2005, I was diagnosed with stage three colon cancer. Financially, the timing could not have been much worse. When I got sick, I had just completed thirteen years of university, culminating with a PhD in health care history and policy, and a huge student loan. My husband Allan had sold his auto body business a year earlier (with no real profit from the sale) and had been laid off from his most recent job. We were, quite literally, in the middle of an expensive move from Beaumont, Alberta to Victoria, BC– Allan had driven our belongings across the Rockies the very weekend I ended up in emergency surgery. Our house was on the market and sold eventually but for very little profit as we closed the deal about five minutes before the Alberta real estate market went wild. I had a job lined up at the University of Victoria for later in the year, but having cancer was clearly going to limit how much teaching I could take on. As financial uncertainty grew in the days following my diagnosis, so too did our resolve. Cancer was not going to screw with our plans, and after all, we told ourselves, we had great credit, should we need it. From my hospital room in Edmonton, we made the decision to go ahead with our move, and several weeks later Allan and I travelled to our new life and our newly rented apartment in Victoria.


Although we had a great deal of fear, we were still eager to begin the great adventure that we had dreamed about for over a decade. Emotionally, given the circumstances, it was heartbreaking to say goodbye to our two daughters and one of our two sons, all single, young adults who were remaining in Alberta. Practically, we were concerned about having enough money, and worried about not having support, as we didn’t know anybody in Victoria at the time. We needn’t have worried about the latter, as every effort we made to reach out to make new friends was rewarded threefold. Physically, I was able to get through the ten months of chemotherapy quite well, to the amazement of my oncologist. Overall, despite the obvious fact of cancer, our first year in Victoria was one of the best years of our life.


It was also one of the most expensive. Before cancer, the plan had been for Allan to finally work less and fish more, while I started my teaching career. We had budgeted for Allan to remain unemployed for at least the first year of the rest of our wonderful life. My chemotherapy treatments were time consuming and severely limited the amount of teaching that I could do in that first year. Fortunately, Allan was eligible for unemployment insurance, we had a bit of money from the house sale, and as a cushion so that I wouldn’t need to worry about money at the same time that I was worried about dying, we cashed in one of Allan’s RRSPs. If we had lived carefully and frugally, our financial situation might have remained relatively healthy for that year.


But we didn’t. Just in case it should turn out to be true, we lived each day as if there were no tomorrow. Unfortunately, over time that approach caused us to rely more heavily upon credit, than cash. As often as we pleased, we ate out for breakfast, lunch and dinner. We flew our kids out to Victoria multiple times, and entertained other company from Alberta and elsewhere throughout the summer and fall. We served gourmet meals to our guests, and Allan took people fishing four or more times a week that summer, an expensive undertaking with gas prices at an all-time high. While Allan fished, I shopped. I bought everything I thought we needed for the new apartment, including new furniture, and a lot of things that we didn’t need. On some days, I simply felt that having cancer entitled me to have that one year of living frivolously.


Irresponsible spending aside, not knowing how things would turn out that year also led us to appreciate every moment spent with family and friends, and to celebrate every experience in our new life. We truly felt that we had arrived in paradise, and we knew with complete certainty that we wanted to spend the rest of our lives here. When my oncologist told me in early summer 2006 that I was cancer free, I wept with gratitude. And yet, I was – quite frankly –surprised that I had apparently beaten cancer. There has been a lot of cancer in my family over the past decade, but not a lot of survivors. Elated as I was to learn that I would live, my recently concocted idea that my life insurance would take care of any accumulated cancer debt, had clearly backfired.


Over the past few years, I have reflected often upon the lessons that cancer taught me about life and money. I remain cancer free, and am working diligently towards being debt free. I still teach university part-time some semesters, and I also work full-time as an executive in the public service. Allan still loves fishing on weekends, but he has a full-time job building and repairing boats. We bought a lovely house, with a rental suite downstairs that will bring in revenue one day when our youngest daughter (both daughters followed us here from Alberta) moves out. I am not in hurry for her to go. We make a very healthy living, and are more conscious and aware of our spending. We have reduced expenses and try really hard to live on cash, not credit. To be honest, we still have work to do on sticking to our budget. But as we all know, all relationships take continued work. The key to my relationship with money, I have found, is that I need to take responsibility for my part, become and remain aware of my money management shortcomings, and be willing to work on what needs fixing.


Although it is an old cliché, what having cancer actually taught me during what I thought might be the last year of my life, was that money does not buy happiness. I used over spending as a strategy to avoid fear, but money did not buy me the true moments of joy that I experienced that year, nor will it buy what I most cherish today. Relationships with loved ones, and my relationship with myself, are what matter most in my life today. Spending time with my cherished friends, reading a good (library) book, enjoying a (home cooked) meal with Allan and my family, or hosting a (potluck) barbeque in our yard, these are the simple moments that fill me up like no purchase has yet or ever could. Today is a spending free day. Sitting on a pile of driftwood, pondering and then scribbling down these words cost me nothing, but it was an excellent investment of my time. It reminds me to be grateful that I am still here, still living this rich and amazing life.

Moon River, Family Vacations, and Me

I learned as a child that family holidays always end with a good cry. I'm certain that it was my Auntie Bev who started the tradition of crying after we had visited with her and Uncle Doug each summer. I remember being a kid and wondering what the hell she was crying about as we hugged her, said goodbye, and hopped into our car for our long journey home. Now I get it.

Yesterday marked the end of the first "family" vacation with my side of the family in well over a decade. I was so happy to spend a week with Soul Mate, my Dad, my Baby Sister, Her Soul Mate, their two little boys, and for the first few days of the week, our own First Born and Yoga Kid. On Monday, two sets of surrogate aunts and uncles joined us for a couple of days. The weather cooperated as best it could, despite a soggy beginning last Saturday. The meals were major productions, but delicious. Every seafood dish imaginable, and decadent desserts to boot. We had plenty of bonding, boating, hula hooping, and not quite enough book reading. Perched at the edge of the ocean, the setting could not have been better, with the luxurious beach house exceeding all expectations. 

So what could possibly have been missing? Well, Soul Mate and I have two other children with spouses and three grandchildren (combined) who would surely have added some fun into the mix. Baby Sister's first born daughter and son were sorely missed. But I have to say, although I am more used to missing her in April and May (see blog posts from those months if you can handle pain) and at Christmas, this family occasion really found me missing my mother. Deeply missing her. Part of it, I am sure, was that in enjoying my wee nephews as much as I did, I couldn't help but think how much my Mom would love to know them. And how much she would love to see my Baby Sister, who although still slightly neurotic in some ways (did somebody say shopping?) is incredibly grown up and happy. She would have loved seeing my girls interact with their aunt after years of estrangement. For certain, Mom would have loved being by the sea with all of us. But she wasn't, and I felt it. Baby Sister and I both cried the other evening as we sat around playing cards and the song Moon River came up on the iPod stereo playlist. Mom loved Andy Williams, and especially that song. We didn't interrupt the game to speak of our feelings, in fact we never spoke about those mother missing feelings together at all this week (I'm always game, she - not so much). But we felt the heartbreaking loss at the same time, to the same tune.

I surprised myself when I actually didn't cry yesterday when Baby Sister and family drove off. I'd cried a little the night before, just thinking about it. I did cry a little bit today, after I dropped Dad off at the airport and watched the back of his now slight frame heading through the airport doors. He's eighty, and I worry about how many more flights in and out of my life he will make. I've cried a little bit more on this beautiful Sunday afternoon, not even sure why. Don't know who or what I might be missing.  

I also cried yesterday when I learned that Amy Winehouse died, most likely from a drug overdose. Those particular tears were of sadness for her and for her family, but they were mingled with tears of gratitude. I am so grateful that I have been given the gift of recovery from the fatal disease of addiction. Happy that Baby Sister has too.

Perhaps I am just feeling a bit off because I have to go back to work tomorrow. Or maybe it is because I have my usual six-month cancer check up tests this week and I always turn a bit crazy around test time. Maybe I am just tired. Whatever it is, I'll just feel my way through it. It'll pass. I'll feel happy enough in a day or two. Joyous in a couple more. Grateful through each and every hour and day. Hopeful in every minute, as long as I remember to feel hope.

But for now, I know how Auntie Bev felt, when we all packed into our car and drove away, not knowing when we would all be together again. When Dad arrives in Toronto tonight, he'll be picking up his car from her house and driving it back to his house a couple of hours away. I wonder if she will cry, when she says goodbye.

Sweet Summer Night

When I booked this week-long family vacation in this place called "Bowser," I had no idea what we would find here.

So far, at the end of this, our first day of seven, I have found:

1. That my seventeen-month-old nephew really gets what it means to live in the moment
2. That a person really has no business eating more than four roasted marshmallows in one sitting
3. That even forty-three old little girls can find joy in the perfect seashell
4. That mother-missing-moments are a little less painful when precious daughters and a sister are nearby
5. That everything really is better by the ocean

I can't wait to see what tomorrow brings.

Time Does Fly

Soul Mate and I are extremely fortunate. Between us, we have four amazing kids. It is astonishing to us that they are all growing older at such a quick pace. Yoga Kid (the baby of the lot) turns 26 today. That is amazingly freaky to me. I can't easily lay hands on the *first* baby pictures of her to include here, but she was a beauty then too.

When I remember the little darling as a toddler, this is the picture that appears in my heart and my head.

Quite honestly, she could be a handful at this stage. One of my dear friends even nicknamed her "Taryn the Terror." She clearly had a very strong sense of self, even then. She knew what she wanted and when she wanted it and she started perfecting her persistency approach with a vengeance as soon as she learned how to walk and talk.

I like to think that Yoga Kid's tenacity at such a tender age showed me that getting our needs met or realizing our dreams takes passion and effort. She taught me that sometimes we need to holler and cry. I also like to think that some of my greatest growth spurts were taking place at the same time as hers were, in her first few years. I believe that back in the day when I was telling baby Yoga Kid and her older sister First Born to "get up and brush themselves off," that "they could do it," and that they were "terrific," that my own words were echoing or boomeranging right back to me.

Clearly, by the time we got Yoga Kid to her kindergarten graduation, I had also graduated into a whole new way of life, and I credit my beautiful daughters for inspiring me to grow up and be more terrific.

She never really did lose her ability to terrorize once in a while, but the early grade school years also started to bring out the sensitive, compassionate side of this little person who would grow up to be Yoga Kid. When she was five, she actually changed her name to Alice for a while (she was obsessed for over two years with a black and white version of an Alice in Wonderland movie.) The following except about Alice is from an entry in my journal on June 7, 1992:

Today is my baby's 7th birthday. She was an angel in her dance concert [a few days earlier]. That day she came home and adopted a caterpillar. It was priceless. She was gentle and caring towards it. She read it stories, and took it for rides on her dinky cars. It was precious.

Needless to say, she soon graduated to loving dinosaurs and dogs. She wanted a dinosaur, but we were unable to deliver on that one. I have no idea whose puppy she was holding in this picture, but how cute is this kid!

As her grade school years clipped along Yoga Kid grew into an exceptional dancer, learned how to play the piano beautifully, and became a prolific writer. In addition to crafting stories on a regular basis just for the fun of it, she was expected to journal daily in school. I think you get some of the flavour of who Yoga Kid was becoming from this entry on her first day back at school in the fall of 1995:

This summer I went to Red Deer to visit my dad. We went to Banff twice. Every summer we go camping there. It's so pretty in Banff. We also went to Drumheller. Again, we go there every year. It's very interesting when you love dinosaurs like I do. When I grow up I want to be a paleontologist. One of my hobbies is collecting fossils. I never really liked dinosaurs until we learned about them in grade two. In Edmonton at Northlands Park ther's a Canadian Derby. We go there every year too. They just fixed Northlands up and it is very nice. It's a lot more enjoyable watching horseracing in a place like that. Some of the horses are so beautiful. While my dad is at work my grandma watches me. She comes down from Whitehorse every summer to watch me. We would take the bus to the mall a lot, but at weekends we would go places with my dad. Now a little about myself. My full name is Taryn Rae. I am 10 years old and my birthday is June 7, 1985. I was born in Whitehorse, I have a dog named Poncho. he's terri-poodle cross. I have an older 14 year old sister and I'm the youngest. I'm a chocolate and taco lover. My hobbies are tap dancing and collecting fossils. My pet peeves are: some cats, bees, wasps and all seafoods. My favourite colours are blue and pink, plus dark green. My favourite shows are "Are You Afraid of the Dark?", "Rugrats," "Rocko's Modern Life," and "X-Files." I love to read. My favourite movies are "Jurassic Park," and "Little Women." I like antiques like old teacups, sewing machines, etc. I love going to history places.

As a historian, this entry warms my heart. The years from ten to fifteen were pretty uneventful, and then the next few were interesting as the Terror returned for a few grand performances. But we all survived and once again, she was a beautiful graduate.

The past few years, our girl has grown into a beautiful young woman. Yoga Kid has retained her love of vintage as far as some clothing and jewellery goes, but to my knowledge she no longer plays the ponies and she now despises the colour pink. She is no longer a terror in any way, shape or form, although like the best of us, she can still get pretty cranky once in a while. The only dinosaurs in her life these days are her parents. She had to give up dancing so she took up yoga, which is now her life's passion. She still loves to read but reads mostly non-fiction. First Born teases her for only reading "textbooks" and just bought her a novel about yoga for her birthday to try to get her back into fiction (First Born and I love reading novels). Yoga Kid still loves dogs, and wishes she had one again. She is no longer a fan of caterpillars. Although she claimed that she hated seafood at age ten, she has never actually tasted anything in the fish or seafood family in her entire life. She is currently the only vegetarian in our family, but she still sits at our table when we serve ribs, First Born's favourite. Yoga Kid is an exceptional makeup artist, but traded that career to work in another job that allows her the freedom to devote more time to teaching yoga in the evenings. She even has a yoga blog on her Anahata Moon Yoga site. If you go to her blog, you will learn that she still loves chocolate.

I don't know that any of us would have expected Yoga Kid to grow up to be Yoga Kid. But we are so very happy that she did. I still learn from her every day. Earlier this year, as I wrote in my Yoga Kid, Hearty and Me post, I learned a lot about the true meaning of mindfulness, of being present. This daughter of mine is caring, wise, funny, sensitive. I look at her or think about her and can't help but marvel over how precious and priceless a gift she is to our family.

Happy birthday, darling girl. I love you.

One Day, Many Feelings

I haven't blogged in six days. I am not going to lie, not writing has caused me some anxiety. However, I had a good reason for not being on here, I took the days away to spend time with my Best Friend, whose heart has just been ripped apart. We had a lovely weekend, and it felt good to be fully present for her visit. But now, here I am, a little bit scattered, feeling rusty. I am grateful to be putting words into sentences again. Blogging is my practice, my meditation. My check-in, my touchstone, my way of figuring out where I am. Where am I today?

Well, physically I am in my living room, sitting in my favourite easy chair with my feet resting on its matching ottoman. The sun is pouring in through the window, a warm breeze coming through the just cracked window. I am sipping (as opposed to gulping) a most excellent cup of coffee. My father is visiting, but he's still adjusting to time zone changes so he's not up yet. It will be a fun visit, although he doesn't have a clue just how much fun I actually have planned for him. For one thing, this is the first time in four years that my father will have my attention during a visit. I usually work while he is here, even when I take days off. The last time he was here he made a snippy comment about my always being on my Blackberry, and I took note. As I have blogged about on earlier occasions, up until I hit the wall with a thunderous crash a couple of months ago, I had a serious problem with work/life balance. I am beginning to see that my problem with working too much was largely self-created, although the environment I work in clearly contributed. I can only take care of my end of the silliness. I have an amazing therapist, and am making good progress.

Where am I emotionally? I am quite looking forward to a well-hatched scheme that will surprise my father this Thursday. My Baby Sister (I've blogged about her too) is flying in on Thursday night for the Royal Wedding. My dad doesn't know this, but he will be tickled pink. All of his children are scattered across this continent so he rarely gets to spend time with more than one of the four of us at a time. This will only be the second time that my sister, father and I have been together in about six years. My dad is 80. These moments matter. We will drink tea and watch William and Kate get married, and then spend a few days playing tourist and introducing Baby Sister to my lovely town. So happiness here, in anticipation of a father-daughters weekend. I just hope we don't give him a heart attack when she walks in on Thursday night.

My heart is also somewhat heavy. Tomorrow is my mother's death date anniversary. I don't remember ever having my father around on the anniversary of her death. It's often (well, always) a difficult day for me. And I don't want to make it difficult for him. I am not sure how he marks it, or if he does. I am sitting here crying just thinking about how hard it will be for me not to cry tomorrow. Crap.

And finally, I feel a little guilty because I was a bit bitchy to my two daughters last night. I say "a bit" because they were being a tad annoying and pushing my buttons on purpose. I am very rarely bitchy with them, although I am probably a lot of other things such as "bossy," and "controlling," and the like. Still. I know they will forgive me, as I forgive them. But in case they have difficulty, here is a YouTube video I found on forgiveness that I quite love. As I love them.

So, where I am today. Grateful. Hopeful. Excited. Sorry. Sad.

It's bound to be a good day. Hope yours is too.

We Never Get Over It, But We Do Get Through It

Last year when a dear aunt passed away, I wrote a post for my cousin on my old blog. It was intended to provide her some comfort, and she said that it did. Today I read a blog post by Cathy, whose  mom has just died. I don't know if anything I wrote for my cousin will help. But here it is, to you Cathy, with love and understanding.

Our Lives May Grow In Different Directions, Yet Our Roots Remain As One

Turning fifty this year has been great, overall. But a few things about getting older are really bringing me down. A good example— I am running out of relatives at an alarming rate.

Last week, my third last living aunt passed away, and although in her honour I would love to write something hilariously funny (Auntie Joyce was hilariously funny) I also feel intensely compelled to write something thoughtful—perhaps even meaningful—for her daughter, my cousin Cory.

These are the times when I am sorry that most of my relatives live clear on the other side of the country. If Cory lived closer, I would invite her to come and spend the day with me. I would feed her, pour her a glass of wine (I am one of only two cousins who doesn't drink wine, or anything for that matter), and create a space for her to start telling her story, her story of losing her mother. I would try mostly just to listen, having had the opportunity to tell my own dying mother story so many, many times already over the past ten years. At moments, I am sure that I would contribute a piece of my narrative just for support, or as confirmation of how she is feeling, what she is thinking. Not that I claim to know all of it, but…

I want to tell you, Cory – I have been where you are. I know some of what you are feeling, and most of what you are trying not to feel.

I know that in these early days you are probably swinging between paralysis and hyper-activity. You will find yourself having some difficulty getting through the motions of daily life. Don’t forget to eat, to drink lots of water. Brush your teeth. Put clothes on if you leave the house and remember that deodorant is a good idea in August. Staying up all night listening to the music that sears through your soul and makes you feel, feel, feel the feelings – is okay for a few days. But please don’t do it every night for a week. You need to rest, to recover, to heal. You need to be as gentle with yourself as you would be with your mother if she was going through what you are going through right now. You may need to tell Rod (your husband, Cory) that although he mourns too, he should probably take charge of your lives for a while. Be firm when you tell him that there is not a hope in hell of you making any decisions about much of anything this week, month, summer, year. Take all the time you need. And write this down:

“I may need a lot of time to get over this because I really, really, really liked my mother a lot.”

Your two beautiful daughters will be watching you closely (as mine were), looking for a sign every once in a while that tells them there is at least some hope that you will eventually be okay. You might not believe that, but fake it once in a while, just to give them a break. Do something normal. Yell at one of them for something ridiculously unimportant. You know, like we do. If you are up to it, give them each a hug and say “honey one day soon we will talk about your grief, your pain. But for now, It’s pretty much all about mine.” They will giggle. Eventually, but not right away, you will want to consider that they too have been through hell losing their Nannie and watching you go through hell, but you likely can’t deal with that today. For now, just tell them to brush their teeth, wear deodorant, and for Christ’s sake turn their goddamned music down after midnight. The taking God’s name in vain part is optional, but in our family, as you know, the option is almost always taken.

Cory, the one thing that has sustained me through a decade of mother missing, has been that I always speak to my mom. In my head, that is. I talk to her about all of the good things that are going on, and the bad or scary stuff. And because I knew my mom so very well, as you did yours, I can always hear what she would say, if she were here. You will hear your mom too, Cory. Just listen to your heart. Like her favourite music, photos of your mother will bring you both comfort and agony right now. Speak to your pictures of your mom and tell her what you are going through. Please, do let somebody know if you really believe she is talking back to you. That would be a bit much.

Cousin, I wish that I could tell you ten years from now that all of what you are going through will be behind you. Much of it will, but the longing for one more day, one more talk over tea, one more argument even, might never fully go away. I am fifty years old and there have been so many moments over the past ten years when I have whispered to myself or even said out loud, I want my mommy. Your aunt (my mother) told me, speaking about the loss of her own mother, that daughters never get over losing their mother, but they do get through it. I did. You will. Our daughters will.

And after all is said and done, we really are the fortunate ones. We had amazing mothers. And we have amazing daughters. The mother-daughter bond still exists, for us.

A Little Nostalgia

I thoroughly enjoy reading the blogs that proud moms write about their hugely adorable kids. There weren't blogs back when my little ones were busy being the cutest kids in the world, or maybe I would have blogged about them too.

Yesterday, I spent part of the afternoon going through some old family papers. Most of them made me giggle, a few made me howl with laughter, and a few others brought a tear or two to my eye. Just for the fun of it, I want to share the Christmas lists that our two daughters wrote in 1999. Anybody who had, or was, a teenager in 1999 should remember or relate to at least some of the items on these lists.

Here they are, reproduced exactly as they wrote them.

First Born's List (she was 17 at the time)

Cordless phone
CD organizer (about 72 discs)
Clothes or gift certificates
Little silver hoop earrings (cheap ones)
Black liquid eyeliner
Dill pickle popcorn seasoning

Jo Dee Messina CD (the one with “I’m Alright”)

"Big Shiny Tunes 4"

Lipsmackers (9000 flavours)
Black leather jacket (please and thanks)
Back Street Boys "Millenium"
A pony
Cell phone
An apartment
Dixie Chicks new CD

Yoga Kid's' List (she was 14 at the time)

Stereo with remote control, extra bass, DBBS, programmable
Superman t-shirt
Blue slippers
Corner table (Ikea)
Mosquito net
Korn "Issues" CD
Clothes (funky skirts)
Silver jewellery
Dream dictionary/interpreter
Hair accessories
Hair crimper/waver/straightener
Big blue inflatable chair
Disposable camera
Gel nails

Yoga Kid still loves music, funky clothes and jewellery. She still reads mostly non-fiction books, the majority of which focus on yoga, her life's passion. She's into photography, and has a very fancy camera that she used the day that she and I spent the afternoon at the beach last month. She takes a wicked shot of sea glass, check it out! She still takes great care with her beautiful head of hair, but I don't think she would be caught dead with gel nails, today.

First Born was joking about the pony, but she still begs us every year to get a family puppy to replace our dog Molly, who died a few years ago. She has an iPhone these days, and has for all of her teenage and adult life been very phone focussed. It's funny to see that she asked for a "cordless" phone. I don't think there are any phones today that even have cords, are there? She still loves silver hoop earrings, and dill pickle popcorn seasoning. She has an apartment, but she didn't get it for Christmas.

They were good kids, that year. They definitely got a few of the things that they put down on those lists.

Slowing Down on a Sunday Afternoon

My mother taught me to love Sunday afternoons. So I'm trying hard to love this one. You have to catch the right "pace" to nail a good Sunday afternoon. The trick is not to be too productive, but yet not become so relaxed that it could be mistaken for paralysis. So far, I'm doing pretty well.

Here are the highlights:

• drank two cups of creamed earl grey (sweetened, with milk)
• ate two crumpets, smothered in butter and plum jam
• had a Skype call with my dear cousin from Montreal. It was her first time on Skype, it was hilarious to see how excited she was, and she got to show me around her house, which was cool
• had a Skype call with my other cousin from Montreal and two of her three boys. Dylan asked me if we grow mangoes where I live (we don't)
• spent a few minutes tidying off my desk
• read a few chapters of a new novel (Sheila Curran's Everyone She Loved)
• listened to one of my favourite tunes sung by K.D. Lang

Now I am waiting for Yoga Kid to get home, she went to pick up First Born. We are having family dinner for the first time in a while. Everybody is so busy these days, I'm really looking forward to being together for a meal. Soul Mate has his specialty ribs baking in the oven. He smothers them in garlic, covers them with orange slices and bakes them for hours, then tosses them in a secret bbq sauce and bakes them a while longer. I am going to make asparagus and salad. Lemon meringue pie for dessert.

Family, food, and as much reading as I can fit in. Exactly the way my mother taught me. Happy Sunday afteroon, everybody. As Leonard Cohen wrote, and K.D. Lang can really belt out...Hallelujah.

Serenity at the Shore

It's Saturday, and it's really warm out. The sun is shining. Soul Mate and I wander along the beach. He's like a little kid at the side of the sea. 

He meanders along, poking at the sand with a stick, picking up rocks and gnarled lengths of driftwood. He climbs high upon the storm strewn logs and smiles. Yes, I think. You can be the "king of the castle" for today. Eventually, he joins me in my ongoing life quest to find the perfect piece of sea glass. I find one or two gems, but none as magnificent as "Hearty," the one I found last month when I combed the beach with Yoga Kid.

Gratitude washes over me as I sit and ponder the beauty of our shore, our island. I say a prayer for the people suffering so deeply on the other side of this ocean, the ocean that I love so much. God bless them all.

Thursdays, Therapy, and Me

It’s past noon on Saint Patrick’s day. I was out and about this morning, and I have just realized that I’m not wearing green. There is a thin vein of chartreuse running through my scarf, but that wouldn’t nearly cut it for my Irish relatives. I should be stripped of my one-eighth Irish heritage. I haven’t even drank green beer for going on 24 years. Haven’t drank alcohol at all, for that long. Not much of an Irishman, some would argue. At least those who subscribe to stereotypes.

It’s also Therapy Thursday. This morning’s session was much like last week’s. It took me a while to get going, but I finally hit that chord variation that I keep trying to avoid, the one I need to tune into, play through, and then, when the time is right, release it...note by note. The solution to my condition is in part, to feel the feelings that I have tried for so many years to block with school, work, busyness.  

Good thing I adore my therapist. I loved my last one too, some twenty years ago. Her name was Fyfe, and the therapist of the moment, well her name is Fiona. Both good Celtic names, albeit more Scottish than Irish. I appreciate them both, for their part in leading me back towards myself. At the moment, Fiona has me feeling emotionally depleted. Not crawl into a ball devastated, more like “really don’t think I am going to be cleaning the bathroom today after all” kind of devastated. Yet I also feel vaguely mellow, in a pleasant sort of way.

This morning I recounted what it was like to sit in an oncologist’s office eleven years ago and hear a doctor tell my mother that she had three weeks to live. How it felt when the oncologist left the room, promising that he would be right back, and then never came back. How mad I was that my mother was so hurt by his abrupt abandonment. My mother had put her life and her faith into this man and his medicine for sixteen months, and he didn’t have the guts or the grace to come back into the room and wish her well. Later that day Mom lamented: “To think that he didn’t even have the decency to come in and say good luck, take care or kiss me arse or anything.” Or something to that effect. My mother could be quite Irish when she wanted to be. Today, I’ve come to understand that not everyone can handle talking to people about dying, or saying goodbye. But that day, I wanted to go back to the cancer centre and strangle the bloody oncologist.

The other memory I had today, was that later that night, my Dad went to play darts with my brother and the guys, as scheduled. He was clearly in denial, shock. It was the best thing for him to do, as irrational as that may sound to people who don't know our family. I drove my mother back to the home she loved so dearly, the one place on earth that she loved above all others. We watched Jeopardy, Wheel of Fortune and Touched By An Angel. We ate Kraft Dinner and pumpkin pie. My mother always loved Kraft dinner, but rarely made it because Dad doesn’t like it, at all. At one point in the evening, I sat at my mother’s feet and laid my head upon her knee. She caressed the top of my head as I cried and said to her very quietly: "I want to go with you." I didn’t really of course. I would never want to leave my beautiful family, my lovely life. Not then, not now. I guess I just wanted her to know that if I could, I would be with her forever. Always.

Thursdays are hard. I need to revisit the story, and process the grief. But I know and I trust that healing can and will follow the pain. I believe that with all of my being. I'm just beginning to remember the story.

Well, enough of this for today. Sorry if I have caused anybody out there sadness. I am going to switch emotional gears and go grab myself some lunch. But first, I might as well go out with a good old Irish bang. This one’s for all of my green-beer drinking Irish relatives, and in memory of my Mom, and of course, with love to my brother Danny.

This version is sung by a wee lad named Declan Galbraith. Enjoy it, and I promise tomorrow I will be funny.

  

International Women's Day, March 8th

In honour of International Women's Day, another blogger suggested sharing something written by a female ancestor. I hope to find time to dig up and read the many letters that my mother wrote to me when I lived a letter's distance or more away, but I can't do that today. So, I don't have much close at hand, but I do have a short excerpt from a diary entry that Mom wrote in 1996. (She only wrote in a diary very sporatically toward the end of her life, mostly at my urging.)

June  28, 1996
The reason I picked this book up - I want to start putting down some of my thoughts. For instance: today George went to Edmonton with Eric and I decided to clean some windows and put my "Les Miserables" tape in the player (I only play it when I'm alone). While I was rub-a-dub-dubbing the windows and singing along with the music, I recalled a day a few months ago at Debra's when she, Dawn and I were listening to the same music and Dawn and Deb broke into song. (We three saw Les Mis together at the Jubilee and loved it). Anyway, they were both singing their hearts out and altho I laughed, because they don't really have classic voices, it was one of the special moments of my life, they most likely have no idea how happy I was to see the closeness between them or how very much I love them. I only wish the same closeness could be shared with the boys, maybe someday!

Thanks Mom, for taking the time to put down your thoughts. If you were here you would know that our voices haven't gotten any better, but you will be pleased to know that my sister and I both listen to our favourite music as loud and as often as we please, regardless of whether we are alone or not. Debra in particular, still favours the music from Les Miserables, whereas I remain partial to the Phantom of the Opera. Of course, there is no such thing as a "tape player" anymore, we listen to our music on iPods. You wouldn't be into iPods because you didn't like putting things in your ears, but they also have docking stations. I know, sounds weird, hey? I am sure you will be happy to learn that since you have left us, both of your "girls" have actually shared moments of real closeness with one or the other of our brothers. We'll try to get a few more in, in your honour.

Happy International Women's Day, Mom. This one's for you.

Lost Dreams Reawakened

As part of my healing process (you'd need to read another post or two below to catch up), Soul Mate and I took a four day weekend up island from where we live. We spent the weekend driving, hiking, and savouring gourmet meals at several world renowned restaurants, including the Wickanninish Inn, where we dunked toast into the most expensive eggs on the island. More than anything, each day we took great pleasure in  each other's company and relaxing in nature. I hadn't chilled like that for a really long time. Although I have been "'taking it easy" for the three weeks that I've been home off of work, acupuncture, therapy and doctor's appointments take a lot of energy. Especially the therapy. 

Getting away from "it all" was an excellent idea. The drive up was not entirely relaxing because we hit a snowstorm going over the mountain pass that we had to conquer before descending into Pacific Rim National Park in order to reach our final destination, Tofino. It was a good thing that we brought the four wheel drive truck, and not my Nissan Cube.

I can't think of a more stunningly beautiful and outrageously laid back place in March. Within just a few hours of walking the beaches and hiking the trails, peacefulness and serenity began to replace (my) anxiety and depression. Thankfully, Soul Mate doesn't get depressed, and is seldom anxious, although as of late, he has expressed some anxiety about my mental state. He thinks that how I feel, matters. Which says a lot about why I believe he is my soul mate. He is not a worrier, just a pretty happy go lucky guy who is rarely ever heavy hearted. I'm guessing that seeing me lighten up so soon into our trip was a good sign for him. Neither of us knew when we set off on our adventure if I was going to be able to pull off a good time.

In addition to lifting my droopy spirits, nature's healing power and the slower pace quickly did wonders for my creativity too. That, and a strong Americano at dinner Thursday night kept me up late thinking through and excitedly solving some screenplay storyline problems that I'd had no cure for previously. By the time that dawn broke on Friday, I had remembered that once upon a time or two, in my past, I had been convinced that I was meant to live in a small but beautiful, laid back town, like Tofino. I don't think at this point in my life that we will be moving to a teeny tiny town. I have a life, a home, family, and career in the small city where I live. But it was fascinating for me to reflect upon the fact that 25 years ago, when my dream of becoming a writer first surfaced, I had just moved to a house on the ocean in another very small, coastal community with First Born, Yoga Kid and That Other Husband.

Of course, Yoga Kid wasn't doing yoga at nine months old, but she could have used it, she was shaping up to be a terror of a toddler. Kind of odd considering how they both turned out, but First Born was a completelly mellow five year old back in those days. She's the lively one now, but still just as cute as ever. They both turned out very well, luckily for all of us. That Other Husband (he turned out okay too, but only years after I divorced him) did not really suit laid back life on the edge of the ocean at the time. Let's just say he was used to living on the edge, but not of the ocean. In any case, I wasn't paying too much attention to what he was all about in those days anyway.

My family didn't know anything about my writing dreams way back then. When I announced to our potential ocean dwelling landlord that "I am a writer," my mother, who was visiting at the time, tried not to laugh out loud and give my "lie" away. That Other Husband ignored my remark altogether, which says a lot. We got the house, and I had the opportunity to explain more fully to my Mom about my heart's desire to write. I honestly don't really remember what she told me, but I like to think that she would have said, "you can do it, of course you can." Mostly what I remember is that Mom was amazed at my gumption to declare myself a writer, when I hadn't written a word, for all we knew. She and my Dad always did like my gumption, I think. I remember when I decided to go into treatment just over a year later, my Dad said that I would do great in recovery, that it was going to take hard work but that I had the balls to do it. Thanks, Dad. That one has always stuck with me.

Well I bought myself a typewriter (god, who remembers typewriters) and I do recall sitting at my bedroom window, looking over the ocean while I pecked away and first learned that writing does not come easily. Who knew? I remember that First Born would sometimes sit behind me on my bed and write (it came easily to her) and draw quietly, while Yoga Kid napped across the hall. I think I have some of that early writing somewhere around here, I'll dig it up one day, when I have the courage. I can almost sense the feeling that I had, sitting struggling over word choice, trying to get down on paper what I was experiencing at the time. I felt so much joy thanks to my beautiful little girls and the inspiring setting, but there was a fair bit of confusion and pain too. Some would call it insanity. Hell, even I would have to call it insanity.

In any event, life took a few interesting and time consuming turns in the year after I landed on that beach and raised my writer's flag. In 1987 I raised the most important flag, the white flag of surrender to addiction. Some of my current writing (even here, in this blog) is about the years in between that time and place, and now. I'll keep filling in the blanks, I am sure. It's been an interesting life, this life of mine. I remember when I got into recovery, I worried that life would be boring. That I would be boring. Hasn't happened, yet.

Where I am trying to get to here, the point of today's narrative is, that as I stood overlooking the ocean in Tofino this weekend, things felt different and yet oddly familiar. I am not certain that it was the place that entirely made the difference, because I already do spend a lot of reflection time by the ocean where I live. No, I think it was moving at a slower pace that started to draw out memories, creativity, and a stronger sense of faith in my self. I have come to believe, again, that I have the balls to take care of myself right now, and I know that I am going to be okay. I don't think it's just gumption anymore, but gumption plays a part.

Gumption or god's grace, it doesn't really matter how I got here again. But I am a writer. No lie.

"We ask ourselves when we stopped believing in ourselves and when we stopped believing in anything outside ourselves. Through this process, our lost dreams may reawaken."

(It Works, How and Why, 46)

Charlie Sheen, Dr. Seuss, and Me

The last few days I have been thinking that it was easier to write this blog a month ago when I was the only one reading it. Although receiving a comment on one of my posts is my abolute greatest joy these days, I do find, as I see the reader stats climb, that I am somewhat more hesitant about writing my truth here. Maybe it's because I know some of the people who are reading this blog, but don't know them really well, and I am afraid that one of them (you) will find out something about me you don't wish to know. Perhaps I am worried that you will judge me.

What I believe with all of my heart and head is that I can't be scared to "be me," and "be honest," at the same time. So I need to just get over myself, and take the very good advice of Dr. Seuss (thanks Best Friend, for reminding me of this quote).

As Dr. Seuss says:

Be who you are and say what you feel because those who mind don't matter and those who matter don't mind.

So here is what I want to say today. I kind of "get" what is going on with Charlie Sheen. He is a suffering addict, as much as he denies it. Twenty some years ago, I surrendered to the fact that I was an addict. I didn't come into recovery at the "height" of my craziest using, the crazy days for me were years earlier, before I had my girls. But I didn't have to be using like a crazy person in order to hit a bottom. When I stopped using drugs in 1989, it was because I believed with every ounce of my being that I had had enough. More than enough. I wanted a new reality, to find a new way to live. For my daughters, and for me. Charlie isn't there yet.

For the past 22 years, I have worked a program of recovery. My recovery run was interrupted with insanity just once, in 2000. For a couple of days, I took prescription narcotics to deal with some overwhelming grief that I just didn't think I could bear. I chose not to bear it, I guess. I took the narcotics as prescribed, unfortunately they were prescribed to my mother, who had just died. I did not, at that time, consider taking those pills a relapse. When I realized four years later that what happened in 2000 was indeed a relapse, I changed my recovery clean date and starting "counting" clean time again. I am okay with claiming 10 years clean and 22 years of recovery.

Today, I am struggling (in part) with that same overwhelming grief that I have been trying to hide from (drug-free) for nearly 11 years. I found every which way not to feel or process the grief, believe me. I thought that I was doing okay, for almost all of the last decade. Without going into more detail (yet), the truth is that there are various other grief and and loss issues messing me up right now, and those issues have been exacerbated by years of overwork and undercare. I wouldn't say that I am grieving the loss of my colon, but I know now that I haven't dealt with losing it to cancer nearly six years ago.

Not dealing with deep emotional, physical and spiritual issues can have very serious consequences for people like Charlie Sheen and I. We can keep on using drugs, or maybe start using drugs again. Charlie thinks he has beat addiction, and I wish only the best for him, but I'm not betting on his success in the short term. I think he will use drugs again. Soon.

I am not going to start using drugs. I have no desire to, whatsoever. But the result of my not dealing with some major life traumas in my life over the past nearly 11 years has landed me in a pretty uncomfortable place, too. I am not manic, like Charlie. But a few weeks ago it became very clear to me, my family, my physician and my friends, that not taking care of myself has resulted in a seemingly swift and serious deterioration of my health, both mental and physical. As I blogged about at the time, it felt like it happened all at once, but it had actually been a very long time coming. I was diagnosed with extreme anxiety and mild depression just two weeks ago, and I swing between those two realities on a daily basis. The depression is more prevalent than the anxiety, over the last week. Some days I am lucky and land smack dab in the middle, and that feels pretty damned good. I am trying to rest (a lot like Charlie though, I can't slow down easily). I am writing, seeing an excellent therapist, doing accupuncture, massage. I am feeling my emotions, which is the most time consuming task of them all, and the most debilitating. I am not taking drugs for my condition at the present time, but I have no judgment whatsoever of people who find medication is a good solution for them. I'm trying it my way, for now.

I don't know why I felt compelled today to put all of this out there. It's me, writing my truth and breaking through the fear of some of you finding out more information about me than you may care or need to know. So many of you have already been so kind, whether by leaving a comment or telling me in other ways. I appreciate the support, with all of my being.

I am not a broken person, not a failure or a loser. I am not weak, or crazy, or defective. I am just a human being, who is still sometimes uncertain about whether I am worthy of taking the time I need to heal from the life I have been leading. I have been very productive this past decade, don't get me wrong. It's been a wild ride with a lot of great things, I've just been going at too high a speed. I have not, like Charlie Sheen admits to, been "banging seven gram rocks." But I have very, very often worked 70 hour work weeks (I am paid to work 35). I know that my drug this past four years has been my work, and I have come close to overdosing on it. On the very rare occasion when I ran out of work, I found every other which way under the sun to busy myself.

I'm tired of doing. I want to "be" more, and "do" less, to live in the moment, to make the most of every moment. Twenty two years ago I wanted a better life for my daughters and I, and I sure have built a better life. I have more amazing people in my life than ever before, including my Soul Mate, who has watched my insanity for so long (two decades) that he thinks that I really am just wired to work that much. We have wonderful kids, and grandkids. I have great parents-in-law, and a beloved Dad. They matter.

I want to be here for another twenty years at least. Taking care of my health is the only chance I have of staying.

Well, that was me, being honest. I hope that Dr. Seuss is right.

Baby Sister, Mrs. Beasley, and Me

Happy birthday, Baby Sister. Everybody knows that as a leap year baby, you don't actually get a "real" birthday this year, but I hope that your pretend one is everything you want and deserve it to be.

I loved you months before you were born. At seven years old, I had no idea what a sister was or what you would become to me, but I knew that I wanted a girl baby to come out of our mother's stomach. Or wherever. I already had two older brothers, and they never wanted to play house with me. Or anything else, for that matter.

I remember being at a friend's home after school when I found out that you had arrived. As I recall, I called our neighbour Ena (she would eventually become your babysitter when Mom returned to work) and Ena happily exclaimed that I had a new sister, and that you were a leap year baby. I was ecstatic that you had come out a girl, but incredibly worried about you being a leap year baby. I thought she meant you were a leper. I had  recently learned about Jesus or somebody curing a colony of lepers, but I still really didn't like the sounds of it. I am sure somebody would have cleared that up for me right quickly.

My memories of your childhood are mostly fond, albeit a bit sketchy. I remember that you had a Mrs. Beasley doll that you loved, and that I sort of wanted one myself. You had a Fisher Price bus that our cousin Lisa cut her foot on, although I can't for the life of me recall how she would have done that. It was Fisher Price, after all. I don't know if there was even such a thing as a toy recall in 1968. I remember that at your christening party (always a big deal in our family) I overheard Nannie say to somebody, "Yes, she's a beautiful baby but they all start out that way. Why look at Dawn, she gets homelier every year." Which is kind of funny now, but I suppose it might have hurt like hell at the time.

I remember that when you graduated from a crib, that you hated to sleep in your own bed. To keep you out of their bed every night, Mom and Dad gave me their double bed and bought themselves a queen. You would crawl into my bed every night and I would curl myself around you, content and happy for the company. What I remember about loving you the most, was that you would always play house, or whatever else I wanted you to play. I was the mother, you were the baby. I once built you a crib out of a box and put you in it in my closet. You hollered blue bloody murder (now there is a "mom-ism for you). You didn't like the dark, and at two years old, you had probably already developed your unhealthy and extreme fear of clowns. I don't know why Mom threatened you with clowns and wooden spoons, but she wouldn't have if she realized how detrimental it was to your psyche, I am sure.

Watching the family movies that you and Bro-In-Law stitched together on DVD recently reminded me of how much of a little ham you were by the time you were six. You were an adorable little bugger with your freckly angelic face and your red hair, your exuberant smile. You loved the video camera (were they called that back then?) and it captured your personality perfectly. Seeing you on film dancing and playing with Wee Blonde Baby Cousin, I can only wonder that you loved having her to boss around as much as I had appreciated having you.

Seven  years difference spread like a huge gulf between us at various times over the years, and as with all families (yes, Baby Sister, all families) shit happens that is better left to therapy. But I don't ever recall not loving you with all of my heart. I love you still. Next year is a leap year. We will do it up right. Until then, happy birthday to you today. And watch out for the clown. Seriously, he's still going to get you.

Oscar, The Girls, and Me

I've loved watching the Academy Awards ever since I was a little girl. My mother loved the Oscars, and way back in the 1960s we kids were allowed to stay up late to watch the entire show, a big deal when we had to get up and go to school the next day. As with any other family tv night, we were each allowed to have one bowl of potato chips and one glass of Pepsi as a treat. Mom would "ooh" and "ah" at the gowns, and shriek with excitement as her favourite movie stars paraded on to present or accept awards. Mom's exclamations of "oh my god, she's looking old - beautiful - ill, etc." were replaced over the years with her observations about who had obviously been spending money on plastic surgery. She'd be blown away on the latter, these days.

I may be dating myself, but I note each passing year that while the Oscars continue to showcase famous and beautiful celebrities, there just aren't the same calibre of "movie stars" in Hollywood as there were back in the day. I am thinking, for example, about the likes of the iconic Bette Davis, Susan Hayward, Rock Hudson, Jack Lemmon, and even Rosalind Russell before we knew she was a terrible mother. I don't think we have seen Elizabeth Taylor at the Oscars for years, and tonight Kirk Douglas looked like the oldest person still alive in Hollywood. As the survivor of a massive stroke, he is still doing pretty good. Tonight's show payed homage to Bob Hope, who hosted the Oscars more often than any other person. I met him once. In 1987, while I was standing in the Empress Hotel lobby, Bob wandered down the hall with his entourage and when he passed me he tipped his hat ever so slightly and looked me straight in the eye and said "Isn't it a beautiful day?" I was completely stupefied but managed to reply, "It certainly is, Mr. Hope." Moments later I phoned my mother (collect, of course) from the hotel pay phone, and cried with shock when I told her what had happened. She loved Bob Hope, always.

During the last years of my mother's life (she died at age 68, way too young), she and I would as often as possible, get together to watch Hollywood's big night unfold. The last time we did so was in 2000, just a couple of months before she died from leukemia. My aunt was visiting from Montreal, and as had become our tradition, we wore our pyjamas and snacked throughout the night as we watched Gladiator take best picture, and Russell Crowe win Best Actor for his role in that film. We were thrilled to watch Julia Roberts pick up her first Oscar as Best Actress for Erin Brockovitch. It was an amazing night as I recall, although bittersweet for me, knowing that it would be the last time I would share that tradition with my mother.

Luckily for me, I have two daughters and so, the tradition can continue, albeit in a somewhat different manner. This afternoon, Yoga Kid and I headed over to First Born's apartment early so that we could catch the red carpet show. We dined on Noodle Box (most excellent southeast Asian take out) and Yoga Kid's gluten free chocolate mint cupcakes. I have no idea where that kid learned how to bake. I wore pyjamas and First Born wore sweats, but Yoga Kid was rather overdressed as she had to leave half way through the show to go to a dress rehearsal for a fashion show she's modelling in next Friday.

I have to note several freakish changes in our world since the last time I watched the Oscars with my mother. Tonight, while Yoga Kid snuck out for her rehearsal, we PVR'd the show and simply checked back in where we had left off when she returned. We may have had VHS recorders back in the day, but nothing so convenient as a PVR. Furthermore, the three of us were afraid to check our Facebook accounts while we were in Oscar hiatus, in case people were FBing information about the winners. They were, so I'm glad I didn't check. There was no Facebook when my mom was still living, but I think she would have been an FBer. She sure would have enjoyed the show tonight, and the company. I know that if things were different and she were here, she would have wished to spend an Oscar evening such as this one with both of her own daughters and all of her granddaughters. I think she would have wondered where all of the old stars have gone, and Kirk Douglas would have freaked her out some, but she would have enjoyed the cupcakes, for sure.

Although there is no indication (whatsoever) on the horizon that either First Born or Yoga Kid ever plan on having daughters fly out of their loins (and I am fine with that), I told them tonight how much I treasure what is now becoming our own Oscar tradition. They drive me batty sometimes, but I really like them both a lot. If there were Oscars for best daughters, they'd each get a golden statue.

Making A List

I feel compelled to make a gratitude list. In no particular order, these are the things I feel grateful for, right now, in this moment:

• I spent over five hours today with Yoga Kid and First Born (shopping for eyeglasses) and not one of us bitched or fought about anything (this is an amazing feat)
• As of tonight, we have a new premier in our province (similiar to a state's governor, if you are American) and it's a woman
• A boat fell on Soul Mate at work the other day and it didn't squish him to death (he did injure his shoulder and neck)
• I love getting comments, and Jenni Engledow left me a lovely one (check out Jenni's blog, listed in my Blogs of Note)
• Tomorrow is the Academy Awards, and I get to continue a tradition by watching them with my daughters (I always used to watch them with my mother, but then she died)
• Only five more sleeps and Soul Mate and I get to go to Tofino for the first time ever
• I am beginning to understand the nature of my malaise, and am figuring out what I need to do in order to heal
• I drank a Tim Horton's 1/2 French Vanilla, 1/2 Coffee drink this evening, first time in a really long time (I used to live on them)
• A dear friend is recovering well from colon cancer surgery (I did too)
• I get to crawl into bed and sleep under our new duvet (it's Egyptian Cotton, don't know how we lived without one until now)
• I am pretty sure Soul Mate will make me bacon and eggs in the morning if I ask him nicely (apologies to the vegans and vegetarians)
• I had a really good hair day
• I sat in a room full of friends this evening and knew with absolute certainty that there is a higher power.

In gratitude,
Dawn

Pardon the Blasphemy

I have been thinking a great deal about spirituality this past week. I think I am a spiritual person, and I know that I am not a religious person, but I respect every person's right to choose their own path. I certainly mean no disrespect to Catholics when I describe myself as a recovering Catholic. God knows I've recovered from worse.

I like to say that not practicing Catholicism is my right and my choice, but my fiery Irish Catholic grandmother always claimed that I had ruined my chances of becoming a good Catholic girl before I had even turned seven. Nannie was responsible for all things Catholic in our family because my mother had turned her back on the church of her childhood when she married my father, a Protestant. My parents had to promise the priest that any children of their "union" would be raised Catholic before he would agree to perform the ceremony. Even at that, they weren't allowed to be married in the main part of the church, and my mother resented the church for most of the rest of her life for having banished her to a back room ceremony on the most important day of her life. To be honest, it kind of pisses me off too.

When my brothers and I were small, Nannie would take us to church on many a Sunday. At age six, I was supremely jealous that my two older brothers, who had both been confirmed and received their first communion (Catholic things), were able to line up with Nannie to receive the holy eucharist (symbolic for body of Christ, another Catholic thing). I didn't have the slightest idea about what that little white wafer represented, but I really, really wanted one. One Sunday I watched and waited as David, Danny and Nannie crossed themselves and exited our pew. About fifteen people fell in line behind them before I sprung from my seat like the sinful little bat out of hell that I was. As was the usual case, my family members kept their eyes cast down at the floor as they made their way back to their seats, so it wasn't difficult for me to keep from being seen. Finally, at the front of the line, I opened my mouth and the priest put the wafer on my tongue. I was extremely pleased with myself, until I got back to the pew and saw the look on my grandmother's face. On the way home Nannie made it clear that what I had done was a mortal sin. I didn't know what a mortal sin was, but it was apparent from her tone that I was in shit with god, and I would probably catch it good when I got home too. Fortunately for me, as previously noted, my parents were no great fans of the church, so it wasn't as huge a crisis for them as it was for Nannie. They may even have admired my spunk at the time. In any event, I wasn't punished. Everybody in our family, except Nannie, probably even smirked a bit when on my eighth birthday, I dressed up in a white dress and veil and wandered up the church aisle with twenty or so other mini brides of Christ and received my not-really-first communion.

Although I don't do religion, I think sometimes that at least some part of me will always be a little bit Catholic. I will certainly always be my Nannie's granddaughter. The last time I was in a Catholic church was two years ago last month, when I gave my cousin Carol's eulogy. Like many of us, Carol had drifted away from the church, but for some reason she really wanted a Catholic funeral. A few days before the ceremony, when my cousin Joanne came down with a bad migraine, I was sent in her place to speak with the old church priest about the funeral mass. The priest knew of our family because we have been dying off in large numbers, but he came across to me as extremely miffed at continuously being asked to do funeral masses when nobody from our family had seen the inside of his church on any regular Sunday for several decades. He told me that he would do the mass, but that there would be no personalized eulogy allowed. I took that as a challenge. Before I knew it, I was lying to the priest in an effort to convince him to let me deliver the eulogy. I told him that I recognized that the rest of my cousins were indeed lapsing and lapsed Catholics, but that I, as a devoted member of St. Mary's parish in the city that I had moved to (I don't know if there really is  a St. Mary's), felt very strongly that Carol deserved a brief, personalized eulogy. Certainly, my parish back home would allow, if not encourage it, I fibbed. By the time I left, the cranky Father had agreed to a ten minute eulogy (delivered by moi) and even to allow two more personal readings by various cousins. The service was lovely. Even the priest said so.

I don't actually care for lying, and if I ever do make it back to the Catholic church (I probably won't), I'll have plenty to talk about in the confession box. Lying to the priest was yet one more of my mortal sin episodes. I am still glad that I did it, for Carol's sake. And I feel a bit sorry, for my grandmother's sake. She may have been rolling in her grave while I was pretending to be a devout Catholic, but she called it right when I was still just a little girl. I still think she'd be proud of me, for other things.