As Time Goes By

On Monday of this week, I awoke as any other day, and during breakfast I noted the date and remarked that we were into the final week of February, "finally". 

Something niggled in the back of my mind, something I couldn't quite name, but it felt kind of important. I felt "off" all day long. Yes, I did the usual things with my family. Yes, I looked after myself and my business. Still, something was ... I dunno ... missing.

Not until the phone rang that evening did I realize what it was. Monday, February 24, was the five-year anniversary of my brother Ben's death. 

Free photo from Pixabay

The caller - someone very dear to me - said he'd been thinking about Ben all day and he wanted to call me to let me know it. We had an amazing conversation for a good half-hour. It was wonderful to hear his voice again. 

As he was speaking, it occurred to me that I had almost forgotten this was the anniversary date. Okay, I HAD forgotten.

But my subconscious, even my body, didn't. 

And today, at the breakfast table, I remembered how much I missed him, how lost I felt without him - especially at first - and that even though I would not wish him back to the suffering he experienced every day because of his physical conditions, I truly miss his humour, his talent, his presence. I miss how we would talk about important stuff, how we would sit together and sing and play our guitars together - "jamming" we called it.

Grief takes many forms and each is valid. One never stops grieving a loved one, but the shape that grief takes might change over time. Let me be clear: time does not heal this wound. Time does not heal trauma.  But love?  Love heals. And unconditional love heals best.

I can remember Ben today and honour his memory and his talent. I can smile at the memory of his antics and his single-minded loyalty to me, his desire to protect me from harm, and his pride in me as his 'little sister' ... I can laugh at his old jokes and how he could make people laugh with just a facial expression. I can close my eyes and listen to him sing his songs with me. I can hear him play the guitar - in his inimitable thumb-and-forefinger style.

And I know that someday, perhaps not soon, but someday - I will see him again. And we will jam together. 

Ready for Christmas?

It's a question I hear every year. And I am not sure my answer is satisfactory, at least to me. But I say it anyway.

"Are you ready for Christmas?" .... I think people mean, "Have you gotten your Christmas shopping / baking / decorating done?" To that intention, I usually answer, "Almost," and I would be telling the truth.

Summer 2011 - all of the family

But part of me is never ready for Christmas. The part of me that remembers that it was Arielle's favourite holiday, the part that remembers how she'd fill her mouth to the bursting point with Christmas dinner and then try to talk (as a joke), the part that misses her and her quirks. That part of me is never ready.

All the preparation I do for the holiday seems bittersweet. It's not as bitter as it was when the loss was fresh, I'll admit that. But there is a certain wistfulness about it for me. I wish she could enjoy it with us, or that I could be aware of her enjoyment. For all I know, she IS with us every Christmas dinner - it happened once that I was aware of it - that first Christmas. That was SO special. I hug that memory to my heart often.

But people don't need me to bleed on them when they ask something that for them, is more like a "hello, how are ya?" kind of thing. So I say, "Almost," to their query about my 'readiness' for Christmas, and they can go on their merry way. Only those who know me best understand what my response means. I guess that means I have grown as a person ... the "old Judy" would have made them feel uncomfortable by being brutally honest and ruining an otherwise great day for them. I'm not like that anymore. People have a right to feel happy (or whatever they feel) even if I can't quite attain that level of joy myself. And here I go comparing happiness and joy - two totally different experiences. Happiness is usually (for me) dependent on circumstances, and joy speaks more of an inner peace in spite of circumstances.

And yes, I have joy. I can honestly say that as deep as the loss of losing Arielle is, it would have been a deeper loss never to have known her, never to have borne her. There was a time I couldn't get there because the loss hurt so much, but now - I think - I can honestly say that our lives are richer for having had her in them, even if her presence is only a memory now. And I do have the sure hope that one day, I will see her again - without the faults that made life with her less than perfect, that made us - and her - so frustrated. I look forward to building an eternity of experiences with that girl: the one we couldn't (and can't) help but love. Do I miss her? OH yes. Every day! And grief's shape has changed over the years to make space for me / us to honour her memory in little ways that would only matter to us.

So am I ready for Christmas?

Ummm, almost.  :)

Life after Fiona

From an October 2022 post:

[Hurricane] Fiona took away.  She took away a LOT; there is no doubt of that. The topography of our landscape and of our communities is forever changed. Some things will never come back; others will take decades. But Fiona also gave. She gave us a renewed sense of community. She gave us friends we didn't know we had. She gave us compassion and empathy for each other. She spurred our generosity. 

If there is a light in this darkness, I think it could be that.

 

Spring came slowly to PEI this year. The weather was colder for longer. However, the grass did green up, the dandelions came, the crocus and the tulips came up, blossomed, and faded, and the ground was warm enough to plant our garden by early June. 

After Fiona, we thought we might have lost the opportunity to see any kind of positive result, but about two weeks ago, we noticed something in our back yard. One of our apple trees, the one we almost lost because it had been pushed to almost a 45 degree angle by the storm, and which we shored up with some thick, padded staking wire, was producing blossoms. Not just one or two, but dozens of blossoms! One of the branches wasn't, and we decided that come autumn, we would prune it back.  But yesterday, we were thrilled to see that while the other blossoms had come and gone, new blossoms were growing on the branch we previously thought was 'dead'!! 

Apple blossoms from our Red Nova tree, June 2023

So this year, we will see some apples in the fall! This from a tree we thought had bitten the dust. 

As a matter of fact, all the plants in our back yard are looking greener and less spindly since the storm took away trees that shaded them, and in that way giving them more sunlight for longer in the day.  

Even the vegetable garden is growing better. We are getting carrots coming up for the first time in three years, as well as beets, spinach, and herbs, all of which apparently prefer full sun. Who knew! 

Our flowering bushes are budding. We are awash in lilac blossoms, plus weigela, spirea, hydrangea and rose buds. It's lovely to witness. We are so grateful. 

 

As I mentioned in my post, "Hashtag Fiona2022" last fall, we have developed closer relationships with more of our neighbours, and it's been amazing to see how those friendships have enriched our day-to-day lives. 

It's caused us to rethink other kinds of storms as well: events that happen to us that seem unpleasant and cause us distress. Sometimes, while the events themselves are difficult, they may clear some of the debris - things in our lives that are unnecessary - from our lives. These are things like unbalanced relationships, old habits and ways of thinking, and other hindrances to living a full life, making way for new and renewed relationships with equals, new habits, new ways of thinking, and a new capacity to experience joy. 

 

Life gets better if we let it.

The Hollow Place

 Most everyone has at least one hollow place in their lives: a place that has marked them and left them scarred, empty, unfulfilled in some way, and aching. 

For some, it's the loss of a loved one. For others, it's a dream destroyed. For still others, it's a ruptured relationship. There are so many places like that. Even when the wound heals, there seems to be a hole left behind, a place that is irreparably damaged. 

I got to thinking about this as the 9th anniversary of our daughter Arielle's death gets closer and closer. This past July, she would have turned 30 years old. That birthday was a little harder this year than the last one ... for some reason. Grief has no rules, it seems.

Free photo by Ulrike Mai at Pixabay

About six or seven weeks before she died, she sent me a video of herself just ... being her. She talked about what she was doing in that moment, gave us a tour of her surroundings, and talked about missing us and loving us. I've played that video many times, more often lately - the sound of her voice is somehow comforting now.

And even though most times it doesn't "hurt" exactly to realize she's no longer here, there's still that hollow place, the place left over, the healed edges of grief. There's that empty feeling, call it the "new normal" as I've been known to call it, but in that, there is the knowledge that there is no going back. There is only moving ahead. There is only looking for ways to honour her memory. There is the acknowledgement - and the gratitude - that we had here here with us, even if only for a short time. There is the hope that someday, we'll see her again... someday.

But that hollow place remains. If I had chosen to live there, to keep the edges of that wound raw and torn, to torment myself over and over with the fact that I had experienced a loss that no parent should ever know (and believe me, the temptation to do that was real!) I would have been stuck there, unable to heal, unable to move on, unable to live life as she did: with zest, with joy. 

Yes, that hollow place exists. I don't deny it, nor do I deny that there is pain there sometimes, in the most unexpected of circumstances (like a smell, or a song, or a memory). I've learned to accept those as part of the never-ending process of grief, and I feel my feelings and honour her memory.

It didn't come easy. But it came. 

And I guess that if I had any words of comfort to you in your own hollow place, it's that the grief never stops BUT it changes shape. It heals as you move on ... and honour the empty place, as you let people love you in ways you can perceive. Moreover, it's possible to eventually help others with their hollow places because you know what it feels like, and you can allow space for them to feel what they feel and heal at their own pace. You can realize their hollow place isn't going to look like yours, necessarily, but the healing process is the same. Time is irrelevant. But it's LOVE that heals.

Fuzz Buzz

 Fuzz Buzz.

My husband has nicknames for all of us. I'm Pixie (usually; the other stuff is too personal). My daughter is Krysta Sockeroff (she kept kicking off her left sock as a baby.) The dog is either Fuzzybuddy or goo'bOY. And the cats? Let's see, our newest member (a grey British shorthair) is Little One or Pretty Girl; the other female (a tortie) is Fizz-bizz or Little Girl, and the oldest, Loki (a Bombay), now 8 years old, is (among other nicknames) Fuzz Buzz. 

When he first came to us in January 2014, at the age of 2 months or so, he looked like a black bottle brush. His hair was sparse around his ears and face, and stuck up all over him even though he was short-haired. His eyes were brilliant cornflower blue. (They are now yellowish green, and his coat is silky soft and majestic; he looks like a slender panther with a belly-wattle!) And as a kitten, he raced around here like a buzz saw, knocking over everything in his path. It took him very little time to cut through a room and leave toys and blankets and balled-up candy wrappers in his wake. 

And he's in his glory years now. Eight years old, he's much more sedate, far more regal, and definitely the Enforcer of the bunch (including the dog, whom he lets THINK he's in charge). 

Loki fully grown. 2014-12

 He is the heart and soul of our little menagerie. All of our cats are indoor cats. It's statistically proven that they live longer that way.

 Loki doesn't do much 'buzzing' anymore, unless he's chasing Eris (a.k.a 'Fizz-Bizz') especially in the spring and fall, for some reason. But we love him to distraction.

A few weeks ago he slipped outside in the middle of the night when the dog wanted outside to do his business. We were distraught!  

 He was missing for 3 days - we had his photo on LostPetsPEI, Facebook, on posters we printed off and posted on nearly every corner of our subdivision, and finally, FINally, Krysta found him at 1:30 in the morning, almost 3 days from the hour when he disappeared. We were overjoyed he was safe! Of course he didn't learn his lesson, but he was terrified under someone's deck not 75 yards away from our back door, not knowing how to get back inside.

A couple of days ago, he gagged on some plastic he was chewing. Krysta got it away from him, but his body had decided it was going to rebel. We're not sure what caused it, but he got a blockage in his small intestine. Such things can be fatal within days, so we are glad we got seen by a vet when it was still early. Right now he is under observation, and we're not sure if he will need surgery or if it will "pass." In the meantime, he's on IV fluids and they are trying to feed him. If he refuses ... it's another X-ray, then surgery. And a fairly long recovery (at least a week until the sutures heal plus more time for the belly muscles to reattach themselves to each other.) The vet bills are piling up and will soon need to be paid. We are looking at four figures here. He's worth it, but we aren't made of money (contrary to some people's beliefs about us). I have committed myself to spending at least $500.00 ... which I donated to the GoFundMe I set up). Anyway, all that to say that there is one thing that bothers me the most about being a pet owner.

Or should I say being owned by a pet?? 

It's this: having a pet is a lifelong commitment. You don't throw away a child; you don't throw away a pet when it becomes difficult to care for them. A pet is like a child; it becomes part of you, a member of your immediate family, a confidant, a friend, a hug-buddy, and a comforting and calming presence in your life. So when I hear someone say, "It's just an animal," I get irritated. Mostly because that's not my attitude AT ALL. But also because I could just as easily say of their offspring, "It's only a kid. You can make another one." How calloused is that!? So of COURSE I don't say that because I'm not that kind of person. ...  and I let what that person says roll off me because they just don't understand how important our fur-babies are to us.

My thoughts, my prayers, my positive declarations are for Fuzz-Buzz today. He's at the Crossroads Animal Health Centre (shameless plug for these dedicated people!) and I know he's in the best possible hands. 

Here's hoping I have good news by the end of the day. :)

The Power and the Price of Love

 "Mom. They took Tux off the shelter site." She was crestfallen.

"Really?" I tried to look surprised and concerned at the same time. 

"I'm really glad I went to meet him in person."

"So am I sweetie. So am I."

What she didn't know was that I had gone to the site and put in an adoption form for this cat she fell in love with from his picture and his story on the site, right after we went in to see him, "to prove to myself," she had told me, "that there won't be a connection with me in person."

But there was.

He was about 4 months old, and he had been at the shelter for two months. He was so shy and fearful that nobody wanted him. But my cat-whisperer daughter saw something in him. And we had just lost our older cat - perhaps to an eagle, we couldn't be sure.

His back story was heartbreaking. He had gotten stuck in the fan-belt of the engine of a summering snowmobile ... at just eight weeks old. His mom couldn't get him out so she abandoned him there. A neighbor was out walking and heard his cries, so she set about trying to get him out. The rescue process was long and tedious, and many hours later, the woman called the PEI Humane Society. An Animal Protection Officer came and helped free him from the belt. But the damage was already done: with so many hands coming down from above, the pain of being stuck, and the sight of work boots and sound of raised voices, he was traumatized and was a black and white bundle of hissing and spitting. 

They put him in a crate to transport him to the shelter. Then they transferred him into a cage in the receiving area, where they assessed him. After his quarantine, they transferred him to another crate to go to the vet to be neutered. Another crate to get back to the shelter. Then transferred into his cage, then to another cage to be available for adoption. Nope. A foster family took him in (more crates to and from) as well as another kitten about his age. He and his foster brother lived with a couple of large dogs and a couple of cats; he liked another cat that was there. When he was four months old, they took him back to the shelter (yet another crate). No method of transferring him to a crate worked. It just added more things to be afraid of: blankets, towels, clothing, you name it. 

But then my daughter saw his pic and read his story. And she fell head over heels for him. We went to see him (as I mentioned, above) and she had resigned herself to leaving him there. So unknown to her, I got the adoption ball rolling, and the conversation happened, the one I shared at the first of this post.

A few hours later, she got an email. She opened it and started to read. It was from a friend of hers at the shelter, who was thrilled that this cat would go to her and who was congratulating her! When the realization came that he was coming to live with us, and that was the reason they took his profile off the website, she was so happy that she cried.

We picked him up the next day. Poor kitty - still another crate experience.  My daughter took him to her room, where she had set up a litter box and a feeding station, and spent the next few weeks doing nothing else but teaching him that people were okay, that it was safe here, that he would be fine, that he was loved and that it felt good to get petted.

We all changed his name to Callum - which means peace - and it soon got shortened to Cal.

I remember the first time she allowed me into her room to give Cal someone else to interact with, to teach him that it wasn't just ONE human he could trust. She told me how to sit, what to do, and how to talk. Within minutes, his terror ebbed away, and I had a tuxedo-clad kitty rubbing up against me and purring. He drooled, but we figured that he had been rewarded with food for letting people handle him, so he associated being stroked with receiving food. He never got over that habit. After a while, it was one of the endearing things about him, as he got to know us all, including the other cats and eventually, last year, the dog. (Well, okay, he never really enjoyed the dog, but you can't have everything.)

There was a one-sided 'bromance' between him and our black cat Loki, who was about six months older than he was. The first time he saw Loki, he ran right up to him and head-butted him so hard it knocked Loki into the wall!! Loki was taken aback, and gave one short hiss - out of surprise more than anything else! 

He never knew his own strength. The largest of our cats, he was the resident scaredy-cat. So he let Loki rule the roost. And he and Eris (our female cat, around his age) played together. They'd play chase, take turns running after each other, and sometimes Loki would join in. When he finally stood up to Loki (after Loki had been picking on him too much), the fur flew, but Loki respected him more after that. 

And so did the dog - he had to swat at Bullet a few times before the dog got the message.

Cal at about a year old, 2015

Cal was a big fella. He was gangly and big-boned, clumsy and a little lumbering, but his heart was as big as all Texas, as the saying goes. 

His favorite piece of furniture was our bed. He would sprawl out on the bed and lay on his side and his older (adopted) brother Loki would lay within three feet of him. They would stay there all day. And when they weren't there, they were on the cat tree (the ledge of which he is laying down on in the picture provided.) Being up high increased his confidence. He learned that he had a right to take up space, and we saw him slowly heal from his traumatic kittenhood. It was so inspiring to watch! "This," we would mutter, "is what love can do. So powerful. Just love. Pure and simple." 

Last Friday, he started to have a hard time breathing. We thought he was trying to cough up a hairball, but he was doing it more and more often. By yesterday morning, we knew we had to call the emergency room vet. They took us right away. Apparently (we had no idea) breathing problems are equivalent to an animal being hit by a car when it comes to deciding which cases are most urgent.

They calmed him with medications, did an X-ray, and then showed us what the problem was. His chest cavity was filled with fluid, which was compressing his lungs and making it really hard for him to breathe. We saw two little black blobs on the X-ray ... the size and appearance of prunes. The vet explained. "Those are his lungs. All this white stuff in the rest of the chest cavity is fluid. It's pressing in on his lungs and there's not enough room for him to get a full breath." So she recommended taking a good bit of that fluid out to make his breathing easier, and testing the fluid to see what the cause of his problem might be. Not all of it, she said, because the risk of a collapsed lung was more if they took it all out. So we consented. They gave him some intravenous liquids and put in some anti-nausea medication. We brought him back home around 4 pm. Dr. Marlene is AMAZING. Just saying.

That night, after he had found a hiding spot under my side of the bed, Cal managed to eat some tuna (his favorite), and drink a little water. He stayed there all night. The family gathered in the living room and talked. We all knew it was just a matter of time. If he got worse, we couldn't keep subjecting him to that crate and to the interventions of strangers.

There were many tears. Nobody got much sleep that night.

I checked on him in the morning. He had stopped panting, so I thought he was doing better. I petted him; he purred. His breathing was still too fast, but I went forward with my plans for the day, which included meeting a friend for an early-afternoon coffee nearby. I took my phone with me "just in case you guys need to go back to the vet with him." I made it clear that I wanted to be there too. All they had to do was call.

I got that call around 2:30, while I was finishing up coffee with my friend. "I'll meet you there," I told my daughter. 

When we got inside, I checked on him inside the crate (again with the crate!!)  He was in clear distress, panting open-mouthed and slavering. Strings of drool hung from the sides of his mouth. I saw panic in his eyes. The vet met us shortly and immediately took him back into ICU. They started an IV and put him on oxygen. 

That's when we had the "quality of life" conversation with the vet. 

The next hour or so was a blur. Lots of waiting for medications to kick in so he would be more calm. Long minutes of petting him and saying our goodbyes. Tears. Hugs. More pets. Then the vet came in with the needles - 3 of them (sedation, an agent to stop the heart, and saline solution to go into the vein after the deed was done to avoid blood leaking out when they took out the IV.) Everything was designed for maximum comfort, minimum stress for both us and him. The vet was great: respectful, compassionate, and knowledgeable.

While we were waiting for them to do the paw-print, the vet from the previous day, who had dropped by because she had 'forgotten' her notes, came in to see us and express her sadness at how things turned out. What a blessing! We had the unique opportunity to thank her for everything she did to ease his discomfort and make him as calm as possible. She had been his vet when he was younger, and that made it easier to talk to her about him, and to share memories ... the scene reminded me of a funeral home in a way. 

Yes. Yes, she cried. It meant a lot to her for us to thank her. I'm so glad we got a chance to do that. Vets don't get a lot of thanks. They should.