And counting...

Well, it's finally here. 

Three hundred and sixty-four days ago, on the evening of the day we found out about her passing, we had no clue that we'd have made it this far. "The day the police came" is now family code for the day our lives turned upside down with the sudden death of our little girl at the tender age of 21 years. 

I've written so much about her here on this blog that no doubt you feel that you know her; that was my intent. To know her is to be changed by her. She was - and is - a force of nature. Learning her story is transformational. Telling it reminds me of the things she taught me just by being herself and going to the mat for people. 

The past year has been one I've spent counting. Counting the days at first ... six days since she passed. Ten. Twelve. (Every Wednesday was agony. The sleep wouldn't come until after 1 a.m. most nights.) Then I counted the weeks - two, three, four, five, six... thirteen - interspersed with months... each one seemed to drag by until it was over and then I would look back and say, "I can't believe it's been four months." Or six. Or eight. 

A trusted friend, one I've known now for 13 years, told me at the beginning of this process that the time would come when I'd stop counting the weeks, stop noticing it was Wednesday. 

I didn't believe him. 

But he was mostly right. Time has a way of ticking away and the tyranny of the urgent sometimes becomes a bit of a comfort; busy-ness can sometimes get one's mind off things and give it a bit of a break from the harsh realities of loss. 

But it doesn't diminish its intensity. 

What has healed me most has been the love and loving expressions of support and friendship that I've experienced - at first in a flood back last fall, and more lately in odd comments that this one or that one will make - comments that remind me that people haven't forgotten. They haven't forgotten me, my family, and best of all, they haven't forgotten her. 

This is the counting that - for the most part - I have taken to doing now. I count the expressions of love, the kind deeds (like the apple someone brought me today because she heard that I liked one once in a while and because she knew it was a tough day), the emails and Facebook chats, the posts on her wall and on mine - the snowflakes left on her stone today from three special people ... and the list goes on, and on, and on. 

These are the things I count now. Time does march on ... but love brings music and gratitude and peace. I count friends ... friends who sincerely care and who show it, as she did. I count remembrances of her. I count friends of hers who loved her dearly and who now - for reasons I can't quite explain - love me too. I count songs that she loved or that remind me of her personality or her beauty or her feisty in-your-face defense of her friends - or her ability to make others laugh... sometimes just by bursting out laughing long and loud and strong ... for no reason at all. And her laugh was so contagious. So very contagious. Even when I was angry at her, I couldn't help laughing with her.

Days like today are very hard. I won't deny it. But as love goes on and on, I am not counting the days ... but the signs of life that I see springing up where she has walked. The changed lives, the transformed attitudes, the seeds of hope and faith and love she planted that are now bearing fruit: these are the things that I count. 

Because THEY count.



Oh!  PS: This was actually one video that Arielle texted to me, but my cell phone broke it into two videos. It was created around the first of September 2013, about six weeks before she passed away. I've been waiting for the right time to share it with my readers. This seemed like a good time.  I apologize for any poor picture quality.

Part 1:

aaaand part 2. 

Aloha

Aloha is a Hawaiian word. 
It means goodbye.
It also means hello.

This has been an intense week at our house. 

Monday night, our 13-year-old cat, Angel, disappeared ... never to return. We looked everywhere, scoured the neighbourhood for her, shaking her treat bag and calling for her, shining a flashlight under trees, behind bushes, into culverts. No sign of a body or of her.

We were about 75% sure that night that she wasn't coming back. It was just so opposite to "everything that was Angel" for her not to come trotting purposefully toward us when we shook the treat bag and called out her name. Over the course of the next few days, we began to be more and more certain that she would never return. Grief has been coming in waves, combined with the mental anguish of not knowing how it happened. Or how quickly. Or whether she was afraid. (shudder). 

Angel  -  June 2013

We've been saying goodbye ever since, in bits and pieces, in habits we find ourselves repeating (like looking outside for her when we go to the door) when we know ... that there's no need anymore. 

Aloha Angel.

We weren't the only ones moping around. Our kitten Loki (9 months old) has been unusually quiet the last few days. He misses having her around to play with - not that Angel ever allowed it, but he sure tried! - and now that she is gone, he has spent a lot more time sleeping. And he's taken to watching the door where he last saw her through the glass. 

The turning point came for me last night when we were chatting and our daughter said, "I am tired of talking about death. I want to concentrate on life." 

So today, we went to the shelter to find a companion for Loki. And ... yes, for us.

She had newly been put up for adoption we saw her - not even two pounds and looking enough like Angel that at first glance, I gasped and my eyes stung with tears. The differences became obvious afterward, of course. But as we spent more time with her, we began to see how well she could fit in with our family. And even in that short time, hearts began to heal.

Playing with her allowed us to get a glimpse of her zany yet demure personality; it has earned her the name "Eris" (pronounced AIR-ess) after the Greek goddess of chaos. It suits her. ;) 

So adoption papers were filled out. And the kitten will remain there until she is ready to be homed - she'll need to be spayed and that can't happen for another week, because they have to be at least a certain weight when that happens.

So, probably around the 18th to the 20th of August, we'll be bringing home a little sister for Loki (named, incidentally, after the Norse god of mischief. Do I sense a theme here? LOL) ... and in between, I imagine we'll be visiting her as she waits to get big enough to come home.

Aloha, Eris.

Motherhood, Monsterhood, and Mercy

I get a little testy this time of year. Mother's Day isn't a happy day for me.

Those of you who know me well know that my upbringing was one of those things that on the surface, looked really good ... unless you lived inside the four walls of my home. Motherhood sometimes looked like washing my face and hands when I was sick, making our favorite meals on our birthdays, singing together in the car, and many other meaningful memories. 

But motherhood so easily morphed into monsterhood. And I never knew when I might push that switch that made mother into monster. Because I knew, as sure as I knew my own name, that it must be my fault. Because she told me it was while she was beating me. And then she'd show me the bruises on her hands and blame me for hurting her with my misbehaviour. It was sick and twisted and yet, I thought everyone went through this. So I never bothered questioning it. And I deluded myself into thinking I had it pretty good.

Drawing "Sketch Of Woman Crying" courtesy of
luigi diamanti at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

For quite a few years, once I actually admitted to myself that it all happened (denial can be an idyllic place sometimes) I was very angry. I firmly believed that Mother's Day was a farce, a cruel joke played on those who had monsters for mothers. And quite frankly, for years I robbed my children of the joy of honouring me as their mother because ... because I couldn't honour mine. That part of me was too hurt, too wounded. I got to the place where I WANTED to forgive her. But I couldn't. It just wasn't in me. 

I thought (because I was raised to think this) that forgiveness was sweeping it all under the rug, saying, "Oh that's all right." That it was making excuses, like what happened wasn't really all that bad. And I couldn't bring myself to believe that it wasn't "all that bad." Because it WAS. Nobody would believe me - and many people still don't - but living life in a war zone on constant air-raid status and never knowing when a physical ambush was going to happen, or when an emotional atom bomb was going to drop ... is considered a "type A stressor" - one of the chief elements in the development of  Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD). And yes, I do have some symptoms of that illness.

And then, 5 years ago, I got into therapy. That was the beginning. Through the course of the next several months, I learned what forgiveness was, what it wasn't, and how to do it. (Mind you, DOING it took some time and in some areas, it's still going on!) I learned that forgiveness is a process. That it is okay to say something is wrong even after you forgive the act, because forgiveness is meaningless unless the act it forgives was wrong in the first place! I learned that it is okay to not put yourself in a position to be hurt by that person in that way again ... because forgiveness does not require the person being forgiven to change or even to be sorry!! The hardest forgiveness to grant is when the person doesn't change, will never change, and calls you a liar for suggesting he or she even did something wrong. And other people believe that person because ... because they don't want to believe that he or she could do something that heinous. It would change the way they think about that person, and they aren't willing to "go there." So instead, they judge you.

Mercy, according to a popular definition, is not treating someone the nasty way they deserve to be treated, but rather, being kind to that person. 

Mercy is the end result of forgiveness. Notice I said the END result. The beginning - for humans - isn't quite so pretty. And neither is the middle. Nobody wants to talk about those parts because they're messy. There are a lot of unresolved emotions and unpleasant feelings. But they are necessary feelings. Everyone wants to hear about the end result, the kindness you are able to show to someone who has made it their life's work to screw you up, all the time believing she was "raising you right." It's hard to be in the middle of dealing with that and tell someone you are going through a "forgiveness process" and having that person look at you like you have three heads. "Just forgive her," is the unspoken attitude. "Just make the decision and do it." But - like I said - the decision is only the first step. The feelings are still there and they need to be validated, experienced (not suppressed), processed, and then let go. The whole process is long and laborious - yes, hard work.

But it is possible. And it takes time.

Last year, as Mother's Day dawned, I pretty much "shut down." I isolated: I holed up at home and didn't go out all day. It was a horrible feeling, watching others (on Facebook) lauding their mothers and knowing that I never could ... not in that way ... and I was thoroughly miserable. My kids and my husband figuratively tiptoed around and barely even dared mentioning to me that it was Mother's Day. I'd gotten to forgiveness, but ... I hadn't gotten to a place of mercy. I wasn't trying to make her pay me back anymore. But I wasn't actively being kind either.

And then ... my youngest daughter died about five months after that. Perspectives changed; a LOT of perspectives changed. Miracles happened - in relationships, mostly. And I got to do a lot of thinking about that next step: mercy. I'd been so stuck on proving that there was monsterhood ... that I didn't realize that the way back to celebrating motherhood again was through mercy. 

So this year, I'm planning a little trip to visit an old woman who has forgotten most of what she put me through, and who feels justified in all of it. And I'll take a little gift for her to remember her (now deceased) mother and her grandmother by: a little corsage of two white carnations to wear in their honour (a tradition where I grew up) to Sunday morning church on the second Sunday of May. 

And oh yes. I'm also having a corsage made for me - with a white carnation and a red one - the first to honour my grandmother and the second ... my mother.

It's a start.

Living Grief

My dad had a stroke in January 1989, when he was 63. I was 28 and had just learned that I was pregnant with our first child. Neither he nor my mom knew that I was pregnant.

The stroke changed him; it changed who he was. He'd always prided himself on not showing his emotions to anyone else. He lost about half the use of his left arm and leg, which was bad enough, but what he lost most was his emotional control, and his ability to sing. Slowly, over the next three years, he lost more and more of his memory. My children never knew the man that I knew growing up. I grieved that they'd never benefit from his wisdom, or hear his comedic timing when he told a joke, or see him "in action" when he was pranking one of my uncles or acting the fool with people who came to the house.

Mom and Dad - 1984

 
In fact, I felt abandoned - like I had lost my father when he had the stroke - because before me was this man I didn't know, in many ways the very opposite of the one I knew. He was impulsive, unreserved, would blurt things out no matter where he was or who he was with. 

It took me several months to work through the sadness I felt. And then, one day, my mother got sick and had to be hospitalized for a couple of weeks. She was afraid to leave him on his own and she asked me if I would stay with him. 

So I did. 

In those two weeks, I determined to get to know the man in front of me, to know what he was like.... and I learned that there were things about this fellow who used to be my dad, that I never knew about my dad when I was growing up. I learned how soft-hearted he was; he would burst into tears if he was moved. I appreciated how frustrated he was that his body wouldn't do what he wanted it to do, that his voice couldn't make notes anymore - he had been able to sing, rich deep bass notes. He could enjoy good music still, but that he couldn't sing the notes tore at him. I remember just stopping him as he was berating himself for not being able to get dressed after he used the washroom, and I just reached down without looking and buttoned his pants and buckled his belt for him. The gratitude in his eyes is not something I'll forget.

I learned that he could cook!! He always let my mom cook when I was growing up. He had the most wonderful belly-laugh and he laughed .... a lot. And his love came shining through. All those things I thought I had lost were still there. They just took a different form. Those two weeks gave me a gift: the gift of my father without all the defenses he put up over the years to hold himself in check. It showed me what he was really like inside, and truth be told, I liked this guy just as much as I had loved my pre-stroke dad.


As time went on, though, my mother began to suspect that he had a memory problem. 

He'd always had a problem remembering people's names; we used to joke about him calling someone "Whassisname" ... but this was different. Someone would ask a question and he'd start to answer, get confused, and look to my mother to get direction. She'd answer the question for him. 

Finally, because he wouldn't make an appointment for himself with a doctor, Mom made one and took him in. It was October 1, 1993.

The doctor asked him three questions: 
(1) Do you know where you are? (after looking around ... "Uhhh, hospital?")
(2) Do you know what day it is? ("Wednesday...")
(3) Do you know what year it is? (He looked at my mother. He didn't know.)

The doctor sent him for an immediate CT scan. It revealed that he had widespread brain cancer. Inoperable. He had a matter of weeks left. 

They set up a hospital bed at home and for a month he stayed in that bed using a bedpan. Then he developed a bedsore and was admitted to hospital. To palliative care. 

From that point, he went downhill fast. I visited as often as I was able. My mother almost never left his side. 

Week to week, I could see the deterioration as the cancer continued to spread unhindered. He lost his appetite. Pain - deep, nerve pain - wracked his body and the doctors prescribed morphine. He lost weight. The pain was so bad that he would moan and cry out for his "Mama" - who had died in 1974. He regressed. He didn't recognize his children. It was so very hard to watch ... the only parent I had that I absolutely knew loved me unconditionally ... and I saw him slipping away and there was nothing I could do to bring him back. 

I knew that he was nearing the end. The morphine injections weren't doing the trick so they put him on a slow drip. Gradually they increased the dose. 

I grabbed his hand and held it, about four days (as it turned out) before he passed away, and I told him the story of the first, last, and only time he had taken me fishing. I told him how he had taken me in the boat, how he put the bait on the hook, how he taught me to cast and to "set" the hook in the fish's mouth, and how he taught me to reel the fish in. And then how I strutted back into the house and told my mom that I'd caught the biggest fish. "You never took me fishing again, Dad, and I don't blame you. Not one bit. And I just wanted to apologize to you. I'm so sorry, Dad." 

He smiled at me, looking at me like I was some kind soul he didn't know but appreciated nonetheless.  "Tell me another story," he said dreamily.

Those were the last words I heard him speak. 

I never wanted him back after he left. Not if it meant that he would go back to being in that much pain. The first image in my mind when I learned that he had passed was of him striding confidently through a meadow of flowers, swinging his arms in the prime of life, singing in that deep bass voice at the top of his lungs with all the joy I knew he had in him - happy and free of pain.
 
 ~~~~~~~~~~~

They say that time heals all wounds. In a sense I guess it does. At least the callouses get a little thicker. I won't say that the hurt goes away, because it doesn't. At times it is just as fresh as the first day. There are times I want so much for him to hold me in his arms and tell me one more time that everything is going to be okay. I miss him so much! 

I comfort myself now with the fact that the granddaughter that never knew him, the one who told me how much she wanted to meet him someday because I'd talked about him so much that she thought she knew him, is now keeping company with him. It helps a bit to know that they have each other to spend time with, while we wait to join them. 

For us it will be a lifetime. For them - they will have just gotten there when we arrive.

Every Snowflake Counts

"Whooopeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeeee!!!" I would hear as the door banged and her kitbag hit the floor. 

Then the door would bang and she would be off playing until supper, charging her emotional battery with social contact with everyone in the neighbourhood. 

She was "more."  More sensitive, more demanding, more fun, more intuitive, more compassionate, more comical, more ... everything. Many were the times she cried when someone else cried because it hurt her to see people sad. She could laugh longer and louder and harder than anyone I have ever known, and you'd find yourself laughing in spite of yourself, wondering what the joke even was. 

When she was about six years old, after a few snowfalls where her dad had gone out to shovel yet another foot of "partially cloudy" off the driveway, she decided to get dressed and go out to help him. She got me to help her on with her snowsuit, shoved her boots and mitts on, and with all those extra layers toddled down the stairs like some pink Michelin-tire man on his way to a rescue mission. Her dad handed her the lightest shovel and she worked beside him until she was out of wind, her face beet-red under her scarf. The little muscles were so sore and she was so tired and sweaty that she had to give up. In frustration, she started to cry. When her father asked her why, she replied, "Because I wanted to HELP you!!" 

"That's okay, honey," he said to her. "You DID help me. You really did. The snow you shoveled, every single bit of work you did, is less snow that I need to shovel. I appreciate everything you did. Because every snowflake counts."  

She burst into tears and fled into the house. 

What he didn't know was why she cried. She told me because I asked her, and she told me with tears streaming down her face!! It meant so much to her for him to say that. She never forgot it, and from then on, it became her motto. 

Someone would be frustrated with doing homework. Or trying to help with dishes, or baking, or raking leaves. Or trying to make someone understand. Or whatever. 

"Every snowflake counts," she would say to them. 

This past June, after many failed attempts to make a life for herself here, she decided to go to Alberta, to the 'land of opportunity' - or so the myth goes. It's great for someone with a high school education and someone out there with whom to stay while they got on their feet. She had neither. 

The only things she had were the clothes and supplies she took with her, a few hundred dollars from her parents to pay for gasoline, her computer, and her phone. That phone would be a lifeline between her and home, an anchor when times got rough - for her and for us. 

We texted. A LOT. Every day, several times a day. I footed the bill for her to get a 2nd hand car. At least she had transportation, and for a time, a job.

There is more to her story; I don't need to tell it all here. (Other parts are found on my other blog, http://idol-smashing.blogspot.com ) All you need to know is that on September 19, a little over a month ago, she was evicted from the place she was staying after her landlady kicked her out for breaking house rules. She found herself out on the street that night, living in her car. 

For a month she was homeless. She kept in touch with us, charging her phone in her car, living hand to mouth, with regular influx of cash from me to keep the car gassed up in order to survive and be somewhat safe. So many tried to help her; she was afraid to get help thinking that she would have her phone stolen, or someone would hurt her or try to separate her from her boyfriend whom she met up there. 

Two nights ago, she had run out of funds again. I'd given her some money Sunday night to get herself a cheap motel room. She had felt so refreshed the following day and yet had to sleep in her car again Monday night. So Tuesday evening she asked me for money so she could have a motel for the night again. She had an apartment viewing the following morning and wanted to be rested for it, showered, looking her best. 

I sent it to her.

She was so pleased, so relieved. She thanked me profusely. In the short text conversation that followed, she told me, "I'm so tired of this life (she meant lifestyle) Mom. I just want a home."

She had claimed the funds and was on her way driving to a suburb of Edmonton that night (for a cheaper rate in motels) when she swerved suddenly away from the side of the road and crossing the center line. Her fender clipped the fender of a pickup truck, knocking him off the road (the driver was fine). But there was a van right behind him - and they never saw her until it was too late. 

She was killed instantly on impact. 

Her boyfriend escaped - miraculously - with his life. He had a busted ankle and a compound fracture of the lower leg. Of the three people in the van that her car hit, only one had serious injuries - but thankfully was not paralyzed. 

The police came to our door yesterday around 1 pm with the news. When they had left, my husband called me.

What happened next was a flurry of activity. I was aware of people standing around me as I cried out loud. Kind hands led me to my manager's office. Someone made a phone call for me. Someone else met my husband at the door and people drove us home. We were held, hugged, supported, loved. And fed. Even though we didn't feel like eating. We still don't. Still the food comes, and with it, expressions of concern, caring, loving concern.

It all heals. All of it. 

Before I say what I have to say next, let me say this. I've heard people say to me that God took Arielle. 

THAT IS NOT TRUE. God DIDN'T take her. He would not be so cruel as to TAKE her away from us.

He welcomed her. He welcomed her HOME. Not the home she was expecting of course. Not the home ANY of us were expecting.

But BETTER. Safer. More permanent. 

Last spring, before she left for Alberta.
At breakfast - on Saturday morning.
Arielle. My belle.
1992-07-16 to 2013-10-22

I have two more things to say. Two things only. 

The first is that a day and a half before she was evicted, our little girl had a personal encounter with God - so real and so powerful that it transformed her heart and made her not feel lonely or alone, for the first time in her life. She was that excited about it!!  She couldn't wait to tell us about it. She told her story to me, then to her father, and then to our dear friend Dorothy, who had been her babysitter and a second mom to her when she was growing up. And it was REAL. We could tell. This was no passing fancy. This was whole. True. Pure. 

I can't say it changed her, not in a way that denied who she was.  But it was MORE. It burned away the impurities. It refined her, strengthened her faith, and turned the direction of her life around. Something that had only been a glimmer or a spark in her growing up burst into flame and became a luminous beacon that sustained her (and, truth be told, US) throughout that last month or so of her life. She got a job. She was on the upswing in her life.

The second thing I have to say is this. You may feel that what you are saying or doing to support us, the seemingly feeble and trite words that you think you are offering, do very little to help. You may feel helpless, powerless in the face of such tragedy. I know because I've felt those same feelings in my life when having to comfort someone who has known similar circumstances. 

And now I'm on the other side of the equation.  
And I am telling you THIS.

You have no idea the power that those little actions, those little words, those inbox messages, those Facebook comments, those hugs and well-wishes, what they all mean. You have simply no idea unless you've been there. But even if you don't have that experience (and I would not wish it on my worst enemy!!) YOU NEED to hear my words and know this deep in your hearts.

What she said to us, I now say to you.

Every. Snowflake. Counts.

Across the Bridge

She rode between my knees in the vehicle, and didn't even go to the window to look out. Standing on her back legs would have been too painful for her, I thought to myself. And it was one of her favorite things to do when she went for a ride.

Hubby slowed and stopped, pulling over by the side of the road. I unhooked my seat-belt and opened the door, and got out. She didn't hear me; normally she'd be out before I was. 

She got out of the van, half-excited, half in discomfort (adrenaline can mask pain) and I tightened the leash and closed the van door. I waved goodbye to my husband; he had another errand to run and would pick me up after.

After. I tried not to think about after. All that mattered was now. 

Slowly, leisurely, even amid spits of rain, we sauntered up the long lane, lined on both sides with shade trees, grass, and all kinds of mixed wild flowers.

Raspberry canes had begun to bud already. I looked at them as we passed slowly by; their prickles were glistening in the morning's rain shower. The faint scent of raspberry blossoms not yet opened greeted me as I would stop when she stopped to explore a scent trail. After all, her sense of smell was almost the last one she had left completely intact. 

I thought of earlier times. Times when I'd have to call her back as a young dog from the neighboring field because she'd followed a scent trail out there and didn't quite know where we were or have the sense to follow her own trail back. Times when we'd scratch her just above the base of her tail and when we were done, she'd chase that tail and catch it ... and keep going round and round. We'd call her "bagel dog" because that was the shape her body made. Times when we'd be sweeping the floor and find one of those orange hockey balls she loved (and chewed on) so much. We'd throw the ball and she'd go racing after it, trotting back with it to us, and we'd have to take it out of her mouth because she wouldn't drop it unless we grabbed it first. Just two throws and the ball would be covered in dog saliva ... so we called the game "slime ball." She loved that game. As time went on and she was less able to run, she even learned to throw the ball for herself, watch it roll down the hallway and then trot after it.

A spit of rain managed to get past my glasses. It awakened me from my trip down memory lane and brought me back to the moment, on this our final walk. She was sniffing at some grass, and she nosed under some branches to get to the next patch of grass.

Among the foliage at the base in between the birches and beeches, I spotted first one, then a few, then several bunch-berry plants, the kind I used to call "trillium" ... until I knew what real trillium looked like. No, these had four smaller white petals in the center of a cluster of six much broader, green leaves. By the side of the lane, to my surprise, I saw a few late wild strawberry blossoms. Most of the flowers had dropped off most of the plants, but there were a few late bloomers amid the developing green fruit. A couple of them had flowered early, and had almost fully grown and ripened. I stopped to pick them, and tossed them gently into the greenery farther back, to start even more wild strawberry plants; I wasn't hungry. 

She was enjoying the moment. Her tail wagged a little as she smelled each new smell.

As we got closer to our destination, she hesitated more. Perhaps it was the smell of spilled oil in the parking lot that deterred her. I got her past the rainbow-streaks in that area and let her explore the front lawn of the clinic. She squatted a couple of times. It wasn't raining hard enough for her to feel like shaking off the water. 

Amid the budding "devil's paintbrush" at the top of the lane (dandelion-like flowers with multiple blooms on the same stem) I spied one lone buttercup, fully opened, symbol to me of promise and rest. They don't usually come out until July. 

Finally, after one final squat, I led Shari to the door of the clinic. 

The staff were very kind. They gave us as much time as we needed, and in their mercy gave me the paperwork to fill out beforehand rather than afterward. 

Afterward, I would be in no shape to sign papers and pay the bill. 

"Who's all in today?" I made conversation with the new girl behind the desk. "Doctor A____," she said, and Anne-Marie." 

That was such a relief for me. Anne-Marie had been there as a receptionist the first time we needed the vet's services back in the year 2000 for Shari's bladder stone surgery. Through the course of time she became the vet's assistant, and a competent and compassionate one. Though I knew this was hard for her too, I was glad she was there - a familiar face at the end.  

It made this just a tiny bit easier to bear. 

A few minutes later, Anne-Marie came out and we chatted. I told her how this had just crept up on us slowly and how the dog wasn't even asking to go out anymore; she was just doing her business wherever she wanted to inside the house. That, together with the growing discomfort in her joints, the digestive upsets, the deafness, the cataracts, the fatty tumors that pressed in on her heart and made her cough at the least excitement or exertion, the seizure she had two months ago, and the "doddering" she did when standing still (her head would "bobble" slightly), we could tell that her quality of life was starting to get really poor and that it would only get worse. 

"Yes," she agreed with me. "When they don't even bother asking to go out anymore, it's time." Her eyes filled with tears. So did mine. 

She asked me if I wanted Shari's collar and leash; I did. She switched out the collar and leash with one of theirs, handed me our set, took Shari in her arms - there was little if any struggle (unusual for her) - and carried her into the back. After having been present at Cody's final trip, I knew there was no way I could handle that experience again. I was so grateful that Anne-Marie was there.

Five minutes later, it was done. I know that the last thing she knew at the end was the touch of a compassionate hand. That meant a lot to me. 

A few minutes later, hubby was back from his errand, and he took the box containing her remains back to the van. We passed the return trip mostly in silence, only talking about anything but what had just taken place. 

I remember reading a book once by John Eldredge on the day-to-day relationship with God - it was the chronicle of just one year in his life. In the book, he described the relationship between himself and his dog, a golden retriever who loved to play ball - except he would never want to let go of the ball when he brought it back. The time came for him to say goodbye to his furry friend, and family and friends gathered with him at his home while the vet administered the final dose. At the moment of the dog's passing, even though the dog made no sound, two in the circle of friends heard a dog's bark. And then one of the friends got a strange, perplexed look on his face, turned to Mr. Eldredge and said, "I just got some words - I think they're supposed to be for you, John." 

"What are they?" John asked. 

"I'm not sure what this means, but I hear the words, 'He won't let go of the ball.' " 

That's one more reason why I know she went across Rainbow Bridge - and that as I write this, even now she is playing slime-ball.

Shari inviting me for a game of slime-ball

  And she won't let go, either.

Those who matter

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

This quote is incorrectly attributed to Dr. Seuss. The portion in quotation marks was spoken by Bernard Mannes Baruch (presidential advisor to Wilson and Roosevelt) regarding whether he wanted any special seating arrangements at a banquet.

In my previous post, I opened myself up to scrutiny by those of you who still read my blog... and I will admit that when I clicked "publish" ... it was with fear and trembling, even dread of being judged - much more so when I submitted it to the one who issued the challenge about which I spoke, since I have 15 followers and she has over 300. (Gulp.) 

I will also admit that I care - even after three and a half years of recovery from such things - far too much about what people think of me. Being human, I like to be liked.  I am (just like the rest of the world) hard-wired for connection. As much rejection and abandonment as I have known in my life, it still hurts to be excluded, ignored, or passed over - for whatever reason.  

But it's slowly dawning on me, this radical truth of "those who matter don't mind, and those who mind don't matter."  Married with the idea that "friends are God's way of apologizing to you for your family," I'm beginning to see that it's the heart connections that matter - whether those are blood ties or not.  That the support and encouragement of true friends ... trumps the pettiness and poison of those other toxic relationships, whether they are with family or not.  Every time.  I have a few such golden friends.  I value them ... I treasure them more than I can begin to express. And I can express a LOT.  ;)

As I was saying, when I submitted that blog post to my fellow-blogger for inclusion on her site ... it was with much fear and trembling.  I felt exposed, raw, vulnerable to attack. I think I even said to myself, "NOW what have I done?"  

Yet I was curious (morbidly or not) to know what my fellow-blogger thought.  I kept watching my inbox.

Nothing came.

HERE is a great article on hugging!

A few hours later, I once again checked my inbox.  Nothing was in there, but there was something sitting in my Spam folder.  "I wonder..." I said, for sometimes my email server mistakes real communication for spam.  

Sure enough, there it was, an email from Ellie.  And in the first two sentences, I was brimming with tears, which gradually turned to sobbing in gratitude and love by the end.  I won't tell you exactly what she told me -  but suffice to say that it started with a desire to hug me - and contained some of the most encouraging and uplifting affirmations I have heard in a very long time.  

I've already lost count of the number of times I've gone back to that email to read those incredible, supportive words, to feel that warm blanket of acceptance and kindness and trustworthiness enfolding me.  Ellie reached out to me across the miles, even though we've never met in person, to remind me of what is important -- and of what isn't. 

Her words made (and make) me feel ... heard.  Understood.  Even important, and not in an arrogant kind of way, but in the way every human being needs to feel valued.  Worthy.  Safe.  They gave me the courage to lean into, to make peace with, even to embrace, the truth of my birth family's rejection of me.  They gave me access to the Strength to do what I need to do - whatever that is - to accept "what is" ... and to move on.  They gave me enough wisdom to discern who are "those who matter" and who are "those who mind" - and enough security and whole-heartedness to embrace the former and to walk away from the latter.  As difficult as that is (and will be) it is also quite liberating.

I don't have to prove anything to anyone.  
I don't have to justify anything to anyone.  

I just need to look after what (and who) matters ... and leave the rest alone, because it's out of my hands.  If it was ever there in the first place, that is.

The soft underbelly

I just finished reading a post by my friend and fellow-blogger Ellie at One Crafty Mother, a post which has spurred me to talk about something that I don't often discuss. Especially not in a public forum.

Here is her challenge:

I want to issue you a challenge.  I want you to think of a moment, or period in your life (maybe it's still happening - even better) where you were feeling shame and vulnerability.  There is a difference between shame and guilt - just to clarify - shame is feeling badly about who you are, guilt is feeling badly for something you've done.   Vulnerability is that feeling we have when we've placed too much power in the opinions of others (oh, if they only knew how _______ I am) and shame and vulnerability feed off each other in very toxic ways.

Once you've identified a time when you have (or are) experiencing shame and vulnerability (almost always accompanied by their evil cousin fear) - I want you to write about it.  If you don't have a blog, crack out pen and paper, or a word document, and just let it pour out.  Try, if you, can, to write about it in narrative form.  Close your eyes, picture yourself in that moment, or in that period of your life, and write it like a story.  Tell the truth, every part of it, especially the little nuggets of shame, fear or guilt you've mentally edited out because thinking about them makes you feel small.

Talk about your inner shame dialogue; what did it tell you? How did it make you feel?  Writing about it - seeing your words out there - will take a lot of the power out of what is, essentially, holding you hostage.  I promise.

I must admit I'm a little daunted.  Especially because the first thing that popped into my head was something that I'm still going through and which I don't see any way out of except through it.  (Wow. That sounds familiar.)  But ... there's something that resonates in me with this concept - that truth makes people free, even if it's not pretty. That ugly things like shame and evil lose their power when brought into the light, when their soft underbelly is exposed.  

So ... here goes.

Many of you know that last fall, I e-published a book about my journey from the bondage of control-freaking and door-mat-itis into a lifestyle of freedom, passion, and purpose. It was a huge deal for me to have made the journey, and I wanted to write about it! 

The response I've received has been rather sporadic, actually - definitely not what I had hoped.  To be sure, I didn't expect to make much money from it; it was something that I wanted to do so that if even one person is helped by it, then it would be worth it. But I had thought I would receive just a smidgen more recognition than the large round of indifference I've gotten.  

Except from one quarter: my birth family and extended family, and anyone who is friends with them.  

For, you see, I did mention a couple of members of my family-of-origin in the book a couple of times.  I did so to highlight the "before" picture and some of the things I went through to be free of the things certain people did and said to me: things which scarred me my whole life long.  I took great care not to make that the focus, though.  I wanted to talk about the "unwrapping" that happened as a result of a day-by-day relationship with God, with myself, and finally with others.  (For more information on the book, see my "About Me" page.)

But by talking about their part in it even once, I broke the cardinal rule that was hammered into my psyche as a child: "What happens here STAYS here - we don't talk about it outside these four walls." 

I found this photo at THIS SITE

The truth about my childhood has always been a source of great shame for me.  I always thought - until I was well into my forties - that if anyone knew that I was abused as a child, they'd not want to have anything to do with me.  I'd lose everything.  Fear had me by the throat.  I thought people would blame me.  I thought that my family would disown me.  I thought that I would never be able to look anyone in the eye again.

But for the most part, people outside of my birth family have been kind, if not just tolerant. And I've experienced a great deal of healing from those traumatic experiences.

Yet, I am still ashamed.  Not for the horrors of what happened to me - God has healed me from that shame - but for telling the truth.  Ashamed for (even though it is the last thing I intended) appearing to be disloyal, ungrateful, vindictive.  For exposing the deception and no longer keeping "our little secret." For being honest ... and being called a liar. For having my motives judged and for not being able to explain to their satisfaction why I would cast such a shadow on the reputation of someone who - to friends and family - is the closest thing to a saint that they've ever seen.  

I wish I could say that it's been resolved. That would be nice, nice and pretty, all tied up in a bow and a "wonderful testimony."  But it hasn't.  This is a process.  I struggle with these feelings of shame, of feeling exposed and vulnerable to what others think, nearly all the time.  There have been many nights - even in the last six months - that I have cried myself to sleep because of the fallout, the pointed fingers, the broken relationships, the constant criticism and the lack of any kind of attempt to understand what I'm trying to accomplish. Grief over lost contact, lost favour, lost relationship, is something I deal with daily. All too often, the weight of shame and the crushing, smothering feelings of loneliness, fear and anxiety overwhelm me. 

I fight to keep in the moment; it is the only way I can survive.
 
I don't know how to get past this wall of misery.  I don't know if I SHOULD get past it.  I don't know if I'm doing any good to anyone - or if secretly I WANT them to suffer.  (Am I really that horrible? How can I ever look at my reflection in the mirror? When will this end? HOW will it end if it does?) 

I don't know.  I really don't.  I have wrestled with saying goodbye for good, with writing them off, with closing the door on that part of my life and never looking back.  

More shame. More vulnerability.  More feeling like I want to crawl into a hole and disappear.  

I am exposing my soft underbelly here - in the hope that shame has a soft underbelly too.  My friend Ellie says that shame and vulnerability hate the truth; they hate compassion.  

I hope so.  I really DO hope so.

That Awkward Moment

My kids are really into Tumblr ... and their favorite thing to do is to read those posters that start "...that awkward moment when..."  I hear peals of giggles coming from them as they identify with commonly shared embarrassing experiences.  I've seen them spend an hour reading nothing but the awkward moment posters. 

The last little while I've been struggling with (albeit a mild version of) depression.  As word gets around my work place, or in my church, or among my friends, that I have been finding life a little overwhelming these days - I've noticed a change.  Not only in my own feelings, my energy level, and my motivation level - but also in the attitudes of others as they interact (or don't interact, which is more often the case) with me. It's kind of intriguing in a way.  

Perhaps people just don't want to run the risk that I will bleed all over them, so they avoid asking me how I am.  I understand that.  Perhaps they think that them talking to me will somehow add to my stress.  Maybe they're just uncomfortable with anyone who's in pain; it doesn't agree with their theology or their life philosophy. Maybe they are judging me.  After all, I've preached freedom from the chains of the past and living one day at a time.  And now this??   

Whatever the reason, there's a part of me that sits back and finds all this almost clinically peculiar.  I've spoken to one person who has suffered from depression for many years and it appears that this kind of reaction is not unique to my situation.  Hm.  Of course I wouldn't want people to fawn all over me and pity me. That is absolutely disgusting; it makes me cringe.

But there's another part of me crying out to be acknowledged, to know that I matter, to feel that nothing has changed in how they see me - in spite of what my eyes tell me.  Some people won't meet my gaze; they avert their eyes when they cross paths with me.  Their discomfort is palpable.  Others who used to approach me and chat, no longer do so.  If I want interaction, I have to go looking for it. I see the sidelong glances of people passing by as I chat with someone I've gone to see; I have to force myself not to wonder what they are thinking. The sense of isolation is very real.  

A rare few do brave the possibility of hearing "bad news" ... and stay in touch.  I am grateful for them and I try not to go into much detail when they ask me how I am.  I've taken to saying, (IF they ask me and IF they stay to hear the answer) "Taking one day at a time."  If they press: "I have good days and bad days.  Today is one of the ___ days." (insert adjective).  Otherwise I say, "Okay," or (if I know they won't bother to stop and talk), "Vertical." Most times I avert my eyes from them, too - preferring to alleviate their discomfort rather than my own.  

I wonder to myself if that's always been my problem.  Disappear.  Don't let the grownups see you.  I find it easier to try to analyze myself as if I was someone else.  It beats feeling some pretty unpleasant feelings.  Yet I know that I need to acknowledge those things and bring them out to the surface so they can be dealt with.  

My mental cogs chug away, on and on, endlessly, while I go about my daily routine, trying desperately to keep me on target without losing myself in the stories I must read to do my work.  Produce the next widget. Write it down, let them know I produced a widget.  Stay under the radar. Play it safe. Don't think of the widgets as real people with real lives, try not to let their stories move me...and die a little more inside every time I write down a number like it was just one more piece of meaningless data. Come home.  Eat.  Avoid making decisions; even "What's for dinner?" Vegetate in front of the TV or my computer. If I have a choice to go somewhere or not to go there, I don't go - tired of the judgment, weary of the well-meaning advice given by folks who want to fix it with trite slogans or pat answers. All I need is the inner assurance that they haven't abandoned me - which is all too rare; the down side is that I do end up isolating myself and not giving those who might show their support the chance to do so. 

But these folks are the exceptions - and they usually find a way to express their love, and they don't mind if I shed a few tears when they are so kind to me.  I wish - wistfully - that the other people would quit smothering me with platitudes or their own solutions ... or stories of what happened to Uncle Fred (theme: it could be worse) or how their Aunt Mary got help. It's not any other human being's job to fix me or snap me out of it.  That's God's job.  

This is my journey; nobody can walk it but me, as difficult as that is for some people to accept. (It's difficult for ME to accept too!) To those brave souls that continue share their presence and their love with me - without offering their opinions or judgment - I give in return all I am able to offer:  my profound gratitude.

Tears are a language

The double-standard is shocking.

Women feel overcome with emotion - and nobody thinks twice about them shedding tears.

But let a man do it and eyebrows raise. Some of the most insensitive, thoughtless comments have come out of people who saw a man cry in a situation in which it was entirely appropriate for him to do so.

"Straighten up."
"Be a man."
"Get a hold of yourself."

Personally I believe that (just as a woman is never more feminine than when she cries real tears) a man is never more masculine than when he dares brave the social norms of today's western culture and shows his emotions. He's demonstrating to those around him that he is comfortable enough in his own skin to be honest about how he feels inside of it.

I'm not talking about crocodile tears here. I'm talking about real, gut-wrenching emotion.

It's a powerful thing. Emotion is not wrong. In fact, it can be the most right thing in the world: a catalyst for change, even. Think how many people were moved with compassion when the earthquake hit Haïti in January 2010.

Emotions were designed to be transient, temporary states of mind. The feelings of fear and anger are warning flags that something is wrong - and expressing emotion (whether in joy, sadness, anger, pain, or fear) relieves stress and helps our bodies achieve equilibrium. They signal to us what things are the most important to us. They connect us with our dreams, with our passions, with our callings. They tell us when a boundary has been crossed - or if a wrong needs to be righted. They keep us stable - as long as they are allowed to touch us as they pass through our spirits.

Since God created us in His image - all of us - and He feels things deeply, it only stands to reason that we would do so as well. It is healthy and good to experience emotion and be able to express that.

It's what we do with our own emotions that can enrich or stifle our lives. Stuffing emotional pain down inside of us and not letting it out - or holding onto it long-term without dealing with why - only builds up internal pressure and leads to physical sickness: high blood pressure, heart disease, stroke, kidney problems and so forth.

If those strong emotions are directed at God - and let's admit it: sometimes we get mad at Him - He can take it if we want to vent at Him. "He's got broad shoulders," my mom used to say of certain people when I was growing up. I think that applies to God too. He "desires truth in the innermost parts." And He loves us through all of it.

If the emotions are directed at someone else - that's okay too. We can take them to God and tell Him the truth - "Hey God, I can't deal with that $U^%$^ person who hurt me (or who hurt someone I love) - I want to forgive him/her because I want to do what You've asked me to do - but I can't. This is what he/she did ..." and then pour it all out, cry, scream, rant, rave - whatever it takes. He'll hold us in His arms and let us do all of that, and still love us. That's actually the beginning of the healing process, the first step toward forgiveness.

But until we are honest with Him and with ourselves, healing can never start to take place. The tears we shed are precious to Him - they speak volumes heavenward like spoken words could never do - and God understands that language.