She believed ... and she did

 (yes, she is me.)

She didn't believe at first. She thought she was "stuck fat." 

She believed her genetics, her physical limitations, her inner critic. She believed her fears. Until, through others' belief in her, she believed too: believed she could learn to understand her emotions, her thought, and her own desires enough to take one day, one meal at a time.

She'd lost weight before, five years previous (after a diagnosis of type II diabetes) and gained a third of it back: very discouraged, she gave up. On herself, on her hopes and dreams. She embraced body positivity to the point where she had herself convinced that the number on the scale didn't matter as long as her sugars were low enough to treat with pills ... and hid from the fact that it DID matter:to HER. 

But, it was only a symbol of something more significant: a lifestyle she had given up believing was possible, one she'd dreamed of since she was much younger, of freedom to own and ride a horse, to go golfing again, to hike (or ride) through forest trails, one with nature. 

Image free from Pixabay

And then there was a point when she got tired of being resigned to a life of feeling "less than" in her own skin, of having given up. And she heard about Noom. 

And she tried it. Being a therapist, she knew the psychology piece, but she remembered how very Hard it was to lose weight because, you know, history, plus diabetes ... and she hesitated.

But ... she remembered the one-day-at-a-time process of her deciding to go back to school. And so she downloaded the app, and she began to apply the psychology she'd learned. And she lost weight. Not much, but about half to three quarters of a pound per week, if at all. 

And she learned that foods could be dense - in calories. The amount of water in a food lowered caloric density and made feeling full take fewer calories. And that no food was "off limits" - even ice cream! ... just taken in moderation. and that she could tame her inner impulses and increase control over them. AND ... most important: she could DO this. She learned that a goal didn't have to be a number on a scale, but the freedom to dream again. One meal, one walk, one day at a time. 

Best of all, she learned that she could enjoy the process!!

Summer Daze

 I passed in my last assignment (revised per my prof's instructions) on August 6, 2021. Four hours later, she emailed me and told me that I was done and congratulations, and to enjoy my summer!  Just like that!

It took quite a while for the fact to sink in that I was done my Masters degree. Done homework. Done writing papers for marks. Done. It's still sinking in that I can enjoy a vacation for what feels like the first time in a very long time. Not an enforced one, or taking time off to do self-care, but a real, honest-to-goodness vacation! I had almost forgotten what it felt like ... so for the last week or so, I've been enjoying that feeling.

But I'm not done learning. That never ends.

The summer has been muggy, and the last two or three weeks has been super hot for this part of the country. One day the "feels like" temperature, or humidex, was 41 degrees Celsius (about 103º Fahrenheit). That was brutal. Plus, the mosquitoes! We have been so grateful for any breeze strong enough to blow those little suckers away ... pun intended. 

The garden has grown in leaps and bounds, with regular watering from the sky or from the garden hose if there's no rain in a week. I have harvested peas and radishes, and watched corn, winter squash, and cucumbers grow. Beets? Beans? Not so much... A few came up but the beets are scrawny and the beans are few. We have potato plants, but I think the high heat really scorched them. Plus there were some caterpillars helping themselves to the leaves. No blossoms yet. But all in all, it's coming. And oh yes - one of our young apple trees actually is growing an apple! It's maybe 3 years old so we weren't expecting any fruit this year. So in September, we'll be able to harvest this one lone apple from our Red Nova tree. 

Free pic by Jessica Bolander at Pixabay:
Cucumber growing

Right now, it's really easy for me to stress out about the future. I sent in my application to the Canadian Counselling and Psychotherapy Association (CCPA) for a designation as a Canadian Certified Counsellor (CCC), but these things take time. (I hate waiting, just in case you forgot.) So it's been an exercise in self-care to let go of my obsession with getting everything done and getting moving on opening an office, because I really can't do that before being certified. So, I take one step at a time. One day at a time. I've even made an agreement with myself to NOT check the status of my application this weekend, but to enjoy what is, in the present moment, and not to fret about things I cannot change. 

So, I have been spending time in my veggie garden, learning from Nature, reminding myself to be patient and let things happen, and doing things I enjoy doing. Like blogging for example. ;) And feeling free enough to watch a movie on Netflix with the family from time to time. 

Part of me feels like I'm in a daze ... in limbo ... on hold, and I rail against it, wanting the next part of my journey to kick in. And another part of me says to myself, "So...this is what it feels like to be on vacation. It feels kinda good!" Well, I suppose that within a few weeks or so, I'll be busy enough ... so I guess I had better enjoy these summer days while they last. One daze - er - one day at a time.

That "new car" smell

 You know that experience where you go to a car dealership and they have a nice model in the showroom, and you open the door and sit in the driver's seat? You remember that smell? That new car smell? 

I remember it. It makes me want to drive the car. It's new vinyl, new leather (if you're that rich), clean air conditioning vents, no dust, no smudges, clear windshield ... and the list goes on.

Now, translate that into the experience of a person who is almost at the end of her Masters degree, itching to get out in the world and help people. 

That's me.

Yesterday, as an example of my impatience, I went to see three different spaces that could serve as good offices for a counsellor. Well ... they LOOKED like good spaces. Two out of the three were pretty well duds. But one ... it showed promise. I told the lady that I couldn't  make a decision for at least a month. So if someone came in before she heard back to me, it wasn't fair to make her wait for me. "Go ahead and rent it to that person who gives you the first deposit," I told her. 

Free image by RitaE at Pixabay

Well, at least that scratched my "new car smell" itch. I get it once in a while, mostly when I am impatient or tired of waiting for the next thing to happen. God knows I have this tendency ... and so does my family. I had strict instructions from my daughter NOT to make up my mind that day, that this was just a dry run for the real thing.  

I am so glad I had that thought as I went looking. It took the pressure off. I was able to ask my questions, and hold a mild curiosity instead of an all-encompassing inner push to get it all done in one go. 

I guess I just needed to take my fact-finding skills out for a test drive. And what I found is that there are a number of offices out there that are unsuitable spaces, but you do find that odd gem. If it's still available next month, it would be really nice to practice there. 

However, I'm not in that position quite yet. I still have to finish my degree (2 more weeks and then another 2 until I get my marks!) and then, I will have to apply for  my CCC designation at the same time as I apply for my registration from the soon-to-be-opened College of Counselling Therapists in PEI. One step at a time. 

Part of me still wants to order business cards and such, but I know that I will need a business address and phone number before doing that. I guess that I will be opening sometime in October, not sure exactly when. I will put a rush on my application for my Canadian certified counsellor designation (CCC) so I can at least practice. And I have an action plan for when I receive that. 

It's all laid out, but I'm just waiting for someone in authority to press "Go" ... and at that point, I'll just have one thing to say: 

I'm Open! 

SSS-KSS-KSS-KSS-KSS

No, it's not a typo.

The title that I chose today is the sound my little dog's nails and feet make on the floor when he races around the house doing what little dogs do when they are excited (or just before bed): "the zoomies."

We had a snow last night. As always happens in the morning when the dog wakes up, he wants to go out. So I put his harness and leash on, and carried him out the back door onto the deck, and put him on the deck for him to choose a place to do his business. But as soon as he had emptied his little bladder, he put his nose into the white stuff on the deck, and jerked away. COLD! And then his nose melted it. He cocked his head. "Wuff," he whispered. He put his nose on the white stuff again. Cold! He pulled his head back and peered at this strange substance.

 

Bullet, September 2020

 

All of a sudden, the lightbulb came on over his head. He started doing the zoomies right there on the deck! SSSS-KSS-KSS-KSS went the little feet as he turned tight corners and slid around ... over and over again! Mouth open, tongue lolling, snapping at the flakes he was raising, he was the picture of pure doggy joy as he lived each and every nanosecond in the moment. 

It made me laugh out loud! Literally! Even when he left snow crystals on my Crocs (and melting into my bare feet inside of them) I couldn't help surfing on the waves of joyful puppyness that emanated from him. 

No fear. Pure joy that comes from confidence - which comes from knowing he is loved. I am slowly learning that I am loved unconditionally, and that gives me confidence ... and joy. My heart skipped and skidded around with Bullet on that deck. Though I hate the cold, somehow it didn't matter to me, and I laughed -- no, giggled -- like a child at play.

It feels good.  SSSSS-KSS-KSS-KSS-KSS-KSS-KSS.....

Light Enough

It's been about six weeks since my plans for the future hit a major snag (which I talked about a couple of posts ago) and I realized that I needed some help to deal with it all. With my doctor's assistance, I've taken steps toward getting a therapist to help me deal with my childhood issues, and I have also started to take a medication that gives me more energy during the day. 

During that time, I've moved back to my home province, back into my own home with my husband and daughter, and have arranged an updated work-from-home routine that has me going into the office one day a week. I must say that it felt good to go to a work environment where people smiled when they saw me coming, where I felt (and feel) welcome, and where there was a sense of recognition and respect for my talents. 

Photo "Blooming Snowdrops In The Spring" by radnatt at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

I'm also looking forward to my upcoming volunteer activities, which I have scheduled to start this coming Wednesday, at a local non-profit organization aimed at helping pregnant and new mothers who are facing challenges (financial mostly, and mostly single moms). Hopefully I will be able to get outside of myself and gain some much-needed face-to-face experience with people in need at the same time. The director of the organization is someone I feel that I can "click" with - she has never been anything less than kind and approachable - an ideal mentor for me. Although it seems a crazy time of year to start such a venture, as the Christmas season seems to highlight the great need of people at risk, I believe that it will give me a sense of doing something that will make a difference to people's lives. And I need that tangible sense of purpose and accomplishment in my life, especially in the beginning of a season that for me is so depressing because it's so cold and dead outside and will remain so for many months. Who knows? maybe I'll even find some Christmas spirit laying around somewhere. ;)

As I think about my future goals, all I feel is confusion. Six months ago, I had it all planned out. I knew what I was going to do, when it was going to happen, and how I was going to get there. Now, I am questioning everything. So finding one thing that I can do gives me a light in a dark place in my life. It's like lighting a candle when the electricity goes off at night. It gives you just enough light to see the next step or two, nothing more. And you need to go slowly or you'll put out the light. But there is light enough for that one or two steps. 

I still have a lot of things to sort out. Having the time to do that without the extra burden of assignments and other school-work has been helpful. I have been doing a LOT of thinking, reflecting, meditating, and just resting. There is much that I just don't know yet. I don't know how long this process will take, or what I will end up doing with my life. All I know is that I need to use these next few months wisely. There have been opportunities for me to consider, and I am weighing these as well. But no major decisions set in stone. 

After all, I still only have light enough for the next step. Once I take it, I might be able to see where the next one will be.

Careful Watch

He has done it for decades without calling attention to it. He has been our guardian - our protector. He has set a careful watch over our little family and he has been the go-to person in times of crisis ... unless he was in one of his own. He has soldiered on for years, uncomplaining, when he really should have asked to have his own needs met. 

Like about two and a half years ago, when he was shoveling snow off the deck. His shovel hit a nail and he felt an immediate searing pain in the front of his right shoulder. But he didn't seek medical attention. He figured it would heal. Sure, he was weaker in that arm but he was getting older, right? 

Then, a year and a half ago, he playfully whiffed a snowball overhand at our daughter during one of the first major snowfalls of the season - and felt that pain again. This time he could not hide it. We insisted that he mention it to his doctor. He did - two months later - after we would not let him forget it. 

An X-ray, an appointment with a specialist, and an MRI later (all of which took about 8 months) they booked him for surgery to repair the place where he had partially torn his biceps muscle out of his right rotator cuff. (He's right-handed). 

Just after he got back from the recovery room.
So relieved to have the surgery behind him!!

And this morning, he finally had the surgery. All went as planned and he even got the first slot for morning surgery, so the OR was spotless and he was done in jig time. 

After he was out of recovery, they watched him and gave us instructions for post-op care. Within about an hour, we were back home and we got him all set up in his recliner, which we'd rigged with a "remote" so he could use his left hand to operate it. He got comfortable and then started drifting in and out of sleep, without the benefit of pain medications. 

And now he is still doing the same - trooper that he is. The air conditioning is on, and we are pretty much at his beck and call until he is able to get out of the sling - to our surprise he will only be in it for 2 weeks before he can start physiotherapy, which is far better than we anticipated; before the surgery, the doctor had told us that it could be as much as six weeks before physio. That tells us that things went well and there were no unexpected events... which is great news, and we are very relieved! 

As a result, I feel a bit more confident in leaving when I go out of province to start my practicum in another couple of weeks or so. He will be all healed up and strong again by American Thanksgiving!

But in the meantime, instead of being the person who watches over others, we get to watch over him - and it is a privilege to have the opportunity to return the favor to him. He deserves it - and more - so we continue our careful watch.

Transition

The last several weeks has been a time of transition, of moving from one way of doing things to something completely different. The next seven weeks will be so as well, a continuation of the changes that have slowly been happening as I get ready for my first time living alone in my 57 years. 

No, my husband and I are not separating; there is no problem in our relationship. In fact, were it not for his support and encouragement, I would not be even considering what I am about to do. 

After months of trying to secure a practicum in my province of residence, and doors slammed in my face at every turn, I found a placement - but this one is in a neighbouring province, and with a counseling agency that wants me to stay on with them after I graduate with my Masters degree. That means that I have to move - temporarily - to an apartment in a city that is two hours' drive (and an expensive toll bridge ride) away from the house I have lived in for the last nearly 29 years. My practicum begins on September 5, 2018.  That is less than seven weeks away!

Anyway, since my family needs to stay here, for a lot of reasons, I must live alone in what amounts to a strange city, on a reduced salary, and live like that for almost a year. Then, the agency will start to pay me, and for another year, I will be working two jobs part-time, until I retire from my current job in the fall of 2020. After that, I can go to full-time with the agency, which will speed up the process of me getting enough experience to launch out on my own. Once I can do that, I can move back in with my family. 

Which brings me to the meantime, this period of transition, this intense, can't-wait-but-no-it's-too-fast time where I have been picking away at things that need doing. Like finding an apartment (cha-ching $$), getting it ready to be lived in (MORE $$), being sure to maintain my quality of homework and assignments (the time requirements this term are SO much higher than ever before!), and trying to find time in there to sleep and eat and MAYBE fit in some self-care and activity. 

Social life?  What's that?

About a month ago, I had to go on stress leave from work because all the stress of all of that PLUS having to be at work for eight hours a day was just too much for me to take and I was approaching burnout. I am feeling a bit more like myself these days, but I still have to deal with that transition period that I am going through, from this place to that place, from here to there, from together to alone. The changes are happening more and more quickly; I have started to get a feel for where things are located in my new place, and I have familiarized myself with my newest friend, Siri (that's the electronic assistant on the i-Phone that can look up directions on Google Maps and talk you through traffic. What a great feature that is for reducing stress!) 

And yesterday, I even got some groceries so they would be there when I moved in - all stuff that won't spoil (canned goods, rice, cereal, boxed meals, and some cleaning supplies.) It makes the reality seem more real... that, and all those trips up and down those stairs to my 2nd floor apartment lugging heavy bags and boxes. 

Transition from "our place" to "my place" - transition from "our" to "my." Fears that I won't be able to handle the winter alone. Excitement at starting the final year of my graduate school journey. Sadness at leaving my loved ones behind and knowing that I will have to get used to sleeping alone. Anger at the system in my own province that cannot accommodate my educational needs. Determination to do my best. Nervousness (and a sort of joy) about working with real clients and making a difference - hoping that it is a positive one. Trepidation at driving in the city and possibly getting lost or stranded. And more, so much more. 

I am so very grateful. My family has been so supportive and helpful during this transition. It feels like they have worked harder than I have to make all this work for me, knowing my physical limitations. They have trudged up and down those stairs to my apartment more times than I have (so far), and worked together to put furniture together (mostly my daughter who seems to have inherited my father's ability to see with his fingers and thread a screw without even looking!). They have popped up and down my step-stool to put up brackets for curtains, change light bulbs, and so much more, WITHOUT the benefit of air conditioning, fans going full blast. 

I am truly blessed. And as I ponder this, the clock is silently ticking away, bringing me ever closer to the reality that will be upon me soon enough. Soon I will be poised on the beginning of a new and different journey, one that will change my future. 

Am I ready? I guess I will have to be. I'm just ever so glad that the future only comes one day at a time.

Around the Bend

I like to be able to see a clear path ahead. I like to know what is coming so that I have time to prepare. I like it, but it doesn't often happen.

There are bends in the road. Where I live, the members of my family joke about how the designers of the roads must have been on a drunken binge because the roads twist and wind and nearly turn back on themselves so much that if you took all the curves out, and went in a straight line, you could get to your destination 80% quicker. 

Mind you, the scenery would be a lot more boring. :) 

Photo "Serpentine Path Stones On A Park Lawn (concept)"
courtesy of arturo at www.freedigitalphotos.net

Lately, in my work and professional life, things have been taking quite the twisty path.  After my best prospect for a counselling practicum placement fell through in my city, I received rejection after rejection until I had exhausted all possibilities. It was quite discouraging.

I had also looked into placements outside of the province, but these seemed unworkable... until one day my husband indicated that he would be willing to make whatever sacrifices he needed to make to allow my dream to become a reality - and if that meant me living in a neighbouring province, then so be it. 

Really?

Yes, really. So I contacted these prospects and tomorrow, I will be attending two interviews with these places. By the end of the day, there MAY even be an offer on the table. In the space of about two or three short weeks, I have gone from ultimate discouragement to first a glimmer, and now a beam of hope. And not a moment too soon.... with only three weeks until my practicum arrangement must be approved by my grad school, timelines are tight. 

And yet ... and yet aside from the usual jittery feelings preceding an interview, the deep inside part of me feels a sense of calm about the whole thing, like I don't need to be concerned about it.  It will be what it is. And it could be quite wonderful. 

Breathe in. Breathe out. Repeat. And before you know it, I will be around that next bend in the road. 

This Old House

It doesn't look like much from the top of the hill where the old church sits.  It looked like even less when I was growing up, shaped like those children's drawings of their house, taller than it was wide, with windows that looked like rectangular eyes. Dad always said that it looked like a "two-storey outhouse." It was nothing more than part of someone else's house when it was moved to the property in 1954. Dad, providing for his oldest son and pregnant wife, closed off the open end and built the second storey. Though it served the purpose, it wasn't much to look at.

But it was home. All the rooms were cramped, and there was never enough space to put things, but there was always - miraculously - room for one more person to share a meal. I remember one family gathering where there were nineteen people there for the meal and we ate at two tables plus a child's table to accommodate everyone. 

When my brother's marriage ended, and he had nowhere else to go, they opened their arms wide and the house became home again to him. Dad realized that their other children had homes of their own, but that this child no longer had that luxury. He insisted that the family home pass to this son. My mother honoured his request only a few short years ago.

Photo "Childs Drawing Made With Chalk" courtesy of
m_bartosch at www.freedigitalphotos.net

Dad had always wanted to "build on." He never saw that day, but in 1994, about a year after he passed away, Mom got a contractor's license and contracted the work out herself. That's how the house got an extra bedroom, bathroom, dining room, and living room, all on the main floor, and the stairs got relocated to the "new part." This opened up the old living room to convert to what is essentially a bedroom with a TV in it.  This is where my brother sleeps now.

The walls of this old house have rung with laughter. They have dripped with grief, and fear, and anger. The memories haunt me when I go there to visit, so I focus on the people and not the memories. The last time I was there, Mom was still living there, but now she lives in a hospital room, waiting for someone else to die so that she can be placed in a nursing home ... not by her choice or any of ours. 

It will be hard going back there without her to greet me with a hug ... but go I will, to visit my brother. He and I and this house are linked together. We have all experienced a common history.

It is my brother's ability to manage the house and its expenses that occupies my thoughts lately. He is missing Mom, and having to deal with paying the bills and providing for his needs without help.  If all goes well, though, he will be able to handle this responsibility. 

Although I no longer call this old house "home", I still feel a connection to it, and I want to make sure it is available to my brother for as long as he needs it. I don't know exactly what all that will mean, but the old homestead still has some memories left to build. And I'm willing to do my part to make sure that they are good ones.

Lighting a candle

For me, and for too many of my friends and family, the darkness starts with the letter C. Cancer. Even the word itself conjures up helplessness, fear, anger, in the face of this tyrant that consumes everything in its path.

As we all get older, we know more and more people who have it, and the monster gets closer and closer to home. Or it has already touched us. It is a horrible, hateful disease in whatever form it takes. 

There was a time - years ago - when the very word was a death sentence every time. That was when it was detected too late and it had already morphed into another beast: metastatic cancer (cancer cells that were in one place in the body, and traveled to another place, like a horde of evil missionaries, to continue their dastardly mission). Today, with more early detection, cancer need not be a death sentence.  But the oldest ones among us usually think of it that way.

Time is both friend and enemy with this thing. Early detection is our friend; a delay in treatment is not. Waiting - especially with no indication of how fast the cells are growing - is torturous. Add to that any other pressure: financial, family, work, school, or community (whether that means neighborhood or church involvement) and molehills become mountains pretty quickly. 

The darkness does not need to win. All it takes is one candle to push back the darkness. The people most likely to recover (regardless of the type of cancer) seem to be the ones with the most positive, and peaceful, attitudes. One man I know has a rare form of non-Hodgkins lymphoma - aggressive and dangerous - and from the moment he found out he had cancer, his attitude has been nothing short of inspiring. Today he is fighting infection (which happens 70% of the time after the kind of treatment he just had) and is feeling weak - but he is fighting. And he is peaceful, and happy. 

Another lady I know had breast cancer about 5 years ago. She had surgery, chemo, and the recovery process was long ... but she beat it! Throughout it all, her sweet temperament and thankful spirit came through. Still another lady went through this process not long ago - with four surgeries and treatments that made her feel sick and weak, she still never lost her positive attitude, and she made sure that she looked after herself. 

Fear is (of course) inevitable. But it is the enemy. I know the enemy. But it doesn't have to win.

Recently, my family doctor referred me for a biopsy for an abnormal pap smear. While I was at the gynecologist's office, I mentioned some unexplained spotting, since I was in menopause,  The gynecologist said, "That shouldn't be happening." And so when I was under general anesthetic for the cervical biopsy, he also took cells from the lining of my uterus.  It turned out that I have "pre-cancerous" cells in my uterus... and although this type of thing usually takes a long time to develop into cancer in that area, it's like there is this ticking time bomb in my womb - and so he told me that my uterus and my ovaries had to come out. I am waiting for a surgery date and I expect the hospital will call me soon with one.

The same day I found out about this problem, I got a call from a very close friend who informed me that my brother was in the hospital.  Over the course of the next week, through testing and so forth, doctors discovered that he had stage 1 colon cancer.

Photo "Candle" courtesy of phanlop88 at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

The monster didn't win.

We both lit a candle in the darkness. 

Fear has far less power in the light. 

Each of us is looking forward to his or her respective surgery, and grateful that the doctors caught the problem early. My brother is thankful for the excruciating abdominal pain that first caused him to seek medical attention, and for the excellent care and attention that he has received since he went to the hospital to get checked out. They saved his life!  In much the same way, I am so grateful for the lady that put me onto my new family doctor's patient list just this past spring, as well as for the people involved in my care - my doctor, plus my gynecologist, and all of the medical staff on his team. They pretty much saved my life.

A few things about lighting a candle in the dark ... yes, you can see to find your way, but ... your attention is more drawn to the candle flame, and to what it illuminates, than it is to the farthest corners where the darkness still hides. You learn to go slowly, because going too fast would damage the flame or put it out. You learn to stay away from people who would bluster and blow more fear into your situation. Their negativity is something that you don't need or want in your life, ever! You learn to see their reaction as "cursing the darkness." You light your candle, you protect it, and you cherish it.  And you look for other candles to light from your own flame.

That's what I'm doing today. You - if you need to and want to - can light your candle from mine.

Nothing to prove

In just a couple of months, it will have been three years since our daughter passed away at the age of 21. Grief, my constant and relentless companion at first, has become more of a travelling companion now, and I nod at it as it overtakes me and carries me in its wake at times. Other times, I travel life without it dogging my heels. Some days I even forget that I have been that profoundly touched by its presence. Other days, it's all I can think about.

At first, every conversation was about her. I needed to talk about her, needed to not forget her. I was afraid that I would forget what her laugh sounded like. I was afraid that if I enjoyed life, I might stop hurting - and I needed to hurt - hurting made the loss feel more fitting somehow.  

I kept reminders of her everywhere. Pictures, pieces of jewelry, little keepsakes, cards and letters from people expressing their condolences... things that helped me traverse the nettles of fresh grief, things that kept the wound from closing until it healed on the inside. I maintained that one never gets over the death of someone so close. And one doesn't.  Yet ... I started to get worn down by the grief. It was like being chained to a post. The reminders became burdensome because they were reminders of what I had lost, not of what she had gained by being free of her own chains, all the strikes against her.  I lost sight of how happy she is now.  

April 26, 2016 - the décor of our living room is changing.

As well, as time wore on, I began to realize that my belle was all about living large - enjoying the moment - and she would want me to do the same.  So I began to put away in a safe place some of the little things that were such a constant reminder of her and which, likely as not, would just end up making me sad. All those snowflakes are mostly relegated to one Christmas ornament that hangs in the corner of our living room doorway, and a chain of snowflakes a dear friend crocheted for me for Christmas last year. Oh ... and the paper snowflakes my belle taped to a lampshade one year. Her picture still hangs in our kitchen, but the wall art in the living room - where we spend the most time during our waking hours - has changed to reflect the things in our lives that we enjoy. Things that remind us all of life, of beauty, of strength and freedom.

I think that before, I kept trying to prove to people that I loved my daughter and that I missed her.  I have come to a sort of place of peace about that, knowing that love is eternal, that it is probably the only thing that you take with you when you die (so I know she still loves me!), and that as long as we are separated, I will ALWAYS miss her.  I don't have to prove that.  It's a fact.

So I guess I have nothing to prove to anyone anymore - and I think that I have already begun to move forward, onward, upward - in small ways.  I don't need those constant reminders anymore.  I don't need to look back at what might have been; I can't change that.  I don't need to wish I could go to her in the sweet bye and bye.  That will happen soon enough; that's a fact of life.  

It's okay that she is free of having to prove herself too. She's totally free of that pressure to perform, that uphill battle to just have the right to take up space. I would not dare take that freedom away from her even if I could.  And I cannot.

What I can do is live.  Not just survive, but LIVE. Enjoy life.  Have goals. Strive for them. Relish today.  Savour the moment.  Not living in the "if only I had" or the "I can't wait until" but living in the "this is so cool" mentality.  That's how she lived her life.  That's how I choose to live mine.  Nothing to prove, not to anyone, not to her, not even to myself.  

It's okay to put some of her stuff away.  It doesn't mean that I forgot her or that I ever WILL forget her.  It just means that I embrace life, not death.  

I think that's what she would want.  I know it's what I want.

Rainbow Tears

It's been said that when there are hard circumstances that make you cry but there is something right in the middle of the situation (perhaps unexpected kindness or some unforeseen blessing) that makes you smile in gratitude - the tears you shed are "rainbow tears."

 

I've had a lot of reason to shed that kind of tears in the last year and a bit. As most of you know, our daughter Arielle moved "out West" last summer to make her mark in the world. Things didn't turn out the way she expected, but there were some wonderful moments, particularly on September 17 when she had an amazing spiritual experience that transformed her emotions and melted her lifelong fear of being alone. But her circumstances were such that she was soon homeless, living in her car, getting more and more fatigued ... and on October 22 she had a car accident from falling asleep at the wheel - and she died.

 

And then the rainbow tears started happening thick and fast. People were so. incredibly. kind. Such an outpouring of love and graciousness that we never expected in our lifetimes, was immediately and consistently shown to us, lavished on us, healing us. People gave of their time to sit and listen to us talk. They loved us, prayed for us, thought about us, told us they thought about us, and those who were able to do so donated money to either our named charity, to the Gideons, or to help pay off her final expenses. To each and every one of those people who reached out to us, we owe a deep debt of gratitude. That love helped us, made it easier to be who we are, to be honest about our feelings.

 

Photo "Fountain" courtesy of dan at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

 

And last night, I found out that a dear friend's child was in a serious car crash. The young person survived, but the injuries are severe - potentially life-changing. And the love and outpouring of caring that was lavished on us is now abounding toward my friend, her child, and the rest of the family.

 

I was talking to my friend earlier today. She was saying that she realized that this must bring back memories (and it does, oh yes!) and some "why"s.

 

It's strange but .... I never once entertained that thought. I was just so grateful that another mom didn't have to bury her child. So instead of what she expected me to say, I expressed my gratitude. And as she shared with me what the next days will hold, and what progress has been made since only two days ago, I was able to show my emotional and prayer support to her and her family.

 

And I found myself shedding some more 'rainbow tears.'

Some days are like that

Today is one of those "raw" days where I am not far from tears. 

I guess part of it is that yesterday marked a full month of having a nasty cough (so hard and long it makes me lose bladder control!) and congestion, and today I woke up incredibly weary with my eyelashes stuck shut in places - a weakened body leaving the soul bare and vulnerable. I'll be heading to the walk-in clinic this afternoon to deal with the physical side of things. 

Another part is that last night I learned of the sudden death of one of my baby's favorite famous people - comedian John Pinette - Saturday in Pittsburgh. Our best Christmas memory of our little girl is Christmas 2011 when we gave her tickets to see John in person - she was thrilled that we would give that to her, and I knew she would be, so I was prepared with my camera, and took a photo of her moment of realization.  

The moment of understanding what the
tickets were for (Christmas 2011)

Within a minute after I snapped the photo, she realized that we got her the tickets because we had seen him as a family the previous year, and she was not able to go even though we'd gotten her a ticket - and she had been so disappointed ... and now we were giving her another chance. She burst into tears of gratitude. 

And the camera was forgotten. She was in my arms.

And finally, I've been thinking of her a lot more lately since our church welcomed a young pastor and her husband to our church leadership team. Their last name is Willis (ours is Gillis) and their youngest child's name - - is Ariella. And her parents pronounce the first part of her name "AR" - the same way we pronounce our own Arielle's name - instead of "AIR" the way most people do.  FREAKY. The first time I heard them talking to her, I was mesmerized.  And Sunday morning, I was watching this little girl (she's about two) reacting to the music, interacting with her mom, talking to her dad, and eventually sleeping in the pew and tossing and fidgeting in her sleep. Her activity level reminded me of our own little firecracker. I found my eyes getting all watery just watching this little bundle of energy. 

I don't really like feeling the way I have been - perhaps because somewhere, in the mists of my early memory, is a voice that says you are only allowed to cry just so long and then you have to "get over it." Of course, that is a lie. Some days are just like that. There is nothing wrong with grieving; it is a sign that you love someone so deeply that you miss that person's presence now that he or she is no longer here. 

So I go back to my fail-safe position: taking one breath at a time. And I look after myself. And I wait as the billows wash over me, knowing they will pass. 

And they will pass. But even that doesn't mean they'll never come again. 

All I need to do is live in THIS moment, breathe THIS breath and not worry about the next one, or the next time, or to say to myself that I "can't wait" until such-and-such happens - or even to wish that I could go back and have another chance to do it over again. It is enough to just remain in today, this hour, this minute ... to simply be. It is Life's lesson for the times that are rough and raw, as well as for the times that are pleasant and happy: embrace the now and do not let the past or the future rob you of it. It is, after all, all that we have.

Worth it

“If you had asked me, before this happened, what the worst thing in my life would be, it would be to lose a child. To lose Sarah. I now know that there is one thing worse and that would be never to have had her at all. Right. So what that tells me is to look at all these wonderful things she did accomplish and to enjoy them, let them bring you happiness.”
- Jan Phelan, Sarah Burke's mom.
Quote retrieved from the video at:  http://olympics.cbc.ca/blogs/author/nick-purdon/article/sarah-burke-legacy-lives-sochi-olympics.html

I forgot an appointment today. I missed my reminder on my email because I was away from my desk when it popped up on my computer. So fifteen minutes later I got a call from the person with whom I was to have met. "You coming?" Apologies and ten minutes later I was meeting with her. The meeting took less than the hour we had budgeted, but it did go over the time we were supposed to be finished (she had to see another person right after me). 

So I was late leaving her office. What that meant was that I took short-cuts through stores and a coffee shop on the way back to work. And in the coffee shop ... I saw her. It was someone I used to work with a couple of years previous and who hadn't seen me since my daughter passed away last October. 

She'd heard. It seems most everyone has. And she conveyed her condolences. We chatted for a bit as her to-go order came up and that's when she told me about the interview with Jan Phelan and the quote (above) that struck her and was so powerful that it made her cry. 

It was so powerful that it made me cry too. Which is as it should be. 

It was moving - the tremendous attitude of this mother whose daughter's life was cut short on a snowboarding slope as she trained for a lead-up to the first-ever half-pipe competition in a winter Olympics. It was inspiring. 

It was just what I needed to hear. 

There were times in my youngest daughter's life that I wasn't so sure if it had been a good idea to have another child. Times when I was fighting with schoolteachers and the mental health care system and even wondering why she would deliberately pick friends that made me uncomfortable... It wasn't easy parenting this kid who was so unbelievably the opposite from me. Sometimes I messed up royally! Most times I wondered if she was stringing me a line. 

And ... were it not for the last 35 days of her life, I would have said that it wasn't worth the trouble. All the nights I cried myself to sleep wondering if she was alive and safe. All the times I checked the weather forecast in Edmonton, Alberta to see if she might have frozen to death in her car the night before. All the money I poured into her bank account hoping that she'd find a place to live, thinking that all she needed was a chance to prove herself. There were people who told me that I was letting her take advantage of me.  I had given until there was nothing left to give and still I gave some more, going into debt to do it. And by rights, I should have given up and let her fend for herself. It wasn't worth the anguish and the sleepless nights. By rights.

But then ... there were those last 35 days. Those last, priceless, 35 days.

Summer 2012 at Victoria Park

Don't misunderstand me. She wasn't a saint and (we are learning now) she still pulled the wool over my eyes again and again about where and how she was spending the money I sent to her.  However, something fundamental ... something wonderful ... happened inside of her on September 17, 2013 that turned her life around ... and made the bad times seem more worth it. We connected on a deep, spiritual level. I remember her saying to me, nearly awestruck, in early October or thereabouts, "I just can't believe that you and I are talking about God. Of all things." It's all I ever wanted for her. It was my finest prayer, my finest hope for her to be able to experience Him in a real way like she did that night in September.

And no, I'm not some sort of masochist (someone who enjoys pain) when I say that it was worth it. And I'm not about to say that I'd do it all over again. Once was quite enough ... thank you. I'd rather crawl on my hands and knees over broken glass than go through that again. But ... I can see that there was a purpose in it all being allowed.  

Family relationships have been mended. New friendships have been forged. Existing friendships have been deepened. Some people have had their lives transformed by her legacy. Many other people all over North America, and even as far away as Australia, have been deeply touched by her story (link to that story here) and I believe firmly that it needs to be told, again and again. 

I also believe that it was no accident that I was running late today, that it was so cold that I was cutting through buildings to get where I was going. It was no coincidence that my old acquaintance was there or that she had watched the highlights reel of the Olympic coverage and caught that snippet of an interview with the mom of one of our would-be athletes. No, I don't believe in coincidences. As Albert Einstein said, coincidences are just God's way of remaining anonymous. 

Let her story touch you. That's what it is for. That's what makes the tragedy of her death worth it.

Journey of 1,000 miles

The journey of a thousand miles starts with a single step, so the saying goes. 

And then there's the next one. And the next. And the next.

And a seemingly endless, terrifyingly long journey it is. Taken into the mind all at once, it seems insurmountable. 

So many things in life are like that. Grief is one thing. Pain is another. And truth be told, the entirety of LIFE is like that. One day blindly merging into the next and if taken all as one heap, overwhelming. Bewildering. Uncertain. Stressful.

Regret for the past and worry for the future fill our mental health care facilities. We can call it a lot of fancy-sounding names but the many forms of depression and anxiety boil down at their most basic form, to an inability to live in the moment. (Notice I didn't say an unwillingness. I said an inability.)
 
"Without help it is too much for us." (Alcoholics Anonymous, ch 5: "How it Works"). 

Help comes from various sources. 

• friends who care and who show it
• mental health professionals
• support groups
• 12-step groups (which primarily are NOT support groups, so they get their own designation)
• family and/or "chosen family"
• church members
• pastors and other church leaders
• and last but definitely not least, trusting in a "higher power" has the potential to help. Immensely.

Even the word "help" implies a source outside of the self, so let's not delude ourselves into thinking that we can do this (live our whole lives) in isolation.

Ahh yes. Like a two-year-old flexing his independence muscles, the self vaunts itself up and says, "Me do it myself." 

Maybe. But would I ever want to be that self-sufficient that I didn't need anyone? Would I like the kind of person I would become if I thought I didn't need others in my life? Ever?

I don't think so. 

I think I have met a few of those people who honestly think they don't need anyone else. They wouldn't think of reading someone else's blog - at least not one like this - because they feel they have it all together. (Of course there are many reasons for not reading blogs; that's just one of them. ;) ) ...  But here's the thing. While these folks ooze with a sense of their own brand of bravery ... well, I cannot recall ever wanting to be around them for too long, because it all seemed a little, you know, arrogant. Just saying. 

I do know a few people, though, in whose company I feel welcome, safe, and accepted. And every single one of them admit that they need others in their lives to be able to put one foot in front of the other. To feel centered.

To stay in today. 

Photo "Footprints On The Beach Sand" is by
foto76 at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

Life - and death, and deep grief (I am discovering) - teaches me that today is the day in which I live and love. Yesterday is gone, although I can still have wonderful memories to sustain me. Tomorrow is not here yet, although I can still dream of better days. But living life happens right here, right now, and while I'm doing that, I need help. And help is there. Even in the darkest of nights, all I need to do is whisper, "God?" and I know He understands. And He carries me for a while.

And there's more. 

Help from people is all around me if I know where to look; sometimes I need to ask for it, because people (contrary to my "if they love me they'll know how I feel" fallacy) can't read my mind, especially if I hide how I feel to "spare their feelings." (As if mine didn't count.) And sometimes help even comes unbidden, from places I never thought to check! This is certain: more people care about me than I had ever dreamed; I am finding that out now more than at any other time in my life. And although sometimes that care is expressed in ways I might not understand or appreciate at the time, I am learning to see past fumbled words and awkward silences and see the heart beneath. 

And it's good.

But help can only go so far, and the helpers around me only frustrated, if I insist on tormenting myself with the regrets of past that I can't change and with the dreaded events of the future that I am powerless to prevent. That is one reason why I have to remind myself to stay in today; it's the only way to not just survive, but to live. Fully. Take THIS step. Then the NEXT one. Left foot, right foot. Look up. Be grateful. Forgive. Breathe. Move on. 

Repeat. Repeat as many times as there are steps to take ... because the journey is worth it.

Quelling the voices

I love my life. Sometimes the events really suck, but this new life that I'm building since I got into recovery is scads better than the one I started to leave behind when I finally admitted that I needed help. 

Occasionally though, voices from my old self rise up and accuse me. At least it's in my old self's voice - though I'm inclined to believe it comes from another quarter that's more sinister. Be that as it may, the voices do come in and tend to mess up my thoughts, make me sour and sometimes even bitter, and I experience a good deal of discontent as a result. Peace leaves. The waters of turmoil start to come to a boil.

It's the discontent that usually alerts me to the fact that something has gone awry. When I step back and take stock, usually I find that it's a voice or two from my prior lifestyle that has crept in unawares and wreaked havoc in my thinking. My focus has shifted; I am no longer living life from the inside out, but from the outside in... allowing what others say and do - and even what they might think or believe (and it doesn't even have to be about me; I'll MAKE it about me) - to get the better of me. 

Inner statements like, "They like her better than they like me" or "What did he mean by that?" or "How dare she imply that I would think / do that?" or "How come I am always the one to give and give some more and this other person just sucks me dry?" rob me of precious joy. 

Thanks to nuttakit for this photo,
"Barbed Wire" which I got at
www.freedigitalphotos.net

When I finally realize that the focus has shifted from maintaining my center to reinforcing the barbed wire fence in an attempt at self-preservation, that's when I need to quell the voices, the ones that accuse me, the ones that tell me I'm no good, that I'm not worth anyone's time or effort, that nobody will ever like me for ME, only for what I can DO for them. 

I start with the basics of recovery. Being responsible for my own actions but nobody else's. Letting go of the need to control what someone says, does, or thinks. Setting boundaries that prohibit others from controlling what I say, do, or think. Reminding myself that I have just as much right to exist and to occupy space as the next person does; and so do they. 

Then, the truth about the situations I've been struggling with becomes clear. I can return to enjoying my life; the voices fade into the background. The thoughts and opinions of others about me, or of others about other people as compared to me, or even of others about my choices or my beliefs, matter less and less the closer I get to my center - the part of me that is key, that makes me who I am. 

I know the voices are likely to return. I've accepted that. I can only hope that the length of time that it takes for me to realize that they've returned, gets less and less as time goes on. 

In the meantime, I can enjoy each day as it comes.

Self-talk

Any new venture can be exciting, but it can also be overwhelming.

Since I was accepted into an online grad school, I've been quite busy preparing for September. Whenever there is a lull in the activity, my meta-brain kicks in and I start having doubts, second-guessing myself.

It's been over twenty-five years since I graduated from university with a Bachelor's degree. I'm over fifty years old - what am I doing by launching out into a new career path at this stage in my life? how many years would I have left?

Taken right down to its most basic message, my doubting and questioning boils down to one accusation: "Just who do you think you are?"

Interesting question! Still more interesting that once reduced to its most basic nature, it becomes clear where it's coming from: the well-worn recording I have in my head that was etched deeply into my psyche from the time I was a child. That recording says, "You're a screw-up. You'll never amount to anything. Nobody's ever done anything like that before in this family. What, do you think you're better than we are?" 

Oh really?

This kind of thinking is part of the old life. That was the old me - and I am not that person any more. I don't have to listen to it and I certainly don't have to accept it, because it's not true.

The key to getting a song out of your head, they say, is to have an "eraser song" lined up that is more powerful, more meaningful, and more positive than the one you just can't shake. It's the same with thoughts, beliefs about yourself. 

"A new day dawning" - I took this photo
in May 2010 when we were staying at
Killarney B&B, a scent-free space
in Bedford, Nova Scotia.

My "eraser thoughts" look something like this lately: "I need to do this! No more cow-towing. Even if nothing ever comes of this latest venture, I am doing this for me, not for anyone else. I'm not my past, nor am I stuck there. The voices from that awful, hurtful place don't hold any power over me any more. I can do this. I can take whatever comes, one day at a time, just like always.  I'm worth the extra work and expense. It's time to look after my own well-being." 

Self-talk is important. What I say to myself about myself can make quite an impact. It makes the difference between being swept away on the wave of the opinions and thoughts of those around me, and being built up to withstand the onslaught of criticism and negativity - even if that stuff comes from me ... or from some person in my past who, perhaps out of some sense of inadequacy, paralyzed me with shame, trampled on my dreams and crushed nearly every spark of individuality out of me. 

I'm not that person any more. Sometimes I barely recognize myself. On the whole, I like myself better now. That someone else might still see me the way I used to be, needn't dictate the choices I make now. 

And if they can't handle or accept who I am now... that's their loss, not mine.

Level and True

When tiling a floor correctly, one learns how to use a tool called a level to make sure that the tiles are even with each other (true) and that they are parallel with the Earth's gravitational pull (level), especially when creating a large project. Smaller ones might be able to be done by "feel" where one runs a hand over the surface of the tile, but for larger surfaces, it's not enough to go by how something feels. There has to be an independent measure going both ways (east-west and north-south, if you will) that the floor is safe. 

It's about balance, really. A level is a straight edge that houses a bit of liquid in a tube that has an air bubble in it. When the air bubble is in the middle of the liquid, the surface being tested is level. It's balanced. The bubble will show to the left or right of the center of the tube if the floor, in this case, is not level. And the straight edge will rock back and forth (or show a gap underneath) if the pieces of tile are not true (lined up to the same level) with each other. 

It's important to make it level, because once that soft stuff underneath it dries, it will be too late to go back and make it right ... without taking a jack-hammer to it. 

Taking care at the beginning of a process can avoid a great deal of work and anguish later. True in construction, true in life.

A little over three years ago, I went to a special clinic to be assessed for the presence and severity of Multiple Chemical Sensitivities (Yes, the tests were positive; my MCS is in the range of moderate). One of the tests they asked me to do was the balance test. They hooked motion-sensing electrodes to a few points on me and then asked me to stand on one foot, then the other, while a computer measured how much I wavered. I did pretty fine with it. And then they asked me to do the same thing with my eyes closed. 

Not fine. 

Most people can do that with only a few centimeters of difference between the two results. I was all over the map on the second test. For some reason, people with MCS have a more exaggerated loss of balance than regular folks. Who knew! 

By the end of the three-day assessment, I'd been poked, prodded, hooked up to machines, and had an intravenous treatment to mark the second phase of a 48-hour urine test, not to mention talks with an occupational therapist, a psychologist and an MCS specialist ... and finally I got my diagnosis. 

Best of all, I was able to discuss the things I needed to do in order to put some balance back into my life. My body was missing or low on an essential mineral, and the specialist instructed me on how to get the correct supplement, what to look for and how much to use. This mineral was what he called a "chelating [KEE-late-ing] agent" - which essentially is something that binds with the toxins in the system so as to allow the body to flush them out. Otherwise they build up and can't be released. The more toxins are there, the more quickly any further exposure to them can trigger a neurological reaction: headaches, lack of concentration, disorientation, even stuttering, dizziness, breathing difficulties, and nausea.

Since I started taking this mineral, I've noticed a very slow change in my sensitivities. Slow because each exposure brings the toxin levels back up, the change takes place over time and is cumulative. It takes a long time to work. However, I have seen progress. It takes more concentrated exposures to scented products like hair spray, deodorant soaps, and even room deodorizers to make me have a reaction now than it once did. I still need to be careful, of course. I still avoid the detergent aisle in the grocery store and I can't go near the perfume counter at the drug store. Sometimes I can't even go into the store itself. Some stores are absolutely off-limits (the Body Shoppe for example). 

Still, my life is much less restricted than it once was. There was a time when I couldn't go to work without wearing a mask over my face. (I remember one poor person thinking I had H1N1 and that I was going to die... and others ostracizing me for what they thought my motives were. They had no idea.) 

Today, I went into the washroom at a local grocery store and I was immediately struck with waves of fragrance from an overpoweringly scented soap that the store keeps in its soap dispensers. I immediately went into self-protect mode and was able to do the bare minimum in that room, only by employing filtering strategies I've developed over time. However, three years ago, those two minutes would have given me an instant headache even with the filtering. 

Thanks to artur84 at
www.freedigitalphotos.net for this
photo, "Construction Level"

Today it didn't. My balance is coming back.

It's come through an insistence on self-care that is based on consistency, sometimes in spite of evidence that the pills seemed to be doing no discernible good. Yet, here I sit, able to discuss this issue frankly and without accusation, without ranting or being unpleasant. This was not possible when this process first started. 

I'm more on a level with my world - and true to those around me: I can get along with other people better too, much better than before. 

Will my sensitivities eventually disappear? I don't know. Maybe. I haven't excluded the possibility. Nevertheless, I am glad to have gone through this process, because it has made me passionate about the rights of those that suffer in this way, for all those who are marginalized because their disability is "invisible" - whether it's MCS, deafness, mental illness, or what have you. 

The important thing for me in this whole process is to make sure that I am first true to myself. Then my life will be true with others and I will achieve the balance I seek.