Exit Stage Right (on time)

You took your leave just in a nick of time, my dear brother. Of course I was sad to see you go, of course I still miss you, of course I wish we still had more time, or a do-over, and of course there are still many things I want to do with you. However things have taken a drastic change for the worst here on this planet. Or perhaps it was you leaving that changed the world... wait, did you break everything when you left?

I know I have said this before, but each time it has a new (not great) meaning. You would not recognize this world today. The seasons are all mixed up (it's getting harder to grow food, or anything for that matter), the planet is warming at an unnatural pace (the sun and heat are punishing - I don't do well in it), ice sheets and glaciers are melting (or have already disappeared), extinctions have accelerated at an alarming rate, environmental pollution is affecting every aspect of health, the rainforests are being levelled for cattle farms (and cattle are a main contributor to methane release), corporate capitalism is now end-stage capitalism (it's death throws are getting more painful to everyone except the rich elite), the permafrost is melting (and releasing god knows what), America is on the verge of a civil war, not to mention we are closer to global nuclear war now then we were in the early 70's. Sea levels are rising fasting that climate models first predicted (there are new factors increasing this along the way that have been hard to predict or account for) and some island nations have already disappeared, and the intensity of our storms have become so severe, the damage and the number of people dying is starting to become normalized. Nationalism, Christofascism, Racism, conflicts and geopolitical tensions are all on the rise, and you can see the Alt-Right has been working for years to obtain higher positions of policy and decision making, military and legal power, and now that they have succeeded they are indeed making the small changes required to change the political landscape. I'm sure I missed something there, sometimes I just don't have the capacity to hold it all at one time.  

So if any time in human history could be called "the end-times" it is undoubtedly right now. Turns out my GenX existential dread was prophecy after all. 

Please stay close as I navigate this! 

Your 20th Deathiversary

Your 20th Deathiversary. Twenty years ago, today, you left us. We still reach for you.

The "Brother Shaped Hole in my Universe" has only grown larger, and it's gravity stronger. I orbit around it, sometimes yelling into it in hope that you can hear me. I like to believe you can.

The BIG 50, forever and ever.

 Dear Baby Brother,

You've been on my mind today, like many days. I find it hard to reflect upon the almost 20 years without you in my life. The unfairness of that still hurts, like paper cut upon paper cut upon paper cut. The older cuts eventually heal, but there are always more. I continue to collect memories of you in every time something great has happened in my life but you weren't here to see them. It has a bitter-sweet taste sometimes, the joy of including you in my internal moment (where I hold space for you to "be there too"), and the very real guilt of being the one who's role is the "survivor." 

I cannot lie, my life has had it's ups and downs, and the ride hasn't always been super fun. But ups and downs are best when shared with family, who gather to celebrate with, or to help me when I cannot help myself. I miss you not being able to be that for me. I miss you everyday. Every time my life changes, every time something big happens in the world. Every time our family celebrates, or mourns. It is little consolation that you left this world, the only one you'd always known, when everything still appeared "OK" whatever that means. Sometimes I envy the timing of your exit strategy, Everything has changed so much in these past two decades the world would be unrecognizable to you, and there's a storm coming. 

Twenty years on, my grief remains palpable, but I accept it now. Once I realized that, for me, there could be no return to "normal," once I accepted that my grief was the price of still loving you, I understood that it would never end. How could it? My brain still looks for you. I have learned a lot about the necessity of grief in these past three years. I am more human today than before.

I don't know by who's grace I deserved to survive through the pain to arrive at that conclusion, but I am grateful.  

For us in the western world, grief has become like a demon we are meant to hide. Do not trouble anyone with it; get right back to work and make sure it doesn't interfere with the means of production. I used to think this was normal, and I worked hard to meet all those expectations. Now I know it's all bullshit. All of it. Capitalism is slavery slapped with a pretty bow so you think "you are making it." Truth is, its become unsustainable. Hence the aforementioned storm.

There's a band these days, called Imagine Dragons, that I really like. In 2013 they released a song called "demons." The poetry haunts me, but I find it so relatable, it provides me with the words to understand my own invisible battles. The lyric's speak to how we hide our pain to protect others from it, yet we yearn for someone to look, to really see us. It encapsulates my GenX existential dread.    

"I wanna hide the truth

I wanna shelter you

But with the beast inside

There's nowhere we can hide

No matter what we breed

We still are made of greed

This is my kingdom come"

Well it seems I am easily distracted today by my thoughts, but I am writing to you because today is the day you would have turned 50 years old.   

Fifty years would have been an impressive milestone to celebrate with you. We could compare health notes (arthritis is a bitch btw). I found a really cool birthday card that I was going to get you, it was very you - Rebel black leather jacket, like the Michael Jackson jackets we used to have. I knew you'd like it. However the price tag was ridiculous, so this post is your card and present. Happy birthday, baby brother, wherever your travels have taken you. 

Don't forget about me.

Moulded by the Darkness

Why do I always feel so much more alone and sad at night? 

So, what the F*ck am I doing?

 Honest question from husband this morning. 

I was, to be fair, still in bed hitting the snooze button every ten minutes for about an hour and a half. I wasn't asleep, I was using the snooze so I would stay aware of the passing of time... something I don't have a great grasp on when I do have all my faculties about me. Lately it's been worse. I mean, of course it's been worse, I am learning time is one of the first things you lose in a nervous breakdown.

I understand this is what happened to me in October, and it stole two months of my life where I was just as helpless as a stupid baby. I couldn't get out of bed. I had stopped doing laundry who knows when (sometime in the summer), and stuff around the house was piling up too. I basically stayed in bed for those two months, and barely remember them. I did emerge at Christmas time and for the hours my darling babies were all here under my roof again I finally felt... calm? Safe? Happy? I'm not sure what exactly, to be fair, I was feeling. My therapist and I talked about how, with everything that has happened to me in my life, and all my losses, that I am terrified I will lose my babies too. So when they are here with me and I know they are safe, my nervous system finally takes a break from hypervigilance and being terrified that they are in danger. A brief reprieve.

Feeling anything or nothing at all has been the primary theme of my nervous breakdown. I've gone from not feeling even hunger, to not being able to breath because my body just will not permit me to release this pain. But it's been three months, and I am not really much better than I was then. Lately my husband wakes me up every morning, makes me tea or coffee, reminds me to brush my teeth. Yes, I am still in that stage. But I woke up this morning knowing I was not going to my appointment today because I knew I was just not going to get out of bed and go out into the real world. I just wanted to cocoon and distract myself. 

This state has been hard for me to exist in. And yes, I have considered the not-existing option. Sometimes I still do, albeit a bit more fleetingly since I have reached a "therapeutic dose" of all these new medicines coursing through my body. Keeping me alive, even against my own will. But mostly the things I think about scare me, and keep me wanting to stay in the relative safety of my bedroom. Some days I have good days, like normal days where you get up, your mood isn't terrible, you get dressed and ready for the day without any cheerleading, and then maybe you have the emotional capacity to actually get a few things done. Schoolwork, housework, therapy. I'm doing a lot of therapy but have to do that even on my bad days. Sometimes the bad days are perfect for therapy because on my good days I find myself doing anything to distract me from my pain. Because that's how much I want to feel something good. But I know it cannot go on like this. I have a lot of work to do before I get better. I want to get better... but it is a daunting, sometimes overwhelming, task looming ahead of me. Why is it still so hard? Why isn't this easier? Why am I still having more bad days than good?

I used to fantasize about a "mid-life crisis." Some people seem to have so much fun with theirs... sports cars, safari's, sky diving, etc. When you don't know how something feels, you tend to romanticize it. Or, at least, I do. I'm sorry I coveted these experiences with some amount of jealousy, because, well, this hasn't been fun. I don't think this is exactly what one experiences with a mid-life crisis, as having a nervous breakdown is like...  running out of batteries, being completely broken, needing to reboot.

So... what the fuck AM I doing? 

Well first, I'm trying. Sometimes that means just getting through each day. I search my days for meaning and then I hang on to whatever meaning I find.

Second, I am doing the work. I started a grief in person support group where they teach you how to grieve and release that grief. This has, for many reasons, been a huge challenge for me. Mostly I have tried in my life to not show vulnerability, and as such never learned how to properly grieve. I have therapy appointments every two weeks until the end of March. I am blogging, and will try to do more of that because both my therapist and my grief group counsellors say that journaling is an important part of active recovery.

Third, I am trying to learn from other people. I am part of a sibling loss group on facebook, and it's been helpful to read that people feel the same things I do, which is a relief because this journey of grief is already so isolating as it is. Its also good for me to be able to share my experiences as well with a group of people who understand what I am feeling. What a sad club that is. However, I digress.

Fourth I am trying to do my school work. This has been particularly difficult for me as my brain fog, memory issues, and lack of executive functioning makes it quite hard to retain information. But I am trying. 

Fifth... I have a list of things to do. OK, maybe I have several lists - a larger to-do list for getting my life back together (whatever that means), a short term list (journaling, walking the neighbors dog, painting my bedroom)... and an everyday list of things I need to do. Everyday. 

1. Wake up at 8am
2. Brush/floss teeth
3. Wear clean underwear (implies doing some laundry as well)
4. Brush hair
5. Bathe/shower
6. Take medicine
7. Eat something healthy
8. Go outside (I am failing at this more than I would like)
9. Wash hair as needed

Also, as I get stronger and more able I have things I would like to be doing again. Going to the gym. Riding my bike. Reading for fun. Maybe being more social and making some new friends in my co-op. Maybe get a dog. Figuring out what my work life needs to be like. But these are all hopeful, next level, return to life, things for me. They seem a little out of reach for me at this moment in time. 

So although I appear to be a sad, human pile of dirty laundry most of the time, these are the things I am currently doing. I don't understand how I did everything I did before this happened. Family, work, volunteering, housework, friends, school, pets, outdoors, etc. It all seems impossible to me now.

Today I will be working on my presentation of Dead Vikki for my grief group. I present it on this Thursday. We are encouraged to only include one lost one (as we have 10 minutes each), so I chose Vikki as her death was my most recent and lead me closer to this breakdown, but really I feel the loss of two of my siblings, and my extreme fear that I will lose Kate as well, is really at the heart of all of this. 

Sibling loss is a hard one.   

Permitted Grief - Part One

Today is a difficult day for me, it's the the first anniversary of the day that I was frantically trying to get to England, willing the miles to pass faster while I pleaded with whomever you plead with in these situations, all while desperately hoping that everything was in fact just a mistake and Vikki would actually be ok. It's easier to occupy your mind with such fantasies than it is to analyze the shock you've just had, or to let the pain get too big. We're British you know, stiff upper lip and all, brave face in public, etc. I wonder how many of us are actually emotionally damaged because of that one particular cultural directive. I know I am, but that is a another post all in itself. For this post I want to talk about how grief is regarded in our Canadian society. Mostly because I am struggling with so much grief of varying levels of pain, and I'm not sure where to start untangling everything.

I'm somewhat embarrassed about this state that I found myself in. I KNOW I am not supposed to feel shame for having a mental health crisis. I know that we SAY that mental health is important. I'm just worried that isn't really the truth. What will they think of me at work? When I go back, will I still be considered capable? Will this affect future promotions or opportunities? Will they see ME?

I asked my therapist what he would call my "state." He said he would call it a Major PTSD Depressive episode with Adjustment Disorder due to grief" but then he said "You are not your grief. I've known you for a long time, and I see YOU."

I don't know how many people actually see me. 

I can be honest with people, but I find that they don't actually want the truth. They want me to say "I'm fine," or "living the dream." My children know parts of my childhood were hard, but I wouldn't share the details with them. My husband knows some of the more intricate details, but I am loathe to burden him or add to his struggles with the demons inside of me. My best friend Dawn witnessed some of my childhood abuse, but she's been distant lately, and we are far apart. I know I can say anything to my therapist. I know these people are people who do see me. I try to craft whatever façade is needed for the other people I am interacting with. One of my first signs that I was going downhill should have been when I stopped doing this. I started saying things like "I'm not doing well," or "I feel sad." But these types of conversations make people feel uncomfortable and, in turn, their reactions increased my isolation. And I started noticing people would comment that I was always being so negative, rather than sit with me and ask me if they could help. Not everyone, mind you, I have some very supportive friends who love me despite of me being me. But this still leaves me trying to discern what amount of grief and grieving time is proper, and what types of grief are permitted. The answer should be all grief is valid, but we all know that's not the truth. 

People respond differently to the types of loss they experience, each loss is unique. But the way we respond to them is based on an unwritten societal hierarchy that defines how much someone should be upset and grieve, and for how long. It's stupid. I don't like using that word, but come on, why do we make our own lives harder in the name of society? Many cultures honour death and grief much better than we do. In Vietnam each death is mourned for a year, and there are certain rituals and points along the way where you still connect with your loved ones and your memories. Here, it feels like once a funeral is done, you should be over it. Back to work, smile, be productive and don't be a downer. Is it any wonder we bury our emotions until they are to large to contain? And that when it bursts, we break apart?

I guess it gives my therapist a job to do. Look at me, supporting my local businesses!

So one of my losses that still affect me quite a bit is when my dog died. Yes, I said my dog. Most people do not recognize grief from pet loss, so it's a very isolating journey. I got Luna as a puppy in BC the day after your funeral. She changed my life. I don't have a PTSD dog, but she was always there when I needed her. She lived a long life, longer than what is normal for her breed. Luna blessed us for 15 years - her entire lifetime. My kids grew up with her. I am pretty sure she hung on so long because I was going through my Mom's drawn out death, and I needed her. I DID need her. That dog lived for so long she was blind and deaf by the end. We'd even scheduled an in home vet appointment so she could die with us in her home, but she rallied and we cancelled it. We did heap lots of attention and treats on her. But when her death came it was not a good death. It was very traumatizing for me. Something had happened in her brain, and she had seizures all the way to the emergency vet at 2am. It's not easy to hang on to a medium size dog having seizures, but I was not going to abandon her on this last final car ride, so I sat in the rear seat with her so she'd have room to move as needed. By the time we got to the vet, the pressure in her head was so much her eyes were bulging out of her head. I couldn't carry her into the vet because of the seizures, they had to bring a contraption to take her in on. We went straight to the back into a surgery room, but I KNEW this was the end. The vet dallied with his consult of my precious Luna, and my heart was breaking with each passing second. I told him to put her down, because I knew I'd already lost her and I couldn't bear to see her in anymore pain. He killed her right there, in my arms, on that operating table. 

She took part of me with her, all those times that she comforted me when it was just her and I. Our adventures together. The tears she would lick away. It's the same parts of me that everyone takes with them upon death - the memories of who I was in life with just that person, and the stories they had of me. It's hard to lose that, I am sure there is a grief term for that loss, but you are suddenly forever different. 

So my dog died. She was 15 years old, an age where no one has any sympathy for you, or they have a limited sympathy that is not really permitted to be longer than just that conversation. 

Because she was "just a dog" and I could "get another one."

But she wasn't just a dog. She was MY dog, and she came into my life at exactly the time I needed her to. She was born a street dog in Thailand, a descendant of the great Thai Ridgeback, and was in a live animal food market. To be food. A Canadian tourist saw them there and bought the whole litter. An animal rights organization in Thailand helped her get all the dogs to BC, where she took them to the SPCA for adoption. It was, by happenstance, the SPCA my best friend worked at, and she phoned me and told me she'd found the dog I needed. And she was right.

Luna died 5 years ago now. I didn't get a new dog. I didn't want any dog but Luna. Maybe the term is don't, because whenever I think of bringing a dog home my heart skips a beat and happily says "YES, lets bring Luna home!!!!"   

I still grieve the loss of my dog. But that's not actually a "permitted grief." I can't say to someone I am sad because my dog died ... 5 years ago. I have registered in a grief therapy program that starts in January, and on the website it says, specifically, pet loss is not a loss that can qualify you for the program. 

BUT IT'S STILL GRIEF. Honestly my grief journey with Luna's passing has been as real to me as any other loss I've had. So on the hierarchy of permitted grief, pets are at the bottom, only above the loss of a job, or relationship. So that's why I started Part One of Permitted Grief with the story of Luna.

                                                                       

All You Need Is Love

My Therapist gave me some homework to do before our next session. He said to read up on Attachment Injuries so I'd have the words to talk about what I need to talk about. 

So, what is childhood attachment injury?

Google tells me this: "Attachment trauma is a disruption in the important process of bonding between a baby or child and his or her primary caregiver. That trauma may be overt abuse or neglect, or it may be less obvious—lack of affection or response from the caregiver."

Ah, I see. 

You know, I would never have wished Mom's abuse to be directed at you; I probably actually consoled myself at points that if it was me, it wasn't you. But I don't understand why our childhoods were so different despite living in the same family and house. Mom loved you so much, and you loved her back. Mom would do, and did do, everything you ever asked for. I might still be a bit bitter of how she bought you a brand new car after I had worked to buy my first second hand car. But that's a post for another day. 

Your Mother was not the Mother I knew. Everyone loved your Mother. 

She was a different person to me; I never knew the Mom that you had. But I really wanted to. 

Despite opportunities to reconcile at times through my adult life, she took her reasons to the grave. After she died, and I was going through her stuff to clean up her apartment, letters from you to her, cards that people sent her... I finally realized that it was just me. There was no mental health diagnosis for me to understand or find solace in. My Mother just didn't love me. ME. She never even really liked me. 

I found this picture of Dad and I the other day.

I wanted a childhood full of this. I wanted to be touched and held in a loving manner by my Mother.

This is not something my Mother did with me. I have little to no memory of her showing me any genuine kindness (except for the time when I was small and upset I remember being in her lap while she gently stroked my ear to calm me down). I think I remember it so well because I wanted it so bad. There are no pictures of my mother holding me, whilst in contrast, there are many pictures of you and her, and she is always beaming in those photos. She was fiercely protective and proud of you. Your Mother was the Mother I wish I'd had.

She was always angry at me, disappointed, complaining about me, punishing me, or poisoning me. Sometimes she was indifferent to me and other times she'd lock me in the basement or my closet. She always said she wanted to put a lock on the outside of my bedroom door, but Dad wouldn't let her. 

There were times when her rage towards me was so... intense.

I remember a story Dad used to tell, he thought it was a funny anecdote. He said that one day he and the neighbour heard this little voice saying "Help me, I'm trapped. I'm being held prisoner." So they looked everywhere and finally my Dad found me in my room hanging from the window sill so I could reach the open screen. He thought it was a funny story to tell at Christmas times. But I was a baby still, maybe three or four years old. It wasn't a joke.

So now I have learned a new term. It's called Trauma Bonding.

I don't know how to reconcile any of that. I guess I am about to learn a new skill I wish I never had to need. 

I Could Skate Away

Oh I wish I had a river so long

I would teach my feet to fly

Oh I wish I had a river
That I could skate away on

Apparently I never learned how to grieve in the manner that other humans somehow instinctively know how to.

My therapist said it's like I have a river of grief inside of me that I have frozen solid so I don't have to feel it. And as we all know, that river is pretty full. There have been times when that river has overrun it's banks and threatened to drown me. It's what I do, respond to a loss and then pack it away and get back to the business of living, as I believed was expected. I didn't know that this would happen. I didn't know that one day, a future me would be brought to her knees by an enormity of grief and trauma that is still running rampant and unchecked through my nervous system. 

I am in the midst of the worst mental health crisis I've ever had. For someone with an ACE score of 7, with PTSD, who exists on the spectrum, and who has - in the past - been hospitalized while suicidal, that is saying something. 

I'll spare you the gory details, but sometimes I forget what I am saying - in mid sentence. I have two months of laundry I still can't get to, and I am still waking up screaming - despite the new drugs my Doctor has put me on. I can't remember those dreams - all I get when I try to recall them is a black wall. My brain doesn't want me to see them. It's protecting me. 

Honestly I am terrified. 

What could be this horrific that my brain thinks it is best if I don't remember it? It lets me remember some pretty alarming trauma, often in vivid detail. So what can it be?

My therapist says I have to start letting the river thaw. I told him how much I was scared of that pain, and he reminded me that it always hurts to thaw out, but after the pain you feel better again. I appreciate this analogy, it works for me in understanding what I have to do to get better.

I'm terrified of how big the pain inside me is. I have a high tolerance for physical pain, and I've had my fair share of that. But this pain is so enormous. Sometimes it leaks out and even just that little bit feels so overwhelming. I don't know if I can survive it. 

I might die from this. Just skate away...

Death comes for everyone, doesn't it? 

But maybe, just maybe, if I am strong enough, this journey of grief will become a heroic tale of healing and recovery. 

The Grief is Unrelenting

I made a mistake.

I tried to just label my griefs as finished instead of processing them. I jumped back into work. I focused on helping other people. 

Pretty soon I was just going through the steps, one foot in the front of the other, even if my feet seemed made of lead. 

I don't know if I can fully blame myself. I did want to be a good employee and I was grateful for the time my employer had given me to grieve and I felt like I needed to repay that by "getting over it" and appearing strong and dependable. I wanted to appear "self reliant," and resilient. I thought I could do it on my own. Because, increasingly, you guys keep leaving me on my own...

I forgot that there is no "getting over it."

Vikki's death hurt so much. It still hurts and I am afraid of what will happen if I let it all out too quickly. I wish she had told me that she was dying. I wouldn't have put off my plans to see her. I would have gone earlier. I would have held her hand as she left and kissed her gently. 

I deserved that. But we all know how life isn't fair. 

So it finally happened that I pushed too far into burnout and ignored some signs I shouldn't have, and I stopped taking care of myself and I started thinking about driving my car into trees on the way to work. I became a human puddle. One day I felt so afraid of leaving the house and I called the doctor and finally said something. 

I'm also so very worried about Kate. She is also not doing well either and has access to far less supports than I do. I am afraid that she will die. I am afraid she won't survive such a hard loss of losing her twin. It is both anticipatory grief and extreme worry for her wellness. She's in pain too. Every time the phone rings I worry. If you get a chance to look in on her please do.

I hope you don't mind me writing in our blog here about all the many losses I have had in the past 5 years. I know this blog was always intended just for you and I, but I also never believed I would be left behind by so many. Too many. Sorry but I will be dragging you along in this grief journey and my therapist says that journaling is a good place to start, and it did help me with you, so here we are. 

The Years Start Coming...

 ... and they don't stop coming.

Time is relentless. 

Time is aggressive and unforgiving. 

But it is also a beautiful gift. 

A lot has happened since I last wrote to you. It took me a while to be ok to be sharing the news I have to share.   

Vikki died just before Christmas. I tried to get there to say goodbye, but it was not meant to be.

She left much in the same way you did. No warning. No way to be prepared. No way to shelter my heart before. Full frontal assault. More sibling loss grief.

It turns out that Vikki knew that she was ill but decided not to share that info, which is fine, I can't be mad at her for just trying to live her life in the way she needed too. But I struggle to reconcile the plans we had and the future that we looked forward to. Just like I did with you, I thought that we had many years yet to share together. I made the mistake again of trusting time. It's hard not too. 

I know you have dream walked with Kate, it's lovely to know that you are still visiting when you can.

Auntie Vi also died, she passed last summer peacefully. It wasn't unexpected of course, given that she had reached the ripe old age of 96... but I was not prepared for it. My heart refused to consider it when I tried to broach the subject, so I just had to face it as it happened. Which was hard. For me, Auntie Vi was always my favourite Auntie, but for many years much more of a mother to me than our own mother was. But I found saying good bye to her was a bit like losing everyone - Nana and Poppy, Dad, Uncle Ron. She had kind of kept all of them alive for me, held all those memories and stories and while I am grateful for her life and my time in it, I was very sad to see her go.

Trying to distract myself

 I had to drive through Edson today and I couldn't stop thinking about the guy who killed you. Lots of thoughts that are not fit to be cemented into being by giving them words. I did however look him up on facebook. And I messaged him. I guess we will see where that goes.  

The stories we don't tell

The photo

Within my British family many stories were told, but many more were absent. It was considered a point of pride to “suffer in silence.”

Stories that were shared were often funny, recalling some antics of a relative, or meaningful as to deliver a poignant lesson. The real stories, the ones steeped in trauma, lessons from the world wars for example, were withheld. While some of these stories were alluded to, the lessons my family felt important to pass down (i.e. never to trust Germany), were taught seemingly without context.

You could feel some of these stories, even though they were hidden, as if they were a family member in the shadows waiting to be seen. But they were never spoken of.

Before deciding to settle in Canada, my father served as a fireman for many years in the London Fire Brigade. Looking back now I can see my father suffered with the demons of trauma, although he only ever shared stories that were humourous (like pushing a cat out of a tree with a hose), or successful (like the time he had given a German shepherd mouth to mouth and revived him). He protected us from his pain.

Turns out though, the seemingly greatest story was the one that remained untold.

It wasn’t until years after my father passed away in 2004 that I became aware of the photo. My mother said it must be somewhere in his belongings and expressed that it was important that we find it. She did not disclose the story, or reveal any meaning, behind the photo, instead saying that it had won an award and pictured my father rescuing a small child from a fire.

Whatever my mother knew of the story she took to her grave.

It took a while to find the photo. When we did it was well glued into one of my father’s many scrapbooks. Unable to dislodge it from its page, I took a picture of it and uploaded it to instagram, hashtagging it #londonfirebrigade. Almost immediately someone from the Brigade commented on the picture, identifying my father, his unit, the date of the incident and the location. It seemed like a tiny miracle to have this information, a blossoming half story we’d likely never realize the fullness of. I related this discovery to my mother, who managed to look pleasantly surprised by my “new” information. The picture itself became well appreciated among family and friends, reproduced and admired, but it still guarded it’s secrets.

When my mother passed last year I faced the enormous task of going through two lifetimes of artifacts within a very short time. It was during this furious sorting that I found the newspaper article and my father's typed report of that day.

My father's report was a harrowing tale, he—now an officer—had arrived on the scene without the breathing equipment which it was policy to don when entering burning structures. However, when he heard the mother cry that her two babies were still in the house, my father’s instinct overtook him and he and a colleague rushed into the home. Desperately searching, on hands and knees, feeling along the walls to find doors because the smoke was so thick they could not see.

They did eventually find both of the children, curled up together under a blanket in a bedroom, no doubt trying to hide from the fire. Each grabbed a child and, as my father’s recount states, he raced to where he recalled the ambulance had been when he had arrived on scene. Sadly all efforts were in vain; the boy died 30 minutes later. My father’s report was professional, but it had an unmistakable undertone of sorrow and deep regret.

The news clipping my father had kept revealed more of the story. The little boy my father had carried out, so fervently willing him to live, was named Christopher.

This could seem like a trivial piece of information except that my brother, born twelve years later, had been named Christopher, and I had long wondered where the name had come from as it is not a traditional family name.

As we slowly weave this story back into our family narrative, reclaiming it as much as possible, we can never understand why it was kept secret as there is no one left who knows. The meaning we attribute to it will be our best interpretation of the story of courage, life, and hope, arising from the shared human experience of trauma.

* Submitted on 26 May 2020 as a personal essay for my ENGL 308 class and also posted here because of it's connection to Chris.

Toast to the ones that we lost on the way

"There's a time that I remember, when I did not know no pain

When I believed in forever, and everything would stay the same

Now my heart feel like December when somebody say your name

'Cause I can't reach out to call you, but I know I will one day, yeah

Everybody hurts sometimes

Everybody hurts someday, aye aye

But everything gon' be alright

Go and raise a glass and say, aye

Here's to the ones that we got

Cheers to the wish you were here, but you're not

'Cause the drinks bring back all the memories

Of everything we've been through

Toast to the ones here today

Toast to the ones that we lost on the way

'Cause the drinks bring back all the memories

And the memories bring back, memories bring back you"

This song kills me every time. This has been a year where you have been close, for lots of reasons, but really this is just life now, the new normal when you live your life with grief. Cheers to the "wish you were here but you're not." 

What punishments of God are not gifts?

It's Thanksgiving weekend and when I think of things I am grateful for I think of the time we had together as brother and sister. I didn't realize, as most of us don't, that our time together would be so much shorter than expected, that it was a gift soon to be taken back. I had no idea that would hurt so much. Not just to lose you, but to simply be without you, to have to exist in a world where you are no longer.

When Tolkien wrote "What punishments of God are not gifts" I think he was exploring the meaning of suffering in human existence, no doubt well informed by the trauma he experienced in World War I and the early loss of his parents. For Tolkien, it seems pain and suffering is tantamount to being human, and something that is inescapable as part of that condition, and as such must be expected alongside all of the other things that comes with being human. We love, therefore we hurt. It isn't a choice, for we must love, must seek out attachments, must find connections, because that is what it means to be human - ergo alive. But the loss of that love, or the absence of that gift, causes us pain and sadness. Forever, it seems. The gift of that love and those experiences of it are indeed, great gifts, The loss of love does, at first, feel like punishment. Loss really is the continuation of that gift of love, and we wouldn't opt to remove the pain, by simply never having had that gift. The punishment, it seems, is the price we pay for being human, yet it is still the  greatest gift we have been given.

Last night you came to me in a dream. You arrived out of the blue with a wife and two children and you hugged me tight and said that you were sorry to show up unannounced but that you'd really like to join us for Thanksgiving. It felt pretty real, that hug. I still feel it. I've felt it all day long. It hurts a bit too, because it's a common trope that my mind plays with that you were just away somewhere, and that one day you will show up again and it will all have been a mistake.

I am thankful for this dream. I am thankful for this visit, this hug, that I can still feel, even though it hurts. I am grateful that you remain with me, that I remember you, that I can still see you in my dreams. I am thankful for you.

Happy Thanksgiving little brother. You are, of course, always welcome. 
 

We Were Having Fun

Fifteen Years Came and Went...

“The future came and went in the mildly discouraging
way that futures do.”

 
- Neil Gaiman (Good Omens)

... And Many More

Today is your birthday, your most favourite time of the year. If you were still here with us, you'd be celebrating your 45th birthday, which is a decent milestone. We'd probably laugh and call you old, teasing you for whatever new ache you had. We'd sing the happy birthday song and end with the words "and many more..."

Sometimes we say words without realizing how much of a quiet prayer they are. Or we say them not expecting that we need to consider them such a hopeful wish.

Because sometimes "many more" becomes "no more."

And no more is the saddest birthday of all.

A Final Resting Place

This nautical buoy sits at the entrance to Departure Bay, along the route BC Ferries travel to get in and out of the Nanaimo Harbour.

You might recognize it from your youthful antics that may or may not have involved you and Geoff being chastised by the Coast Guard for hanging off of it as the ferry passed, sending some enormous waves your way. This is where Geoff wanted to scatter you and it turned out to be the perfect place.     

Letting you go

One last cruise

You would have enjoyed this

All we could think of was how you would be hanging off the back of this boat, likely hollering in a most unsafe manner, and being ALIVE during every second of it. Because that is how you lived.

We're gonna have a good time then

Home sweet home, Nanaimo. The place where you made every day an adventure.

If I had my choice

He took part of my story with him

Had this conversation about loss on Twitter this morning. I’ve often thought about those times we shared, the adventures we had, the memories of me that only he had, how I existed in his world.. I don’t have that testimony of my life, and I can’t access it, it’s just gone. I miss that part of who we were together as brother and sister, the world that we created for us, that no one else knew.

Should auld acquaintance be forgot

I’m sitting in a lounge at the Vancouver airport on a layover on my way to Vietnam and was thinking how awesome it would be for you and I to have a drink while I was here.

Some things are not meant to be I suppose, but I’ll tip my drink for you.

You came home with me

After we scattered Mom and Dad's ashes together in the cemetery in Calgary I brought your urn home with me. I knew that I needed to do something different for you and that a cemetery in Calgary didn't feel like the right spot to be your final resting place.

I reached out to Geoff and told him I wanted to scatter you where you grew up and he knew the perfect place right away. So in April we are going to get a boat and go out to the little cave you guys used to camp and hang out at, and with some proper pomp and ceremony, scatter you to the wind and sea.

So Mom was up on the roof...

I remember this joke that Dad used to tell with some glee, the story of the guy who told his brother straight up that the cat had died and the brother was so aggrieved he reprimanded him for being so direct - saying that he should have led up to giving him the bad news by saying the cat was up on the roof, fell off and died... Then he asked how Mom was and his brother started with "Well, Mom was up on the roof..."

So, yeah, Mom died.

Mom was sick for a while, but she got 18 months more than her original prognosis of a few weeks. She was able to stay at home, which is what she said she wanted more than anything, besides not dying in the hospital. They moved her to the hospice at the end of November and she passed away peacefully in her sleep.

I'm no expert in the ways of the spirit world but I am guessing you already know of this. It would bring Mom a great amount of pleasure to be reunited with you again. You always were her favourite.

The harsh reality of forever

Not Lost, But Gone Before

You died 5000 days ago today, making today a special kind of deathiversary. I struggle to find the words to describe this moment in time. Therefore, tattoo.

You Remind Me of Someone I Used to Know

I know it's my heart wishing to look upon him again, and my brain trying to recognize him in the shapes that I see... but every time I see Will Smith I am reminded of my brother. I'm not entirely sure why, but for me the similarity is striking. I love Will Smith for this (also, amazing actor).

I'm having a moment...

I was re-reading the words that my brother wrote in the card he sent to his best friend just before he died and noticed something that I hadn't noticed before.

My brother had written "Seems my other friends were right in calling me "Isakawuarte" (benevolent, mischievous, amoral, cunning, sly, resourceful, antagonistic and sometimes destructive). Yes, of all things I have been called or named, I like Isakawuate and it's meaning best."

I kept reading that word, "Isakawuate," over and over again.

At first I was trying to figure out what the word was as I believe my brother was spelling it how he had heard it as I can't find the original word. But then I just kept looking at it like my brain was trying to tell me to look harder. And then I saw it.

I don't know if this was intended or not (and I'm not sure of the protocol to ask something like this) but my brother's best friend named their baby Isak. Isakawuate. Isak. Isakawuate. Isak.

I can't love this enough.

We All Have Sorrow

"I could not foresee this thing happening to you"
~ Paint it Black lyrics

There are no words to describe sibling loss. There's no fancy title for it. There are no ways taught to prepare for it. There aren't really any bereavement groups. Because it's not supposed to happen.

Losing a sibling is to lose a part of yourself - like your shadow - forever. You don't realize how much you are a part of them until they take it away with them, leaving you suddenly and permanently changed. A stranger to yourself.

It takes ages to understand who you are again, and the sorrow of who you once were never leaves you.

We never imagine saying goodbye to our siblings without the possibility of another hello. We don't recognize the moments that are to be the last moments until they actually were.

There is a type of subtle guilt that comes with living your life despite sibling loss; doing the things they never will. While trying to "carry on" you carry this with you, everywhere you go.

Lately I've been on a journey of rediscovery, learning about me and my place in my world. I've adventured across seven countries, meeting and reconnecting with family, exploring the places our parents grew up, mapping out family trees and checking stuff off the bucket list. I love it and yet every moment of it is tinged by a colour of something that can only be this subtle guilt; an abiding sorrow in knowing I am living and he is not.

I have been without my brother for 13 years. I don't always understand how time works, but I can confidently say that these 13 years are a new kind of forever. People talk about "closure," but that's not a real thing as much as it is a word used to define the limits of what is tolerated when it comes to how much visible, tangible grief is permitted.

Thirteen years is long enough to know that this is who I am, now. I'm ok. And I'm not. I'm not as brave as I was. There's a part of me that will always feel... alone.

We change as we age - different experiences and influences craft us into ever evolving (hopefully more kind and enlightened) versions of ourselves. I've become significantly different over the past 13 years. Would my brother even recognize me, would he even know me, if he were to suddenly appear right now? I can't ever know the truth of that, but I do know that no matter what, he would accept who I am and jump right into my battles regardless of how crazy. Because that's how it's supposed to be.

Stay gold, Ponyboy. Stay gold.

The deathiversary of a loved one can be a painful day. Every day, every year, every anniversary is different. I can never really know how I'll feel until the time arrives.

Some have come and gone with less grief than others but this one has challenged me almost as much as the first. Maybe it's because "ten years" seems like such an important milestone or so very long that it is simply impossible to allow it to sneak by unnoticed.

These past ten years have been filled with a multitude of emotions, some I never even knew I was capable of. But years are not really how we measure time after a loss that touches us so deeply. It's more like my life was divided by that one defining moment into a "more innocent time where possibilities were endless" and then... life where "you're gone and you're not coming back."

I still struggle to make meaning out of something that is inherently irrational. It seems the irony of the human condition is to seek solace in answers to questions that can never be answered. My Buddhist Prof in University would remind me that my attachment is causing my suffering. I would likely remind him I have yet to become a good Buddhist.

I've grieved for 10 years now and know only that I will always miss you. Maybe that's just the way of things.

I remember you, I remember you were here. Memories come at random times and they bring me happiness which is, indeed, a consolation. I often think of our childhood and romanticize the innocence we shared.

But... nothing gold can stay.

Some days events occur that shatter time a tiny little bit and allow us to see into the past... and today was one of those days. You've been haunting me a bit today.

I wish I could remember what it sounded like when you laughed when you were little.

Seven Years Already

Seven years you've been gone now, and it likely goes without saying that we still all miss you and think of you. Everyday.

It's funny how time passes and things become "normal." I know it's "normal" that you are not here anymore, during times that you should have been, but it doesn't mean it feels right. It's a process I guess, one of forced acceptance but with a sincere desire to do anything possible to change it while knowing there is nothing to be done. I think the only real word for it is "unfair."

Wesley graduated from High School - was accepted into three universities! Raven finished Grade 10 with Honours with Distinction! Geoff and Giselle had a baby boy, Isak. He's so lovely! I know you would love him. Duncan and I had our 7th wedding anniversary. All these things you should be here for to celebrate with us - and maybe since we hold you close in our hearts you are.

I don't know what else to do... Except to try to dream of you. And wonder if you're dreaming too... Wherever you are...

Peek A Boo

I totally see you in her more and more every day now. I guess there is something to be said for family resemblance! But I am struck by how much she looks like you at times. I think if I had ever dressed you up like a girl, this must be what you would have looked liked!

There You Are...

I visited you yesterday... at Mom's house. Weird to sit next to you in a ceramic urn... knowing you are in it. I sure hope you like that urn.

A Part of You Dies....

When someone you love is killed.

I wish we had just one more chance to make it right again.

One of Those Moments

Every once in a while I have a fleeting shock of sheer terror - where I think "It can't be true - he can't be dead" and I find my heart suddenly in my throat until the panic subsides. It lasts less than a second but long enough to make me wonder if that is how I really feel underneath it all and that my calm exterior is only a facade. Perhaps it is in moments that I am lost in a memory of you, when you seem real in my mind, that I don't think you are gone. But of course something then reminds me you are and then it happens.

I just had one of those moments. I wonder if other people go through this as well?

Six Years Later...

I still think about you, every day.

Miss you!

Wherever you are

Day 16 — A song that makes you cry

“Where Ever You Are”

I’ve hung a wish on ev’ry star

It hasn’t done much good so far

I can only dream of you

Wherever you are

I’ll hear you laugh

I’ll see you smile

I’ll be with you

Just for a while

But when the morning comes

And the sun begins to rise

I will lose you

Because it’s just a dream

When I open up my eyes

I will lose you

I used to believe in forever

But forever’s too good to be true

I’ve hung a wish on ev’ry star

It hasn’t done much good so far

I don’t know what else to do

Except to try to dream of you

And wonder if you’re dreaming too

Wherever you are

This song is from “Pooh’s Grand Adventure: The Search For Christopher Robin” released in 1997. I associate this with the death of Princess Diana, who died on August 31st of that year, but more recently the song has taken on new meaning for me.

This song illustrates how I feel about losing my little brother. With Pooh Bear’s words, there’s both a simple desperation of need and a more sobering realization that the situation is beyond his control even though he has literally done everything he thinks he can to affect the situation.

This song is full of childhood hope and I love the innocence of Pooh Bear. Wishing is what we do but when it doesn’t help he resorts to dreaming… the memories come easier in his dreams and he doesn’t feel so alone or abandoned - until he wakes up.

When he says “I used to believe in forever, but forever is too good to be true,” that’s the part that gets me every time. I feel bad that Pooh has to be faced with this loss of innocence and when he says (in such a defeated, exasperated voice) “I don’t know what else to do…” well, I know exactly how he feels.

I don’t know what else to do, except to try and dream of you…

Crossposted at ALLIE ON THE GO as part of the Tumblr 30 day challenge.

Nothing Gold Can Stay

Nature’s first green is gold
Her hardest hue to hold.
Her early leaf’s a flower;
But only so an hour.
Then leaf subsides to leaf.
So Eden sank to grief,
So dawn goes down to day.
Nothing gold can stay.

(by Robert Frost)

It Wasn't My Fault, Honest

Today is my brother's birthday. He would be turning 36 if he were still alive today.

Through no fault of his own my brother was born on my Uncle's birthday, which for the sake of ease became kind of a "family birthday." This meant my brother had to share his birthday every year. When I was pregnant with with Wesley our Uncle died unexpectedly and my brother realized that meant his birthday that year - his 19th birthday (which in BC is a big deal) - would be his day and he was really looking forward to the attention and festivities.

As I got closer to and then passed my due date (July 7) my brother became increasingly anxious, broody even. He was somewhat buoyed by the knowledge I would be induced before his birthday but even so the last thing he said to me before I left for the hospital that day was...

Don't you DARE have that baby on my birthday!

Well, I honestly tried very hard to give birth to Wesley as soon as I could, but it was not meant to be. Wesley entered the world exactly 1 hour and 58 minutes into my brother's coveted 19th birthday. He never said anything about it but I know that the birth of the first grandchild of the family eclipsed him on his day and every birthday there after. He grew to adore his nephew and I'm sure there was no need in his mind to forgive Wesley for stealing his birthday because if there was any fault to be had it was mine.

Happy Birthday Chris. It really wasn't my fault!

I See You

The expression on Raven's face in this picture is totally you. Raven has a lot of your mannerisms and often, for a fleeting moment in time, I see you there in her face.

It shocks me a little bit at first, but I like the experience of recognition and it brings back the memory of you. Alive is afoot!

Just the way you like it...

Some mail came today, addressed to "The Estate of the Late Christopher Perkins." I looked at it for a bit not being able to imagine what it could be. I was a little stunned by this insertion of you in my day - not that I don't think about you often, just not quite like this.

I opened it to discover that in April 2004, 4 months before you died, for some reason (most likely your perpetual lack of a stable address) Revenue Canada was unable to deliver your GST cheque to you and it was returned to them. So now (six years later) it belongs to your Estate.

I thought about what you might want me to do with it (once you got over the initial disappointment of not spending it yourself) and I think that I know. It's just about enough money to take us out to dinner to celebrate Wesley's graduation from his basic training - I know you would be so proud of him and if you were here you'd do it yourself. So that's what we are going to do with your money, we'll go out to dinner to toast Wes's graduation, sit as a family and remember you. And of course we will order you a cup of tea and put an enormous amount of sugar in it, just the way you like it.

Let it Be...

I Still Miss You...

Missing you in life has almost become normal. I say that and think it sounds weird but it's almost like you have gone far away and I can't communicate with you but there still is a spot/place in my life for you where you fit in.

A brother shaped hole in the universe.

Memories where you once have been. When I think of you it's like you are still here - and in a way you are.

I Hope You Can Hear Me

I miss you...
I miss you so bad
I don't forget you, Oh it's so sad
I hope you can hear me
because I remember it clearly

[Chorus]
The day you slipped away
Was the day that I found
It won't be the same
No....

I didn't get around to kiss you
Goodbye on the hand
I wish that I could see you again
I know that I can't ooooooooooooh
I hope you can hear me
Cause I remember it clearly

[Chorus]

I've had my wake up, Won't you wake up
I keep asking why, And I can't take it
It wasn't fake, it happened - you passed by

Now you're gone, Now you're gone
There you go, There you go
Somewhere I can't bring you back
Now you're gone, Now you're gone
There you go, There you go
Somewhere you're not coming back

[Chorus]X2

I miss you...
-Slipped Away by Avril Lavigne

Missing Uncle Chris

Yesterday my son said "Momma, I miss Uncle Chris."

How can words like that not tear at your heart?

I tried to help him remember the last time he saw my brother, but he was only ten so the memories come harder for him. I remind him of a few special times with Uncle Chris and he smiles. I know he misses him because my brother's picture disappeared into his room last year.

I would have liked for my brother to be a part of my son's teenhood - he really did enjoy playing with my son as a child. I imagine they would have had many adventures together and talked about boy-stuff that its not cool to talk about with your parents.

I miss him too.

But Possibly the Worlds Worst Daughter

Life made me my mother's only child

I still haven't called my Mom yet to say Happy Mother's Day.

I am dragging my feet this year more than usual. I know I need too, and I even want too, but today is a painful reminder that I am the only one left to call her to wish her well on this day. I am sure it is the same for her and I hate the thought of making her feel that way, of having a conversation where we both pretend that everything is ok when we both know what is missing from this day.

Happy Mother's Day Mom. From the both of us.

Cross-posted at Summer's Daydreams as part of a series that also included I'm the Worlds Best Mom.

A Brother Shaped Hole in the Universe

Just a Thought Away

Chris giving Wes a "Horsey Ride"

UP HORSEY, UP!

A poem I saw somewhere had the lines "It's memory's lovely garden that soothes the hurting heart." I guess it's true - two years after my brother's death I smile more at the memories and thoughts of him than not.

In some respects it is hard to believe it has been two years without him. And in others it seems like a lifetime.

Cross-posted at Summer's Daydreams

Nothing Gold Can Stay...

Chris Perkins 1974 - 2004

There are a lot of different kinds of moments to be found in 365 days. Today contains the moments known as the first anniversary of my brother’s death.

Now there are the times in life when I want to tell him something, but I can't; when I'd do anything to hear his voice, but nothing works; when I remember something funny he did, yet he's not here to tease about it... or there's the times I see someone who looks so much like him that my heart stops and I can’t breathe. I can’t help myself, but I still entertain the childish hope that it was all some crazy mistake, a case of mistaken identity, and that one day I am going to get a phone call, or an email, or I really am going to see him on the street with that "Surprise I’m here" smile of his (my brother would often drop out of life only to reappear when you least expected him to).

Actually, there hasn't been a day since Chris died that I haven’t thought about him in some way. His death, like non other I’ve experienced, has affected me in profoundly deep ways: it was so unfair; he was too young: he deserved more than to die in such a senseless manner and place; I couldn’t protect him. I feel as if he was stolen from me and I can’t describe the anger and the pain that accompanies something like that.

He adored me; he was my first love, my first friend, my first enemy, my first charge. My little, baby brother that was born, I was sure, just as a gift for me. The relationship between siblings is a unique one and we were supposed to have our whole lives to explore it.

But never less, one year ago today, someone named Christopher Braden Robinson from Edson Alberta killed my brother.

And he has never even said he was sorry.

Life is irony

So my brother was not always compelled to take care of himself financially (he got better with this as he grew up) and I used to joke with my parents that they were not to leave him to me in their will.

Here I am typing my Mom's will and I have been left my brother's remains, if they have not already been scattered upon my Mother's death.

The irony of that is a little sharp right now.

Cross-posted at Summer's Daydreams

My Brother's Last Words

A couple of months before he was killed my brother packaged up a box of his important stuff (mainly pictures and keepsakes) and sent it to his best friend, Geoff, with a card and letter attached.

I doubt he had a premonition about his impending death, especially given it's sudden accidental nature, but he did manage to achieve what many of us are left to regret in the end, not saying what you really need or want to say to those you care about. My brother reached out and touched one person that meant the world to him, and he was lucky enough to do it in time. Here is what he wrote:

My Friend,

It would bring me great joy to have this letter find you well. You may indeed find my card to you puzzling to say the least, although I am in full confidence that you will get the meaning in the words and title, for my friend, my brother from another mother as it were.

Anyhow as odd as it may seem your Mother and Father both had a hand in raising me and I have come to think of you more of a brother than my friend!

As it is in all my new knowledge, friends and people I know seem superfluvious in the shadow of the man I would call the only friend I have and the only man I think of and miss more than a good woman.

I know the hour of this card is late, for sure you have more questions then I have the answers to. There has been much afoot in these many months since I have seen you and I am sure more in the past years since I had left that I have let on. Although and to be sure I now know the true meaning of pain, among other emotions. Seems my other friends were right in calling me "Isakawuarte" (benevolent, mischievious, amoral, cunning, sly, resourceful, antagonistic and sometimes destructive). Yes, of all things I have been called or named, I like Isakawuate and it's meaning best.

I digress - and somethings are better said in council of friends with the aid of Ale!

The contents of the box are just some personal affects and in no way dangerous or illegal but I do ask it remain closed for now. Please keep it safe as I shall follow it home.

I hope you could read this, it seems my spoken word still is better than my written. Anyhow, and without further adieu, I shall see you soon my friend, my brother, may your home be filled with Laughter and joy.

Chris.

Cross-posted at Summer's Daydreams