The Nature of Grief

I thought I was ready. This year, the fourth one marking my brother's death, I thought I had this whole Grief thing sussed out.

*Snort*

Nope.

Grief is stealthy. He has lurked around the corners of my heart for so long, I suppose I imagined he might stay there, in the shadows of my memories. Instead, Grief has been stalking me, waiting for the exact right wrong moment to leap out, grab me by the throat and shove me to my knees, right there in hallway outside the bathroom.

Sometimes, Grief doesn't even wait for me to stumble into the room and shut out the rest of my world, for just one. blessed. moment. He just swoops in from nowhere  and if I'm not fast enough, he'll pull me into his strangely seductive embrace before I've even taken my next breath.

That's how Grief rolls. Grief sucks ass. Grief colours the edges of every happy moment, whether I realize it then or later, remembering.

Grief is like that relative who comes to every family event, invited or not, and who sits so quietly in the corner you forget he's there, until you go to pour a drink and realize he's been helping himself and now your favourite beverage is all but gone.

Oddly, I've discovered that I  can't even get really, really mad at Grief, not like I did a few years ago - PHEW, that was unexpected and uncomfortable for everyone -  because that's just his nature and he's been a part of things for so long, it would actually be weird if he stopped showing up.

I have managed to  mostly ignore Grief this year, instead of letting him simply take over at the beginning of January.

This year, I tried to stand up to Grief. I got all huffy and puffy and wagged my finger in his face: "You know what, Grief? I have things to do and people to love and I refuse to let you drag me through your mire. I have a LIFE to live here, Grief and it's a busy one. I'd appreciate a little bit of breathing room this year, if you don't mind."

Photo courtesy of helpforthehurting.net

For awhile there, it seemed that Grief was listening. I marvelled at my sense of well-being, took occasional stock of my heart, found it strong and full - nary a glimpse of Grief.

Around the end of January though, I began to fret. Grief would be here soon and I needed to be ready, needed to get my house and my heart in order. So, I called him out, late one night. (It's the best time to let Grief in, he's usually eager to visit once the children are sleeping and it's dark and I'm feeling sentimental.)

I decided on a direct, no-nonsense approach: " Listen Grief, I know I'll be seeing you in February - do you know yet whether you're arriving early or will you show up on the 10th exactly?"

Grief didn't answer, which I decided was a good thing. Grief, I thought, was allowing me to set the terms for our relationship, letting me form the boundaries to guard my own heart and giving me a chance to start the new year unbent, whole, not hollow.

And I suppose, in his way, he DID allow me to move through the first 9 days of the shortest month without being too clingy. Oh sure, he accompanied me on a few more car rides than I'd prefer, but he only stuck around through the playing of the songs that remind me of Andrew and I LOVE those songs, so I didn't mind so much.

And he's popped up in unexpected places, too: My parents pinned a photo-button of Uncle Andrew playing hocked onto Luke's lunch pack and though surprised, I was delighted to see it.  For a moment Nostalgia swirled about as I let my fingers move across that button, remarkinghow MUCH Luke reminds me of Andrew, before Grief swooped in stomped out all the happy.

Sigh.

Grief crept into my heart's house yesterday morning. Early, while I slept, defenseless and pliant.  I felt him whisper through my dreams but chased him off - I thought - with a celebration for  two of my favourite mamas, carrying boys in their bellies and dreams in their eyes.

 Ignored Grief peering round the corner as I dressed for a night out with my Across-The-Road-Neighbours and then pretty much slammed the door on Grief's face as we crossed the threshold of a home filled with laughter and friendship and delicious beverages...

Grief - that fucker - snagged me as I wrapped a warm and sleepy Luke in a blanket for the walk across the road to his own waiting bed. I leaned in to kiss his flushed cheek and was struck -  again - by his eerie resemblance to Andrew and suddenly, like a freight train, Grief thundered in.

In fact, Grief draped himself so heavily on my heart, I had to sit on the stairs awhile, cradling my sleeping son, just so I could breath. Grief followed me into sleep, taunting, dancing through my dreams and filling my throat with lumps so huge I could barely swallow.

When I awoke this morning, Grief waved from across the room, eager to greet the day: "It's February 10th! Here I am, despite your best efforts to avoid me. You didn't really think I'd let this date pass without a visit, did you?"

Sigh.

I hate today.

I miss my brother.

Click on "Gentle Warrior, Gone..."

Sigh.

Am a technological idiot and cannot work out "Pages" vs "Posts" and so there's a page called "Gentle Warrior, Gone."

Go there. Erm...CLICK HERE!

It's a piece about my brother and how it was, growing up in his havoc-wreaking sphere. It's sort of funny. A lot scary. All true.

Should you be thinking about forwarding it onto the the preggos in your life, do so.

It's a cautionary tale, too.

THIS is what happens when you drink during pregnancy, people. No, a glass of wine likely won't cause this kind of angst, but why take the chance?

Love,
Belly

Fetal Alcohol Syndrome: The Invisible Heartache

Had he lived, my brother would be turning 32 next week.

We might have gathered at my parents' house, to celebrate with a BBQ and beer on their deck. Instead, I will call my parents and picture them standing on the deck gazing out at Andrew's Memorial Garden, where a bench sits waiting and flowers are beginning to bloom.

This afternoon, I had a brief but intense conversation with a stranger about Fetal Alcohol Syndrome. This woman, newly adopted-former-foster mother to "TJ" was almost painfully forthright about her son's diagnosis. Taking my cue from her, I offered up my own memories of life with a person who suffers permanent, irreversible brain damage.

"If he had Down's Syndrome or something more visible, the world might have cut him some slack," I said as TJ's mum nodded emphatically. She knows. She - and her son, shrieking happily with mine - live with that frustration every day.

"The challenge for you," I told her, "is not your son. It's everyone else's perceptions of him AND you."

The truth of that hung in the air between us and for a moment more, we clung to it: two strangers bound, ironically enough, by broken cords and damaged angels.

A few minutes ago, I read an article about a couple whose THREE adopted children have been diagnosed FAS/D and the toll the raising of their kids is taking - financially, emotionally and otherwise.

Coincidence? Ha. No way. And so I glanced at my brother's photo, raised my eyes to the sky and began this post. Okay, Bamboo. I get it. I GET it. I shall make your story, mine.

Gentle Warrior, Gone

Coming soon...

When Lives Collide: Meeting My Birth Mother

January 1st, 1991.

At 8:00 a.m. I was up, dressed and staring out the front windows, waiting for an unfamiliar car to pull into the drive.

My birth mother and her husband were due at noon and to say that I was giddy with anticipation would be the understatement of the century. Giddy, I was. I was also scared to death but trying hard not to show it.

But my Dad knew better. He handed me a cup of tea before settling down next to me, more appropriately dressed in his well-loved, suddenly achingly-familiar housecoat.

"What do you  think my father's name is?" I blurted out, my voice too loud in the morning quiet. "I think it's Gus. Short for Augustus."

"I don't know. We never knew that, Elizabeth, " he answered quietly. "How about Biff?"

And then we burst out laughing because really, when the only life you know is about to be forever altered and rearranged, what else is there to do?

* * *

Noon. A stranger's car turned into the lane and up the driveway while I began a slow panic:

"What do I do? What am I doing? What do I say? What do I do?" I turned in circles, flapping and fussing, trying not to cry. Failing miserably. When one's most fervent wish is about to come true, it's a bit overwhelming. Trust me.

"Elizabeth!" My Mum used her "teacher voice", effectively bringing my meltdown to a swift halt. "First, calm down. You're going to freak her out and she's likely already feeling nervous. Go upstairs. Wash your face. Wait in your room until I call."

And so I did.

Downstairs, my Dad guided M.E. into the house, while my Mum chattered happily away, as if her daughter's mother showed up on the doorstep every day. I have never been prouder of her, actually. She was a superstar.

And then, finally - all too soon - Mum called up and I came down and tumbled blindly into M.E.'s arms where we rocked and cooed to one another, surrounded by my parents and her husband, all of whom were crying.

Finally, I pulled back to look at her face - MY face, only older  - and grinned: "So, how've you been?"

* * *

We spent the day trading photos and stories and discovering the serendipitious nature of the universe:

M.E. recognized my Mum as the Choir Mistress from church and my Dad thought her husband looked familiar, which in the end, he was: Throughout my whole childhood, a farmer's field separated our two families - neither of which started out in Bowmanville, but both of which called it "home."

I learned that I bore an uncanny resemblance to an auntie's sons and that they too, lived in Bowmanville. In fact, it was Auntie N's high school best friend who read my letter to the Star and called Auntie N in a  happy dither, exclaiming, "I know where The Baby is. I've found The Baby!"

(Incidentally, P, whose sharp eye caught the "Amanda Ellen B" part of my letter? Went blind a year later. P. remains a warm and cherished part of the family - and one the most miraculous parts of our story.)


N. waited until Christmas Eve, when she pulled M.E. aside and handed her an unmarked envelope, containing a miraculous secret. M.E. and her husband spent the Christmas holidays working out how best to approach me and how to tell their two daughters that I existed.

Jerry made the intitial call, after Christmas, ending his planned introduction with this: "I believe that my wife is your daughter's mother."

Years later, M.E. told me that there was a full minute of silence before my Dad politely replied: "Would you hold the line an moment, please? I'll just go and get my wife..."

A minute later, my Mum came on the line, excited and congratulatory asking when were they coming to visit and wouldn't Elizabeth ,who wasn't home at the moment, what a pity, be happy? In the background, my Dad was frantically holding up hastily-written notes, asking for proof, which Jerry and M.E. eagerly offered:

A tiny white bible from my Mum to my mother, forwarded by the Children's Aid. And a hand-written, unsigned letter saying, "Thank you."

* * *

Some other things I discovered the day my mother came for lunch:

I share her laugh, the way she clasps her hands, crosses her legs and tells a story.
Her daughters were shocked to learn that their mother had given birth to another child, but were looking forward to meeting me, just as soon as I could wrap my head around their existence. Sisters!
Every year on my birthday, my aunties would secretly light a candle and send up a prayer and wishes for happiness.
The gap between my two front teeth is entirely hereditary.
Ditto the need for eyeglasses, the love of words, laughter, wine and family.

And most interestingly:

My surname began with "B"
Bio-father's name is Gus. Short for Augustus.
Like the fairy princess mother of my childhood fantasies,  M.E. did indeed have long red hair.

What's YOUR story? Do you remember the day you were SO proud of your parent(s)?

The Adoption Experience: The Teenaged-Angst Years

Shortly after my 16th birthday, I began to seriously consider searching for my birth mother. By "seriously consider", I mean, obsess. It was like a switch - as soon as I turned the same age that she was when she gave me up for adoption, I became obsessed with thoughts of the girl she had been.

The girl I now was.

That Spring, I took a job at a Muskokan resort, where I met and  fell hopelessly, recklessly, headlong into love with sensitive, dark-eyed, irresistible Sam. It was a magical time, the way love is at 16 - our hearts connected and childish innocence slipped blissfully away. Throughout the hot and heady days of Summer we played at being grown-up, played with fire, the way that young lovers have since forever.

Even then - perhaps especially then - I thought about her. I wondered if she felt the same way about the boy she'd loved enough that they created life together. Did she love him? Did he love her? Was it like THIS, for her?

I wondered how she felt - how scared she must have been - finding herself pregnant while still a child herself. How did she tell her parents, what did they say, what did her boyfriend - my father - say? Was she happy, in the afterward? Did she regret her choice? Did she ever think of me?

That Fall, I peppered my parents with all of these questions and more, but they couldn't give me a single, satisfying response. The non-identifying information supplied by the Children's Aid was vague and spawned more questions than answers which was the point really, but didn't diminish my sudden, burning need to know her.

And so one night, I wrote a letter, intending to submit it to the Toronto Star's "Have Your Say" section of the weekend newspaper. In it, I stressed that I had no desire to bring back painful memories or to destroy the life she'd built for herself. Nor was I seeking, my "real" parents - I loved my chosen parents very much and was happy with my life. Mostly, I wanted only to see her, meet her....thank her.

I offered what few details I had from Children's Aid, hoping that it might jog some memory,elicit some spark of recognition in the minds of the newspaper's readers.Then, almost as an afterthought, I added my birth name:

"Amanda Ellen B."

Carefully, I copied the letter out using my best handwriting (no keyboard for this girl - it was 1990, after all) and handed it over to my parents to proofread. They were supportive and gentle, as always, and could find little fault with the letter, except for one, tiny detail:

My name.

They knew that my birth mother had named me Amanda Ellen, but had no idea what her last name might have been. Of course they had, I insisted. Otherwise, why would I think that my birth surname began with a "B?" Shrugs. Confusion mixed with absolute certainty: they did not know, had never known and urged me to strike it from the letter.

But in my deepest heart, I was certain and so the initial stayed and the letter got mailed and then, we waited.

And waited and waited and waited.

Into the mailbox, every day it seemed, tumbled letters from strangers, replying to mine. Most expressed their best wishes, some wanted money and a few were downright crazy. But none were from her and as the months passed, my dejection and uncertainty grew. So did my obsession.

Perhaps she hadn't read the letter. Maybe she needed to tell her husband first and was holding out until the Christmas holidays had passed. What if she was travelling out of country on some wild and crazy adventure and her neighbour was collecting her papers all of which she'd read sometime in March....

Obsessed. As Winter and my 17th birthday approached, I was now obsessed with two things:

1. Checking the mailbox, hoping for a letter from my mother, who lived God knew where and whose face I was desperately trying to find, despite the years that separated us.

2. Checking the mailbox, waiting for a letter from Sam, who lived five hours away by train and whose love I was desperately trying to keep, despite the distance that separated us.

When the snow began to fly in earnest, the stream of letters slowed to a trickle and then one day, only silence fell. I was forced to admit that perhaps I had not found her simply because she didn't want to be found. My need to know her was overshadowed by her need NOT to know me.

It was hard. I hadn't realized how very much I'd been banking on her wanting me. Again. Still. It stung my pride, too. Why didn't she want to know me, the daughter she'd borne and selflessly given up? Perhaps her thoughts of me - if she thought of me at all - were that I would only be, had only been, a burden.

I drove myself and my parents crazy with all my theories and ponderings - broke all of our hearts with my disappointment and suddenly shaky sense of self. To escape, I hopped on a train and headed to Sam's for the holidays. Dove into his arms and stayed there - forgetting, basking, healing - until the day before New Year's Eve.

My parents were delighted to have me home. They listened with rapt attention as I spun tale after tale of my time away - where we'd gone, who we'd seen, how much we loved each other...and on and on I went, their chatty, happy, slightly-crazy daughter, returned.

Finally winding down from the long trip home and even longer update, I sat on the stairs, ready to say goodnight and haul myself off to bed. And then, casually, oh so casually, my Mum fixed me with a look I'd never seen before. Sensing a secret, I tossed a quizzical glance at my Dad, whose eyes were suddenly dancing.

"By the way, Elizabeth, " she said, drawing the words out slowly, through her Mona Lisa smile, " We're having some special guests this week."

"Oh, yeah?" I smiled tiredly through a yawn.

"We received a very interesting phone call yesterday, " my Dad began, gazing idly at the amber liquid in his glass, letting the moment build as I waited for the rest of the story.

I waited. And waited. And waited...

"A man called Jerry rang, asking if we had a daughter named Elizabeth..."


"Your mother," blurted my Mum, unable to contain her excitement any longer, "She's coming for lunch on Tuesday!"

I blinked.


And just like that, the wait was over and life as we knew it would never, ever be the same.

The Adoption Experience

Have been thinking about the different ways to grow a family and wanted to share the bedtime story that my Mum told me, her chosen daughter,  throughout my childhood:

Once upon a time there lived a Mummy and a Daddy who were sad .

One day, a fairy godmother appeared to Mummy, who was sitting in her garden, feeling sad.

"Mummy, why are you crying," she asked?

And Mummy replied, "I am sad because I haven't any children to love."

The Fairy Godmother smiled gently and squeezed Mummy's hand, "You wait right here, Mummy. I'll see what I can do."

And off she flew.

Mummy and Daddy waited and waited and waited. Every day, they waited for the Fairy Godmother to return but as each day drew to a close and she didn't appear, they grew sadder still.

And then one sunny day in May, the Fairy Godmother appeared, holding a pink bundle in her arms. It was a baby girl and Mummy and Daddy were so happy because finally, they had a child to love.

And do you know who that baby was?

Baby Elizabeth, meeting her parents for the first time.

In coming days, I will tell my story here because it makes me happy to share it and because lately, I've fallen into conversation with adoptive mothers (and one bio-mother) all of whom seem comforted and buoyed by my experience. Stay tuned!

On Letting Go...

My brother died two years ago, tomorrow.

Two years ago yesterday, I spoke to him for the very last time.

Had I known that it would be the last time, I might have lingered longer. I might have told him again that I love him. I might have told him again. And again. And again. And again.

So that he might carry my love into whatever comes after we're done here and so that the words that reverberate in my mind are not these ones, casually tossed at the end of a hurried phone call:

"Ok, Bam. I love you. Be good. I'll call you tomorrow."

Only tomorrow came and I didn't call and then he was gone forever.

Two years on, I'll admit that I am surprised by my tears - that today they flow easily and often and I keep having to rush off to lock myself in the bathroom to weep, so that the Reds aren't frightened or confused. While I am all for sharing my feelings, they don't need to see their mother bent over with grief, unable to fathom - all this time later - that he is entirely, utterly, simply gone.

Though I miss my brother every day, most of the time, I am not sad. Mostly, I recall happy times and often share stories of my own childhood with my sons. They love to hear about all of Uncle Andrew's silly antics. Matthew, in particular, seems to enjoy knowing that my younger brother drove me just as crazy as his younger brother drives him.

I've probably romanticized Andrew - his brawn, his wit, his charm. Well, maybe not his charm. I've wondered if this is normal and have decided that it is - that we paint those we miss in brighter colours, more vibrant hues because it makes the mantle of grief easier to carry.

These days, I wear my grief quietly. Well, quietly for me, anyway. No longer do I find reasons to say his name out loud or examine the "WHY?" behind each and every choice he made during his all-too-brief life. I no longer feel as though my heart might crack in half as the words, "My brother died," come out of my mouth.

It no longer hurts to breath or takes everything I've got to get through the day without shattering into a hundred pieces. And funnily enough, I no longer see the man with the dog whose path began to cross mine immediately after Andrew died. Oh, I'm sure he's still around - it's just that my eyes no longer see him.

And yet...

And yet I fall asleep every night still fervently wishing that he'll visit me in my dreams.

And yet, I have very detailed daydreams about being able to somehow manipulate time and space to create a world in which my brother still lives. Only this brother isn't haunted by demons and his heart - so big, so broken - beats strong and healthy.

And yet, in the days that lead up to this sad anniversary, I am almost undone by missing him. By missing the uncle he was to one of my sons and the uncle he might have been to the other, had he lived. I made it through Christmas and the dawning of another new year with barely a tear. But last week, sitting up too late with my father and drinking too much of his Baileys - the tears fell unchecked.

My dad suggested -gently, gently - that perhaps it was time to let Andrew go. I surprised both of us with the immediate and vehement shaking of my head. No. NO! I am NOT ready to let him go.

Today I wonder if I will ever be ready to let him go. If ever there will come a time when the thought of writing him a goodbye letter or some other symbolic gesture fills me peace and a sense of rightness instead of wild panic and a kind of choking, swiftly-moving anger.

Today, I wonder if every year will be this way - if the week leading up to February 10th will always find me on edge and furious with my sons for bickering and fighting and blaming and tattling, the way that siblings do.

Today, I will wish once more that my baby brother will visit me in my dreams - so that I can apologize for every time I hollered at, told on, smacked, wished away, was angry with, stopped speaking to...him.

And so I that I can tell him this:

"Ok, Bam. I love you."

And have those words be the only ones he carries in his heart for the rest of time. Not a broken promise from a big sister who will carry only his memory in hers.

Into the Mystic...

We were born before the wind. 

Also younger than the sun.

'Ere the bonnie boat was one,

 as we sailed into the mystic.

Hark, now hear the sailors cry

Smell the sea and feel the sky.

Let your soul and spirit fly

into the mystic...

 February 10th, 2009

The day dawned bright with promise. Or so I mused as I tumbled giddy Reds into the car for a much-anticipated visit with their beloved Nanny and Papa. We made good time despite the snowy roads and it was almost noon when we pulled into the drive.

Much laughter and lots of hugging followed - the foyer filled with excited chatter as snowsuits and hats were discarded in heaps at the door, Nanny bestowing long-awaited kisses and the boys eager to tell her of their new home here in Belleville.

15 minutes. I was able to spend 15 glorious minutes watching my parents light up at the sight of my children and basking in the comfort of being in their sphere. Of being home.

 And then the phone rang.

My mum picked up in the family room, her other hand still holding Matthew's and her happiness infused into her cheery, "Hello?" A pause..."Oh, hello Lindsay. How are you, love?"

And in that moment - the last whisper of time before our world fell apart for real and forever, I knew. Suddenly filled with this fierce and terrible knowing, I shifted behind my mum and wrapped my arms around her waist. Hung on through her gasp and gripped tighter still when she cried out, "He's dead!?!" seconds before she buckled.

I heard my Dad fumble for the other extension, his voice calm and measured as he interrupted Lindsay's tearful babbling long enough to find out where she was. Where his son was. And then he was gone - out the door, in the car and racing down the highway - too late, too late, too late.

The rest of that day was a blur of phone calls and endless cups of coffee. The Reds, bless their hearts, were impeccably behaved. When his darling Nanny slipped into her room to weep, in too, slipped Matthew. Wordlessly, he crawled up next to her and placed one small hand into hers. Sat quietly there until I motioned him out, grateful to him but aching for her, for Andrew, for all of us.

My Dad reappeared late in the day, looking drawn and tired. He'd been to the hospital and the funeral home all by himself - scrambling to gain some semblance of control in his world, suddenly turned upside down.

 Mark showed up shortly before dinner and quietly got the boys bathed and bedded down while my parents and I sat at the kitchen table in shock and struggling to comfort each other - a family of four, now three.

Blink.

The wake was surreal. For hours we stood hugging and greeting friends old and new. Teachers from years gone by, neighbours from Bowmanville, Burketon and Lakefield. Andrew's friends, many of whom we'd never met, some of whom I'd be happy to never meet again. Dozens of people filtered past, expressing sorrow, regret, shock. Gamely, we accepted their kind words and murmured words of comfort in return.

The room was full of photos of Andrew - from babyhood right up until his final months. His body rested behind my parents and every once in awhile I glanced over, shocked anew that he was still there, but not and not-quite-sanely hoping that this terrible thing hadn't really happened.

But it had and on February 17th, I kissed his cool skin for the last time, whispered "I love you, I love you, I love you," and stood breathless and weeping as the casket lid lowered on his sleeping face forever. My brother was truly gone.

Blink.

I spent the rest of last winter in a rage. I raged against God, for taking my brother - my only sibling and the only person in the world who knew what it was to be my parents' chosen ones. I raged at the senselessness of his passing, at his poor choices, his weakness, his strength and his heart - so huge and in the end, so broken. I raged at his friends, his enemies and his past. Mourned the loss of his future with angry tears and developed a blistering, terrifying hatred for those who should never have remained silent, but did.

I was angry with myself, too. I had spent many months not speaking to Andrew and I regretted it bitterly. Night after night, I begged him to visit my dreams, to give me a sign that he was ok. Realized that grief is not a shared experience, even though so many of us mourned for him. It is a bleak and desolate journey and one that, despite all my efforts to the contrary, I had to take. I had to move through it and so, I do.

Blink.

Andrew's birthday. Easter. Mother's Day. Father's Day. Every summer long weekend. Thanksgiving. Christmas. New Year's Eve.

For me, this year has been marked and defined by getting through these milestones. The weeks and days leading up to these special occasions have all been worse than the actual day, but even still, the celebratory nature of them is tempered by a keen sense of loss. Of emptiness. Of knowing that he is missing.

Of missing him.

Even when I am feeling fine and no longer think of him every minute of every day, I can be brought to my knees by a memory, a song or sometimes, nothing at all. Matthew speaks of him regularly and has broken my heart a million times with his innocence and his goodness.

"Mummy, I miss Uncle Andrew."
"I do too, sweetheart."
"Can we go visit him in Heaven?"
"No, sweetheart. Though I wish we could. Heaven is too far away."
"It's not that far, Mummy. See? It's just there, past those clouds. When we're done visiting, we can just jump down the clouds until we're home."

How I wish that it were so and that I could simply will my brother to me, or me to him. To be able to sit with Bamboo for an hour and have him tell me that he truly is free and whole and happy the way my heart desperately wants him to be. To hear his laugh and see his eyes twinkle as he smiles his crooked, slightly wicked smile. To tell him that I loved him before I ever knew him and that I love him still.

Blink.

February 10th, 2010

My Mum and Dad are coming to visit us today. The Reds are giddy with anticipation, eager to show Nanny and Papa our second new home here in Belleville. I expect that there will be much laughter and chaos when they arrive - lots of hugging and long-awaited kisses in the sun porch as hats and scarves and coats are discarded.

I hope the day dawns bright with promise and that Andrew's spirit will linger awhile before heading back into the mystic...and that he will know how desperately I miss him on this and every day.

When You Wish Upon a Star...

So, a few months back, I started a different blog called "Seeking, Offering, Received." It's meant to chronicle the stories of weird/odd/compelling ads I find while trawling Kijiji.


One of the first ads posted was from a couple in another city, seeking "a child to love." They were having no luck adopting a second child through the regular channels and couldn't afford an international adoption.

Since I originally wrote them, asking for permission to put their ad on the blog, we've stayed in pretty regular email contact. A good friend of mine is embarking on her own adoption journey and I shared this couple's story with her. She asked me about them on Christmas Eve.

Today, this message awaited me:


To sum up: Prayer is powerful. Wishes come true. No doubt, the universe is unfolding as it should and frankly, this couple have completely made my entire day. Week. So far, year. Just wanted to share!

Hi Elizabeth,

I hope you are doing well.

I just wanted to send you an update. Not sure if it had anything to do with your prayers and your good wishes but a few weeks after your email, we were contacted by an agency asking if we were still looking to adopt and if so to send them a profile as they had a birthmother they wanted to show it to (nothing to do with our profile on Kijiji, this was just an agency I had emailed almost one year ago and never heard from since). We did and sure enough, a few days before Christmas we got the miracle you 'predicted' and we told we were chosen. It's not a done deal yet but is certainly looking very promising.

My advice to your friend is to keep at it and also try to contact as many agencies as she can. In particular, I'd suggest contacting agencies in more remote areas as they seem to have less clients. The same thing applies to CAS. As I detailed before we had been rejected by the CAS in Ottawa but I still contacted CAS's in other cities and the response has been much more optimistic. Basically, as long as you are registered with your local CAS, you can contact other CAS outside your area. Now our CAS plan is on hold but in the future, we'll probably look into that as well.
Take care and thanks again for any 'cosmic / religious / whatever' help you might have provided !!!

Mike

May 19th, 1978

Dear Andrew,

Tomorrow is your birthday - you were supposed to turn 31.

I miss you. I miss knowing that whatever else might have been going on in our lives, that tomorrow, I would dial your number and wish you a "Happy Birthday!" and would hear your smile through the phone.

I've been waiting for you to send me some sort of sign, a peace offering, smoke signal - anything to let me know that you're well and safe and happy. One morning, I heard an owl hooting and thought of you. But dude, it was FAR too early for you to be up and hooting, so I chuckled a bit, missed you more.

Some people watch for pennies, but you never had any money, so they're out. Others wait to hear a favourite shared song, but Cypress Hill isn't on my playlist, so it'll be a long wait, eh?

There's a guy here in Belleville - every time I see him, which is about once a week, in random places, like the grocery store, or walking his dog by the Moira River - he reminds me of you and I catch my breath, thinking, "Andrew!"

And then I feel crazy, because he's not you and I know it, but I was hoping SO hard...

Was explaining thunder and lightening to Matthew last week - told him that angels high, hiiiiiiiiigggh in the sky were having a party and the sound of thunder was them laughing and lightening was the flash of their smiles.

The next day, he told Luke not to be afraid of the thunder, because "it's angels, 'Ukey and they're having fun up there. Uncle Andrew's there, too...high, hiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiigghh in the sky."

And I laughed so hard, hiding on the landing above them, listening. Andrew? High? Never! HA!

Interesting fact: November 30th (which is my birthday, in case you forget) is also St. Andrew's Day. Isn't that something? Connected we were. Are. Always.

Shit, Bamboo. It was supposed to be you and me, brother-mine. You and me, the chosen ones, forever. Remember? You and me, arguing over who gets the stupid "Cows" portrait when Mum and Dad have gone on ahead of us. You and me missing them, instead of this.

Wishing your life had included us more.

Wishing our lives still included you.

I love you. Know that. Hold it close and never, ever forget it. I loved you even when I hated you and wish you'd have stayed with us in Newcastle. Wish you were here to know Luke and watch him swagger through his days, so much like you as a toddler, it makes my heart ache sometimes.

Wish you could see Matthew, growing like a weed and chattering incessantly, all day long. He talks about you every so often and it pleases me that he remembers, even though it breaks my heart that he only has memories now - his, mine. Watch over them, please, from wherever you're perched, chilling, free.

Whisper sweet dreams to Mum, Andrew. And watch over Dad, who's bearing up, but is so sad.

This is harder than I'd ever, NEVER imagined. It was supposed to be you and me.

Blessed be, my baby brother. Always, I love you.

Happy Birthday.

My Darling Mum,

Boy, this is hard.

Not because I don't think you're an amazing, wonderful Mum, because I do.

You are.

You are loving and wise and everything I strive to be for my own children. I wish I had your innate kindness and could steal some of your infinite patience, especially on days when what little I have is stretched thin and all I do is fidget and fuss and use my "growly voice."

Matthew is a pee-on-the-potty superstar and it's thanks to you, really. All I did what follow up what you started and remind him that Nanny would be so proud. And he loves his Nanny oh, so much, I'm pretty sure that those magic words did the trick. Well, ok...Smarties help, too!

This is hard because this Mother's Day marks your first without Andrew - this year, and for all the rest to come, there will be only one card on the mantel and only one child to hug you and say, "Happy Mother's Day, Mum. I love you." And as much as it hurts to even write these words, I want to acknowledge who is missing, and to let you know how very much I wish it weren't so.

He was headstrong and fierce and not easy to raise or even, on some days, to love. And yet, love him you did. Do. Despite it all, you stood by him and reached out again and again, to hold him, to rescue him, to offer safe harbour. Far, far into the night, you fought with him, for him, against him, despite him - because you love him. That he grew up in such love, in the constant glow of that sort of dedication of the heart, is the greatest gift you could have offered him, and he knew it.

We were chosen, we two, and we were smug about it - never did Andrew and I ever believe that we were anything else but special and beloved. This truth was ours alone and was the best part of our shared lives. Remains my truth, to carry forever.

Thank you for that, always.

Thank you for finding your way through your own grief to ask after me - to encourage me to share my pain and memories and all my sibling angst. With poise and compassion, you've shown an awesome strength and grace for which I adore you all the more. Wish I could be more like you.

Thank you for drawing some of that strength from my children, both of whom adore you, as only "Nanny's Boys" can. You are their light and their treasure and I am so, so happy that you have been such a warm and loving part of their lives from the very beginning. They will cherish visits and snuggles and morning chats and hours spent in Lakefield, much like their uncle and I did of our own childhood. You bring to each moment, a certain magic, and we are all so blessed.

Blessed be, Mama. On this, and every day - know that you are loved beyond all measure, from Heaven all to way to us and back again. Andrew and I grew up, basking in your love, and now, so do Matthew and Luke. For all of it, from all of us, thank you. We love you.

Happy Mother's Day.

A Place Called Here

It's a book, "A Place Called Here" by Cecelia Ahern. I'm midway through and already know that I will be up reading, far into the night.

It's about a place, called Here, where things go, when they're missing. Socks. Keys. Luggage. The place we've all wondered about, while sorting laundry and discovering that yet another sock is missing its mate.

Here, is where people go, too. Children, adults - while porch lights the world over burn, night after night, to guide them home. Memories go Here, too. The smell of summers, long past, linger Here. An old lover's cologne. A mother's voice, her scent. Here.

And for the first time since Andrew died, I feel some peace. Hopeful that he too, is Here. Happy. Whole. Free.

Easter dinner, in Lakefield. The boys and Mark and I sat around the table with my parents, laughing at Luke's feeding frenzy antics and only half listening to Matthew's constant, happy chatter. Until he "cheers-ed" the table and then stopped, gazing at the empty spot, next to the window.

"Somebody's missing!" he announced, giddily. "Who's missing?"

And I held my breath, we all did...knowing who was missing. And I felt my heart break, just a little, missing the one who was missing.

I miss you, Bamboo. Wishing you Here. Wishing you everything.

Long, sad rambling...

Life goes on.

Despite all feelings to the contrary, and my efforts to stay mired in rage, in this awful, hollow place, life does move forward and unwillingly, I must too.

Have discovered that grief is a lonely place - an entirely solitary journey. I assumed, before this terrible knowing, that it was shared experience. That those who also loved and lost my brother would feel the same way as I do: pent up with emotions for which no word is enough. Rage doesn't quite capture the intensity of my deepest heart. But it comes closer than any other mild, asinine attempt: anger, frustration, sadness.

And they do, my parents, feel this, they assure me. In moments other than mine, when they're not feeling all the rest. But they seem to be handling this with a dignity that I simply cannot muster, a grace that eludes me, even as I will myself to calm down, get a grip, deal.

I still, two months on, want to poke strangers in the street and hiss, "My brother is dead. He died. My brother died." And yet, when I tell people, new friends and those who hadn't heard and they express their shock and sympathy, I wave it off, embarrassed, saying, "It's ok, it's ok," and sort of laugh. Laugh, that my brother is dead and I don't know what to DO about it.

It's NOT ok. It will never be ok, that he is gone, his life unfinished, not even half-lived. It's NOT ok that the truth about the life he did lead comes now, after it's too late, futile, done. The "if onlys" wage battle in my head with the "it was destineds," and I exhaust myself, flitting back and forth between them.

If only we had known the breadth and depth of the soul-destroying troubles he knew, we might have been able to pull him from it. If only he had made different choices, if I had not been stubborn and closed my heart and my door to him when he was searching for safe habour, he might still be here. If only...

And yet, in the next breath, it seems, I believe that the demons that chased him were of his choosing, long before he took his first breath of this life - and to die so young was all part of some Master Plan the he'd mapped out for himself, for us. Somewhere in my mind, I'd been waiting for that phone call saying he was dead, for years. When it finally came, I was utterly unprepared. Knocked sideways, both in shock and an underlying guilt that because I'd thought it, I'd willed it - he'd willed it. It was destined...

Or something.

I seek vengeance and peace, in equal measure. Well, not so much equal - was hoping that the vengeance for a death I consider wrong and unnecessary and entirely preventable would bring me peace. Am hopeful that Andrew is at last, at peace. Whole. Free. I am most certainly not at peace, since his passing. Feel like I will never be entirely whole again.

Am slowly realizing that my quest for answers, for retribution, and for the chance to rage against the one who was supposed to love him the best will never be enough. This rage and waiting to spew venom at her has propelled me through this godawful period, yes. And perhaps this is my mind's way of grieving - that I thrash about searching in vain for someone to blame. Someone else to blame, in truth, as he is no longer here and cannot feel my wrath.

The thought of her, blithely tra-la-la ing through her days, having NOT been made accountable, having NOT been made to atone for lies and deceit too late uncovered....it eats at me. Claws at my heart and forces me to know that at my core, I too, am capable of great and frightening loathing.

The unfairness of it all, that he is entirely gone, that I am left to agonize about the why, to watch helplessly as my beloved parents struggle with an unfathomable loss while her life goes on...it is so painful. Without anger, all encompassing and frankly, a little bit crazy, I am left feeling...deflated. Bereft. Cast adrift in a sea of sadness and I almost cannot bear it.

"What good will it do?" A well-meaning, entirely valid question. What good will it do to unleash my anger and accusations and theories and blame onto her. Well, shit. It won't do any good. But it sure as Hell has got to feel better than this churning helplessness. And the whole point is to make her feel even an iota of this angst - and to have it haunt her forever, instead of me.

"It won't bring him back, you know." Really? Huh. And here, I thought...well, maybe... OF COURSE it won't bring him back. But maybe I will be able to take a breath without wondering what it felt like for him, knowing that he was drawing his last. Without wishing it were her, instead.

Today, realizing that it will likely do more harm than good to rail against her as publicly as I know how, I am feeling...alone and afraid. I've been waiting, waiting, waiting to place all of these feelings firmly onto someone else's shoulders and now that I know I probably won't, I'm afraid that the anger was just the ride to THIS place, where the real grief begins - and I don't want to be here.


I wish he still was.

Farewell, beloved brother...

Earlier this week, while I was collecting photos for today, my son Matthew spied a photo of himself and Andrew. He wanted to know why Uncle Andrew has to live with God now.

I managed to stutter out that God needed a really strong angel to help move the heavy stuff. That seemed to satisfy Matthew and off he went, leaving me to ponder my answer.

In life, Andrew could always be counted on to help with the heavy stuff. Physically, he was the strongest person I know – he made his living with his hands and took pride in the things he built. He was good at what he did and I’m glad that he was able to channel his natural talents into a livelihood.

Andrew could also be counted on to help others wade through the heavy stuff in their own lives. The tribute page on Facebook and dozens of emails have been an enormous comfort to me this week, as I’ve discovered that a common thread of appreciation exists, for his gentle, quiet nature coupled with a willingness to listen without judgement. He was friendly to all and genuinely cared about people. Those who were lucky enough to know his love never doubted his fierce loyalty, counted on his sense of humour to keep things fun and light and sought support in his arms, as he also gave the best hugs of anyone I’ve ever known.

When my parents adopted Andrew, 30 years ago, I believed that they got him for me. He was a little tank even then – a blond-haired, blue-eyed cherub, strong and stubborn, determined to do things his way, in his own time. Andrew once tried to dismantle the engine in my dad’s car, just to see if he could put it back together again. Model cars and dinky cars litter my memories of our childhood – he was always tinkering, improving, breaking stuff apart, leaving a glorious mess in his wake.

His love for cars and making messes followed Andrew into adulthood. He lived with Mark and I in Newcastle for a few years, and his room there still housed model cars and bits and pieces of remote control car and Lord only knows what else. He commandeered the shed in our yard, rigging up heat and light by running an extension cord under the grass, into the house. He spent many hours out there, tinkering, smoking and building random things: jersey boxes, speakers, oddly-shaped tables.

I miss the simplicity of those days that seem so long ago, now. For long after the tumultuous teen years that had found my brother and I at odds and fallen from each other’s favour, we had finally found our way back to one another. Both, in our way, had once again, found home.

At day’s end, Andrew would trudge through the door and scoop up my son, effortlessly and grin. It’s said that children and animals recognize goodness and are drawn to those who possess it. Even as a baby, Matthew adored Andrew and I cherish the memory of their easy, loving bond. Andrew took almost as much delight in Matthew’s antics as I did and laughed merrily along with us the night Matthew took his first wobbly steps. I have it on video, and all you can hear in the background is us, laughing.

Despite his troubles and a few miserable funks over the years, there was much to laugh about when Andrew was around. While not a boisterous, life-of-the-party sort of guy, Andrew was still the person I wanted to sit next to at family get-togethers. He possessed a dry, quick wit and many nights found us all in hysterics of laughter over something he’d muttered, some pithy, random observation he’d made.

In our whole lives, the best Christmas Andrew and I ever spent was the first one in Lakefield. My parents and the two of us, special, chosen Schillings’ siblings, stayed up until dawn, drinking too much and laughing like fools at everything and nothing. It was our last Christmas as a foursome, before boyfriends and girlfriends became a permanent part of our family celebrations and I will hear the sound of our happy laughter, forever.

Andrew had the ability to laugh at himself, which is another reason people loved him so much. It’s one of the things I will miss most about him – his “this-is-who-I-am-now-let’s-have-a-drink” approach to life. He rarely passed up an opportunity for fun and if there was a bonfire to muck about with, well, all the better. Andrew shared that with my dad and long after the rest of us had called it a night, the two of them would sit, watching the embers glow, quietly drinking beer. It comforts me now, to remember them together, relaxed and content.

It touches me today, to see so many people who shared his journey and helped shape the man he was becoming, here to bid him farewell. I am pleased with the thought of his friends gathering somewhere, after today, and raising their smokes and their glasses high in the air, so that he might see and offer that shy, sort of goofy grin and raise his own toast back.

Perhaps I was not entirely wrong, all those years ago, believing that my baby brother was born just for me. My mum assured me some months ago that they had intended for me to think that, so that his arrival would be a true celebration. I like to think that he became ours so that I would have the honour of being his sister and for that, I will always, always be grateful.

Mostly, I seek solace in the mental image of Andrew, my gentle warrior brother, in the cool, winter sunshine on his last day. In the end, always, a little boy, playing with cars.

Sweet dreams, Andrew Bamboo. I have loved you since before I ever knew you and I will miss you for all rest of my days.

It is with great sadness...

Andrew Michael John Schillings

May 19, 1978 - February 10, 2009

It is with great sadness that the family announces the sudden passing of Andrew Michael John Schillings on Tuesday, February 10th, 2009 at Lakeridge Health Oshawa. He was 30 years old.

Andrew, affectionately known as “Andy” to most, is survived and loved always by his parents, Patricia and Joseph Schillings of Lakefield. Beloved brother of Elizabeth McLennan, dear brother-in-law of Mark McLennan and cherished uncle of Matthew and Luke McLennan, all of Belleville.
He will be remembered with great love by his girlfriend, Lindsay Collins and many friends in the Durham area. He will also be lovingly remembered by aunts, uncles and cousins in British Columbia, England and Holland.
Relatives and friends may call at McINTOSH-ANDERSON FUNERAL HOME LTD., 152 King Street East, Oshawa (905-433-5558) on Monday from 7-9 p.m. A celebration of Andrew’s life will be held in the chapel on Tuesday February 17, 2009 at 11:00 a.m. Cremation. Donations made in Andrew’s name to the Heart and Stroke Foundation or a local food bank would be appreciated by his family. On-line condolences may be made at www.mcintosh-anderson.com.

It has been a long, terrible day. My parents and I chose Andrew's casket and urns, as he will be cremated following the funeral on Tuesday. Lindsay, Andrew's girlfriend will keep one, as will I and of course, my parents. They plan to create a special spot in their garden, overlooking the waterfall.

That done, we tiptoed in to "visit" Andrew, still on the gurney from the hospital, but lovingly covered by a quilt, courtesy of the funeral staff. He hadn't been embalmed, but I think they did some touching up before we ventured in.

I can't explain the flood of emotions at seeing his sweet, sleeping face. All I could see, superimposed over his beard and 30-year old laugh lines, were images, memories of the little boy he was, the baby brought home from the Children's Aid, the devil-may-care teenager. It was surreal and I think, for a moment, I stopped breathing.

And then my mum came in and uttered not a word. Just gave a keening, absolutely shattering cry and I swear to God, I will hear it all the days of my life. It was the sound of her own heart, breaking and it was awful.

She stood there, my tiny, fierce Mama, over the body of her only son and wept and wept and wept - surely the angels wept with her. For her. Even though I'm pretty sure that some of them are smoking a huge joint with Andrew even as I type, surely Heaven wept for her.

Am home now and exhausted. Keep thinking I'll wake up and this will all be gone, and then I realize that THIS is, and he is gone. My brother is dead.

And life will never, ever be the same.

Please pray for my Mum. Please pray for strength and peace for her weary heart. I am scared for her - that this will be her final undoing and that this loss will be too much for her to bear. And my dad, oh, my beloved Dad. All he wants are Andrew's remote control cars - the ones he was driving in the sunshine, when he collapsed and died.

At the end, still a little boy, playing with cars.