Birthday Letter for Bamboo

Dear Bamboo,

Happy Birthday! You would have been 36, if you were still here. Maybe you still are 36, up there beyond everything.

Down here, we've spent some time getting ready to plant your garden - it's looking rather lonely, without colour and bright. Apt, really, since that's how it feels without you here on this glorious May long weekend.

Still, Dad cooked steaks last night and Mum made Caesar salad and in a little while, the Reds and I shall go and get cake makings because Mum only has fancy-cake stuff and frankly, you wouldn't like it. See how I just made that decision on your behalf, all bossy-like? I know, right? Some things just don't change.

The Reds asked about a zillion questions about you last week, when I told them that your birthday was coming up. I may have cried, especially when Matthew pointed out a black Blazer, remarked on its resemblance to yours (Seriously? He was 3 when you died, how does he remember?) and then announced that he's getting one when he turns 16. Right after he gets a motorcycle.Oh, yeah, he's your nephew, for sure.

Luke says, "Andrew looks cute like that! Mummy looks like a boy."

And that Luke - oh, Bam, you'd love him. He's ornery and hilarious, all at the same time. And a few weeks ago, he got into some tar. Yes, yes he did. And I didn't wash it off - well, not all of it - just so I could keep you close a little bit longer. Asshats, both of you. Ha!

Everyone's still sleeping here at the moment, except Molly the Dog, who is also an asshat but she's cute so I keep her. Mum says that she (Molly) reminds her of your Roxy and I'll be darned - she does me, too. It must be the Rottweiler in both girls. In any case, I'm glad that Molly is with us this weekend (though if that gets out, I'll deny it like crazy) as she has provided some comic relief and it's lovely to see her, roaming happily with the Reds. You'd love her.

Last year's planting session - turns out, pink and yellow are fan favourites...

Scratch that, little brother - the troops are stirring. I'm not the only one up and about now, which means, I'll have to sign off now. We've got flowers to plant and memories to share and of course, cake to eat. It'll be chocolate, in case you're wondering.

I love you, Bam. I miss you, more as the years pass, which I didn't expect, but there it is. I wish you joy and happy today and always.

Love,
Libis

Joe Clayton: A Love Story

* While I was studying Developmental Services at Loyalist College two years ago, my class was visited by a man called Joseph Clayton.

Joe spent most of his formative years bouncing through the foster care system in our fair province before the Children's Aid Society finally tossed him into Rideau Regional Centre - a now-closed institution for society's most vulnerable citizens.

An adult now and free, Joe talks to students every year - he is, for so many, the face of institutional life and embodies the absolute best of the human spirit.

Joe's story is a chilling one and I don't think there was a dry eye nor a single sound during his talk.

Since that time, I have written twice about Joe, fumbling through my own telling of his tale. We have maintained a casual email relationship; I am always pleased to see his name in my inbox.

A few weeks back, he wrote to tell me that his brand-new wife, Cindy, has passed away from cancer. They married in June of 2012 and on November 30th - my birthday, coincidentally - she died.

This is but the latest in a lifetime of loss for Joe and my heart simply ached for him. I stutter-typed a message of condolence, knowing that it was woefully inadequate, feeling wrecked that no matter how kind my words, his wife would still be gone, his heart broken.

Joe, a man of quiet grace and humble gratitude, accepted.

A few days ago, he sent me their wedding photo and a story, written by someone in their community. With his permission, I share it here, so that others will be able to see what courage  -and love - looks like: *



A gentleman moved from Sharbot Lake to Kingston Ontario, in the Fall of 2008 to get a fresh start.

In Kingston, unknown to the gentleman at the time, lived a caring lady with a bubbly personality and a huge heart. Both of these people had had similar life experiences in their pasts including a variety of different jobs, previous marriages, and grown children.

They met at the Round Table Support Centre in Kingston. The lady smile and warm laughter. After they spent time together sharing all aspects of their lives with one another' celebrating that they found each other. They were amazed at how much they had in common and how many of their skills and attributes complemented each other. They fell in love.

The lady invited the gentleman to move in with her. In 2009, the couple moved back in his former community of Sharbot  Lake.

The lady' s openness and friendly nature was admired and welcomed by the community. The couple continued to learn about each other and share each other' s interests. They made a life together.

 In June 2012 the couple got married in a private ceremony with only their witnesses, the minister and the videographer present.

The newlyweds enjoyed a honeymoon in Perth Ont. In August 2012 they shared their union with family and friends at a wedding reception in the local community hall. The guests enjoyed a KFC banquet and the company of others while viewing the video of their special day in June.

Then they danced.



Joe and Cindy, June 2012

Within months of their marriage the lady' s medical appointment revealed terrible news: CANCER'. Their lives quickly became a series of medical appointments and hand holding.

Soon after, they both quit their part time jobs. The lady, because of her deteriorating health, the gentleman because he wanted to support his wife.

Then she could no longer drive.

In dealing with these changes, the treatments, side effects, and waiting the couple maintained open, honest communication. They recognized that the cancer may rob them of their happily ever after. They decided to remain positive, not give up, live each day as it came and embrace the time they had left together.

The couple adapted to accommodate the cancer but they never for a moment lost sight of what they had with each other. With the support of their family, friends, service providers, church congregation and the community at large the gentleman and the lady faced and fought Cancer.

The gentleman became his wife' s full time caregiver.

They had the tough conversations that most couples avoid having - D N R, final wishes, goodbyes.

 Nothing was left unsaid. The gentleman and lady came together quickly and loved deeply.

 After weeks of in-home nursing care the lady was moved to the hospital for palliative care. The gentleman remained by her side until she died November 30, 2013.


 This story is dedicated to Joe Clayton and the memory of Cindy Jones- Clayton, the gentleman and his lady.

Happy Birthday, Andrew!

Today would have been my brother's 35th birthday. To honour him, the Reds and I headed to Lakefield this morning to help my parents plant fresh flowers in Andrew's Garden. We also brought balloons, so we could tie message of remembrance and love to them and send them up to Heaven.

Some of the messages came from Andrew's friends, who shared their memories with me via Facebook, some came from the Reds and me, and one very special one was written by my mum.

From Shara:

 My parents lived on the farm in Lindsay and I came down from the city for their annual pig roast. The backyard had been designated for the younger crowd (made up mostly of BHU, whom I was meeting for the first time) so naturally that is where I migrated to. Most of the crowd was packed into the backyard, but not Andrew. He was inside the garage apparently planning his entrance.....then out he pops with the biggest porky pig paper mache head on his shoulders, prancing around like a fool...but everyone laughed hysterically...his mission accomplished!

Andrew was never that great at sharing his heart-felt emotions...but making people laugh, that was where he  truly shined!

Some memories, printed out and ready for rolling into scrolls.

From Shauna:

When I got my g1, I called him up to tell him he was stoked...didn't know why ...he met me after work and showed me why...he wanted to teach me how to drive lol he figured 11pm was safer for other ppl because Bowmanville was a dead town after 9 , it was going fine until we got to the stop sign before the 401 turn ramp on liberty. He was goin' over some safety thing and I was nervous and attempting to listen intently after 5 mins there he asks laughing "what are u waiting for" I didn't know what he meant ...he was losin' it as i was trying to figure it out...i was now petrified I screwed up lol finally I answered the light isn't green...he couldn't take it...we got out and switched spots...he then pulled over into the gas station and tells me we were at a stop sign...stop signs stay one colour


From Shay:

1: when I was 11 years old and him and my mom first started dating, we were at the farm and I had seen him walking up to the trailer, I ran to him yelling KANGAROO!!
2: when learning how to drive, dad took me out in the truck and let me drive, we got to the house and he told me that he would pull into the driveway for me as it was pretty narrow, I didn't listen and pulled into our drive way on my own (at full speed) slammed on the breaks and dad told me I must never drive again lol
3: I could always count on dad to make my sorrows go away, we took my little rescue cat to the vet to be put down and it was a sad moment for me, dad Cranked the good ol' rap music (50 cent) and allowed to stick my feet out the truck and didn't give me trouble once lol

From my mum:

"Happy Birthday, son.
It would be your 35th today.
Hope you are
sharing your
birthday celebration
with all of us.
Love, Mum"

We planted pretty flowers, to make his space a bright and happy one:

 

 

My dad barbecued steak. And my mum make dessert:

 

 

Did you know that balloons with tiny memories attached to them don't go airborne easily? We suspected as much, but gamely threw our memories skyward, hoping Andrew was watching:

 

Up, up and...

POP!

In the end, we tucked all the balloons that didn't pop into the tree pictured above - it was given to my parents after Andrew died: a memorial tree. Seemed fitting to plant our love there.

And because it was a celebration, there was dancing:

There were some tears, because Andrew is missed and loved, every. single. day. It doesn't get easier, this missing him. Not for any of us. But, today I think we did the right thing, as a family: today, we celebrated him in the place where his ashes rest, where his mother's gaze can fall upon him, where his father can sit and chat quietly, in the middle of the day.

In the end, it felt right and good to remember him with light and pretty flowers and good food and dancing. I hope he saw us down here, missing him. I hope he smiled and knows how very much we love him.

Happy Birthday, Bamboo.

 

I loved you before I even knew you. I love you still, every day.

 

Libis

 

 

 

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.

The Gift of Laughter

May 19th. It's a gorgeous day. Blue, practically cloudless skies, warm sunshine...perfect for a birthday celebration.

Today is  my brother's birthday - had he lived, he'd be turning 34.

*Blink*

Time heals, until days like today, when remembering the best of who he was makes me ache with missing him and all the milestone moments that made up our lives.

If he were still here, we'd be gathering under these blue skies, to hang about my parents' back deck, drinking beer and waiting for Andrew to make us laugh.

Even without using words, he was hilarious:



Here, my parents had just purchased a new camera/video recorder/player/BBQ/telephone and we all took turns trying to make it work. When Andrew's turn came, he was overly-confident, so it amused us all enormously to watch him puzzle through:

"Let's see....I look through here, focus..."

"I got this. Ha! I got this....!"

"Wait a sec...maybe I don't got this...I'll just turn this knob..."

"WTF?!"

"Uhhh........."

Shit, they're all watching me. Was that a camera? Is Mark taking pictures of me?
That jerk. I'll get him....take THAT!

We never did work that camera out, actually. But oh God, how we laughed.

This week, I found these photos - and laughed even harder, right before I burst into tears. And then I thanked my brother for the gift of them, so close to his birthday.

Happy Birthday, Bamboo!

 I love you.

Letters to Heaven

Tomorrow will mark three years since my baby brother passed away. The Reds wanted to talk to him, but these letters - recorded verbatim by me - will have to do:


Dear Uncle Andrew,

I love you.

I wish you could stay alive forever. You haven't been here for a long time. I was sad when I heard the news that you were dead.

Are the any rinks or gyms in Heaven? If there is, play this game called, "Four Corner Hockey". It has four balls in the middle and there's four nets. And get some hockey sticks and then when someone says, "Go!" everyone starts to play.

So tell everybody that in Heaven.

Uncle Andrew, just so you know, my phone number is (613) 555-1234, just in case you want to call me.

Love,
Matthew

Uncle Andrew and Matthew

Dear Uncle Andrew,

Um, I know that you love all of us and I know that you always have to be dead, but I wish you could always stay. And I always want to play you a song. The song is called, "I Love You, I Guess."

I just want to hug you. And I just liked you. But I never knew that you would get dead. I wish you could stay still.

I want to keep your car that's in our basement and one day you can show me how to drive it.

When you come back to life - because you have a lot of lives, you know - you have to hug me when you get back.

I want to show you sometimes that I poop and pee on the toilet. Actually, all the times.

I just told Mummy that I think you just went on an adventure.

Love,
Luke

The only known photo of Uncle Andrew with Luke



And you?
If you could send a letter to Heaven,  what would it say?

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

"The Rodeo Song" aka "Happy Birthday, dear Andrew..."

Woke up today - my brother's birthday - expecting to be overwhelmed with missing him.

Instead, even though my heart is heavy and tears hover, I am mostly OK. Sad, but OK.

And I have decided that instead of filling this space with my own grief, I will instead share some of the reasons that I miss Andrew, so that those of you who never knew him, might.

He was a funny guy, my brother. An irreverent, potty-mouthed, laug-till-you-cry kind of dude.

Andrew helping celebrate his nephew's 1st birthday.

When I had to compile songs to put on a CD for the funeral home, I struggled with the task: I found it difficult to include songs that soothed and reflected my parents' tastes as well as mine and my brother's.

In the midst of it all  my husband provided me with a much-needed moment of sheer hilarity. When his uncle passed away several years ago, Mark's family horrified and amused mourners by playing this song at the service. It was Uncle Jim's favourite, and Mark thought it would have been Andrew's too:

"The Rodeo Song: Piss Me Off, You F*ckin' Jerk" could have been Andrew's theme song and once I'd exhaled my initial gasp of shocked surprise, I fell apart laughing.

I could - and still can - hear my brother's voice, singing these lyrics. I can see him, driving his truck, smoke in one hand, speeding like a demon and cursing other drivers.

God, I miss him. And I am laughing so hard right now I am crying. Or maybe I am crying so hard, I am laughing?

I hope he is too.

Fuckin' jerk.

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.

A Monster in Our Midst

The Reds and I have just returned from dropping cookies and a "Welcome Home" note to our newest neighbours. They moved in last week and while I'm ashamed that it's taken me this long to get over, I hope that they'll appreciate the gesture and the friendly overture, nonetheless.

Because this city needs friendly gestures more than any place in the country right now, frozen as we are at the horror unfolding in our courthouse, a monster in our midst.

I live in Belleville, Ontario.

A few blocks from my home, Col. Russell Williams sits - slumps actually, according to a real-time local news feed - as the details of his appalling reign of terror are laid out for all to know. Deflated and silent, the monster behind the military mask awaits his fate while spectators cringe and gasp, repulsed.

As I type this, frantically trying to keep my agonized imaginings in check, reporters and journalists from across the country have gathered here in "The Friendly City" and are rapidly "tweeting" and updating a rapt but shaken public - we are seeing, almost alongside the family and friends of Belleville's lost daughters, the work of a psychopath in all his glory.

Never did I imagine that the monster was this depraved, this appalling, this...evil.

 Living here, on the beautiful Bay of Quinte, it seems that I've allowed myself to forget the unease and uncertainty that plagued this city following Jessica Lloyd's disappearance. I've played down the shock of Williams' capture and let slip from memory my sense of shattered peace that the Soldier had made my city his hunting ground.

But today, like yesterday, I feel compelled to read everything I can about the court proceedings following his "Guilty" pleas. (Close to 100 separate charges. Holy hell, the Devil was a busy boy, indeed.)

I am drawn to the angst and the surreal-ness of this reality while at the same time, I want to turn away and "unknow" everything I never imagined possible. I am left reeling and sickened by a photographic collection of stolen panties - his modelling of them - and can't imagine that I'll sleep well tonight.

Then again, I can't conceive that Jessica's Lloyd's mother will ever sleep again, period. Not without envisioning her daughter's last hours, in the hands of a madman.

Do Marie-France Comeau's parents feel a swelling pride that their beautiful daughter fought so hard and so well for her life? I felt an urge to pump my fist in the air when I read of her attempts to outwit and and outmaneuver the Colonel - her Colonel. Felt doubly saddened when I "remembered" that in the end, she too died at his hand.

*A memory of that same sensation whispers through my mind. I felt the same way almost twenty years ago when the world learned about Paul Bernardo and the terrible things he did to Kristen French and Leslie Mahaffey. A few years later, I read a book about the infamous case: for several chapters, it seemed as though Kristen French stood a chance of release, of freedom, of life - until I abruptly remembered that she too, died at the hands of a madman. *

Today, I am back to feeling unsettled and uneasy. Sickened and heartsick at all that I've read and heard. Horrified that this is real and that this monster walked among us and that there are still more heinous truths to be told.

Terrified that there are more just like him, watching, waiting, learning...hunting.

On the other hand, despite these grim thoughts, I long to appease those who might pull their shades tighter still and double-lock their doors in the wake of these dark days. I remind those around me that while evil - clearly - exists, the world is not full of demons and the Russell Williams' of the world are few and far between.

I suppose that dropping a plate of cookies off on a stranger's doorstep may seem foolish and unwelcome in this day and age. Odd and some might say, a bit inappropriate, given the raw feelings that one man has inspired in this city, in particular.

But - especially today - I hope that my new neighbours are touched and delighted with the gesture and that my children absorb the lesson I want them to learn: Strangers are simply friends we haven't met, yet.

I hope.

"Fairy tales do not tell children the dragons exist. Children already know that dragons exist. Fairy tales tell children the dragons can be killed.

G.K. Chesterton."

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.

For "Bong Hitters United"

This journey to goodbye has not been easy.

The drive to my parents' home was difficult and sad. On Friday afternoon, while my sons slept in the back seat, I wrestled my own mind in the front - for suddenly, I had realized that while Andrew's friends would be in Lakefield in a few short hours, he would not.

And it broke me entirely. In some deep, dark corner of my mind, I'd been harbouring some hope that he might magically appear because his truest friends were gathering. Hoped, wished, insanely, that the past seven months had not passed, and that he hadn't either.

On the other hand, I looked forward to seeing BHU - (yes, the name absolutely defines them) because they loved him and grieved his loss, too. Because so many of his life's experiences were tied up with them and I was greedy to share, to hear, to take their memories of him and absorb them as my own.

And I love them all, for all of it - they GOT him and were just as eager to share the man they loved as I was. I laughed SO hard as they shared tale after tale of adolescent antics and all the hysterically stupid, stupidly dangerous and utterly illegal crap my brother pulled.

He was naturally charming and disarming - somehow, he drew like people to him. BHU captured my heart completely - even though I wondered aloud how they EVER came together, as a group, so different they all are individually. Except...not. It was as though, listening to them, I could almost hear his voice, see his smile. It makes missing him easier to bear.

My parents had created tiny urns filled with Andrew's ashes, for each of his friends, who (I think) gratefully accepted these small "tokens" of the man they knew. I know my Dad struggled with the task, as he'd not realized that ashes are not sifted soft. Instead, they contain bits of bone and gristle - tiny pieces of his son.

As the "ceremony" began with a gentle prayer, BHU stood quietly at Andrew's Garden, begun that morning by my Dad and my husband, finished by all of them - a wonderfully touching thing to see, to know.

One by one, we took a scoop of the leftover ashes - tossing them onto the freshly-turned soil. Silent. Weeping. Remembering. Matthew and Luke too, had a turn and we all laughed as Luke turned to ash onto himself - typical. Of Luke. And of Andrew, the uncle he'll never know, but whose toddler self whispers past when Luke grins a certain way. Someone dumped a beer on top, which was perfect, so the rest of us did, too.

All afternoon, they stayed by that garden. Laughing, drinking, crying. They played with Matthew: delighted him and me by appeasing his bossy, four-year old ways, pretending to be passengers on his invisible train to Denver. Rolled Luke down the hill, watched for tumbles, and checked in every now and again, wondering how I was, how we all were. In so many ways, BHU became my brother - at his best, happy and relaxed, hanging with friends and family.

More stories - most funny, some sad - lead us long into the evening and far, far into the night. We sat around an awesome bonfire, drinking too much, but weeping no more. Andrew loved fire and I was tickled to see that his (foster) sister does, too. She kept the fire going strong as the others kept my Dad and I in stitches, aghast, lost...enfolded.

Today I think this:

Andrew was blessed, despite his demons. In choosing these friends, he showed an innate wisdom - they are loyal to one another and will now guard his memory just as fiercely. They are funny and quick and haven't let life's sometimes tragic lessons get in the way of their good time or their appreciation for the moment and each other.

They are everything Andrew was...and will never be again. I am blessed and so thankful to know them all. May 24. See you all then - forever.

Liz

P.S. Fuck fishing.

Andrew's Ashes...

Tomorrow, we will scatter my brother's ashes over a specially-chosen spot on my parents' property. We will be joined by Andrew's childhood friends and his foster sister, affectionately called BHU, the lot of them.

I miss my brother. Am happy to have his best, truest ones surround us for the ceremony, but oh, it makes my heart ache. If only he'd stayed as true to them, perhaps...

Sigh.

In any case, this I enclosed in a card for my parents - I feel weak and inneffectual for them, feel like I can't do enough, keep messing up the tasks given. Here then, my offering:

“Mummy,” asked Dawd at bedtime “Is Heaven close to here?”
Mummy thought it over, and whispered in his ear:

“Heaven is a far-off spot, where those we loved now roam,
“It’s higher than our favourite hill, where trees sway to and fro.

“Higher than the airplanes, that circle overhead:
Higher than the stars which shine while you sleep in your bed.”

“Is Uncle Andrew up there now?” asked Dawd, tucked into his bed.
“How come he’s up there far away and not down here, instead?”

“God needed more strong angels, my curious little gnome,
to help Him move the heavy stuff, and so He called Andrew Home.”

“But Andrew is your brother, right? Like Menace and me, for you.
Does God know that you miss him and that he was your Sweet Bamboo?”

“God knows that he’s my brother, yes. And He wants me to be okay.
So He’ll make sure that Andrew hears when I whisper, “I miss you today.”

Dawd thought then about Menace, sleeping soundly across the room,
and worried that God would ask for him too, and then what would Dawd do?

“Does God only want little brothers?” Dawd’s impish face was grim.
“Menace is mine ‘cause I’m bigger, and you said that I get to keep him!”

Mummy laughed softly and gathered him up, until he was snug in her arms.
“I’m certain that God sent your brother to you, to keep him safe from harm!”

“And God doesn’t ask for just brothers. He needs Grandpas and little girls, too.
Because for all tasks done in Heaven, only the best hearts will do.

There are prayers to be answered and sweet songs to sing, as miracles wait to be born.
There are angels who flit about dancing while others play bright golden horns.

There are lists to be checked and gates to be opened and clouds to be moved all about,
Uncle Andrew is happily moving it all and making God laugh, I’ve no doubt.

He’ll be free and whole and happy, living high up in the clouds,
and he’ll know how much we miss him, when we say his name aloud.”
Elizabeth Schillings-McLennan 2009

His Mother's Son...

Michael Jackson died today. He was 50 years old.

I won't pretend to be saddened by news of his death. I did not know him, nor love him. Nor will I miss him. I acknowledge that his contribution to music was huge and long-reaching and will likely continue to be for generations to come. He was enormously talented...and terribly broken. His death has stunned the world and as I write this, the world thinks only, it seems, of him.

I, however, am thinking of three others: My brother, my mother, and his mother.

Through these Mama lenses, through which I now filter every aspect of my world, I mourn another mother's loss. That Michael Jackson was a troubled, tortured soul is well-documented. But he was Katherine's son - by some accounts her most beloved and for her, I ache.

Watching the news tonight: everywhere, on every station footage of the boy he was, the man he morphed into and speculation about what might have been his future life, abounds. And I sat here, agog, watching, waiting...feeling a viciousness and weird, out-of-place sense of familiarity with the story unfolding before me, practically in real time.

Like my brother, Michael died of a heart attack, found not breathing at his home. Like my brother, he was rushed to hospital, where he was pronounced dead. Another brother, gone too soon. Someone else's brother, taken so swiftly, with so much left unsaid, undone. Secrets.

And I chuckled darkly, as it dawned on me that I was not saddened, even as I saw hundreds gather outside the hospital where he lays now, cold and alone. I was pissed.

Pissed because THIS is how it should have been, how it felt, when my brother died, taken so swiftly, with so much left unsaid, undone. I wanted then, as I do now, for the world to simply stop. My brother is dead, my brother is DEAD, I wanted to scream at strangers - be quiet! Be silent. Be STILL.

For Michael Jackson, it seems, the world has stopped, if only to catch its collective breath, to gasp in surprise, in shock. I even took a perverse sort of pleasure in flinging open the front door as my husband arrived home this evening to announce, "Michael Jackson died!"

Children of the 80's both, Mark and I watched the news, awash in memories, quietly trading commentary on the commentary. Mark, typically chilled and watchful, absorbing. Me, not-so-typically cynical and spewing venom. Pissed.

And then suddenly the anger faded as I made the connection between Michael Jackson and my darling Andrew and I sort of wilted and stopped talking altogether. Thought about my Mum and wondered if she's watching the news, if she'd even know who Michael Jackson is (was) and if she'd be sad, too, thinking of Andrew.

Thought about Michael's mother and realized that the only truth that matters is this: No matter what sort of man Michael Jackson was (or wasn't), what he did (or didn't do) and whether or not we agree with the lifestyle he chose, he was still somebody's son.

My prayers tonight are for her - simply a mother, bidding her son farewell.

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.