215 Children

 215 children were found in a mass grave this week.  I have struggled to find the words to express my grief over this news.  

As a white woman, I don't want to take up space that should be given to the indigenous people of my country.  But if we don't all speak out, then what?  Once, I was at a book talk by a white author, who writes on indigenous issues.  Half, or more, of the audience was indigenous, and it was clear they had a lot of respect for this author.  One man stood up and said, "If a white man says it, it must be true."  The room erupted into laughter, as he meant it to be humorous, but the statement stuck with me.  When indigenous people speak out about their experiences and atrocities that have been inflicted on them, they are largely ignored, or perhaps placated.  When white people speak out about the same issues, they are given a platform.  It is wrong.  It is a result of colonialism and white people holding a power that causes inequity. 

I do not want that to be how this post comes across, but I want to speak out against these atrocities.  I want others to learn, if they don't already know.  

215 children were discovered in a mass grave this week near Kamloops, BC.  They were taken from their homes and were living in a residential school.  If you don't know about residential schools, you need to learn about them today.  Begin here: https://nctr.ca/

These "schools" were run by the government and churches.  The last residential school closed in 1996.  1996!  That is a mere 25 years ago.  I went to school from 1979-1992.  Do you know how many times I was taught about residential schools?  0. Zero.  I did not know they existed.  I did not know indigenous children were being tortured at that very time.  I first learned about residential schools about 10 years ago, in my late 30s.  

There were residential schools all across Canada.  There are very likely thousands of children buried in mass graves that have yet to be found.  These are not children who got sick and died.  Those deaths were recorded.  Oh, and by the way, those children who got sick did so because they were malnourished and lacked proper health care.  These children were not lovingly cared for in these places.  These children were abused in all ways, and they were murdered.  Plain and simple.  There needs to be a mass inquiry into these deaths and those responsible need to be held accountable.  Many of them are still living and have kept quiet about this all these years.  It is despicable.  

It is genocide.  The government and white settlers have been committing genocide since the day they set foot on this land, some intentional, some not.  When the government stole land from Saskatchewan First Nations, and forced them onto reserves, my immigrant ancestors benefitted, and were sold cheap land to farm.  Whether we knew it or not, we contributed to the oppression and genocide of indigenous people.  

After (and during) residential schools, there was the 60s Scoop.  This was when indigenous children were taken from their families and adopted by white families.  The goal was the same; eradicate their language, their culture, their race.  And today, we still do it.  The foster care system in Canada is roughly made up of 50% indigenous children.  And yet, indigenous children only make up 7% of the population.  We are still trying to get rid of them and their ways of living.  The prison population is similar, with the majority being indigenous, while the indigenous population is much, much lower.  The prison system is another way to get rid of them, get them out of sight, out of society and life.  

When will we stop trying to eradicate the people whose land this is?  When will we make amends for stealing their land, their children, their customs, their language?  When will 215 indigenous children matter as much as 215 white ones?  

When will we mourn for the lives of the parents left behind?  How do thousands of mothers and fathers live healthy and well-balanced lives when their children were stolen, abused, and murdered?  How do thousands of residential school survivors live healthy lives when everything important to them was stolen, when they were sexually and physically and emotionally assaulted?  How do they then raise their own children to be healthy and well?  What are we doing to address the source of their trauma?  

When will the genocide of indigenous people in Canada end?  

Last Post of 2020

The last post of the year...the year that has pretty much been the worst fucking year of my life.  Of many lives.  I can't claim the hardship of this year, that's for sure.  

I have sat for most of today with physical pain in my chest and a feeling like I can't get enough breath.  I have had the breathing stuff for over a month now.  Sometimes I wonder if I had COVID and didn't know.  I've been tested multiple times.  Every time I've had symptoms, I've been tested, and it's always been negative.  However, in November, I did have a severe headache that lasted about 2 weeks, that felt different than my usual migraines.  I also had a weird sensation in my throat. I tested negative during that time.  I've been told it's my anxiety.  

Since that time, I've had the breathing stuff.  No one seems concerned.  Even my doctor.  Anyway, today, my chest hurt, too.  So did I have COVID and these are the after-effects?  I may never know.  

Add this to a time of depression I've been in.  I'm 100% for the COVID restrictions, but since we have pretty much stayed home the entire time, except for necessities, it feels like it will never end.  I don't see any light, even with a vaccine.  The reading I have done on it indicates that a person can still be infected with COVID, even if they're vaccinated, and spread it to others.  They just won't get sick themselves.  That means these restrictions will be around for a very, very long time still.  I'm guessing probably for most of 2021, or longer.  

I'm not sure how much longer I can do this.  I have an almost-adult child who is angry and resentful that this is our life.  I have auto-immune issues that necessitate us being super careful.  More careful that many of his friends are being, and that is a big irritation to him.  

We spent our first Christmas without my dad.  My heart aches tremendously for my mum.  Nothing can ease the deep loneliness and heartache she feels, and this year makes it worse.  We can talk every day, but physical proximity can comfort, and we can't do that.  

I feel like the dread is amping up, though.  It wasn't Christmas I was dreading without my dad, as much as January.  January is the one year anniversary of "everything".  Jan. 2, his first and second massive seizures.  I got the call that evening that he'd been taken to the hospital, that he was unconscious.  I drove there, thinking he was dying or dead.  He was on life support that night.  We went home.  I thought I'd return to the hospital and he'd be gone.  He wasn't.  But he wasn't his usual self, either.  For almost 2 weeks, the seizures came and went, small ones, absence seizures they call them.  He would have some good days where we could have conversations that seemed "normal", and then some days, he was like a child.  We had to help him eat or understand what was going on.  And then the seizures took over.  He wouldn't wake up anymore.  He was in a coma for the last 2 weeks.  We sat vigil.  On Jan. 31, he was gone.  

This is the month-long anniversary I've been dreading.  More than his birthday, more than Father's Day, more than Christmas.  This month that we thought he was dying, and then thought he wasn't, and then he was, and then we lost him.  

With that, and COVID lingering, and my body feeling crappy, and my kid depressed, and my mum lonely and mourning, and no light at the end of the tunnel, I have never felt quite so hopeless.  

To all those who are bidding 2020 a "good riddance", that's fine, but nothing is getting better on Jan. 1.  

Father's Day Without a Dad

As I wrote in my last post, we buried Dad's ashes today.  The spot in the cemetery is beautiful, my sister and brother and their families came, and I FaceTimed my other sister in so she could hear and see.  My mum spoke her heart and shared scripture and songs that meant so much to him.  I brought flowers and specifically red gerbera daises for his spot.

I'm glad we were finally able to do this.  I think the "unfinished" aspect of not spreading or burying the ashes weighed on my mum.  Now, it's done.  I actually think this spot will become a treasure to her, a space to come, even with her belief that he is in Heaven and not in that exact spot.  I think these kinds of places and rituals give comfort to us in our humanness. 

My kids' father, as all my readers know, is not much of one.  My oldest child basically cut him out of his life a year or two ago.  My younger two rarely talk about him.  He hasn't actually talked or texted or written to them since his visit last August.  I'm always sad that this is their reality, but especially so on Father's Day.

However, over the years, I have focused on my dad as their "father figure".  They had a grandpa who loved and cherished them beyond measure and showed it.  He was there.  His presence was quiet but so incredibly evident.  When they were little, they still made cards or gifts in school for their biological father, and I would send them to him, if the kids asked me to.  But sometimes, the school crafts were for Grandpa.  And in recent years, they didn't really do anything for their father.

I don't truly understand how my kids feel about not having a dad.  I cannot relate to their experience.  Today, I asked if Father's Day is a complicated day for them, emotionally.  My oldest said that it was last year (no reference to previous years).  I think last year he was processing his cutting off of his father, and he's come to terms with his decision now.  My youngest said it was not a complicated day for her.  No elaboration.  My middle, who actually is my least likely to articulate feelings, said, it wasn't complicated until this year, because now they have NO one to celebrate.  Before, they had Grandpa.  Now, no one.  His voice wavered as he said it.

Father's Day will never be the same.  We will always ache with our Grandpa/Dad-shaped hole in our hearts.  This photo was last Father's Day.  It's the last photo I ever took of my dad and my kids.  My middle kid saw it this week and said, quietly, "I really like that picture."



Dad, I miss you so much.  We loved you so much.  You were everything we needed from a dad and a grandpa.

Heavy

I've been feeling heavy these days.  I mean, really, who hasn't?  But heavy regarding my dad and where I'm at with that grief.  Is it because it's June, and June is Father's Day?  I don't know.  But maybe.  I was at the grocery store a week ago and passed the greeting cards and realized I won't be buying a Father's Day card this year.  Or a present.  My kids won't be drawing a picture or writing a message. 

I miss him.  That sounds obvious, but I miss him deep in my bones.  It aches some days.  We truly never have enough time with the people we love.  I want more time.  I'm selfish and I wish he were here.  I think he'd have taken this whole COVID thing in stride.  He didn't often get stressed or worried.  It certainly would have made this whole time a lot easier on my mum. 

On Father's Day, next Sunday, we'll meet at the cemetery and bury his ashes.  My mum, my brother, my sister, and our families.  My other sister can't be with us.  I think my mum has felt unsettled about the ashes, and I think it will be a good thing to have it done.  There will be a plaque nearby with his name.  A few weeks ago, we had to pick up the ashes from the funeral home as they only store them for a set period.  He's been on my shelf.  It feels both weird and comforting that he's there.  My children and I will take some of the ashes and remember him in another way, also.  I will post about that when it's time. 

I think it's appropriate, and I'm glad to bury my dad's ashes on Father's Day.  And I also don't want to bury my dad's ashes on Father's Day.  I want my DAD on Father's Day.  It makes me feel so heavy.  It's all so very heavy, like something is sitting on my chest all the time.  I don't know how to make it get off. 

Grief in COVID-19 Land

I remember Monday, March 9.  I had a meeting at my middle kid's school that evening to discuss the marine biology trip he was scheduled to go on the following Monday, the 16th.  As a group of parents, we decided it was low risk.  The trip should go ahead.  By Thursday of that same week, I was having major reservations.  That's how fast everything changed.  By the end of that day, the trip was cancelled.  Corona virus was spreading quickly.  I think we had about 20-some cases in our province.  My dear aunt in BC died and in a few short days, my mum booked a flight to go to the funeral and then cancelled it.  It was a whirlwind.

Saturday, March 14, my dad would have turned 80.  We went out for dinner as a family, then over to my mum's to have birthday cake.  That was the last time I hugged my mum, or touched her in any way.

March 16, schools were closed and teachers gathered to figure out how they were going to institute online learning, for perhaps the next 3 months.

For 6 weeks, we have all been isolated in our homes, only leaving to get some fresh air, groceries, and the days I need to go into work, when I don't work from home.  I'll be laid off as of April 30.  My mum, still in the darkest days of grieving my dad, is completely alone, day after day.  We sit in her yard to visit with her, but she has had no physical touch from anyone who loves her for over 6 weeks.  My heart aches that we cannot grieve in closer proximity.

COVID-19 has eclipsed our grief, and it doesn't seem right.  It is eclipsing everything.  I mean, look at the people who have lost loved ones now; to COVID-19, to accidents, to other illnesses, to mass murderers in Nova Scotia.  It feels like we are in a world of grief.  How do we all grieve in our own solitude?  We can consider ourselves lucky to have the technology to connect and even see each other, but it's simply not the same.

And I will admit I feel a great heaviness for a lot of the things my children have lost.  They are not life-changing, and they are not death, but they were important.  The first casualty was the marine biology trip.  My kid saved $1000 over 3 years to be able to go on that trip.  The next was his play.  He had a lead role this year and his director told me that he was absolutely killing it.  He has also lost multiple field trips that are especially cool in your last year of middle school.  He lost his choir and band concerts, and he lost his "Celebrate 8" farewell from his school before he heads on to high school.  But of all the losses, he is the most sad about his play.  We've been told they are going to try to put the play on in November, and bring kids back for a quick 4 week rehearsal process.  But part of me feels unsure.  We have no idea what the future will bring.  We could be in an even worse second wave of this virus by then.  I'm not counting on anything.

My daughter lost many of the same things, like choir and handbell concerts, violin recital, and her saddest thing, her grade 5 farewell.  Saying goodbye to a school is a big deal.

All 3 kids miss their friends.  They FaceTime and text with them.  They literally don't go anywhere except when I take them out so we can go for a walk or say hi to grandma.  We are doing fine with only each other for company.  It looks like it will be this way for many months still.

Today, all I want to do is cry.  About everything.  I have cried for my mum, for the people of Nova Scotia, for elementary and middle school farewells, for my kid who may not get to be Baloo in The Jungle Book, for the ache my oldest feels not seeing his friends, for my daughter who thrives around people.  Her brothers and mum don't always make the cut.  I have sat for the last hour listening to all kinds of "feel-y" music.  I can't and maybe don't want to pull myself out of feeling this way.  Maybe the whole world needs to stop and cry and grieve. 

I miss my dad.  He should be here.  He should be sitting at home with my mum and keeping her company in this long, isolated time.  He should be sitting on his front porch and walking to get the mail.   I can't even process his death most days because of all of this other shit taking up space in my head.  I have so much anxiety about life and the future and I can't even grieve my own dad.  My kids can't or won't talk about him, so I'm alone to work it all out.  And wish I could hug and cry with my mum.

Tonight, I'll sit here at 1:35am, and cry.  This is grief.  Cry when it comes, I guess.

Home

I watch the show, This is Us, regularly.  I love it.  It has made me cry many times.  Tonight, it did so again, but not for a reason that would have made me cry ordinarily.  In the show, they bounce back and forth in time and follow the lives of 3 siblings, at different ages.  As teenagers, their dad dies.  In tonight's episode, they are adults, back at the family cabin.  They decide to dig up a time capsule the family buried when the kids were young.  They discover their dad's "item" in the box, which is a tape; a tape on which he has recorded a message to his kids and wife.  They hear their dad's voice, that they haven't heard in over 20 years.

That's where I lost it.  I'd give anything to hear my dad's voice.  I can still hear it in my head, but someday, I won't.  Someday, I won't be able to remember what he sounded like, and my heart can't take it.  Once, last week, when I knew my mum wasn't home, I called their house, and thought maybe his voice was on their answering machine.  It isn't.  I was bitterly disappointed. 

I didn't talk to my dad daily.  We sometimes went weeks without seeing each other even.  But he was there.  He was "home".  Even when he wasn't able to help me out with things, physically, he still knew so much.  If I had a question about fixing something, or about which business I should call about a life or home or car issue, he had a suggestion.  He knew what to do.  He used to ask me, on a regular basis, how my car was running, if everything was still good.  I take pretty good care of my car, maintenance is up to date, and sometimes I'd even be annoyed.  Why is he always asking about my car?  It's fine!  Even in the hospital, he asked how my car was.  He always asked.  And right now, I want him to ask me about my car.  I want him to be here to ask!  He asked because he loved me.  I knew that.  I knew that's why he asked.  He asked because that car carries the lives of 4 people almost every day, whom he would have done anything for. 

We didn't talk daily, but he was there.  He was my steady force.  He was home.  I wish I could hear him.  I wish I could hear his voice. 

Tribute

This is what I wrote and said at Dad's memorial on Friday:

My heart is broken as I write these words.  I have too many, yet not enough words to express who my dad is, who he was to me, what he meant to all of us.  How do I sum up a life in a page or two?  In the simplest of terms, he was the best man I’ve ever known, and perhaps ever will know.  He was a constant and steady force as far back as I can remember.  As a small child, he was strength personified.  He could fix things, he could make things better, he was all-knowing. 

I gave my dad a book a year or so ago, for him to write in, for him to share memories of his life with me, with my siblings, our children.  Things we don’t talk about in everyday conversation, but memories I didn’t want to lose.  He didn’t finish the book, but what he did put in it, I will treasure.  My dad’s earliest memories were happy ones.  His family didn’t have the money for a lot of toys, but my dad, who was happy with the simplest of things, made farm animals from thread spools and fruit pits and batteries.  He had a toy tractor and truck and built himself roads and bridges for them.  He spent hours “playing farm” and was always especially excited when his dad would come see his farm.  As the youngest of 10, I can imagine that one on one time with his own dad was very special. 

One of my earliest memories was going to Hawaii when I was just days away from my 3rd birthday.  I have only 2 or 3 distinct memories of that trip and one was of just me and him.  We were walking out into the ocean, hand in hand.  I probably didn’t even come up to his waist.  The water got deeper and deeper.  I told him it was getting deeper.  He said, “Oh, we can go further.”  Eventually, I was walking on my toes, but he insisted we could still go further.  Then, I was holding my head back, so my face would stay out of the water.  I said it was too deep.  But we didn’t turn back.  Instead, he picked me up and put me on his shoulders, and we continued to walk out into the water.  I felt safe.  All fear was instantly gone.  I had 100% trust that my dad would never let any harm come to me.  On his shoulders, I was the safest I could be, anywhere in the world. 

Both of my parents encouraged reading and were instrumental in my learning to read, but the first thing I ever remember reading independently was a verse or poem that was printed in the back of a church hymnal we had at home.  I remember a large chunk of an afternoon, taking the hymnal back to my dad, time and again, asking what almost every word was.  He had infinite patience as I worked it out.  He had infinite faith in my ability to learn words that were not exactly 5-year-old-friendly words. 

If he could have, my dad would have done things yesterday.  He never had a bill or a task that needed to be done just sit there.  He was a doer and got right to it.  I knew, if I ever asked him for help, he would instantly be there.  I never had to wonder if he’d come through.  If he said he’d do something, he did it. 

My dad’s career as a librarian impacted me in many ways.  I loved the times when we had a day off school, but my parents still had to work, so I got to go to work with him and hang out in his library all day.  I knew how the Dewey Decimal system worked long before I ever needed to, as I helped him shelve books.  He served so many students in that role.  In his quiet way, he influenced and impacted so many young lives.  I remember thinking it might be awkward when I entered high school and he was working at my school, but it never was.  Food was quite strictly prohibited in the library, but one time, in grade 12, in the midst of diploma exams, I had taken my books into the library to study, and I had a jumbo bag of M&Ms sitting right there on top of my books, in plain sight.  My dad’s office was up a few steps and had windows that looked out onto the whole library.  He started coming down the stairs toward my table.  Not knowing he was my dad, I vaguely heard other students snickering and whispering because I was about to get caught with this giant bag of candy.  However, my dad simply walked over, and without a word, took a large handful of M&Ms, and disappeared back into his office.  There were definite perks being the librarian’s daughter. 

My dad loved that library.  His co-worker, who is now the librarian there, told me that he often came to visit.  He loved to reminisce, he loved talking about his time there.  She told me just a couple weeks ago that the last time he came to visit, he seemed to be more reflective than usual, seemed to really be soaking it all in.  24 years retired and that library was still like coming home for him.

At the end of my dad’s career, in 1996, he chose to go on a teacher exchange to Japan and teach English to high school students.  He was gone for 3 months, which was a difficult separation for my parents, especially my mum left at home.  I gave my dad a journal for this trip and he faithfully wrote something pretty much every day.  It was full of people he was meeting.  He loved every minute he could connect with new people and new experiences.  He embraced the Japanese people and culture in a beautiful, open and loving way.  And scattered throughout the journal was his love for our family, for my mum.  He loved getting our faxes and letters and phone calls.  But mostly, he missed mum.  He worried for her, and he prayed for her.  He spent hours and hours praying for her.  My dad knew that when he was helpless to be there for his loved ones, prayer and God was his answer.  Praying was as natural for him as breathing.  He covered his wife and his children and grandchildren with prayer from the moment he woke to the moment he slept every day. 

My dad decided to retire during the time he was in Japan and was not in Canada for his retirement banquet.  Mum, Joanna, Garry and I went, though and relayed the words that a colleague had said about him.  If my dad were in this room today, or last night when we met as extended family, I think he would say the same thing he said back in 1996, as he was so very humble.  In his words, “Not even I could have said so many nice things about me as she did.”  Also, in my dad’s own words, on his last day in Japan, “I cleaned the bathroom just like Vel would have me do it!”

He was a pretty romantic husband.  For the 3 months he was gone, he had my mum’s favourite flower, a yellow rose, sent to her every Friday.  Just one rose every week.  I was living in Calgary at the time, and on his way home,  he would be flying there and catching a connecting flight to Lethbridge.  Before he came, he had asked me to go to a florist in Calgary, buy 1 dozen yellow roses, and meet him in the airport before catching his connecting flight, so he could collect the roses from me.  The first thing my mum saw when he got off the plane in Lethbridge, was his smile, his windblown hair (that one tuft never stayed down), and a dozen yellow roses in his hand for her. 

He loved God first, but his family was next and we knew we were loved every second he was with us.  I saw this in a more meaningful way when I became a parent and watched him with my children.  He was always interested in what they were doing, how school was, in the stories they would tell.  Mum and Dad came to visit New Zealand in 2004, when Ethan was just a toddler.  Ethan formed a fast bond with his grandpa, whom he didn’t remember from before, since we’d moved when he was a baby.  It was a wonderful 3 weeks, and when my parents left, my baby would wander around the house tapping on the bathroom door, looking in the bedroom they stayed in, and calling in his little voice, “Papa?  Papa?”  The bond between my dad and Ethan remained until the very end.  A little over a week before dad ended up in the hospital, it was Christmas Eve and, since dad had dislocated his shoulder in early December, and mobility was difficult, we volunteered to help mum take him to church.  We borrowed a wheelchair and once he was in it, Ethan pushed him around and up the sidewalk and ramp.  Afterwards, he pushed him back to the car and helped him in.  Dad commented on how Ethan was so gentle.  Ethan says he will remember that comment forever.  He told my sister a few weeks ago that he and Grandpa had a “connection”.  It was not one filled with a lot of words, but it was there nonetheless.

The second time my parents visited New Zealand, in 2009, I had 3 children, and my second child became just as enamoured with his grandpa as my first.  Photos of my dad holding my 2 year old’s hand on a walk, and bouncing on a teeter-totter with him will be forever cherished images in my mind.  My dad loved chess.  He tried to teach my mum, he tried to teach his 4 children, and he tried to teach multiple grandchildren.  Then Silas came along and my dad finally got his chess partner.  They played so many games of chess.  And Dad didn’t let Silas win.  He taught him strategies and hints and tips, but made sure his grandson got a challenge.  Silas was so proud the day he finally beat Grandpa in a game.  But Grandpa was still the chess king and Silas proudly displayed a king chess piece in Dad’s hospital room for awhile.  My parents came to almost every band concert, choir concert, and drama production Silas has been in.  Silas always knew he had a faithful fan in his grandpa.

My youngest, Rory, had a bond with Grandpa from birth.  We moved back to Canada when she was a baby, specifically to be near my parents.  I was a newly solo mum and my kids needed more strong, stable, and secure adults in their everyday lives.  My dad loved connecting with the kids, but when Rory came along, there were never long silences.  She loved telling him stories and sitting on his lap and he was the best listener.  She could talk all day long and he’d never tire of hearing her.  They did puzzles together and she’d read to him.  My children’s father’s day gifts were mostly for their Grandpa.  He was the strongest male force in their lives.  I’ve never regretted for one second the decision to move back to Lethbridge, so my children could have their grandparents.  For so many years, they babysat my kids almost once a week.  When we lived only a block from them, sometimes my dad would just pop over, just to be with them, just to sit in their presence.  He took such delight in just BEING with them.  He was the very man my children needed in their lives.

About 2 months ago, he called my house, asking to talk to the children, one by one.  This wasn’t a usual thing.  In turn, they all talked to him.  He kept telling each of them that he just wanted to hear their voices.  I know my children will treasure the memories of how their Grandpa always sought them out, to show them, to tell them how much he loved them.  In the hospital, when he was still awake and talking with us, we would always leave with “I love you” and I would say, “the kids love you, too.”  The last words my dad ever spoke to me were, “I love them, too.” 

His faith and belief in me never wavered.  I remember how proud he was at each of my graduations, even the last one only 3 years ago.  He was so proud that I became a library technician, even prouder when I got my first library position in a school library.  He came to visit, of course, and I remember his head poking around the corner and seeing me at my desk and saying, “You look like a librarian!”  High praise, such high praise. 


Dad, you were love personified.  It was written all over your face every time any of us ever looked at you.  I feel your love just as much in this moment as I did in your presence.  My children know your love and will know it their whole lives.  You are a star in our universe.  You embodied giving love to others.  Your love will sustain us in our deep sorrow. 

I had a dream a few weeks ago that we were walking together, hand in hand.  You were walking fast and strong, and there was no weakness in you in any way.  But I didn’t understand that, and I told you, in my dream, to slow down.  But you couldn’t.  You had somewhere to go, somewhere to be.  I couldn’t hold you back.  I wish you were here, but I know right now, you are strong and fast, and you are loving every second.  I miss you.  And I love you.