I Love You a Bushel & a Peck

My apologies for not writing over the past month. Things have been busy at work but I have also been suffering from writers block. For the past month I have not been able to write because I have been mourning the loss of someone very special in my life. The following is what came out because of the encouragement I received from my Closet Writers group at work and the opportunity I had tonight at my other writing group to get this down on paper.

I Love You a Bushel & a Peck

Grandma Minnie died last month. She was ninety-two. She wasn't my relation but my husband's grandmother. All of my grandparents had died by the time I was twenty-five so that element of aged wisdom was missing from my life until she came in to it. I treasured Minnie and I loved her because she became my Grandma too.

Minnie was everything a grandmother should be; warm, inviting, ready to wrap you in a hug at a moments notice. She cooked, sewed and canned showing us younger women how it was done. Her homemaking skills were a product of a bygone era when women's rights and equality didn't have a lot of meaning. Most people today would, of course, consider her old-fashioned but I always found comfort in her domesticity and her warm, fresh from the oven cookies. Whenever Bruce and I visited, we women-folk would do the dishes after dinner while the men would go play pool in the basement. Then we would sit in the warm kitchen and play a board game or perhaps sit and chat about local goings on while her knitting needles clacked harmoniously with the sounds of the crickets and night birds.

The last time I saw Minnie she was in the lock down area of a seniors home. Diagnosed with dementia several years previously she needed a safe place and constant care. One of the nurses told me before I went in to visit her that even though she might not remember who I was she was a delightful, happily confused tenant. When I entered Grandma Minnie's room she was laying on her bed reading and re-reading a letter from her daughter, my husbands mother.

She looked up at me. "Well Hello".

"Hello Minnie. It is so good to see you. I've missed you", I said.

Confusion registered on her face and I could see her struggling to remember who I was.

"I'm Susan, your grandson's wife".

"Susan. Well, I like your face. You look like a nice person. I think I like you. Come sit beside me". I did as I was told.

Minnie started to sing, "I love you a bushel and a peck, a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck." She reached over and hugged me. Then she held my face between her hands. "Yes, I like your face. I can tell you are a nice person. I LOVE YOU. I love you a bushel and a peck, a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck."

I stayed for another twenty minutes. I tried to make small talk about her lovely room and asked her how she liked living there. She would start a sentence and then her brow would furrow because she just couldn't hold on to the thought and express what she wanted to say. She would drift off and comment on the weather or talk about her slippers and then sing a bushel and a peck and hug me again. When it was time to go I gave her a final hug and said goodbye.

Walking out of the building tears sprung up in my eyes, not because I was sad, but because I left feeling that somewhere deep down Minnie could sense that I loved her and despite her failing memory I think she felt love for me. Today I look at the photos that I took of her that day, grateful that I captured her happy and grateful that I have a visual portrait of those cherished last moments with her. Yes, I loved her a bushel and a peck, a bushel and a peck and a hug around the neck.

Salynne ©2010

Kindred Spirits: Life with--and without--Sydney

Ruth Hartanto, a mother whom I have a lot in common with and know from time we spent together at several hospital conferences wrote an article on the first anniversary of her daughter, Sydney's death. Ruth was involved with the planning stages of CHEO and Roger's House Hospice and now serves on their Family Advisory Committee. Her writing is powerful and captures the realities of living with a child who is medically fragiles as well as the loss one feels when our precious children are gone.

The Globe & Mail - Facts & Arguments Essay

"Life with--and without--Sydney?"



Salynne ©2010

Doing the Grind-The Olympics

Today I was able to attend my first Grind Writers group although the location turned out to be a different because of the Olympics. I met a number of other very creative individuals and was very inspired by each of their stories. Some people are just trying to add more writing into their lives, several are working on books and one writes for a living. It is my hope that I will be able to attend regularly.

We started with a 15 minute free-write on the prompt The Olympics and this was my offering.

For some people the Olympics must be everything. They'll go to a number of the sporting events, their hearts will swell when they hear the national anthem and someone from our country gets gold. Twenty years from now they'll say to their kids, "Remember when the Olympics were on and we did this or that.."

In contrast I find that my life is never defined by these big events and that I remember them in the context of what I'm doing or where I am. Thirteen years ago I was sitting by my daughter as she lay dying in a children's hospice and while watching TV a newscaster came on to explain that Princess Diana had died. Over the next few days people took flowers to the British Consulate & because there were so many of these expressions of grief they started taking bouquets to old folks homes and places like the hospice. I arranged vase after vase and filled every room including my daughters with them. Two weeks later when she had died I threw out all of the fading blooms in a symbolic gesture. That is what I really remember about the time when the Princess Diana tragedy unfolded.

Last week, when the world was glued to their TV's or standing in the streets of Vancouver, waving and cheering on the Olympic torch as it made the final leg of its journey I sat across from my girlfriend in a local chemo treatment room. She sat on a leather recliner with her arm outstretched on a tray while poisonous chemicals ran into her veins. I looked around the room at all of the other people there for treatment; young and old sat there, proof that cancer doesn't discriminate.

The TV was on and some people watched the event, others were too distracted by the book they had brought or were sitting with their eyes closed. Suddenly the news broke through and it was announced that a young man doing a training run for the luge had died. Everyone in the long line of chairs seemed to come out of themselves, the staff stood still and we all turned our eyes to watch in silent horror as the fellow careened down the chute and flew off his sled into a pole. Involuntary sounds of shock and dismay passed from every person watching.

The room was dead quiet and no one moved for a time but then the nurses began checking chemo bags and IV's, machines started beeping and we were all pulled back to the reality of what was happening in the room. My friend tugged on her hat, pulling it lower to hide the fact that her hair was starting to fall out again. The gentleman two seats over looked up at his chemo bag, sighed and grimaced, clenched and unclenched his hand and shut his eyes. Another young man adjusted his Ipod and turned back into his world of music and song.

It occurred to me then that every cancer patient in that room was like an Olympic athlete fighting for the gold; Remission. Others, like myself, were there to cheer them on in their struggle. Some will win and their lives will carry on and some sadly will not. And twenty years from now when I'm talking to my children about this time I know I'll have a different view than many others. "Remember when my friend was going through Chemo and the Olympics were on?"

Salynne ©2009

Info on Grind Writers: The Grind Café Writers' Group - Vancouver
Meets every 2 weeks (alternating on Saturdays and Sundays) at the Grind Gallery Café, 4124 Main Street @ King Edward Ave (25th Ave). 10 am to 12:30 pm. Writers of all ages, stages, genres, genders, orientations & outlooks are welcome. We write at every meeting, so bring pen & paper or your laptop. Occasionally we do move the venue, so please email before you come to your first meeting, or if you have any questions, email Margo - wonderwords@shaw.ca.

Winter Doldrums, Grief and Onions

It seems that this time of year and I don't mix very well. The winter doldrums have set in; the weather is blah, its seems to me to be dark twenty-four hours a day and I'm feeling down and exhausted. Over the past two months I've also had some heart palpitations which it turns out have been anxiety attacks.

Some of you may know that this fall I committed myself to editing and compiling stories from the time period that my daughter Brenna was alive, with a goal of having a finished manuscript by spring. Writing about and dealing with that time period is not helping matters and/or causing a lot of my current anxiety issues--writing this book is proving to be much harder emotional work than I thought it would be. Members of my writing group (part therapy group :) suggested that I blog about what is really going on and how I feel consumed with thinking about my daughter and why; they suggested that being open and honest about it all will in itself help me lessen this feeling that I'm blocked by sadness and going in one direction only.

They've also encouraged me to start writing about the process of putting this part of my life onto paper and that has proved to be very good advice. Since our group on Wednesday I've been penning like crazy about what has been going on while I'm writing the book and the reasons why I need to take myself on this difficult journey. It's been twelve years since I became a bereaved parent and although I thought I was doing "well" I've learned that term is very subjective. There are different layers of grief which are often compared to the layers of an onion; you peel off one but there is always another under the surface. Sometimes you get "blindsided" by grief, it pops up unexpectedly. In this case I've opened the can of worms myself and after my experiences over the past several months its very clear that when you purposely dredge up things from the past and allow yourself to feel some of those tragic feelings again it can take a heavy toll. I'm determined to press on but I have to start taking better care of myself, give myself breathing space and let others know what I'm going through.

On top of all of this hard emotional work I've been doing, last weekend I felt that I had to attend the memorial of a fifteen year old boy. His mother and I have done volunteer work together at Canuck Place Children's Hospice, and although I'd only met her son once, out of respect for her I went. When I arrived there were over a hundred people there but the first thing I did was search out the faces of the others in our Canuck Place group. They, like me were also bereaved parents and felt it important to attend. The plan was that we would sit together and support each other.

In the end I did not sit with my group preferring to stand in the back to let the large number of arriving family and friends have seats. There was also the part of me that hoped that I could escape early. The memorial itself was emotional but I was not particularly moved. What struck me the hardest and made me the most sad was watching the faces of the parents in my group. The pain on their faces was so evident and I knew this sorrow was not just for our colleague but for themselves and for every other parent who has lost a child. I could see them remembering the last moments of their child's life as our friend talked about her son and that they fully understood and remembered days of numbness afterwards which helps you to be brave and get through the memorial. Being a writer I am an observer, a watcher, almost a voyeur into other people's lives. On this occasion though, it wasn't so much that I could place myself in others shoes or read on their faces the gaping hole the death of a child leaves in their hearts; I realized that the pain on their faces and the sorrow in their hearts was only a reflection of what was in my own.

Salynne ©2009

One Minute Writer - The Hardest Work

One Minute Writer Exercise

What is the hardest work you've ever done?

In my case, holding the hand of my beautiful eight year old daughter as she took her last breathe is the hardest and most painful “work” I have ever done. Several years later I stayed in the hospital with my dad supporting him and my mother during her final days. The nurses asked me, How is it that you can do this and be so calm? I told them, “I’ve been on this road before and I’m glad I’m here for my mom but nothing can compare to walking this same road with your child. Nothing.

Salynne ©2009

One Minute Writer-Prompt: Bed

The One Minute Writer
http://oneminutewriter.blogspot.com/

Monday, June 22--Today's Writing Prompt: Bed

Linda Evangelista said she wouldn't get out of bed for less than $10,000.
What makes you get out of bed each morning?

My offering:
Life is worth living, life is precious. My daughter should’ve been 20 this past weekend and I should be the mother of two living children and not just one. Every day we get out of bed we celebrate and honor the lives of all those who couldn’t.

Salynne©2009

Like a Fibre Gone From My Heart

My oldest daughter died in 1997 from a rare neurological disease. She was eight when she took her last breathe and now it is almost twelve years later. Yesterday she should've turned twenty and I should the mother of two living children and not just one. Children are not supposed to die before their parents.

It didn't even occur to me what day it was until late in the evening when I was sitting alone & reflecting on my day. My body remembered though, even if I didn't, and it explained why I was grouchy & not feeling well all day. Most years I've been fine. The hardest was when she would've been seventeen and I watched her friend graduating. It was such a reminder that life is not fair. Now this year, perhaps its the fact that she would no longer be a teenager but moving into adulthood, an adulthood that we will have to wait for her to have.

There will always be an ache, there will always be a hole in my heart and in my life. In one of my favorite books, the character Cadfael is asked the question, "will you miss her? Yes", he says, "like a fibre gone from my heart". I couldn't put it any better.

Salynne ©2009