Thursday, March 7, 2019

Day 33 of mourning


Today is Day 33 of mourning. As of Tuesday things started to shift. I started feeling comforted. I declared yesterday, Day 32, as the day that I chose to engage in life and stop actively searching for a way to do myself in so that I could join Jacques faster.
Pretty much every time I'd google painless ways to die, Jacques's sister would either call me or arrive at the door asking "What are you up to?" as I'd quickly close the window on my Ipad.
I'm slowly moving towards Hope and inching away from Despair. I would do anything to get Jacques back, but I know that if he were still alive, he would still be sick, in agony and in mourning over the active life he'd led before he got ill. I would not wish that on anyone, certainly not on the Love of my life. 
I knew that in order to start the healing process that I would have to accept that he got sick, so sick that we couldn't do anything to save him from passing. I'm still angry and sad at how much pain he had to endure. I never knew such pain was possible before. I knew that Life wasn't fair before all of this. His illness hammered that fact home.
I still haven't cancelled Jacques' cell phone, I'm paying Virgin in the hopes that he'll still call me. He's reaching out to me in other ways. He's even getting creative. I can just see him laughing at me. 
I can finally look at photos of him and smile without going into tearful convulsions every time.
Have a wonderful day!
xoox

Friday, March 1, 2019

Grief brain

Just finished reading How To Go On Living When Someone You Love Dies by Therese A. Rando, one of many books which have been lent to me. It has helped me from going insane, on many days. Mostly, I thank my family, friends, colleagues, ex colleagues and the community for offering hugs, love and kind words. Still. Almost 4 weeks have gone by. Life goes on for everyone else, not for the mourner. Not yet. Maybe some day. Still unimaginable.

If you’ve never experienced grief, you are blessed.

Here’s a peek into a grief stricken brain. If you’re wondering how to act or what to say to someone who is in mourning: hugs, condolences even days/weeks following loved one’s death, attention, active listening, soup, cookies, any kind of food (It’s hard to eat or even swallow when in mourning and eating alone sucks), quicks calls and texts especially after dark can save a mourner from doing foolish things, invitations for outings even if the mourner isn’t ready, encouragement without platitudes. Please don’t say “Take care of yourself”. The last thing that a mourner is concerned about on dark days is their own well being. If you’re uncomfortable with words, remember soup and cookies always express love.
Be well.

Saturday, February 23, 2019

Jacques Pepin, Feb 21, 1946- Feb 2, 2019



Jacques walked or cycled twice a day and worked out almost every day for over 35 years. He was a popular highschool teacher who retired at 54 in 2000. 
He was very disciplined, intelligent with dry dead pan humour and a sense of fun. He and Dad used to tease me when we all lived together. 
 Jacques considered me in all of his decisions. He made sure that everything was always taken care of for me. He oversaw the house renovations turning this old house in a beautiful, warm, haven. He ran the the household. He took care of the cars, made sure they were full of gas, well maintained and always washed and waxed. He moved the lawn and kept the shrubs and trees pruned. Our yard is beautiful. He would surprise me by putting up the Christmas decorations magically turning on the lights with a wireless switch in his pocket as we’d come home from an evening walk. He’d get up early, warm the car and drive me two blocks to work in the winter months just because he wanted to spoil me. I’m just realizing now to what extent. 
After 15 months of a progressive nightmare in which he gradually lost his independence and autonomy, his suffering is finally over. He'd never had an operation in his life until last May and then he had too many to count since then,  the final two ending with complete amputation of his toes which really means the front of both of his feet. He was in horrible pain before and incredible pain afterwards.

We’d planned for a full recovery with rehabilitation. He was determined to learn to walk again, to cycle and to mow our lawn. I was sure he’d get through due to his legendary stubbornness . I’d promised him that if we needed to change our activities, we’d find a new normal. If we couldn’t cycle anymore, we’d go for car rides and pick nicks. We’d adjust. We’d be okay.

He’d been hospitalized since mid November except for a brief difficult stay at home during the holidays where he was in indescribable pain and got weaker and weaker. Caring for him adequately, and insuring his safety became increasingly difficult.He stopped eating and drinking. He must have envisioned a bleak future. I called the ambulance on January 9th and he never came home. He knew it. I didn’t.

He was born in a tiny house on Rue Notre-Dame  in Montebello and I brought him back to Montebello for palliative care which is situated on the ground floor of an old convent at 532 Notre-Dame where we shared our first apartment almost a quarter of a century ago and where he’d lived as a bachelor for many years. 
A couple of weeks ago, he’d told me that he no longer had a link to Montebello. He’d been in the hospital so long. Losing his link to our home must have hurt. 
His speech and voice got more and more difficult to understand in the last 2 weeks. I’d revert to a few moments of FaceTime when I was home so we could see each other. 
From the moment we brought him back for palliative care, I only left for a quick few minutes to go home 2 blocks away to get what I needed for the night.


The people at Le Monarque are angels. I knew he didn’t want to suffer and they made sure he didn’t. We were surrounded by friends and family that last evening and then left alone. He passed away peacefully as I kissed him and reminded him how much I love him and would always love him. I told him it was okay to go, that we’d be okay. He and I, we’d be okay. 

My heart is broken. We’d rewritten our will a few years ago, if I died, if he died, if we died together, which is really what I would have wished for. His mom had lived into her 90’s and I honestly thought that he would outlive me. We’d planned for this hypothetical day but I didn’t think it would come for years. He was more than 16 and a half years my senior, but so in shape. He was always better at me in every sport. Faster, stronger, more graceful. In board games, I’d teach him how to play only to have him beat me on our first game.

Spike, my first cat, didn’t like men in general. Way back when, I’d told Jacques to be careful of Spike when a few seconds later, the cat and climbed onto him and settled down to sleep Jacques’ chest. Jacques looked at me with a smirk. Spike told me that this was a good man. And he was honest, with a code of honour and integrity, generous, with a tough, crusty exterior and a gooey, romantic interior. 
I don’t remember him buying cut flowers, but we used to have an old pick up truck and go choose flowers and shrubs for the yard. We planted trees and hedges together in the rain. He always bought me chocolates from La Chocolaterie on Valentine’s Day and on my birthday.

 Most of the time, I’d rather spend a quiet evening with him than go to some party. He enjoyed tv, I liked reading books. He was a homebody. Sometimes I needed brief escapes. I used to imagine that he’d begrudged these outings. I realized that it was just that he’d worry about me until I got home. 
We had our differences. We were both strong willed and we sometimes clashed.  Dad who lived with us in our family home for almost two years before he passed, told us to always resolved our differences before going to sleep each night. And we did. We never married but we always reaffirmed our love for each other every morning, noon and night and in between.

When we had bad arguments, he’d always resort to saying he was going back to live at the old convent where he’d had his bachelor’s 1 bedroom apartment so many years ago.

 Life is so strange. The regional palliative care unit is set up in the old convent’s ground floor and is called Le Monarque. As soon as the doctor at the hospital explained that his heart had stopped, that he’d stopped breathing and they’d brought him back with CPR, and that we were at the palliative care stage Friday afternoon, I immediately asked that he be transferred to le Monarque. He was brought back by 4 pm. He passed away sometime between midnight and twelve thirty. I’d taken off my glasses and didn’t want to leave his side to alert anyone or check the time. He always wanted to know the time.  It wasn’t important anymore. Nothing is important anymore. Nothing will be to me for a long time. 
Time stopped for both of us.
I thanked him for surviving long enough for me to be with him when he passed. I couldn’t have gone on living if I hadn’t been with him. Diane, his sister, rejoined me at 6:30 in the morning to wait for the doctor to confirm the death and for his body to be taken away. There was a bad snowstorm and he was finally taken away around 3pm
I went home where Vincent and Liliane were waiting for me with our cat, Souris. They stayed until I started to get sleepy. Diane checked in on me by phone and Messenger. She’s 3 blocks away. I could have had someone stay the night, but I decided to stay alone with Souris. 

Not really alone. I chose to believe that Jacques will be close by.
Souris is now trying to get my attention. It’s 2:33 am
Jacques was ill and dying back in 2001 and 2002 and he got better. Never as buff, but strong again. I developed anxiety and OCD fearful that this day would come. Despite the last 15 months, I didn’t see it coming. I kept hoping that we’d get another miracle. Seeing him suffer so, I prayed for the best outcome. I must accept his death and go on even though right now, I’d rather he come and get me. 

I started writing a few lines because I’m awake in the middle of the night, but in writing I’ve always found Truth. Choosing to share my life with Jacques brought me home and has provided me with a life filled with friends, family and community. They will support me when all I want to do is dig a hole and stay there, feed me when I won’t take care of myself and encourage me to choose life even if I feel like I want to join the dead. 
Jacques didn’t want a funeral or anything. I’ve decided to honour his wishes. It became clear to me while I spent my final hours with him, that I want to bring him home. His place is with me here. 
I think I’ll plant a tree. Something strong and beautiful like him. 

Thank you for reading.
Xxoo

Julia

Friday, August 17, 2018

55 and 10 months and I can still dive!!


Am I full of myself because I asked the lifeguard to film me as I dove off the board? I don't think so, I just wanted to have something to remind that at 55 plus, I could still do something I did when I was young. My intention is to still be able to do this dive at 80 and swim as many lengths.

Let me put this in context. I was afraid to swim when I was little. David M. who was a year older than me, showed me how to put my face in the water at la "barbotteuse". In the middle up close to the fountain, the wading pool was just deep enough for little kids to learn to swim underwater. I must have been 5 or 6, but I can still remember being able to propel myself underwater. It gave me such a feeling of freedom. That was the 60's and I don't remember there being a lifeguard at "la barbotteuse".Times change. It's been replaced by a much safer splash pad where there is no water accumulation.

Swimming lessons were given in the mornings at the municipal pool that you see in this video, just down the street and around the corner from my house. Imagine being a skin and bones little kid weighing in at most 50 pounds and waiting your turn on the side of the pool in the shade of the tall trees before the sun has risen high enough in the sky to warm your little body. I couldn't take the shivering. Me and my blue lips quit swimming lessons and didn't learn to swim at the surface. I was okay with that. I could swim under water, anyway!

In high school, just as my volleyball season had come to and end, some students pleaded with me to sign up for swimming lessons. It wasn't that they wanted me in particular, they just needed one more person so that the course would be given. Our local high school has an indoor pool. No more shivering in the shade! I took a succession of courses and became a lifeguard at 16.

Back then, the pay sucked, but I loved being outside. My best friend had a well-paying job in the dining room of the resort hotel, but I loved the water and no amount of money could make me give up lifeguarding. I even loved the boredom of the cool, rainy days.

Swimming has always been there for me. It's a way to stay in shape (I know that I shouldn't have worn a 2 piece bathing suit in this video, but it was what was hanging on the clothesline when I decided to dash and do a few dives before the pool closed yesterday! At 55, I'm beyond caring!) and it's a way to calm myself and meditate.

I don't train in shape in the summer months. I splash around like the little kid I still am inside. I let myself play in the water with whoever wants to humour me. September is coming and I'll be back to lap swimming indoors soon enough. Until the outdoor pool closes Sunday, let me do a few more dives and cannonballs!

Thursday, January 4, 2018

My mom’s death when I was still in my 20's was the defining event of my young adult life.

My mom’s death when I was still in my 20's was the defining event of my young adult life.
Not moving to two different cities to get my education. Not getting my degrees. Not success in different areas. Not my travels. Not even living with a man, despite his bigger than life personality.
There’s before and there is after Mom’s death.
I still remember the phone call in the staff room at the school where I taught. My mom told me she had cancer. Generalized. She’d waited too long to see the doctor. She didn’t want any treatment. She had maybe 3 months left.
I was in shock.
At some point, Mom and I started believing that she would miraculously be cured or live with this condition for years.
So, I joined a tennis club in the city thinking I’d need someway to occupy the long summer break if I didn’t take a summer course. Yup, my mom was dying and I thought I’d be playing tennis to pass the time.
The club got my money, but I never showed up.
I spent the summer driving the triangle between the city where I lived, the hospital where mom was dying in a small Ontario border town and our tiny Quebec village where my childhood home was.
I’d drive back to the city to care for my cat and meet up with friends and my then-off-and-on-no-longer-live-in-boyfriend-soon-to-be-permanently-ex.
My mind was spinning overtime. I’d scream in the car. I’d imagine turning the wheel sharply and diving into the river far below the bridge but I knew that I’d be hurting everyone I loved. So, I kept the wheels straight.
The only time that my mind would shut up back then was if I’d had too much to drink or if I was shooting pool.
I shot pool in the city and in the village. I shot pool in billiards rooms and in seedy bars. I played not for money, but to run the table. I played government clerks, bankers and drug dealers. I got to be really good.
When lining up a series of shots, my mind would become still and calm if only for a few blissful seconds. It was a balm for all the parts of me which were crying in pain.
Day after day when a visiting a dying loved one, conversation can become awkward. She hated when someone would walk into her room and ask her how she was doing.
One day, I brought music books to the hospital. I wheeled Mom to the music room. She played the piano and we sang and harmonized as if we were on holiday in the Laurentians.
Another time, I brought in very old family photo albums. We’re taking early 1900 to mid 20th century. Mom had emigrated from the American south. If we didn’t identify ancestors in the photos, there’d be nobody north of the border who could. We managed to do a few albums before she got tired. We’d do the rest next time.
Mom had nausea and found meal times at the hospital the worst. Who wouldn’t? Dad and I took turns to be with her for lunch and dinner.
I’d never heard of meal replacements drinks. That’s what they gave her when she stopped eating. As if she could build up strength and what? Live?
I’d never heard of palliative care before. Mom wasn’t getting better.
I soon lost my appetite, too. I bought chocolate flavoured Boost meal replacement drinks by the case. For me.
Things took a turn for the worse when I had to go back to work at the end of the summer. I walked into my principal’s office one Monday at lunch after downing a couple of Boosts and told him that I needed to be with my Mom and I had no idea when I’d be back. He said “Go.”
That night, a nurse found me on the floor on the far side of Mom’s room. I must have felt that the end was coming. They wheeled in a cot and a blanket for me.
Alma, a kindly nurse from Newfoundland, would sneak in meals for me. She once rushed in apologizing for having been too busy as she handed me all she could find so late at night: a piece of pecan pie. It had been one of mom’s favourite. Relatives from Georgia used to send us boxes of pecans before Christmas so Mom could bake pies. She was drifting in and out of consciousness, but she would have enjoyed the coincidence.
I’d lied to Mom all summer that he and I were no longer seeing each other. I made the definite and final break-up call to my ex from a pay phone down the hall from her room. He wanted something I could no longer give. Time and attention. My reserves were empty.
That last week, with her eyes closed and morphine shots kicking in, Mom would babble in slurred bursts. I’d grab my notebook and scribble everything I thought she said. I needed her wisdom. I still needed my mom. She was slipping away.
When she stopped talking altogether and fell into a coma, I sang to her softly. I read her favourite psalms. She was a devout evangelical Christian.
I still wonder why I didn’t lose my faith right then and there.
It would take another 10 years and my Dad’s sudden death for that to happen. With faith gone, anxiety had room to take hold of me. But that’s another post.
Mom’s breathing became more and more laboured. My best friends, my Dad, my brother and sister-im-law all came to see her Saturday, September 21st, 1991. When they’d all left, I sat by her bed, holding her hand and timing the seconds between each shallow breath. Sadly, it never occurred to me until now that I could have climb into bed with her and held her.
All of a sudden she took a deep breath.
And then, there was nothing.
After many months and then all of a sudden.
Ma mère n’était plus là. She was no longer there. Her presence was gone.
I rang the station. A nurse came. She confirmed what I suspected, what I feared, what I already knew.
She said that I had to wait for a doctor to confirm her death.
As I waited, I looked at my mom’s ravaged body and realized that it was a shell. A vessel which had contained an incredible spirit. A daring and talented woman with a booming laugh.
A woman who’d lived alone on a sailboat, then on a tiny island with her dog, Tricky. A woman who’d moved to Puerto Rico after WW2. A women who came to Quebec on vacation and stayed on to see snow. Falling in love with our village, then with my father. A strict mother who made every kid and teenager we called friends feel welcome and loved.
A mother who set aside her own dreams, like many before and since, to raise us.
I felt like an orphan.
I called my Dad. My brother answered. I was the baby of the family announcing the death of our mom.
Despite her death being far from sudden, no one had contacted an undertaker. The nurse informed me, that I needed to empty her room. Only when I’d left the hospital, would they remove her from the room.
So, I went to work silently and alone in the room where my mom’s body lay.
Things accumulate in hospital rooms. Unworn clothing, nightgowns, gifts and other personal things.
I returned to the nurses’ station and asked for a pair of scissors and an envelope. I never told anyone before now, but I snipped a lock of her soft white hair. The same hair, I’ve now inherited.
There was only one thing left that I could not bring myself to carry home. Her pillow. It would have meant lifting her head to retrieve it. And, yet, when I finally arrived home that night and unpacked her suitcase, it’s the one question I can still hear my dad asking: “Where’s her pillow?”
When I started to explain that it would have meant lifting her head to retrieve it, he cut me off to say that it was okay. He’d had no idea that mom was still in the room as I gathered her things one last time. And he realized what I’d had to do.
What so many others have had to do.
After her funeral, I’d walk to her grave late at night trying to feel close to her.
Her doctor had predicted 3 months. She made it to five.
Within months, I accepted a position which would take me a continent away from everyone I knew for 3 years.
A few years after my return, I ended up taking over our family home in the quaint little village.
I rarely, if ever go to the cemetery now. I feel close to my parents when I smell the moist earth as I tend the flower beds.
When I observe birds at the feeders.
When I prepare one of their favourite recipes.
When I sit at Mom’s upright and play one of her signature songs.
When I enjoy the view from the home they’d named Hillview House.
When I come upon something noteworthy that I’d like to share with them.
When I choose to see beauty in every day life.
I haven’t been near a pool hall or a seedy bar in decades, yet I’ve found ways to still my mind.
Journalling, swimming, playing musical instruments, reading, hiking, kayaking, nordic skiing, snowshoeing, forest bathing in all seasons, writing, composing music, drawing, gardening, cooking from scratch, building things, and being grateful.
We all have defining moments. If we live long enough, we’ll have many of them. Some highs and some lows.
Mom’s death is now, 26 years later, one of my life’s defining moments.
May we choose to straighten our wheels, survive and learn from all of the moments which amount to our lives.


6 things I wish I knew at age 24

6 things I wish I knew at age 24
1. Not everything lasts forever and nothing is guaranteed, so take nothing for granted. Youth, looks, health, jobs, hair colour, gorgeous legs, friendships, colleagues, easy money, being nimble on your toes, energy, sanity, independance, and insouciance.
No matter what you lose or what you gain, be grateful every step along the way.
2. Keep on learning. Be it by trial and error, reading, asking thoughtful questions, shutting up and listening without interruption, taking a course, giving a course, shooting the breeze or watching how to videos. Your brain is malleable. You can train it to learn new things and you can retrain to break bad habits.
3. Sometimes, life kicks you in the head. You can get through it, survive and thrive. Surround yourself with people who will lift you up. Lean in to your feelings now. Yes, right now. I know it hurts. Bad. Stuffing them down will inevitably lead to worse things later on down the road.
Peaks and valleys make up the journey. Straight roads are numbingly boring. The view is beautiful from a summit. Ascensions from deep valleys are where you forge character and empathy for others.
4. Learn to be authentically you as soon as you can. When we are young, we want to fit in. Learn to embrace your quirkiness now. It’s what makes you you.
Develop your passions however odd they may seem. They hold the key to your uniqueness and success. You’ll eventually find or create your own tribe of wonderful weirdos whether face to face or online.
5. Take care of yourself. A life of experimentation and excess is fun and easy to bounce back from in your twenties, but if you want to be in it for the long haul, manage all of your resources wisely.
A. By all means, have fun, but learn to spend wisely and make saving a priority. Learning to live well beneath your means and you’ll always be rich because you will have the power to make choices.
B. Give up your vices. They’re bad for your physical and mental health and a strain on your finances.
C. Eat well. Learn to cook from scratch a.s.a.p., brown bag it and invite friends over instead of eating out 3 meals a day. It’s cheaper and healthier.
D. Move your body. Preferably outside. Find an activity that you enjoy and if you’re so inclined, find others who enjoy the same thing. You’ll be in shape and make new friends. Plus, there’s accountability in numbers. It’s harder to slouch on the sofa if there are folks waiting for you to go play outside.
6. Life is stranger than fiction. My 24 year old self could not have drawn the storyboard of how my life has turned out a quarter of a century later. Go ahead, make plans, but stay open to serendipity and surprise opportunities. And go for it when that still small voice whispers “Go for it!”