Good Grief Guru

My cousin Sarah joined my family’s trip to Barbados this past January.  She was a welcomed addition, and quickly became the best friend, play mate, and most sought after individual in the house, by my daughter.

Some of the first words out of my daughter’s mouth every morning were, “Where’s Sarah?”

“She’s sleeping honey.  Let the poor girl sleep.”

Throughout the day, when Alexis wanted to play hide and seek, watch a movie, or go to the beach, she would ask, “Sarah, do you want to come with me?  Yah?  Do you want to come?”

Unpretentious, Sarah fit in anywhere.  She was my kid’s best friend, and also someone who was capable of having a well thought out conversation.  She took equal interest in playing dominoes with the ladies two generations above ours, as she did to building sandcastles with my toddler, or hanging out on the verandah with me.  She was able to be social, or find herself just as happy (perhaps a little more so) delving into a good book.

Sarah was perhaps best known to me for being a Narnianist, and a clay figurine sculptor.  Now, I know her as a Narnianist, a sculptist, a reader, a well moderated thinker, a theatrical artist, an inventor of umbrella tents, a mutual eater of mangoes, and her admitted indecisiveness but ability to go with the flow, made her all the more endearing to me.  Above all, Sarah is someone who engaged in opportunities to connect with others on varying levels, to be present, and participate in the moment that will never come again.

My daughter Alexis, and I, were so happy to have had a two week holiday with cousin Sarah, in Barbados.  I predict an increased number of trips to her neck of the woods over the up-coming year.

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Click here to watch a video of Alexis and I taking a field trip to Neil’s tree.

Once upon a time lived the Knights.  These particular Knights lived just up the hill from me, their backyard diagonally adjacent to mine.

One day, a couple months after my husband died, the Knights invited Alexis and I to their home for dinner.  They made a scrumptious spread, shared their delicious home made wine, and then came dessert.  It wasn’t just any dessert.  It was a well-thought-out dessert that made me want to cry.

In my eulogy for my husband I talked about how, near the end of his life, he had started taking our daughter on dates.  He would buy himself coffee, and our daughter would get her favourite treat; yoghurt, berries and granola.  What did the Knights bring out for dessert?  You guessed it.  Yoghurt, berries and granola.

The second thing they did, which was even more heart warming, was they told me they had contacted the city about planting a tree in Neil’s honour.  The Knights live right next to a public pathway, so their idea was that if they planted a tree there, then anyone from the neighbourhood could visit the tree, and Alexis and I would have a memorial for Neil where we could enjoy picnics under its shade, in the years to come.  They had a plaque made up, organized a neighbourhood tree dedication, and prepared a BBQ feast on the week of Neil’s birthday in June.

The kids brought rocks to lay at the base…

…and drew pictures of our family and the tree.

I chose cremation and scattering, so there is no existing monument for my husband.  The birch tree up the hill, and the special plaque that lies above the soil at its base, are my husband’s memorials.  Every time we walk past it Alexis chimes, “Daddy’s tree!”  She talks to the plaque and tells it things she would want to tell her living daddy.  Every time I see the tree I recognize my husband was a man who meant something to our community, and our neighbours are the type of thoughtful, loving, considerate individuals who mean the world to me.

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If the reader of this post feels sorry for the rabbit on my plate, just remember that little rabbit foo foo was not a very nice rabbit.  As the song goes, “Little rabbit foo foo, hopping through the forest, scooping up the field mice and bopping them on the head!” (See all lyrics here.)

Sarah, my neighbour up the hill, invited Alexis and I for dinner with her three little girls.  “Is there anything you don’t want to eat?” she asked me that morning.

“Nope.  We’re up for anything, Sarah.”

The meal started in true Sarah form.  The dinner table was decorated with martini glasses, adorned with white and blue swirl straws.  Soon, they were filled with apple cider for the kids.  A sprinkled, chocolate covered marshmallow on a stick sat patiently on everybody’s plate.  Alluring pheromones whispered, “You know you want me” and the marshmallow was right.

Then came the big bowl of rabbit meat pasta.  I looked behind me and noticed a sticker on one of the picture frames that read, “Try something new today.”

It’s not the first time I’ve eaten rabbit.  I went to school for Food and Beverage Management at George Brown College.  In the second year of that program, the students ran the fine dining restaurant on campus.  One of the meals we prepared was rabbit.  I remember that because the meat was muscular, it had to cook in oil for hours to tenderize it.  I asked Sarah how long it took her to cook foo foo.  “Twelve hours” she said.

This might seem cruel to some, but I’ve got to say, it was good.  It took on the taste of the sauce, so the rabbit itself was not overpowering.  Best of all, was my peace of mind that rabbit had not yet been industrialized like chicken or beef.  That gave me hope that perhaps there were less chemicals and hormones in the rabbit on my plate, than in the status quo choices that could have been its replacement.

The night went on with funny faces, dress up and dancing, and ended with dessert and story time.

Best of all was the one on one conversation I got to enjoy with my friend.  My friend who has given us almost every thread of clothing Alexis has ever worn.  My friend whose creativity astounds, and inspires me.  My friend, who also happens to be a professional massage therapist, and I can vouch first hand, she is amazing at her profession.

I am in love with the neighbourhood in which I live.  For friends who are like family, for new experiences, and great memories, here’s to rabbit pasta, and a great night out with the girls!

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“He had a terminal illness and he didn’t tell you what his wishes were?  How is that possible?”

I was shocked to learn, speaking to other individuals whose spouses died of terminal illnesses, that not all of them had had those last important conversations, or finalized their Wills.  Denial is a powerful drug for someone to be lying in palliative care and completely avoid the must have conversations.  Here’s the thing though.  We are all going to die.  Someone can have brain cancer, recover miraculously, then walk out of the hospital and get hit by a car.  Fit people die, fat people die, young and old alike, die.  So please, for the love of your spouse, your parents, your kid(s), get a Will, get a living-Will, tell your family or close friends your wishes, and try to make decisions you can live, and die with.

In April of 2010, my sister-in-law died suddenly in her sleep.  She was only 29.  By that time, my husband and I had a baby, property, and a business my husband co-owned.  It cost us $750 to have both of our Wills done, and we mutually agreed our peace of mind was worth the investment.

With our lawyer we set up contingency care for our daughter, discussed and documented our living-Will wishes, named our Power of Attorney(s), and listed our Executor(s) in the event of our death.  So often we focused on our material things.  Who should get this?  Who should get that?  Our lawyer zeroed in on what our living-Will wishes were in the event that one of us was unable to communicate.  It’s not a fluffy topic to think about.  I get that.  But worse than not thinking about it now, is being the person left to make decisions on another’s behalf, and feeling the brunt of those choices, always wondering if they were the right ones, for the rest of their lives.  In a moment like that, it does not matter who gets the couch.

My husband and I finalized our Wills in October of 2010.  Five months later, he died.  He did not have a terminal illness.

What did this mean for me in the days that followed?  Every arduous bank, lawyer, and government appointment I had to attend, went easier, was less time consuming, and was less of an emotional nightmare not being subjected to more paperwork, loose ends, and litigation.  By being named Executor on our Will, I was able to attend to any of my husband’s business with the same authority as my husband himself.

As I sat in a bank consultant’s office transferring funds, and closing accounts, she explained to me that without the documents I had, what we were accomplishing in one day could otherwise take years, and a great deal more stress, to complete.  In the face of a long line of tasks I was left alone to navigate, I felt gratitude that my husband initiated the process of obtaining legal Wills.  With our lawyer, and alone, we had important conversations about life, and death.  I was not left wondering, unprepared, and overcome with more obstacles then already lay before me.

There is one conversation we did not have, and it fuddles my mind every time I think of it.  The weight of its loose ends clamp down on my shoulders.  It was the conversation about his business.  My husband had an on-line car parts company called AutoPartsInc.com .  He ran the entire front end, and had no apprentice to take it over.  He had offered to teach me about a year before he died, but I was not motivated by the technical side of it, and I excused his foresight with the mindset that we have time for that.  We’ll get to the training another day.  I have enough work on my plate already.  Now that he is gone, this company that has the potential to shine like a rainbow, hangs over my head like a black cloud.

Even if it is likely you may be alive for the next 50 years, please, have the conversations with your loved ones.  No one knows what tomorrow brings.  I am not suggesting that anyone dwell on the subject of death, but I am saying, speaking from the other side of loss, my husband did me a tremendous favour the day we finalized our Wills.  You, and your family’s peace of mind are worth it.

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I often take God for granted.  I find Him in everything, and forget He is in all things.  I pause to consider that if He is the breath that keeps me alive, and the breath that is in me is returned to Him when I die, as Ecclesiastes 12:7 says, “Then the dust will return to the earth as it was, and the spirit will return to God who gave it” what can I do but stand in awe of He who has granted me this very next breath.

To me, that is an abundantly jaw dropping thought.  The breath I breathe, the spirit within me, is it all on loan from God?  Is the soul mine, but the spirit is His, filling up my body like a helium balloon, one day to be let out and given back to the one who gave it?

As I said, I take God for granted all the time.  I am not planning on entering the debate on heaven and hell here.  What I will say is that my version of the worst hell I can imagine, is defined in my mind as total separation from God.  Like the absence of a friend, a lover, a husband, I feel His void when I do not walk with Him, and there is nothing more lonely, depressing or desperate to me than being away from that type of relationship now that I have known it once.  Like-wise, there is nothing more freeing, exhilarating, and completing than when I stand in awe and connect with another being, and even more so when I feel a connection to my Creator.

Dogs are great.  I may have a slight fear (for good reason I might add, having been bitten by a guard dog when I was a child) but I see the value.  In fact there are countless wonders in the world I would count as awe-inspiring, mouth dropping, phenomenal, or simply comforting aspects of life.  But, when I stop and actually focus on what gives me peace, what brings me joy, what is the number one thing I would miss even if everything else were at my finger tips?  I’m not just assuming this feeling now.  I have been there.  It would be a connection to God.

So, my happy thought in this moment of intentional focus and soul-searching, is undoubtedly, unquestionably, those moments when I know there is a God, and that God is as close as my next breath.

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I was recording Happy Thought #24 while my daughter listened in.  When I was done she said, “Happy thought #2.  I love you, Mom!”

So, I responded, “Happy thought #3.  I love you, Alexis.”  Back and forth we went.

“Happy thought #14.  I love you Mom.”

“Happy thought #20.  You’re beautiful Alexis.”

“Happy thought #24.  I love you Diego.”

“Happy thought #16.  Colouring with you is fun.”

“Happy thought #4.  I love the letter C.”

It seems happy thoughts are contagious.  My true Happy Thought #25 is that all this positive thinking seems to be rubbing off on my daughter.

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The sound of your bangles chime throughout time.

You are part wisdom and will, love and beauty, fault and redemption, and I hear the song of your bangles chime throughout time.

When I was young I would crawl into bed with you and rest my little head on the nook of your outstretched arm.  Then something horrible happened.  I believe it was puberty.  My body changed and I felt awkward.  I stopped cuddling, and worked my independence out through every hair colour I could think of.  Green, blue, purple, black.  I put a stud in my nose, and thought it was the most beautiful thing on my face.  I wore second hand dresses I thought were cool.  I tweaked my wardrobe a little when you mentioned one time I looked like a french maid, and refused to take me out.

When I turned 13 you bought me a bangle, because that was our Caribbean family tradition.  When I was 17 I lost the bangle in the mud some time during a contact game of football.  I was guilt ridden for months, and swore I’d never let myself wear one again.  Then we flew to Barbados and you replaced my lost bangle with two!  You said they were a lesson in self forgiveness.  I wore them every day.  At first I wore one on each hand, until I put my arms together behind my back on my first day at a new job.  The two bangles locked together handcuffing me until a colleague set me free.  I put both on one wrist and that’s when it began, that I joined your song, and our bangles chimed together throughout time.

I grew up a little and made bigger mistakes.  Your reminder of self forgiveness dangled always from my wrist.  I got married, and two years later a baby was on its way.  You, the woman who could faint at the sight of a loose tooth, stayed in the hospital room with me, braiding my hair, keeping my husband calm, surviving your daughter’s pain while I lay crying on the bed.  All angst about the human body went out the window that day.  All innocence of it was redeemed as my lovely baby girl was born.  We marveled at the miracle of life and nursing.  You taught me how to change a diaper, and took my angel at night so I could sleep.  The cycle of cuddles began again.  As I lifted my new born out of her crib my bangles chimed.  I smiled knowing that the sound of these bracelets would be the sound of her mother, as your bangles had played the tune of mine.

My husband died two years later, and you moved in for two weeks.  You held us together as you so often do.  We celebrated my daughter’s second birthday while I wrote out a eulogy, and you formatted memorial bookmarks.

You left and I was lonely, but in the darkness of those nights, as I pulled the covers up to my chin, there was the echo of your song in the tinkling of my bangles, and I felt less alone as I cried myself to sleep.

Hope broke through the darkness, and I felt gratitude more than pain.  We became survivors, and thrivers, and saw the sun poke through the rain.

You had nursed me, changed me, held my hand, then let me go.  You disciplined me and loved me, and gave me room to grow.  You taught me, laughed with me, and shared my pain when I cried.  Then you set me free again to see the wings you gave me fly.

You are mother, you are wisdom, you mean the world to my babe.  And the bangles that you gave me chirp the love song that you gave.

Every flick of my wrist, and  throw of my hand, sings the song of your chime, as my bangles of forgiveness play your song throughout our time.

If you want to learn more about my best life coach, who is now a coach to others around the world, please visit her website at www.PercyEmtage.com

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The day I can’t pay off my credit card is the day I cut it up.  In the meantime I use it for regular payments, and do my best to keep track that my spending on the allusive plastic card still falls in line with my budget.  Whatever I charge on my credit card that I would otherwise buy with cash, earns me points.

I am NOT promoting credit cards.  I have seen these plastic vampires destroy lives.  BUT, in my case, where I have never charged more than I could pay off when it’s due, I have to say, I thoroughly enjoy going to the grocery store and getting free groceries, like the $80 worth of free food I received from points today.

I remember that Neil and I used to take our points and buy grocery cards to give out to a couple we became friends with, who were living on the streets.  Our friends are now off the streets, have their own rented apartment, and at least one of them is working a full time job.  Grocery cards meant they could grab a healthy meal, and assured us no money would be spent on other things.  It was all the more fun being able to help someone else, when the groceries were free to us.

So, today I have lots of reasons to be happy for free groceries!

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The place: Barbados. The destination: Earthworks Pottery. The timeline: mid-vacation.

My late-husband’s ashes rested in my black leather bag.  Every morning I walked on the beach, and in the height of the afternoon sun I swam in the sea.  I barely thought about my husband’s remains.

I have a lot of family who live in Barbados.  On my last trip to this beautiful island, my husband was with me.  We had stayed in the beach house next door to where I am staying now.  Strangely, there are few reminders, few intervals of our trip to paradise that connected with my return trip at present.  Although we stayed right next door, no room in this new beach house holds memories of my previous trip with him.  For that reason, there are no triggers.  No reason for me to dwell on his absence.  Everything on this trip is new.

Then, my mother suggests we visit Earthworks pottery.  Earthworks is a place my husband and I had visited together.  Our visit had meant something significant for me because it represented an outlet we enjoyed together.  We took mutual pleasure in the art of Earthworks pottery.

On my previous trip, Neil had picked out a delicate hand-made clay bowl that had been decorated as uniquely as Neil was unique.  It was one of a kind, rare, like him, and he was proud to participate in my family’s passion for the unparalleled local art.

Until this moment, I had no desire to scatter Neil’s ashes anywhere, but as soon as I pictured the Earthworks studio up high on the hills of Saint Thomas, Barbados, I know this is where I want part of him to be.

***********

It is now the next day.  I lift the mason jar containing my husband’s ashes, out from my black leather bag.  I move the jar to my every-day bag and run out to the car where the others are waiting.  I, like the rest of my family, love visiting the Earthworks studio, but no one knows what else I have in mind; what is truly propelling me off the sandy beach, and into the hills of Saint Thomas.

I have yet to learn how to drive in Barbados, an island of narrow, unmarked roads, where the vehicles drive on the opposite side of the road than how I am used to driving in Canada.  My mother navigates us past coloured chattel houses and sugarcane fields, until we reach the hills and I spot the studio on high.

While the others are distracted inside, I lead my daughter by the hand, beneath the shade of tropical trees.  I have no idea how to explain to her what we are doing, so I tell her we’re going to do a very special secret, which keeps her voice hushed.  We kneel below the green canopy on a place where no one walks, and I am at peace laying his ashes here.

I open the mason jar and remove the baggie that holds the grey flecks of dust.  I open the bag and release half the ashes to the ground below.  “Ashes to ashes, dust to dust” is the famous quote from The Book of Common Prayer, that comes to mind.  This moment is perfection.  I would not change a single thing.  I know Neil is not in his ashes, but I realize that this process is still a step in releasing him, honouring him, and embracing freedom through my personal expression of how I will love him, and celebrate his life through his death.

As soon as I start I want to go on.  I feel a need to scatter more, but not here.  There is a spot on a different part of the island, Barclay Park, a beach in Cattlewash on the East Coast of Barbados.  My family and I had stayed in the cottages above the beach many times.  After my engagement to Neil he flew to England, and I to Barbados where I stayed at a blue and white cottage called Bit by Bit.  We talked on the phone every day, and I always imagined I would show him this place.  That opportunity was gone, but I can at least scatter him here, and that is meaningful to me.

Onward bound to Cattlewash we drive.  We stop at a side-road convenience store to buy snacks and drinks so the others can have a picnic, and scout for shells on the beach, while I go off like the dog Marley, from the movie Marley and Me, to confront the subject of death.

I look to my left and see my daughter crouched down on the sand picking sea shells with her cousin.  My mother walks beyond them towards Chalky Mount.  I remember that Neil and I had taken a tour of the island two years earlier, and stood on the side of the road at Cherry Tree Hill.  High above Barclay Park we overlooked a spectacular view of Cattlewash, which I stood at the bottom of now.  How I thought then I would one day show him the view from the ground up.

The raging white caps of the Atlantic Ocean remind me of the white unicorns from the 1982 cartoon film, The Last Unicorn.  I could picture the army of unicorns creating the white foam upon the fierce waves at the ending of the movie.

I look to my right, and see Bit by Bit, and Round Rock.  Well past the others, I pick up a hand full of sand and mix it into the bag of ashes, as though I am enabling my husband’s feet to touch the sand of Barclay Park.  The tide is high and the unicorns lunge towards my ankles, drenching the bottom of my long red dress.  I scatter half of the ash/sand mix at the base of Round Rock, an iconic figure of my time at Cattlewash.  I wish I could show Neil the bench perched on top of Round Rock by Rastas, as though a fantasy bus is going to pull up at any moment to whisk imaginary passengers away.

As I turn back towards Chalky Mount, I release the rest of Neil’s ashes from the bag onto the sand, and watch as they are washed into the Atlantic by the waves.

Now that I have begun the process of scattering I am absolutely confident that cremation was the best decision I could have made for myself.  Cremation allows me to come to terms with the death of my husband, and the releasing of him, in my own time, in my own unique way.  I find tremendous freedom in the expression of scattering, and the creativity I can imbue into the process.  Then I think, what if I not only release Neil’s ashes in meaningful places?  What if I release them during significant moments in time?  I had heard enough stories from widowed parents and orphans alike, telling me how the children can feel the void of their missing parent, especially during milestone events such as a graduation, or a wedding.  I imagine how lovely it could be to honour Neil, and his place as the father of my daughter, by including this ritual during poignant moments in time.  My daughter is almost three years old, and too young to understand what is happening, but the thought of scattering through a timeline as opposed to a geographical map, reassures me that perhaps she might find some comfort in the years to come knowing that, if there is a time when she would wish for nothing more than to have her daddy present, we still have access to a small, but meaningful way, to include him.

I join the others on the beach where we continue to pick sea shells while entertained by ghost crabs playing peek-a-boo out of their burrowed holes.  I sit next to my daughter drawing pictures in the sand, and reminisce in an incredible moment just past, where everything that has just happened feels entirely good.

If you have an idea, or a scattering story, please leave a comment.  I’d love to hear any suggestions, ideas, or comments in general.

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The place: Canada.  The destination: Barbados.  The timeline: the night before departure.

I lugged my over-sized blue suitcase up the stairs from the basement.  I’m pretty sure everything I need I can fit into hand luggage.

• Passport?  Check.
• Swimsuit?  Check.
• Camera?  Check.
• Ashes?  Debate.

The day I collected my late-husband’s ashes from the funeral home, the Director handed me an envelope.

“What’s this?” I inquired.

“If you choose to scatter your husband’s ashes, this letter will allow you to take them on the plane.”

I hadn’t thought about taking his ashes abroad.  The only places I had considered for scattering where places close to home.  Even then, any time I thought about leaving the grey flecks of Neil’s abandoned, cremated shell behind, I felt hollow about it.  My husband was not in his ashes.  There was no soul in them, no spirit.  I feared scattering his ashes would feel like casting emptiness into the wind.

In uncomfortable or intense situations, I tend to think strange and funny thoughts.  I have no intention of being disrespectful.  It is the way my mind copse.  Jokes off-set heaviness.  Humour maintains equilibrium.  As I thought about packing I imagined trying to lug the heavy, industrial, black container that held my husband’s ashes, through security.  What if security thinks I am smuggling drugs?  Next, thoughts about my husband getting a free ride on the plane made me laugh.  Then, I pictured him strapped into the seat next to mine, the container labeled with a Brother P name-tag sticker.  Hello.  My name is Neil.  I imagined the airline steward telling me to put the box in the overhead bin.  What would I say?  How could I put my late-husband up there?  Maybe I could carry the ashes in my handbag, or disguise them in gift wrapping so passengers wouldn’t suspect my morbidity.

About six months ago I stumbled upon a movie called Bonneville, starring Jessica Lange, Kathy Bates, and Joan Allen.  The movie was about a widow (Lange) who promised to return her late-husband’s ashes to his daughter (her step-daughter.)  She embarks on a road trip with two of her closest friends.  Along the way they detour to destinations that hold fond memories of places she and her husband had visited.  At each spot she finds herself inspired to scatter her husband’s remains.

The idea of scattering in locations of significance was idyllic to me, romantic even, but the perfection of the idea remained only in my head.  What moved any individual, in any movie I had ever seen that depicted the ritual of scattering, was a connection to the departed, even in their ashes.  That was a connection I just didn’t have.  I didn’t think of his ashes as sacred.  They were not my husband.  They were only ash.

Plus, I was going on vacation.  I planned to leave all reminders of my messy year behind me.  I would step off the plane into a new and sunny holiday.

But, what if?  What if I got to Barbados and changed my mind?  What if I suddenly had the urge to scatter his remains?  What if I regretted the decision to leave the ashes at home when I could, in this moment, choose to bring them with me just in case?

I don’t often ask what if when looking back.  That past is behind me.  History is written.  It can not be undone.  But the future is open, and full of opportunities and intriguing possibilities.

I open the black ashes container, and pour some of them into a zip lock bag.  No, that doesn’t look like it’s enough, I think.  I pour out some more.  That should do it.  What if the baggie opens?  I find a mason jar.  I put the baggie inside and screw the cap on tight.  I think about mod podging the jar with tissue paper to make it look more…festive? special?  The peeling spaghetti label doesn’t seem appropriate, but there is no time to fix the jar now.  I will soon be heading out the door.

I pack the remains in my carry on luggage, while the phrase family vacation runs through my head.

I review my packing list.  Ashes?  Check.

Onward bound to Barbados we go.

To be continued…

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