Good Grief Guru

Posts Tagged ‘grief’

Every day for the past two weeks, I have been reading my daughter the story, “Oh, the places you’ll go!” by Dr. Seuss.  It didn’t take me long to realize that the story was likely inspiring myself, more than her.

I have often been inspired by Dr. Seuss’ personal story.  Theodor Seuss Geisel, a Pulitzer, Academy, Emmy, and Peabody award-winning author, was turned down dozens of times before someone took a chance on him and published his writing.  This particular story, Oh, the places you’ll go! encapsules the triumphs and slumps, recognizing there will be times of waiting, and anticipating, and that life is an adventure, a “Great Balancing Act,” and every juxtaposition revealed in this fabulous book show another one of life’s true facts.  The greatest message of all, however, is that life is what I make it, and I’m determined to make mine count.

So, get comfy on your couch, and snuggle up for story time.  If kids are around, invite them in.  This episode of Good Grief Guru is rated G.  Our mountain is waiting.  Let’s get on our way!  Click here to view.

The Stork Family YMCA opened its doors to the public this year, just a four minute drive away from where I live.  I had an idea.  What if I were to ask them if they would be willing to sponsor my daughter and I with memberships?  In exchange, I could write about how exercise has helped my personal grief journey.

Being healthy, and promoting a healthy lifestyle to my daughter, has been a goal that pounds on the door of my heart, begging me to pay attention.  The pounding grew more persistent when my husband took his own life, making me the sole care provider for our daughter.  How he died also drove me to confront the harsh realities of an unhealthy life-style.

Tragedies can either side track the best laid plans, or motivate us to aim for better outcomes.  After living in intensity for five years, doing my best to push through despite the tension in my chest, all I needed to do was look at my daughter, then at me, her only parent, and I answered the call of my pounding heart.  I faced the reality that I need to, and I want to, look after myself in order to look after us both.  I also want to look after myself so my daughter learns to look after her own special being.

Visions of avoidable illness befalling either of us instilled in me a deep desire to get my runners to the gym; to do everything in my power to lead a healthy life so that, at least as far as I am concerned, I can say I have done all I can do to be around as long as possible for the two of us.

My husband was up against many complex obstacles.  I can’t help but wonder, with better eating habits, an earlier, more accurate diagnosis of his mental illness, with an adolescence where he was affirmed, better sleep patterns and exercise, would he be alive today?  Would he have been better equipped to cope with his mental and emotional life challenges?  Would he have been able to weather the storms of life if he had the umbrella of a healthier self-image?

I will never know the answers to those questions, but I look at my daughter and I think, I can not keep her from all the challenges she will face, but I can equip her to be more resilient.  I can teach her about food and ingredients, exercise and health, Spirit and taking a deep breath.  I can not save her from the pot holes and detours, and construction zones she’ll face driving down the road of life.  But I can give her driving lessons.  I can show her by my example how to drive a bodily and mental vehicle, and then one day, let her take the wheel while I become a little quieter, say a little less, supporting her from the passenger seat.  Then eventually, I will need to let go, and allow her to drive on her own, to travel down roads of her own choosing.  She will head towards unknown adventures that will inevitably take her in varying directions.  And although she might not always end up down the path I’d want her to go, I will at least know her vehicle is packed with all the gear she needs to survive the journey, wherever her destination.

Am I only doing this for her?  No.  I want to do it for myself as well.  I need to do it for me.  Five years of intense stress, followed by an emotional grief journey, has taken its toll on my body, mind and spirit.  So, I wrote to the Y, and I sought out a partnership, and my request was met with enthusiasm, encouragement, and a sense that I was about to embark on an adventure supported by a strong community.

Please join me in following our story of partnership with the YMCA, as my daughter and I exercise our way through our grief journey, into recovery, towards a healthier future.

Want to check out the YMCA?  Now’s the time.  On family day weekend admission is FREE for everyone!  CLICK HERE for more information.  If you visit the Y this weekend be sure to tell me your story.  I’d love to hear from you.

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My husband committed suicide almost a year ago.  This past weekend I met a new friend whose nephew did the same.  At the beginning of the week I had dinner with a neighbour who told me of her two friends who had taken their lives in the past two months.  Yesterday, I received an email from another friend who had just learned of a colleague’s attempted suicide.  Suicide, and attempted suicide seems to be happening all around me.  I am reminded how important it is to continue to break the silence of suicide, expel stigmas, and raise awareness.

Here are some global facts from the Canadian Mental Health Awareness website.  Their website reads, “According to the World Health Organization (WHO), someone around the globe commits suicide every 40 seconds. In the year 2000, 815,000 people lost their lives to suicide — more than double the number of people who die as a direct result of armed conflict every year (306,600). For people between the ages of 15 and 44, suicide is the fourth leading cause of death and the sixth leading cause of disability and infirmity worldwide.^“

Did you know that women are up to four times more likely to attempt suicide than men, but men are four times more likely to actually commit suicide? (CMHA Statistics)

When I showed my family doctor my husband’s coroner’s report, he had no doubt my husband’s death was intentional.

For lack of finding better words, my doctor said, “Women tend to attempt suicide as a cry for help.  Unfortunately, men tend to be successful.  Once they reach that point, they have made up their minds.”

That is in no way to minimize the seriousness of attempted suicide by men or women.  My doctor’s words did make me wonder, why does one gender seem determined to end their lives, while the other seems almost like they’re rolling the dice?

A 1998 article written by George E. Murphy, MD, in the journal of Comprehensive Psychiatry, says it is the variation in the way men compared to women, typically think.   Dr. Murphy, and Dr. Eli Robins, had “conducted the first comprehensive study of suicide 40 years ago, studying every suicide that occurred in St. Louis and St. Louis County during a one-year period.”   What Dr. Murphy noted was that women were more likely to comprehend, and consider, how their actions would impact their families, and others around them.  They were also more likely to pursue a diagnosis, seek treatment, listen to advice and talk as an outlet.

One need only watch the first 5 minutes of Mark Gungor‘s “A tale of two brains” to understand some of the clear differences between the way men and women think.  The relate-able laughter of the audience echos his findings.  As he points out, women seem to be hardwired to see all, and they give, give, give.  Men compartmentalize, and don’t always see the bigger picture.

Taking into account Dr. Murphy’s serious article, and Gungor’s humourous talk, I wonder how many women are brought to the edge of desperation by giving til it hurts.  How many women give so much they reach the point where they feel there is nothing left?  I also wonder if men are brought to the depths of their despair for lack of vision, and pain from isolation.

I have openly written about the place of sheer desperation I found myself in, in my post titled, “An impossible choice that only one of us survived.”  I gave until there was nothing left and that was no laughing matter.  Then I made a choice to take space for myself, to gain capacity so I could literally survive.

Dr. Murphy points out, “…before they ever get to the point of considering suicide…women are much more likely to seek help with their problems. The classic example is asking for directions when driving. Many men refuse to do that, perhaps seeing it as an admission of weakness. They believe they are supposed to be competent in all areas. Because they are not, they are at risk. Women, on the other hand, are much more likely to seek advice and take it.”

Women are not the only ones whose reserves can run low.  Men can became isolated, bottle their emotions within themselves, and are more likely to not seek medical help.  As I watch some of my friends’ boys, their loving, laughing, emotionally clingy boys, I wonder how much of their true nature gets pushed down in our culture that encourages a stiff upper lip, and to soldier on.  Even soldiers can fall in a war from fear, and there is a very real war being waged against the minds and hearts of our men.

Awareness is the first step to fighting this war.

ADVICE FOR THOSE WHO CARE ABOUT WOMEN:

Love, and appreciate the women in your life.  Hug them, love them, help them do the laundry.  Write them a card.  Say thank you.  Offer to give back for all that the woman in your life has given you.  It doesn’t matter if you feel like it.  If you love her, help her.

Women, keep talking.  Keep seeking help when you need it, and accept help when it’s offered.

ADVICE FOR THOSE WHO CARE ABOUT MEN:

Men, build community with men.  After speaking to a few widowers, I have come to learn that their relational wives were the community builders.  If a man has lost his wife through death, divorce, or separation, he is likely in isolation, and that can be a lonely, fearful, sad place to be.  Families, build up your men.  Encourage them.  Respect them.  As Shannon Ethridge points out in her book, Every Woman’s Battle, she came to learn that men desired respect more than love.  Respect to a man is what love is for a woman.

Men, a good soldier knows when to retreat, and when to call for back up.  If you are fighting this war, remember, there is always hope.  Let me repeat that.  There is always hope.  When you’re in the trenches, you feel the enemy near, and you can’t see for the life of you how this war will be won, it’s time to call for back up.

FIND A CRISIS CENTER by CLICKING HERE.

We must be aware to help others.  We must listen well, and also have the courage to help ourselves.

In memory of my husband, and all the other men and women who struggle in silence, feeling at the end of themselves, I leave you with a song by Jonny Lang, called Only a man.

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“Guess where we’re going today?” I asked my daughter Alexis.

She takes an excited breath in.  “Where?” she asks in complete anticipation.  Watching her exuberance about the unknown is like eating chocolate for me.  Her anticipation fills a craving I have to see my kid happy.

“Kids Zone!” I squeal with excitement.

“KidsZone!” she echos.

KidsZone is what we call Indigokids, the children’s section of the Chapters bookstores.  Chapters, which is also attached to Starbucks, has become a retreat for us both.  Often on a Saturday afternoon, I will drive Alexis and I to Chapters where I partake in a relaxing cup-of-joe, while she experiments with crafts, re-arranges trains, or pushes a kid-sized shopping cart.  She often pushes this shopping cart to a particular bookshelf where she picks up the same princess book almost every visit.  Once in cart, she wheels it to me, who am either sitting in the adult sized bean bag chair, or the magnified orange and blue tea cup.  She presents her find like a cat proudly showing its owner the dead mouse it killed and brought home as though it were treasure.  Of course, it is treasure to her, so I give her praise.

Today was the first time we visited Indigokids with my sister, brother-in-law, and niece, Poppet.  Good things for me tend to be better enjoyed with a close friend, or family member.

Alexis and Poppet played with the train-set…

…and then headed over to the craft table to decorate pre-cut hearts with red glitter and stamps.  All of which were accompanied by a certain Princess book.

This visit to Indigokids was particularly enjoyable because we got to enjoy it with my sister and her family, and that makes this a happy thought times two.

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“I love sleep. My life has the tendency to fall apart when I’m awake, you know?”  Ernest Hemingway

“If you can’t sleep, then get up and do something instead of lying there worrying. It’s the worry that gets you, not the lack of sleep.”  Dale Carnegie

“It is a common experience that a problem difficult at night is resolved in the morning after the committee of sleep has worked on it.”  John Steinbeck

“The lion and the calf shall lie down together but the calf won’t get much sleep.”  Woody Allen

“The best cure for insomnia is to get a lot of sleep.”  W. C. Fields

According to an article on sleep by Dr. Mercola, it suggests that our bodies recharge between 11pm and 1am every night.  Without this, our adrenal glands become strained, and stress is put on our entire system.  I am reaching desperate levels of needing rest.  I want the cure for insomnia, and I want it, I need it, now.

At the beginning of this week I tried to re-set my body.  I used to get sleepy around 10pm, and would drift off peacefully as my head floated onto my pillow.  Then, I started writing.  Writing was therapeutic, but, as Maya Angelou says, “You can’t use up creativity.  The more you use, the more you have.”  With every post I have proved this is true.  Writing emptied my mind of the thoughts I had, but that only made room for new ideas, material, or thoughts I needed to work out, and work out I did.  I wrestled with my thoughts, I ran them around in my head, I carried them out of my mind and onto lined paper, but still more remained. The more thoughts I had, the less I slept.  The less I slept, the smaller my capacity was to hold them.

Sunday night I fell asleep after 2am, and woke up early for a 9am appointment.

Monday I went to bed close to 3am, only to be woken up by my 8am alarm I had forgotten to turn off from the day before.  I prayed my little miss down the hall didn’t hear it, but as I plopped my weary body on my bed, there was her well rested voice.  “Morning Mom.  Are you ready to go downstairs?”

I was exhausted throughout the day.  By 6:30pm I put my daughter, and myself, to bed.  That was wonderful, for the two hours it lasted!  I was mortified to wake up and see the clock had only moved to 8:30pm.  What am I going to do for the rest of the night?  Full of energy, I wrote, talked to friends, watched a show, until after 2am when I was finally tired enough for bed.

By Wednesday morning, I could barely move.  In fact, I literally kept one eye open to watch my daughter, because the other eyelid was frankly too weak to do the work.  My sister came for a visit (thank goodness for her!) and then a friend invited my daughter for a sleepover.  Great timing!  Yes, yes, and yes.  Have fun.

I got so much writing done, and it was done early.  I cleaned the house, turned off the computer, and read from a good book.  I got all my do-er compulsions out early, and by 11pm I was asleep, until the glorious time of 8:30am!

Like a good daughter, I listened to my mother the night before, went to bed early, didn’t eat after 7:30pm, and downloaded the Sleep Cycle app so I could better understand my sleep patterns.

I’d like to say the next night went just as well, but it seems I did a good job at convincing my body I am now nocturnal, like a cat, a bat, or an owl.  If only I slept 18 hours during the day like a cat, that life would work out just fine.  Since such is not the case, re-setting to the human diurnal standard of being awake, rising with the sun and setting with it too, are highly favourable at this point in time.

Since I don’t like insomnia very much, I’d better find a way to take a good dose of W.C. Field’s cure…sleep.

If you have any suggestions for what has helped you re-set, and fall asleep at a decent hour, please leave me a comment.

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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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“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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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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On our second last day in Barbados, some of us ventured out to enjoy a visual feast of an art show, in Speightstown.  It proved to be a vibrant cocktail of lively colours, and fluid images, painted on canvass by Susan Mains, a self-taught artist from Grenada.  Mains‘ works have been showcased throughout the world, and can currently be found in Barbados, Grenada, and Miami.

Gorging on the feast of Mains’ depicted coconut trees, tropical flowers, and regatta sail boats, was delightful.  I love art, and art shows.  Especially ones full of life and vibrancy, like this one.

Heather Percy (my Mom), and the artist, Susan Mains.

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