One Last Death Blog. ( I Hope)

I sure do write about death a lot lately. I'm sorry. Apparently, I have a lot to say. 

I'm writing this one for two reasons. 

Number One: I really botched that obituary. I asked Nicole Strickland about one--Westlawn publishs them on their site without cost--but I still needed to write it before she could do that for us. Well, of course. She didn't know Mom's history, why would she? I felt the press of time, and I wrote it in about ten minutes before sending it by email. It wasn't until I saw one for a friend's father that I realized how badly I'd done it. Mine was sterile. 

Jody sent the last uninjured picture of Mom, and she searched until she found the sixties hottie picture of Mom in her single years. At least the photos looked good. For the record, the hand on her shoulder in the color photo is my father's. It was taken on an anniversary dinner outside of an Albert's Restaurant. It's the last good photo we got of her.  

Number Two: In my awkward defense, I wrote her a Eulogy where I felt that I would say what I needed to say to tell her story and honor her. We have stated that since we planned her Memorial for a Saturday, people may not be able to make it. Poor planning on my part, I'm sorry. It was a work related faux pas. I planned it for that day after making arrangements with my boss that I would not take on any weekend work. 

One cousin had a wedding, one had a night shift on Friday, combined with an intense project on the Sunday. More friends and family had work and predetermined plans that I would not ask them to cancel. Mom had little opportunity to make friends in Edmonton, and most of her friends lived out of the city and had health issues of their own. 

My Uncle Duane and Aunt Sandra made it, as did cousin Shawna. My cousin from Dad's side, Karen came too. Bestie Melaida was able to show up. Mom's friend Liz made a surprise visit. All were such a comfort. Thank you. 

We are so grateful for your love and condolences, EVERYONE.

There is a deer on her urn because mom loved deer. She used to drink her coffee on the deck at the acreage and just watch them graze from afar. Sometimes she could watch them right on her front lawn. I know she missed them when they moved to Barrhead. 

But I still wrote her the Eulogy she deserved, and I still want to share it with anyone who couldn't be there.  So here goes...

SIDE NOTE: In the interest of security, I deleted the picture of her urn, her full name and her dates. 

"Welcome everyone. This day finds us gathered together to say goodbye to Phyllis. She was a wife, mother, gardener and homemaker. She loved Gordon Lightfoot, The Rankin Family, and Keith Urban. She was also well known for her embroidery pieces.

She took her role as a housewife, and Dad’s partner very seriously, and later when our father started Lean Instrument Services, she took care of the all the paperwork and was involved other aspects such as the hiring of employees.

My mother also took a great deal of pride in making sure our home was clean and beautiful and that there was always a hot breakfast, hearty lunches and an appropriately timed supper. She once told me that since Dad worked hard to provide a roof over our heads and food on the table than it was her job to maintain the house and to feed us all. She always said that a man’s home is his castle and it should be a stress free place where he can be himself. She was Ukrainian, and therefore liked feeding those she loved.

Jody (Before she was vegan) and I really loved a breakfast of sausage strips and a grilled cheese sandwich, and anyone who ever worked with my father knew he only ever took toasted bacon and tomato sandwiches in his lunch. I always appreciated that she didn’t send wimpy sandwiches in our lunches either. I don’t like bread, and she tried to ensure that whatever the filling in the sandwich, it rivaled the bread ratio. I can still taste her ‘kabobs’. She would put cubes of spam and cheese, cherry tomatos and pickles on plastic stir sticks. Better than a sandwich any day.

She loved doing things for her family, the little details. In the winter, she timed our hot chocolate to when she knew Jody and I would arrive home. Speaking of little details... (Bring out the Barbie Blanket and talk about  it.) 

Does anyone know what this is? It's a homemade Barbie blanket. It's more than forty years old and she made one for Jody as well. I don't know why I kept it all these years, I just really loved and appreciated it.  (I passed it around and we discussed it a little. It had cross-stitched red roses and blue birds. The letter 'D' was embroidered in the center.) 

If you’ve ever been inside our house, you will remember embroidered pictures on the wall, perhaps even the famous peacock. How many versions of it are there in existence? No one knows for sure. She was a perfectionist and each edition was a little bit MORE perfect than the last—-But still not quite perfect enough for her liking.

Her hands are still now. No more arthritis. No more back pain, no more falls. No more illnesses. She’d been such a survivor, beating cancer, battling back from a stroke, a broken hip, and surviving Covid last Christmas, but it got to be too much to bounce back from. It was time to go.

As hard as it is to say goodbye, we can be glad her suffering is done. Mom was a spiritual person, and I know wherever she is, she’s no longer in pain. That’s the important thing. Today we say goodbye to Phyllis.  And now she is free."

 

Now that I have this off my chest, I intend to go back to editing Her True Name: Volume Three, and writing cat blogs. I don't know if I mentioned this but Her True name: Volume One was her absolute favorite book I'd written. To be honest, it hurts a bit to know she won't read Volume Three. She had a copy of Elaina's Fate, but never did get around to reading it. 

She didn't taste the tomato relish Jody made just for her. She didn't get to wear the brand new shirt I brought her the last day she fell. I'll never get to give her the wolf family on a bed of amethyst  that I bought her for Christmas. 

But that's what happens when you don't see death coming. We really did believe that she would come home from the hospital, and we'd discuss nursing homes. Maybe that's why she passed when she did. Her mother died in a nursing home. Maybe it was time for her to go before that happened to her. 

Sorry again for the death blog, but if you read my blog often enough, you know why I write them. And doesn't my mother deserve tributes too? 

Goodbye to Kevin

 

Today I learned that a good friend, one I made through the internet, passed away yesterday. It  was posted on his Facebook page. I expressed my condolences, chastised myself badly for not writing since last November, and burst into tears. As I often do, I will write about my grief, and tell you why Kevin was so important to me. Kevin was a real friend, and not just someone I met from the internet. 

Two things I've noticed today. First is that time is SHORT. Our last message together, he sent me a photo of his rescue kitten. I expressed my adoration, and asked for details that never came. I should have followed up. I just crept his page before blogging. The last post was in May, when he posted a picture of gifts and balloons someone brought him. It looks like it was taken in a hospital room. Why didn't I check in on him? 

The second thing I've learned that it's true what they say...Friends you make on the internet ARE real friends, even if you've never met them in person. It doesn't matter. You still love them, and you'll still grieve them when they're gone. I can't stop crying, and I will always love him. 

I met Kevin through Farmville on Facebook. I noticed we shared a mutual friend, and as Farmville players commonly do, we 'added' each other. I think he sent the friend request first. 

He learned that I was a Meatcutter by trade, and sent me a private message. He was making Beef Stroganoff for company, and wanted my opinion on the best cut of meat to use. I recommended top sirloin or maybe inside round. He asked about tenderloin, which is absolutely the best cut of meat money can buy. It's also tremendously expensive, and I wasn't just worried about cost, but how the texture might hold up in a dish like stroganoff. It was a great conversation. Kevin was interesting and so friendly. I asked him to tell me how it went, whichever cut he chose. 

He wrote back, telling me it was excellent and everyone liked it, and he was glad he asked me. It went from there. We'd write back and forth a little, talking about Farmville and our love of cats. He had three Tuxedos if I recall correctly, and I was new to loving cats and we sent pictures back and forth. No, I don't have pictures of his cats, but Amir reminds me very much of of his cat, Bellarinko. 

When I started writing and publishing books, he became a HUGE supporter of my work. He was my First Fan. He didn't just buy a copy of my novels for himself. He bought them for friends and gave them as gifts. He bought copies and donated them to his local libraries. He asked bookstores to order Thoeba and Aphrodite's War. He encouraged me every step of the way, even when I doubted my talent.

We began to write regularly, like pen pals. We told each other almost everything, we shared secrets. Kevin was a private person, thus I have no photos of him, nor would I share them without his permission. It's a bit difficult to write a tribute to him without invading the privacy he cherished. But I loved him, and our conversations will remain private. 

I can tell you Kevin was a social sweetie. He had many lifelong friends, and obviously made new friends easily. He spent time in the military, and was a hero. He liked to travel and saw countries from all over the world. I never did get the story about Morocco.. He was also a well liked teacher, and still kept in contact with many of his students. They shared their successes with him. You know that means he was an excellent teacher when former students do that kind of thing.  He rescued cats, and not just taking in strays. In Florida he and his partner of thirty or so years set up shelters for feral cats and fed them, kept them safe. 

He was a sweet and loving person that I'm going to miss for the rest of my life. I already regret that I didn't send him at least a little note telling him I was always thinking of him. I actually was....I kept saying "I should send Kevin a little note, telling him I'm still here, and I still think of him.'" I thought we had more time. Last I talked to him, he'd moved to a great retirement community that had all the amenities and he was enjoying it. I'm angry at my own stupidity and lack of action because I KNEW his health wasn't always the best. He'd done some suffering. Honestly? I thought he was busy. I thought he was living his best life in a gated senior's community and he was having a great time, and that sometime he would get back to me and tell me about it. Now all I can do is write a blog expressing my love and regrets. 

Want to know something silly and strange? 

Kevin told me that when he died he wanted to come back as one of my spoiled rescue cats. Yesterday evening, before I learned of Kevin's passing, a young man found a kitten underneath our car. I ran to get it some food while the kid coaxed it out. We fed the poor starving baby, and my hubsand and I brought it inside the house. We determined that no matter what, we would figure out what to do with such a small baby. I remember thinking that the little one would match with out other cats, who were black, white or both. 

Minutes later, the kid knocked on our door and told us his friend had a car, and they would take the kitten to the Humane Society. We handed the cat over with a little reluctance. But we all agreed to do what was best for the cat. I didn't even get a picture, but it was white with black markings and perhaps four months old. 

Now that I've learned of Kevin's passing, I want the kitten back. Silly, huh? But that's a different blog that I'll also write tonight. 

I actually don't know Kevin's friends or family, or even his partner well. Do I send this on his page? To his partner? I don't know what to do with this blog, but I do know I wanted to tell you how much I loved and appreciated him. 

Let this be a lesson. If you love them, TELL THEM. Often, and whenever possible. Don't wait. 

Happy Birthday Grandma

 

My last living grandparent turns one hundred years old tomorrow. I love her so much, and I'd love to celebrate it with her, or at least phone her. So you're asking, why don't I? She's a Jehovah's Witness. 

That sucks a bit. I have to pretend it isn't a big deal. I told her I'd phone her after she turned one hundred years old, because I can't celebrate it. At least not in any obvious ways. 

I think she's amazing. She raised four boys in a time of need. When her husband broke his back, she took on THREE jobs and still kept her house and her children. Egg grader, janitor, newspaper columnist.. She did whatever.

She was the sixth born child, the first born in Canada, when her parents, Walter and Lydia P:ajunen, arrived in Canada. The first two children didn't survive.  They died in Finland, and I think two died on the journey to the new country. Lydia Pajunen became a midwife who delivered over 2000 babies, though older locals said the number was closer to 5000. I'm not sure I believe that for the simple reason that I can't picture Grandma Lydia having the time to raise my grandma, also conceiving  and giving birth to Aunt Toini and being the bread winner in the whole process Two thousand? There's records. FIVE thousand? Can you even picture that kind of number? Though I'm certain that she probably got paid in things like food. Or maybe nothing. All while taking care of a husband with a drinking problem. Maybe she did, maybe she didn't. Maybe she left him on his own while she did whatever she had to. 

Grandma told me a story... She slept between her parents almost always. One morning, she woke up in a different  place, and she had  a new sister.  They told her an angel brought her down from the chimney. My grandmother's first thought was...Why didn't the angel use the door? 

My grandma had four boys. Jerrold, Arnold, Richard (Sandy) and David. Lydia delivered all but Uncle David, who arrived  14 years after my father and at 14 pounds. 

When my father, Sandy, as he was commonly known, died, I was struck by how hard it must be for my grandmother to out live one of her children. She told me, "I used to consider it such a blessing to live this long..." My heart broke her her that day. 

She dreamed of my father. He was wearing a white shirt, so bright, it glowed. He asked her to come outside, She asked him to come in for a cup of coffee. He would not. And she wasn't coming out. It remained that way until she finally woke up,

Don't worry...I didn't out her. My relatives, even the ones who aren't Jehovah's Witnesses never read this blog or anything else I write. I'm a bit of a black sheep and they are religious in one way or another.  

This photo I have of her is the last time she came to Alberta to see everyone, so to speak. She saw my cat, Freya and she said, "Kitty is washing her face. You'll get company."

My uncle, who brought her there, and is a Jehovah's Witness Elder gave her a poisonous glare.  So I said, "Well you're here, aren't you? She's a bit late."

I love my Grandma. She's the last grandparent I have left. She can't call me, so I will call her. On Thursday. 

Dear K

 

Dear K,

You asked me for a blog, since I haven’t written one in a long time. The truth is, I haven’t found a suitable subject. I wanted to write about the things I’ve been doing this year in the pandemic, how I’m grateful to be working, grateful to have my husband working from home, grateful for a mild winter, and happy to have Grendel in my life. 

But 2020 has been a shitty year for so many worldwide, I don’t want to sound glib or insensitive, especially since death has touched everyone, including me.  I thought maybe, if I write it as a letter to a good friend, it won’t sound that way, and you are often a favorite muse for ‘Earth to Thoeba.’

Being isolated didn’t affect our lives as badly. Dan adjusted to working at home, and I’m sure he prefers it. He makes jokes about ‘the commute’, which means shutting his computer off, walking across the living room, and pouring himself another coffee. For him, this is a kind of relief. He prefers not to leave the house if he doesn't have to.

I continued to work, but the hours weren’t crazy. I looked forward to more writing time. That didn’t happen as well as I hoped. I found myself engaging in non-writing projects. I did my usual spring cleaning, yard work and gardening, and later fall-cleaning. In between, I painted a few kitchen areas in a beautiful color named ‘Enchanted Flute.’ It’s a muted blue-grey that magically works with everything around it. It took longer than anticipated. First I had to remove the wallpaper. (You were right. Fabric softener helped) That is when I learned that the previous owners of this house used wallpaper to cover about a thousand holes and badly placed nails and screws. We decided that they did what they could—Google wasn’t around back then to look up How-To home repairs. That’s how I learned how to re-caulk the tub this year too, as well as patching way too many holes.

Oh! And I made both Dandelion and Pear Wine from scratch. Can’t taste any of it until March.

Grendel was an unexpected and delightful bonus, especially after losing Spartacus Jones. (After ten months, I still ache for him, and I’m crying as I write. I loved that boy more than anyone or anything.) It began with Dan leaving wet cat food leftovers outside for birds, stray cats...anything that needed the food. If Freya wouldn’t eat it, why waste it? (By the way, Freya is as perfect as ever. Even my Mom adores her. She’s ten years old now, and still a sweetie.) We noticed it was always a black cat that came after dusk for it. He began to come earlier and earlier until one day he showed up at the door to ask for it.  We let him inside, and he’s been coming in ever since.

He hasn’t chosen us—not really. As I type this, he’s been sleeping in the basement for six hours. Sooner or later, he’ll come upstairs and howl to be let out. Dan reminds me that he’s feral and he’s not our prisoner, so we let him out. We want to get him fixed, but he stresses out when we try to keep him in, and he’s always so hungry, we don’t dare starve him for 12 hours to get it done, not right now. We’ve brought him to the vet. Vet says he’s ‘fighting fit’., and she’s right. He’s a muscular, scabby little guy, and he’s finally gaining some weight on his skinny butt. He’s about two years old, and I want to get his hearing checked. Maybe he’s just fearless, and doesn’t respond to loud sounds. Hmm.

This is another reason why I’m grateful for such a mild winter. Not just because I hate being cold. I can’t bear the thought of him being out there and not being able to find shelter. I find it funny how I can sleep like the dead, but still hear him meow at the door and wake to let him in. But what if he comes when I’m at work on graveyards? Dan doesn’t hear him as well as I do. We’ve been so lucky this winter. The temperature hasn’t gone below -10 Celsius. (14 Fahrenheit)

In October we lost my friend T, who is our friend A’s mother, to a heart attack. I was sitting here at my desk when 911 came. She lived across the street from me, and I stared out the window and counted family members, sent A a text...You know it’s bad when the ambulance arrives and the paramedics aren’t in any hurry.

I miss her voice and her boisterous cackle. I miss the way she called me ‘Doh-nah’. I’m really going to miss her rice pudding and her curried chicken livers that she made just for me because those were the bomb! I never did get the recipe, and mine just aren’t as good. T was a social animal and a giver. I made more friends through her.

On the day of T’s funeral—Halloween-- an ambulance arrived next door. Everyone watched as they took J away, and days later, we learned that she’d lost her long battle with cancer. J was just such a lovely person, and she fought hard against cancer, for over a decade. The last time I spoke to her and her husband it was in March, and we raised our voices from way across the sidewalk as to not get too close. She had given up on chemo, didn’t have the strength for it anymore, and was trying something else I can’t remember now. I can’t pretend that I knew her well, but I genuinely liked her. Such a good person with such strength and character, and I’d been hoping to see her more often after the pandemic was over.

 

Days ago, we lost TC. I met him through friends and he was awesome. He was a member of Mensa Canada, but so down to earth. He had a horrific car accident eight years ago that left him with a brain injury that confined him to hospital. I should have visited more, but I was afraid he wouldn’t remember me. He did, but I still didn’t visit more. No time, no energy, excuses. I should have, but I didn’t expect him to leave. His system gave out, and I should have expected that would happen eventually. That feels pretty shitty. Everyone feels that death. I wish I had better words. 

I’m still writing and editing. ‘Elaina’s Fate’ is actually in the second edit, but it requires so much work. There were so many missing details and wonky ones. I had to re-write several passages and erase and re-vamp entire pages. It’s okay. It’s going to be a much better book. I’m still writing ‘Her True Name: Volume Three', but I need to do a bit more research. T was going to help with that, but she’s gone. I will research the Hindi gods I need on my own. I’m going to dedicate it to her when I’m finished. I just wish she’d be here to read it.

It’s been a strange year. I wasn’t sure what to write, what to blog. I'm crying for all the loss. Sometimes I can't keep track of all the battles. There's no many reasons to be angry and so many causes to fight for. I'm hoping that when Trump is FINALLY out of office, things will work better.  It was never just feminism, I know, I've always known--but I've had to check my privilege.  It was hard, and it has to continue being hard. Otherwise, how else am I going to learn? This year has been so enlightening in scary ways.

I think of you too, more than you know. We may have met on Farmville, but I consider you a close friend. Haven’t we shared so much? And not just recipes for Beef Stroganoff.

I may have had a better 2020 than most, but it doesn’t mean I don’t think of you, and of the people I lost. I know so many people out there are having the worst year of their lives, and I feel somewhat guilty for my good fortune. So this is my new blog post, written for you my cherished friend. Drop me a note soon, and let me know how you’re doing <3. I love you. Please take care of yourself.

 

The Black Joke

Dad and me. April 1977

I wasn't sure I should write this blog. Too personal, too much self-pity maybe. But this is how I purge my heart. I'm a writer, and this is what I do. Bear with me. If grief and loss are something you don't wish to read about, stop now. I'm trying to sort through stuff.

On April 2nd, 2017, my father passed from heart failure. He was only seventy years old. I know seventy is not young, but it's too young to die. Especially for my father. The word 'spry' doesn't begin to describe him. Spry describes seniors who still have the get-up-and-go. He was never old in the first place.

Four months ago, my father had a heart attack, and the family was blindsided. My father quit smoking forty years ago. He rarely had more than two beers at a sitting. He only ever had a weight problem at Christmas, when everyone would gift him with pistachios. He ate those like a squirrel preparing to hibernate. He had all his blonde hair, and always looked ten years younger than his actual age. How the hell did this happen? We don't know, but he never recovered.

1985?86?

I can't begin to tell you how angry I am. Why?! Why him? Why does my mother have to live without him after 46+ years? Why did my 94 year old grandmother have to live to see the death of her third child? Why was he the first one to die? Why did he have to suffer so much in the last four months of his life after 70 years of fantastic health? Why wasn't I there for him? Why didn't it rain for his memorial like it does for good people? Why was it sunny and cold? Dad couldn't get warm anymore, so why did it have to be sunny AND cold? Stupid Alberta weather. WHY?

Speaking of anger, you know what's an insensitive thing to say to a grieving co-worker? "Smile!"and "Cheer up!" I seem to have misplaced my sense of humor.

Why him? I'm the one who is overweight, drinks and smokes. Why him and not me? I see old people walking the mall, and I wonder why they continue to live when he didn't. I shouldn't be so selfish. I can name at least five people from my home town of Fox Creek who could ask themselves the same thing after they lost a parent before me. Why them? Maybe the Black Joke is an odd chuckle when it isn't you.

Grief is HEAVY. I can barely move. I think my sister and I wanted to be brave. Jody got the phone call at work, and finished her shift. I got the phone call on my days off--Sunday, and went to work on Tuesday, without any time off. We're proud of our work ethic. Now I'm scared it's going to kill us. I can't speak for my sister, but I didn't take any time off for that first week. I had reasons that I'm still trying to justify.

I wanted to honor is memory by being strong. Neither of us ever called in sick, and we felt a sense of duty and loyalty to our jobs. Jody and I learned our work ethic from our parents, and we felt the need to keep it. And I'm speaking for myself when I say I worked because I feel a sense of guilt.

I had a disturbing dream after learning of my father's death. I dreamed that I was at an airshow, with all manner of aircraft flying through the air. I noticed these hot air balloons, they were black, dark blue, and dark red striped. They had jesters on them, and were piloted by men in jester costumes. Thick black smoke streamed from beneath them.

It was time for my plane to leave. I watched out the window, nervous about bypassing these strange balloons, and how did they get away with belching pollution like that? We passed them and I noticed with increasing agitation that we had entered the stratosphere. I could see the shape of the earth. It was then that I noticed I wasn't buckled in.

He got that plaque for the most miles flown to that event in Rimbey.

I used to say that God had a strange sense of humor because the biggest mystery was what happened after death. And you had to die to find the answers. Now I know death is the Black Joke, and it's not funny.

I went to my mother's house. She gave me a whole stack of unused socks to give to my husband. Turns out Daddy was unable to wear them. Something about them not being warm enough, and he wasn't able to pull them up by himself. Actually, he was in such bad shape, mom had to pull them up, despite the fact that she needs a walker everywhere she goes.

So I took the socks from the bed where my mother placed them, to the spare bedroom where my father slept the last four months of his life. They couldn't even sleep together because Daddy had to sprawl because he couldn't breathe. I'm holding an armload of unused socks, and my duffle bag is right next to the spot on the floor where my mother found my father's body.

I wonder.. Did he cry out for help? Was he able to? Or did he choke on the fluids building in his lungs? Was he cold? Was he scared? His left hand was still on the bed. Did he know what was happening to him? Was he trying to get up? Next thing I know, I am sobbing and trembling into an armload of socks.My Poor, Sweet, Daddy.

What have I learned from this? Never ask the universe for a little more time off from work. In fact, don't ask the universe for anything. It will make stuff happen in ways you don't want. Keep your family close. You'll never know when you'll need them, or worse--when you'll lose them. Let love be your motivation. That's what I've learned.

One of Dad's last photos. They used it for his obituary.

Right now, I'm trying to rest. No edits, no research, no new writing. I don't really have much of a choice, since dad's death has sucked my energy away. But death is a natural conclusion to life, and we will all lose someone we love at some time. This is my time to mourn, and when I'm done, I will honor my father by chasing my dreams. It's just going to take some time for the cracks in my shell to heal.