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? 

Saying Goodbye to Mom

 Do you know what today is? Today would have been my father's birthday. It's also my late friend Kevin's birthday. This is also the day we cremated my mother. 

I debated whether or not to write this blog. It feels a bit tacky somehow. Like I'm looking for sympathy. Then again, this is how I process my grief. I've written blogs for my cats, my father and for Kevin, why would I not write one for Mom? 

Speaking of sympathy, I'd like to take this time to say THANK YOU to everyone who offered condolences on Facebook and through texts. Thanks for checking in on us, sending flowers,  and asking how we are. It means a lot, and I'm overwhelmed but in love with you all. I think that's why I feel like I'm looking for sympathy. We've already received so much, but I'm not looking for more. I just have information to share and thank you's to send out. 

Mom was a trooper, a survivor. She'd battled and lived through cancer and recovered from a stroke. She had diabetes and arthritis. She survived Covid last Christmas. This was her fifth, and last fall. She had a massive sinus infection, which we believe affected her balance and caused her to tumble, but it was a perforated bowel that got her. Surgery was suggested, but it was not a viable solution, and she couldn't breathe. 

We would like to thank the staff at Stony Plain Hospital for taking good care of her, and thank you to the University of Alberta Hospital for trying to save her. We would like to thank Nicole Strickland and Westlawn for all their thoughtful care. 

Mom died on the long weekend, so we didn't know if anyone could help us until maybe Tuesday. I went into Westlawn on Monday anyway, and was able to speak to someone and get started. I gave basic information. The pressing question on my mind was, "How do we pay for this? Do we use a check? Visa? Cash? How does this work?"

The answer is, all of the above in any way that works for you. Here is a piece of information that I feel is extremely important. The first thing he told me is DON'T tell the bank of her passing just yet. No matter which bank you use, they will instantly freeze all accounts with the deceased one's name on it. I remember going through this when Dad passed. I was pissed off back then, but I understand why it's done now. 

It's so that someone can't just clear all the money out with no regard to estate planning, taxes or rightful heirs. I actually do know of a man who died and his ex girlfriend cleaned out his account and left nothing but bills for his kids. 

We were able to get started quickly after that. Nicole Strickland was sympathetic, kind and a wealth of information. I could go on and on, but I'll point out that everything was no pressure. She didn't try to convince us to buy extras, not even the casket. (We bought the least expensive one.) We were not pressured into a ceremony or luncheon. She went down a list of things we might want or need, and we purchased a kit to help Jody along with executor duties. Westlawn offers a complimentary obituary to post on their site, but I still have to write it. I'll probably do it after this blog. 

Important note: She asked if we wanted to print an obituary in the Edmonton Journal. We said yes until she told us it would be a minimum of $700. Thanks for the heads up, Nicole. We decided against it. 

Sanja was helpful too. She helped us pick out the urn. It was difficult at first. Nothing suited Mom. We asked for owls. No owls. She listed off options for photos/ornamentation we could have until she listed the magic word. We both looked at each other at the same time and yelled, "DEER!" Mom didn't collect them, (much) but she LOVED watching the deer that visited at the acreage before they moved to Barrhead. It always made her so happy. So the urn with her name, dates and a clay facsimile of a a deer is on order for Mom, in the specific Times New Roman font I requested. 

But I want to tell you of the amazing thing they did that apparently not many funeral homes offer. Nicole told us she had never before known of a funeral home that did this, but wow...did we ever appreciate it. We were not offered the same opportunity for our father. I think they call it 'The Identification'. It allowed me and my sister to go and view the body and say our goodbyes before they cremated her. They had stationary, pens, and markers so that if we wished, we could leave notes with Mom and we were permitted to write on the casket itself if that's what worked for us. 

Jody and I wrote notes. Jody wrote of a favorite memory, when Mom used to make Kool-aid popsicles, and she made fudgesicles out of chocolate pudding.  I wrote what has been weighing on my mind since her death. I told her I was sorry I couldn't help her that day that she fell for the last time. 

I couldn't lift her, I couldn't understand what she was trying to say. All I could do was stroke her hair and tell her the ambulance was on its way. Help was coming. 

Days ago, my sister expressed guilt that she felt she hadn't done enough. She felt she somehow failed in some way.. I told her, "You did all that you could, everyday. This is not on you. It was just time, and she isn't suffering anymore." Today she gave those words back to me. 

So we wrote our notes and tucked them into her cold, bruised hands. I bought her carnations, her favorites, and placed them in the casket beside her. She looked beautiful, her makeup done in such a way, I kept expecting her to open her eyes and sit up. Even her hair was arranged in soft curls without looking odd for her. No fake fussiness, no hairspray, no phony-looking makeup. 

We are holding a memorial for Mom on our own. Tea and coffee, snacks. We're having it at Jody's apartment building. The reason for this is so that we can offer some of my mother's MANY collectables to her friends and family, because we can't keep it all and maybe someone would like mementos. 

Jody has claimed all the Nutcrackers. Whoo! She can have them all! But Mom collected Coca-Cola and M&M stuff, eagles, owls, wolves, chefs, salt and pepper shakers of all kinds, and her kitchen was red and white gingham specifically. We haven't even touched the Christmas decorations yet. 

Jody is in a state of shock, I think. She deals by cleaning and organizing, trying to process my mother's life as she is the executor. Me, I am sad and angry, feeling guilty, feeling like I should have done more to save her, and other things. 

Do you know what makes me the angriest? The thing that makes me cry even as I write it? I knew. I had a bad feeling death was coming for her.  Last Christmas I felt that we should have a really good Christmas, just the three of us....Just in case it was her last. 

Mom and Jody got Covid. I spent Christmas here, on my computer. Jody spent it at the apartment, alone, trying to recover. I brought her her gifts, but I couldn't come in of course. Mom spent it in a windowless room in the hospital struggling to breath, eating tasteless beef stew, surrounded by strangers.

I regret two things. I regret that we could not give her one last good Christmas, and that when she fell, I couldn't do anything to help her. 

But the funeral home let us say goodbye. 

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 Gift of a Lawnmower

It's my late father's birthday, so he's been on my mind. But especially last week when my lawnmower died. I had a bite sized patch left on my front lawn when it began to putter and hesitate. I held still, thinking it just needed a few beats. The grass was thick and maybe damp, because we've had so much rain this year. Instead of rallying, like it normally does, my mower quit. Long story short. It couldn't be revived.

Hot Rod on the left. Muscle on the right.

I went inside and called my uncle. "Hey Arnie. You know that mower you've been trying to give me for months? Looks like we're going to take it after all."

Then I sat at my computer and cried. Part of me feels silly about that. A larger part of me shoves that notion aside and cries harder for the cherished memory of choosing that mower with my father. He gave it to us as a housewarming gift and there is where I learned how to shop for the correct lawnmower for my needs.

But I didn't give up. Facebook friends offered some phone numbers, business names and endless support. (Thank you!) I just happen to live in shouting distance from mechanics.

Brandon replaced the spark plug and adjusted the float. It seems my mower wasn't getting any gas. I told everyone there that this lawnmower was important to me. Brandon and Chris nodded. Of COURSE it was! It was a beauty. Four and a half horsepower? Hell yeah! Check out the gold sticker, etc, etc.

See the special edition sticker?

I remember the day we bought my mower. I chose the cheapest model, because my parents were paying for it. It was electric, and my father explained exactly why I didn't want one of those. So I chose the least expensive gas powered one. "I know what you're doing," Dad said, "But just because we're paying for it, doesn't mean you should cheap out. You're on a corner lot, and you want something that will last and stand up to a big yard."

It happened to be the second most expensive model, a Yardworks, and I've loved it from day one. It's been reliable and hardworking, and until last Thursday it hadn't ever let me down. But in fifteen years I don't think I really understood that Dad bought me a lawncare muscle car. It makes me a little sad. My father knew that I didn't realize just how 'cool' my mower really was.

I think it's kind of funny. I've learned so much about the qualities of lawnmowers, but it looks like I'll never need to buy one. The men on the paternal side of my family seem to express love by giving lawn equipment.

And I still love my Yardworks. I still miss my dad. I'm also grateful to my Uncle Arnie for another pretty great Lawnboy with Turbo action. Every time I mow my lawn I think of my father. If you're listening Dad? I always always check the oil. I will never forget.

Extra horse for all that speed.

Facebook Friends and All

Two months since my last post? Time seems to speed up as we get older doesn't it? The reason I haven't written isn't just because time is in short supply. It's because I have nothing interesting to blog about.

But this post isn't about me. It's about you. I actually think about you a lot.

I'm thinking about the two divorces. You didn't come right out and say, but I noticed the changes, and the absence left behind by former spouses. You stopped talking about them.

I noticed two long term relationships ended. And when someone healed your hearts and made you happy again, those relationships failed and left you hurt and angry once more. More photos to delete.

I saw the financial struggle, and the difficult fix.

I see the grief for lost parents. Is it three or four fathers this year? A wonderful mother has gone as well.

I see the tired moms, and the PISSED OFF voters, the frustrated feminists.

Two of you are sick and yes, I've noticed your silence. You have me worried.

Someone is planning a wedding, but I don't know why you're upset. I'm still waiting for that PM.

I want to reach out and ask you all, but I tell myself that if it was my business, you would tell me.

Don't think I don't care, I do. But I don't know where to start. There's so many of you. You know how to find me, right? I'm always on Facebook, six days a week. I'm a click away, and you can have my number if you don't already.

If you see yourself here, please reach out. I'm thinking of you

That's Not Love You Smell in the Air.

I almost forgot it's Valentine's Day tomorrow. Which is odd, because I have very specific plans for my beloved troll. Which I can't divulge here because he's on Twitter and he reads this blog.

I think the reason it slips my mind sometimes, is because I remember loathing that day a lot. More often than not, I was single, for many years.

And love is such a wacky thing too. Nothing else can make you so desperately unhappy or so absurdly joyful. And sometimes it's BOTH and it's the scariest thing ever.

I'm happy now...but it wasn't always that way. I remember being 19 years old, and I was in love with a man who loved me, but not enough to stay faithful. I believed I was going to marry him. He believed he should see other people, besides me. I was stupid and naive and I worked hard to change his mind. Yes, I stayed with a cheater...a BLATANT cheater.

I remember the day I made the decision to leave. I came home early from the graveyard shift and found a pair of women's shoes that weren't mine. Instead of confronting the boyfriend and his new girlfriend, I went for a very long walk and wrote a poem, which I'm going to share.

For those of you who are alone and lonely or heartbroken...This is for you.

MOURNING

I am alone with morning,
No one for miles but the silence and me.
I long for someone to share it with,
I am alone, but I am free.

The cold chill embraces me,
The wind kisses away my tears,
And I think of home.
I am free, I am alone.

The morning sun,
The blue sky,
A marriage of this beautiful perfection,
I'm so alone in awful freedom,

But the morning offers me protection.

Fast forward 4 years later...I'm sitting in the lounge after working as a pizza cook, talking to my friends who work as barmaids. A ridiculously handsome man sits beside me and strikes up a conversation. Or at least he tries to. We have nothing in common it seems. My favorite pick-up lines, which show off the fact that I can speak 'hockey' falls flat. He hates hockey. (In Canada, a woman who understands what a GAA means and who has the best one will NEVER lack for company or drinks in the bar. For the record, it was Domink Hasek at the time with a 1.95)

So for lack of a better subject, I mention that I entered a CBC poetry contest. Turns out he LOVES poetry, and wants to hear my favorite one that I wrote. I recited the one you just read, telling him the title is about grief and the poem is about coming to terms with a painful decision. He asks for a copy, and we get along much better after that. SO WELL, in fact, that I decide this man is my next boyfriend.

A week later, I not only give him a copy of 'Mourning', but I also wrote something called "If", It described my  feelings for him and asked him "If I fall in love with you...Will you catch me?" That was September 13th, 1997, and our first kiss.

Love is weird. Who knew that a poem about a nasty breakup would bring me a husband? The moral of the story is...Love Stinks, yeah, yeah. But there's always hope, because Love Lurks. In the oddest of places and it will find you, in the oddest ways.

Happy Valentine's Day. It won't always be terrible.