Notice from the afterlife

This morning’s email includes a notice to congratulate Rosalind on her 20-year work anniversary.

 

I’m still young enough, although almost 50, that none of my age-cohort acquaintances have been settled in any job for that length of time.

 

Myself, I’ve been in the same job for 10 years, which is surprising. Gen X has taken a long time to settle down.

 

But Rosalind- she didn’t settle into a job 20 years ago- she died.

 

Eight years ago, this woman was celebrating thirteen years as a freelance illustrator and four years as a mom- she didn’t know it was all she’d ever have. Time would end before the next anniversary, the next birthday.

 

We weren’t close--she was my co-worker; someone I might see as I moved through the city. But her death shook me.

In some ways our paths were similar. Two single mothers with young children-her son and my daughter born a year apart. Working freelance in our chosen fields; a choice of freedom over stability. When I got news of her death, I saw these commonalities clearer than I ever had before.

The death of anyone who hasn’t reached their prescribed number of days is difficult but when a mother leaves a child; there’s no holding the grief in such a small vessel.

Sometimes I wish social media wouldn't send such shocking reminders of transience to my inbox. But it might be a an unwanted gift; this notice from the afterlife.

The number game

Back when I was still in the teaching racket, I would often use a popular ice breaker game at the start of each new term. It goes by many names, but I would usually call it the number cloud in my lesson plan. It’s a simple and effective way of getting to know a new class and assess their language level at the same time.

Draw on the board a fluffy cloud and fill it with four to six numbers that relate to your life. Students then ask questions to determine what relevance the numbers have to the person at the front of the class. Once they get the drift of the game and the questions, students can make their own number clouds and interact with their classmates and teacher.

I typically started off with my age, number of siblings, birthday and, later in my teaching career, number of children. These numbers, while significant, aren’t the numbers that have occupied a mystical space in my life. The numbers that have and continue to hold the most significance in my life, are numbers that mark significant events in the lives of my antecedents. Let’s start with the number 15.

In my family a girls’ fifteenth birthday was the first hurdle of recognized womanhood. It was at this age that one of my aunts got married. And on this birthday, that aunt would call you and give you the talk. The talk on how not to get married at 15.

I turned fifteen whilst living in the Newfoundland outport community of Harbour Deep. One road measuring 2.5 miles from end to end. Travel out of the village required a seaplane or boat.

My mother was the nurse at the station in Harbour Deep and my sister and I came to live there that summer after six months of living in almost complete isolation outside of the town of Pugwash, Nova Scotia where the only thing that fed us and the two children we looked after was bear meat that had been left in the freezer from the year before.

Harbour Deep was a dream for us after the winter we had just come through. There was a housekeeper assigned to the station and she made us wonderful meals, took care of our laundry, and basically made our lives very pleasant. We had satellite TV and watched programs until the light of a new day crept into the living room where my sister and I shared a sofa bed.

I was sitting on that sofa, after a fantastic birthday meal prepared by the housekeeper, when the phone rang. It was my aunt, calling from Massachusetts. First words out of her mouth, “Happy birthday-don’t get married.” I assured her I wouldn’t. And perhaps I took that promise a little beyond what she intended because I am now closing in on fifty and have never been married; but I think she’d approve of that too.

The next two numbers have both hung over my life like an executioner’s sword—31 and 36—both ages to conquer if the fates would allow.

According to my mother, her grandmother and namesake died at the age of 31. Given the era, the early 1940s, one might imagine any number of reasons a woman of that age would die, but I was always told that it was suicide. Although not many other people in the family ever gave credit to this assertion when I would discuss the matter, documents we found in my great-aunt’s house after her death (sister to my great-grandmother and my namesake-Lois), led me to believe that my great-grandmother suffered from severe depression. Suicide would not be unusual in such circumstances.

I’ve walked past the small pond where my great-grandmother died and have many questions that will never be answered. I throw them like pebbles on the water to no effect, not even a ripple.

There is a certain bent towards mental illness on my mother’s side of the family and 31 became the milestone to pass. A breath of relief could be released when the 32^nd birthday rolled around. I remember having conversations with some family members—just checking in with each other to be sure that our actions didn’t fit in the crazy category. It’s a very strange conversation to have, sussing each other out; searching for madness.

In the spring of 1998 my aunt, the one who had gotten married at the age 15, became very ill. She was 36. And she died.

The sixth of 10 children, mother of two; died of an unstoppable bacterial infection. A nurse who probably picked the infection up at work, quickly became sick, and left before any of us could even think to prepare for such an outcome.

That spring I was preparing to leave my life in Canada behind. I was suffering through a horrible break up and did a lot of drinking and found many short-term boyfriends to fill the void. I had some money and planned to leave the city where I was living—where every corner led to another facet of life I had once shared with my ex—and move to Asia. Thailand—seemed like a good place to start a new life.

I got a parcel in the mail. A video that was being passed around through the family, the one my grandfather had made of his trip to Alaska the previous summer. The one where he watched trains and commented enthusiastically about flowers in bloom. I was instructed to pass it on to my aunt, the nurse, after I had had my fill of flowers “that was just a bud yesterday.”

I sent the package and the next day got a call from one of my aunts informing me of the situation my aunt in Alaska was facing. I had to decide if the money I had would go towards a ticket to Alaska to see my sick aunt or a ticket to Thailand, to start a new life. I thought about what my aunt would likely advise, and I thought, and still think, that she would have told me to go in search of that new life. That is what she herself did—started over, became a nurse, got a new life.

I was devastated when I heard that she had died. I returned to the family about a month after her death and stayed there until I had all the details arranged for my move to Thailand. I added another number to the list. I was 24 years old.

At the age of 31 I became a mother for the first time. At the age of 36, I had been living in my hometown in Nova Scotia for one year, had two kids, and was living in the deepest poverty I have ever known. But I lived through that year and things got better. And it was at that time I got a new number to add to my list 87.

The spring that I was 36 my grandmother died. She was the one person who I’d always been able to turn to. She was not what I would call a soft person but sensible—the level head you need in a crisis. I held her hand during her last moments of life. I told her doctor she wanted no extraordinary measures. I assured him I knew what that meant.

My grandmother and I had discussed dying many times and she was at peace but knew that it would be hard for those of us left behind. She was 87 years old. Her husband, my grandfather, who I remember lecturing me on how to layer the quilt I was making for the aforementioned ex, as he lay on the sofa, also died at the age of 87.

That is my new number. The age to which I aspire. Eighty-seven years is a good amount of time and I am more than halfway there—but that doesn’t bother me. I just hope it is like all the other numbers on my personal list—something I can look at in the rear-view mirror.

I have been thinking of these numbers as I face 2020 and all that it has wrought to date. I don’t know if other people have these numeric milestones in their lives. I suspect many do but one thing I am certain of is that no one alive today will ever encounter the number 2020 again without recalling this year and the way it changed us all—hopefully for the better.

Our dear rabbit

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There is an absence in our house this morning. A small rustling that isn’t heard. A cute face not peeking out from a bed of hay.

Our little rabbit died yesterday, and it was with great solemnity that I headed out to dig a grave in the backyard.

Rabbi, as he was best known, was my younger daughter’s pet. She had been asking for a pet- pig, horse- for years and when the opportunity came up to get a rabbit, I thought it would be a perfect starter pet for competent tweenager.  

The rabbit was a constant source of concern; requiring new cages, new foods, and new cleaning protocols. I watched over the little creature but failed in the end, with much regret.

Two weeks ago, my daughter noticed the rabbit was losing fur on his feet. I went to google and found the condition was likely urine scald; bunny getting his feet wet with pee causing skin irritation. I googled some more and got advice from a hobby farm Facebook group I joined.

We washed his feet regularly with saline water, kept the cage cleaned and full of hay, giving him several hours a day out of his hutch; he seemed to be getting better. But yesterday when we went to give him carrot scraps from supper, he was gone.

As parents we allow our children to have pets for several reasons; to learn responsibility, for companionship, and eventually, to learn lessons about death and loss before they start to lose important people in their lives.

This is not our first pet loss, and we have gone through the loss of some important humans too. It’s all part of life, losing the people and pets we care about. And it isn’t easy. It’s not supposed to be. But you get better at dealing with loss, learn to live with the absences.

My daughter and I both feel sadness about the death of our little rabbit. It was difficult not seeing and hearing him this morning.

In our book of thankfuls yesterday, the only thing I could think to write was that I was thankful the ground had warmed up enough that I could dig a little grave.

Da

The kids were at Day Camp and I had a free afternoon ahead of me with no pressing work or house related jobs crowding my head space. I started down the familiar road to Dorts Cove anticipating a visit at my father's house or the beach; perhaps both.

I pulled into the driveway at my father's house and drove up behind the hill where the vehicles often hide when rain has not saturated the grass. No car, no truck, no people in sight.

I turned the car around on the hill and set off for the beach, just several 100 meters away.

As I drove in the beach road a familiar truck was perched on the edge of the bank looking out to sea, seaming to pull at an invisible leash that kept it tied to the shore. The truck was similar to almost every other truck in the community but the opened tailgate revealed a pair of rank black sneakers that I knew my father wore around the yard.

I parked the car and headed out across the rocks towards the mouth of the Salmon River where I could just vaguely spot a human figure.

The wind on the beach was brisk disguising the power of the sun as it poured buckets of radiation on me. The tide was high and what little sand peeked out between the rocks sparkled.

I walked up to the lone fisherman on the point who was standing in hip-waders in the river two or three feet deep. At first I wasn't sure if it was him; something didn't seem exactly right and I wasn't positive about the truck although I was pretty sure about the sneakers.

Normally I would have no doubt that it would be my father on the beach; the beach where he grew up, where his father and grandfather had grown up, where I had grown up and where now, my children were growing up. This beach is part of the family DNA. But my father's trips out to the beach were less frequent these days; his knees gave him a lot of trouble and the long walk over rough terrain was difficult if not sometimes impossible for him.

The fisherman looked up and sure enough it was my Da but with so much sunblock on his face that I barely recognized him under the white-wash. I didn't want to disturb my father, I guessed he had gone out to the beach, despite the trouble it may cause him, to be alone. I guessed that the beach acted as a sort of church for him as it did for me-- to either contemplate or forget the worries of the day.

I had come to see him on this day in the hopes of talking to him about his sister who had recently died. I had been away, attending to my grandmother's death and funeral in Massachusetts, when my aunt had died. I had returned on the day after my aunts' funeral.

Since I had been home my dad made some mention about the funeral but not much—I wondered if there was anything more he wanted to say. So here I was waiting to hear whatever might need to be said.

The death of my aunt surely struck my father hard. They were, as the saying goes, Irish twins, less than 12 months apart in age. She had been his playmate for his entire life. When I thought about her death I kept returning to a photograph I had once seen of them playing hide and seek around an apple tree when they were toddlers.

My aunt had been sick with cancer for several years but the end came quickly and unexpectedly. It was just four years ago that my grandmother died. None of us, at that time, would have believed it if we had been told that my aunt would die four years and one month later.

Now there is just my father and his youngest brother. Luckily they are friends, comrades, fishermen-in-arms. You can often find them casting out their lines at the Salmon River bridge located on the road between their two houses which are less than a mile apart.

So I waited for the conversation to start. But it didn't; at least not that one.

Da was fly fishing; hoping for a big trout. There was one already on the beach when I got there—past the point of playing the line, gills no longer trying to breathe in the unfamiliar atmosphere.

After a while a new fly needed to be tied and Da waded ashore. We talked about flys; none of them looked like anything we had ever seen in nature yet the fish went for them greedily. We sat, he tied the fly and the fish started to jump in the river diverting his attention from his knots. The more the fish jumped the harder it was to tie the fly. Finally he got back into the water and we kept an eye out for the fish who now seemed to jumping on the other side of the river.

The closest we got to talking about my aunt was when my father got up from the shoreline in an uncertain fashion—a little wonky in his waders. He said that was how it went when you were getting old then corrected himself and said, “when you are old.” He went on to tell me that his grandson Sam had recently told my father that he, Sam, could never think of Da as old. He was never an old man to Sam and that is a sentiment with which, most people that know my father, would agree.

My father has always been a woodsman, a fisherman, a man who always could and would do hard work. It's been very odd to think of him not being able to do things—for him and for me. The idea that my father is getting old is one I really can not square in my mind with the person that I know him to be and I think he has the same problem. Who is he if he is old? The death of his sister brought this question into sharper relief. A day on the river quietly thinking or not thinking about it; that's how we work these things out.

I stayed on the beach watching fish, birds and my father for several hours. The one thing in life I always want more of is time with my Da.

I started for home with a fish and fresh memories; a perfect afternoon.

Oh, death.

We are born alone and die alone. This oft quoted axiom is so completely wrong that I wonder how it has survived throughout the years. Unless your name is Adam, having no mother and conceived from the earth, you definitely were not born alone. And if you have had love, a family, and good friends; you need not die alone either.

The most awe inspiring moments of my life have been those times when I have been present at a birth and at the opposing side of the scale, a death. Most people will surely recognize the joy that accompanies a birth but I felt it amidst the grief of losing the person I loved most of all in the world; my grandmother. It was an honor and a privilege to hold my grandmother's hand through her last hours and minutes of life.

My grandmother had always been the person I turned to most in my life, from childhood scrapes to teenaged heartbreaks and on into more adult troubles. I knew I had a faithful caring ear although not always a commiserating mind. She was strong and judgmental but kept her own council. She forgave and moved on in life with friends and family. She was truly the glue of our family. I loved and respected her and feared her death, knowing how much of a hole it would leave in my life.

Luckily, the end was quick. A stroke, a refusal of feeding tubes and any other life prolonging measures ensured my grandmother died as prudently as she had lived.

Her doctor conferred with me:
Did she really understand what refusing the feeding tube would mean for her health?

Without the tube she would die. I knew that, she knew that, and the doctor knew that but they usually choose not to use that word. Health care professionals prefer: expire, pass away, and other euphemisms that are all meant to avoid the word death.

I assured him that she was fully aware of her impending death. Several months before her stroke I had gone over to her house one evening specifically to talk to her about her death and if she was comfortable with it. Her only complaint about dying was that she knew how hard it would be on those of us left behind. I had this conversation with her not because she was close to death at the time, but because we all are.

In the days following the stroke she became less lucid and finally, on the 5th day of her hospitalization she was no longer conscious. That morning I had dreamed of my grandfather's face and although I am the farthest thing from religious, I felt it to be a sign that my grandmother would die that day.

I arrived around 6pm to find all of her living children and their spouses lining the walls of her room. Not one of them approached her bed. They were seated as far as possible from the soon to be corpse of their mother. She breathed strenuously and slowly, she looked like an old woman. I hardly recognized her as the person who had offered me cookies in the kitchen last week, last year, last life.

I went to her bed and took her hand in mine. I didn't let go.