A Letter of Gratitude for My Brother

When I tell a story, I can get really stuck having to start at the beginning to get to the end. There is no jumping in from the middle, no skipping ahead, for me the context makes the story make sense. This is no exception. The title of this blog is accurate, and you have to understand the story to make the meaning out of the end. So, while it may not seem like gratitude at first, I assure you this is a letter of love and appreciation.

 

We grew up in the same house with the same parents and yet we had different interests and different personalities. It was a together but separate type of childhood. I don’t remember growing up liking each other, it was more like ambivalence. We tolerated one another when we weren’t competing for the resources of a home in the 80s. We fought for attention or invisibility, choosing the TV show to watch or who sat in the front seat of the car. And childhood was barely over and I left. In fact, you were still just a teenager trying to find your way when I launched myself into adulthood and out of our family home. 

 

I left a lot of things when I left home. Some of that was the overwhelming feeling of responsibility in being the oldest. I could finally breathe but maybe you felt forgotten.  Twenty months apart didn’t create closeness; we could have been twenty years apart. Growing up, we were never in the same emotional place at the same time.  You were either my responsibility or my specter.

 

Then I got married on your twentieth birthday.  I stole the moment, now I wonder did anyone celebrate that with you. I really hope so.

 

I dove into parenthood when you were picking courses at college. Three years later and you were finishing college and celebrating your engagement. 

But Flynn died and I had a three-year-old at home and a strained marriage. I hope you got the acknowledgement you deserved because I don’t think you got anything from me…

I was voiceless and alone. My world was void of time and space, lifeless, and I was looking out at people who were living. And you were among them, living.

 

We both got busy raising families, managing careers, stumbling and falling and picking ourselves back up. Over the years, we put a little more effort into caring for one another, but it has always been in the busyness. We managed a passing “how are you” and onto the next demand or person who needed us. It was the best we could do, and it was more than we had done. Quietly appreciated.

 

When I was 12, I choked on some food. I remember not being able to inhale, losing my ability to communicate, the throbbing pain in my chest and throat and sheer panic that I was going to die. In 2024, I fell apart devastated and grieving. Grieving felt like choking, the same panic, the same desperate need for air that wouldn't come.

And like a diver sharing your air, you showed up. Every day. I worried that you were worried about me. Maybe you were. Fair, I was worried about me. For days and weeks and months, I could count on a short text, a check in, and an I love you. I felt thought of and cared for and acknowledged. A seemingly small gesture was one of the most meaningful acts of care. Every day the devastation woke me up and every day the grief put me to bed. And every day you let me know I existed with a simple “hey Lis.” 

 

Thank you. If I could go back to all the moments, with every version of us, over all the decades of our life together, I would show them it all. And they would see the love and kindness of a brother and the way it healed a part of his sister. With so much gratitude, I love you.

Loneliness

Grief is excruciatingly lonely. Death, loss and endings. Your life shrinks, sometimes a little and sometimes a lot. It is all lonely. Check ins stop. Much sooner than one would expect. Way too soon for what one needs. People forget what the griever is constantly reminded of. You are gone. People are busy. You are gone. People are just getting by sometimes. You are gone. People are too busy just getting by and they forget you are grieving. You are gone.

"Fuck loneliness!" I say to no one. So much of me doesn't want to talk about it anymore and also remember when my baby died and I became the harbinger of doom? When every wedding, baby shower, joyful event that extended me an invitation was also reminded that grief happens. When even small talk would find its way back to death to endings to grief. I brought it up again, fuck! It would be easier to be lonely than to take up space and grieve. 

Grief is so goddamn lonely. I could probably have a rally around my rage. You wouldn't think so, but when it makes sense to be enraged, people show up for it. Encourage it even. Maybe because it is intense, loud and exhausting. It burns bright and burns out. Grief is expansive and deep and uncomfortable. If there is validation to grieve, it is time sensitive. Do it, do it now and let me know when you are done. When you are done grieving, let me know.

Hello loneliness, grief let you in. Death, loss and endings and now Grief is here. I reach out because check ins stopped. They stopped way sooner than I expected. Way sooner than I needed. I can talk about my confusion, my anger, my rage. I am voiceless in my grief. People forget. You are gone. People don't know how to talk about it. You are gone. It is easier to be lonely than to take up space and grieve. You are gone. Grief is so goddamn lonely. 

An Obituary for the Goodest Dog

Alby (Albatross) Lambert was born on March 5^th, 2010, in Whitechurch, Ontario to a Puggle mother and Boston Terrier father. When her adoptive family came to get their puppy, they were actually there for her sister Bubbles. Alby however had climbed the gate of the pen to greet them, and the family was told she was affectionately named Escape Artist for her unique ability of escaping. For her new family, it was love at first sight and she left with them that day! The name Alby was keeping with the family moniker of a “y” in the name, and it meant “white” for her white paws and patch on her head. Albatross was the affectionate name given to her by her favourite person.

 

Alby came to her new family within months of them losing their best dog Copper. She had big paws to fill, not to replace, but to bring new love into their home. She quickly showed her family how loving and loyal she was. She was gentle with the little ones and silly and playful with the big ones! She understood the rules of the house and was keen to pick up the training that was given to her. Alby loved to snuggle and was quick to take up any personal space on the couch or relocate to the warm spot after someone left their seat.

 

Alby was also masterful in securing treats. It didn’t take her long to detect which family members would shake the treat bag to get her back in the house or out of a room she wasn’t supposed to be in. Alby then found ways to get out of the house or into those rooms, just to ensure a treat would be had for her obedience. Many a chase was had, inevitably ending in the procurement of a tasty morsel. And when it came to treats, Alby had a special relationship with Grandpa. She knew when he was coming over and that there would be Timbits with his morning coffee. Alby’s excitement at his arrival could be heard halfway down the block and even as she got sick, this excitement never ebbed.

 

Alby protected her family and home from every intruder. There were no incidents on her watch, and she kept her family safe for over 14 years! Moreover, she would quickly go from guard dog to welcoming host when family and friends came by. Alby was often called a good dog, and quickly won over the hearts of anyone she met. Most recently at her new vet clinic, the staff and vet technicians let her know that she was the sweetest girl.

 

Alby’s family loved her. She went on camping trips, road trips and up to the cottage. She came to baseball games and soccer games and made the walks to school. She even found her way into sleeping in the bed instead of beside it. While her family adored her, nothing compared to how much Alby loved her family. She would wait at the front door for her little ones to come home from school. She would bounce and jump with excitement at the end of every workday when her favourite person made his way home from work. She laid on the bed when her people were sick. During her life with the Lamberts, she saw them welcome a new little person and Alby let her crawl on her, drink from her water bowl and pretend to be her with only love and affection.  When her family welcomed a new fur family member, Blue, Alby quickly took to showing her the rules, teaching her how to dog and loving her the way she had so easily loved everyone else.

 

In her final months, Alby, began to slow down. Her walks were shorter, her naps longer and her playfulness quieter. Blue had been her companion for five years now and they would often be found lying together, Blue curled into Alby or grooming her, following her every move. Alby maintained her tenderness and would cuddle into her humans and look for a scratch behind the ears. Even in the last months, it is believed that she held on just long enough to get her family through a profound loss before letting them know it was time for her to go. For that, her family is eternally grateful.

 

Alby (Albatross) Lambert died on July 26^th, 2024, at the old age of 14.5 years surrounded by the family who were so appreciative to have spent her life with her.

April is the Worst Month

May 3^rd is Flynn’s birthday. The day he was born and the day he died. It is a heartbreaking day for me, but April is the worst month. In April, my body was trying to keep us alive, and we were dying. I suppose this could be seen as metaphorical, but I remember, my body remembers, that in April 22 years ago it felt like it was dying. Now every year that follows, the heaviness of April ends with a crescendo on May 3^rd that brings relief from a month of silent suffering.

 

It is well documented in trauma research that the body holds memory. Babette Rothschild’s work in The Body Remembers or the research and work of Bessel Van Der Kolk in The Body Keeps Score, discuss this very concept. And I can attest that my body remembers the dying and the trying and the suffering that in experienced in April 2002. We don’t talk about it when a baby dies, that there can be dying. It is hard enough to reconcile that a baby has died. But as his mother, I was being admitted to hospitals, going to doctors’ visits and ultrasounds, and attending specialized hospital visits and hearing grim statistics and results. I was tasked with the trying to keep him alive and I felt it to my very bones. It imprinted on me, the seriousness of not just being the vessel for growing him, but having the ultimate responsibility of keeping him alive.

 

My body laid in the hospital beds, it endured the testing, one after another after another. It let them draw the blood looking for answers and watched as they measured the blood that I was losing. I let nurses and midwives hold my hand while I cried and in the next moment smiled with enthusiasm when my three year old came for a visit. I felt the dying intimately. I watched the screens on the machines that were doing the monitoring of both our vitals. I held my breath when a doppler was placed on my belly, hoping for the whooshing of a little heart. I watched the contractions that were coming way too early read out on ticker tape while a doctor signed my discharge papers to send me home. My body was holding the dying and then he was born and he died. 

So now when every April, I am run down, aching, and tired. When I am quick to sob, whimper and cry and when I seek out comfort more than I can provide it, I give myself grace. My body remembers the suffering, the attempt at a miracle, the ultimate loss of a months’ worth of grit, determination, and pain. My body knows what is missing just as much as my heart, soul, and mind. It held him, cradled him, grew him, and tried to keep him alive. It yearned for him, to breastfeed him, hold his hand, walk him to school, play with him, it wanted it all. My body remembers the loss of joy when he was born and the entrance of grief when he died. 

 

Today is May 3^rd, Flynn’s birthday. A day we hold sacred to honour his life in our life. Our son, our child, our baby. Today will be spent embracing the echoes of him in his siblings in our family and in our life. And with gratitude that April has again come to an end. 

The End of an Era - navigating the loss of friendship

How do female friendships endure motherhood, patriarchy, a global pandemic, multiple wars, political divisiveness aimed at minorities, LGBTQ+ and women, intergenerational trauma (if not other trauma) and peri/menopause? How do we show up for one another while working full time (at least) jobs, possibly attending to parents, children, partners, co-workers, and other relationships, integrate self-care, balance our financial wellbeing, and maintain our own health? How do we communicate in the technological landscape of acronyms, emojis, apps, and social media? Where IRL (in real life) can be a shared public space with someone or a Facetime on our phones? How do we find or keep our people when we avoid phone calls, meetups, and substitute relationships for keeping up with influencers and listening to TIKTOK therapists?

 

These are just some of the questions that grief has evoked. This cognitive space of looking for answers or meaning or understanding while navigating the heartbreak of friendship loss. And possibly I am avoiding the unanswerable question of how did we get here, to where things are ending? My partner is asking me several times a day if I am okay. He admits that he knows I am not. I am sure it is his way of saying “I am here, I see your pain and I am sad you are navigating this.” He like others want to be optimistic, “maybe it can be repaired,” “maybe she just needs some time”,” maybe she will see it differently with some space.” He wants it to be a life preserver in my despair and maybe all these things could be true for her. But for me, it is irrevocably broken, and it deserves to be grieved. 

 

I interrupt myself with the idea that I promised to be there forever and she did the same. Of course, it was easy to make promises in the glow of happiness it is harder to keep those promises in the darkness of apathy. Nostalgia interrupts my peace and I reminisce about our amusement in strangers’ assumptions that we were a couple. We even proclaimed our commitment to living together if we outlived our husbands. We mused with humour about aging together, convinced it would be something we would navigate. We quietly avoided the idea that one day we would die and leave the other behind. That may have been more painful than the thought of widowhood. Nostalgia has a way of dropping context and leaving out the painful parts that were also shared, the signposts of what was to come if we only paid attention.

 

I am reminded that endings come in so many forms and for so many reasons. Even as the differences, conflicts, and disagreements crept in and built up, we stayed. Maybe we believed we were obligated to endure, maybe I believed that. I was willing to twist and bend and even contort myself, my beliefs, my values, without breaking, to preserve the promises of forever. As women, the messaging we grew up with, to be generous at our own expense, to provide unwavering care in any and all circumstances, and to ensure that we are perceived as good (whatever the fuck that means), created unrealistic expectations. Maybe those lifelong messages kept us there, locked in to something that was no longer serving us, losing ourselves in the contortion.

I know that it can take an excruciatingly long time to learn how to set boundaries, unlearn self-betrayal, take accountability, and demand better for ourselves because we KNOW we deserve it. And even in utilizing any or all of those skills we may not always be met where we are at by others or experience an empathetic and compassionate response. In the shadow of friendship loss, we get to decide how we will respond, how we will react and how we treat endings. Even in grief, I can act from my values of integrity and kindness, because grief is not an excuse for bad behaviour. 

As I sit here grieving the things that are already lost, I cannot turn to her and it is devastating. She was someone that I could tell anything to and receive unwavering support or thoughtful challenging because she knew who I was in the world and who I wanted to be. I knew undoubtedly, she wanted to see me succeed and wanted to help me get there. It is heartbreaking to know that something changed so dramatically that now it is time to leave, to save myself, to preserve what love once existed. I really believed I would be grieving a death when this friendship ended, hers or mine. I never fathomed the possibility of grieving the loss of the friendship. I am overwhelmed and aching, navigating changes that I cannot control, outmaneuver, or avoid. Sitting here in the aftershocks of devastation sorting through the shattered pieces of our life together with the growing awareness of the gaping hole in my future. I am trying to feel it all without rushing to what comes next. Reminding my anxious mind that I can wait to open up to the life that will emerge.