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.

Not like Any Other

For you it is a day like any other. Playing tag with your dad as he walks you to school, only slightly aware that he is not typically home to do that. You mentioned Flynn this morning, you want to make sense of it. Trying to understand something that boggles the minds of the adults who you seek answers from. You ponder out loud with me:

Littlest: I think Flynn is happier dead...

Me: What makes you say that?

Littlest: Well he gets to become 100 wherever he is, but if he was alive he would be suffering.

Me: I am not sure about that, I would have wanted him to be here with us if he could.

Littlest: But not if he was suffering.

Me: No, not if he was suffering.

It is just a moment and then you are on to something else, a princess story, a butterfly musing. Today is like any other day for you and also it is not. You are so perceptive and bright. You want to play tag with your dad all the way to school. I can see that you can sense a melancholy in his mood but when he plays tag - well there is laughter and silliness and he can hardly keep from delighting in the chase and your giggles at being caught. We get to school and you get into your line. Your dad and I stand near by and you proclaim loudly:

Littlest: Why are you celebrating Flynn's birthday, he is literally dead?

Nobody heard you but us and I get it, I see you. Grief is painful, there is sadness and we don't look the same when it is here. Your protest is not about Flynn, you want your mom and dad to be connected, engaging and light. My little darling, this is temporary. We will sit in the sacredness of the memory of your brother today. We will honour 20 years of loving and missing him. We will return from the comfort of our moments spent with him to the family that has grown around him and you will have us back. Today is not about you and like any sibling, that is hard to understand, but you will be okay because you are so loved. Today is not like any other and that is hard.

Parenting a Ghost

 It is the same day every year, May 3rd. The day that we mark one more year without you and also how old you would be. It is the one day in the year that we take time for you, that people send us kind words and thoughts, the one time in 365 days that you are acknowledged by more than our immediate circle of people. 

Like many other years, your dad and I took flowers to the cemetery. Hoping not to repeat previous years searching the city for blue orchids, I ordered them a week ahead of time this year. When we arrived at the florist, the orchids were not in due to a delay in the shipment. Purple orchids would have to do. While we waited for the orchids to be wrapped I saw a hanging plant called "baby tears," it seemed apropos that it come with us. 

At your graveside, we laughed at the mishap again this year in trying to secure blue orchids. After my laughter turned to tears, your dad reminded me that today wasn't meant to be perfect. I think there is a part of him that believes you have a hand in this; a prankster like your siblings and like him. Your stone was dirty after a year of neglect and we both took turns rubbing it with an old cloth grocery bag to remove what moss and debris we could. We promised to come back with something more effective to polish it up. It is one of the physical things we can care for in your absence. 

We didn't stay long at your stone and today in the misty grey of the day, we strolled around the neighbourhood admiring the beautiful houses that are an extension of this century old area. Every year we picture ourselves living in one of the regal houses with the manicured lawns and we point out which ones are our favourites. I think it brings us comfort that we often point out the same ones. Some of the gardens are blooming with Forget-Me-Nots and as we wander,  I imagine what it would be like to live just a block from you and the word peaceful comes to mind. 

Our time with you is limited and we drive thirty minutes to treat ourselves to lunch. We cannot stay in this place of memorialization too much longer; we feel compelled to get home in the midst of this pandemic.  Before we do, we get a cake for the family to enjoy after dinner. Sitting in the car, eating our sandwiches, I comment that I feel like I am parenting a ghost. Your dad solemnly nods and I continue that we imagine you on our family vacations, acknowledge you in our home and workplaces. We picture you at our family game nights and how we would navigate another teenager devastated by the restrictions of the pandemic. We think about this birthday, your nineteenth, and how we would celebrate this with you. Maybe you would be here with us or maybe you would be away at school.  Possibly you would be angry that this birthday had to be subdued or maybe you would be grateful for the lack of fanfare. Parenting a ghost comes with some unanswered imaginings. 

18 Years With and Without You

A few days ago, as our family sat around the kitchen island talking about the pandemic, the idea came up about how different our home would have looked if you were alive today. Everyone acknowledged that you would have been 18 and what a full house it would be. The older boys believed that you would be their buddy, playing video games and working out with them. The middle oldest wondered if he would have been born so soon after you, which made the middle youngest wonder if he would have been born at all. The littlest was oblivious and naturally assumed that she would be here regardless but also if you could be alive, why couldn't we just go and get you out of the casket (her words)? We decided that this birthday/deathaversary we would go the cemetery together and your siblings also asked if we could bake a cake to mark the day.

We woke up to a glorious day, this May 3rd. It was easy to forget that we are going into the 8th week of self-isolation in the COVID-19 pandemic. We took a slow approach to the day, having coffee on the back deck and watching the littlest blow bubbles.

Some things had to be different this year, due to the pandemic, we didn't have the luxury to scope out flower shops to find the blue orchids that we normally take to the graveside. This day is held sacred so that we can honour our relationship with you and often it is a time to feel the grief over your absence. This year it is difficult to feel anything. I assume it is because we are holding onto so much just to keep working, to manage your siblings emotional, psychological and scholastic needs and to remain focused on the here and now. We are in a holding pattern, so familiar to the early days after you died, when each day blurred into the next and we felt isolated from the reality everyone else still had access to. Except now we are all in the same reality, no one is immune to the pandemic or the emotions it may provoke.

We headed out to the cemetery, Landy and I on the motorcycle and our oldest driving the rest in the car. The motorcycle is the most freedom we have from the family these days; a date on the open road. I don't remember the last time that we were all at the graveside. I know that we have not been there since the littlest was born, it was comforting to have us all there to honour this day. And yet, it is always hard to see your name etched in stone, that will never get easier.

I have said often that I am so grateful for the people who have come into our lives since your death. They didn't know you and they never met you, but our friends have never let that be a barrier to honouring you, talking about you and dreaming about you too. We opted for a physically distanced visit, to be around people, even if we were ten feet apart. Grief can be so lonely in the best of moments. It is a challenge to be with people you love at a distant, but as a bereaved family, we have lots of practice - we have loved you our whole life and the distance between us couldn't be farther.

Today we once again honoured your short life and the impact of living 18 years with and without you. That conversation around the kitchen island a few days ago highlighted the reality that the reason for you has so many folds in the fabric of our lives. Not the same as a reason for why you died, but rather, everyone around our table are who they are, in some small part because you existed.

Happy 18th Birthday Flynn, with and without you.

Our Family's Oxymoron

Today I drove the route that with one turn would have led me to your cemetery. The route is picturesque and especially so today with an early spring snow fall newly on the ground. I found my mind wondering to conversing with you, something I rarely do, and it inspired me to write this blog. It is March 31^stand every turn around the sun I remember April as the month that I spent in and out of hospital as my body slowly and painfully failed to carry you. As I drove, I opened myself up to the conversation, the things I would have wanted you to know about the day you were born, the story I will never get to tell you.

You would be approaching seventeen in May; it is just unimaginable. I try to picture you, wondering if you would tower over me like your brothers or would you be smaller, more petite if you had survived? Survived… the word punctures my heart; it reminds me that there was nothing I could do to save you.

When I gave birth to you the pediatrician swept you away for the briefest of moments, knowing that our time was short, she measured your Apgar’s, the test that evaluates your ability to thrive. It was not long before you were placed back in my arms wrapped in the tiniest of quilts where you looked swallowed up in flannel. The doctor informing us that you scored ones and threes where we needed nines and tens. Nurses measured your beating heart, gently calling out numbers to a doctor recording them in the corner – “90 beats per minute.” Your warmth radiated through the blanket and although we were told you weighed one pound, six ounces, the weight of you lay heavy in my arms. 

I watched as your little mouth opened and closed, mimicking breathing. Maybe you were instinctively looking for food, but your movements were not quite the nuzzling of an infant looking for milk. I felt so confused, every instinct in me wanted to feed you, to believe that if I could simply give you nourishment our reality could change. I was starkly silent to my normal nature and yet my mind was on fire screaming “help me help him.” People moved alongside me, your dad and grandparents, weeping and holding me as I whispered my apologetic love to you.  

Where my body failed to carry you, I was now failing in my duty as your mother. I didn’t know how to fight for you or what to fight for.  I wished I could have asked you what you needed of me.  Would it have been the life you wanted if I had insisted you be rushed to a NICU? Would the choice to intervene and in turn barely touch you give you the resources to live? Should I have asked your tiny body to be responsible to fight for life, constantly trying to ward off death? Let me be clear mister, I would have taken you any way I could have had you and I realize that may be idealistic and selfish and a thought born out of this lifelong grief I bear without You. But that wasn’t what we chose because the grim realities were laid out before us while I was still struggling to grow you within me. 

I wanted to run, my arms and legs itched to flee the reality of that delivery room and only thirty minutes into your life the doctor told us that we had a window for the surgery that I needed, and we would be wise to take it. I decided to leave for surgery and not witness your last moments of living. I left that to your dad and not because I was thinking of him and what he needed but because it was unbearable to struggle with the fight or flight response raging in my body. Just writing this I can feel it awakening in me like a primal scream. 

Dear boy you were surrounded by so much love and you gave us an hour and a half to instill our message of gratitude and to cherish your life. We didn’t know in that moment how much your wee imprint on our souls would influence our lives and our family. We are about to acknowledge seventeen years with and without you in our lives, and I realize that you are the oxymoron of our family, you are the little giant that roots our family. Darling Boy, thank you.

Making Room

“Sometimes you just don’t know what you need until you need it.” 

While that can be true of anything, it was particularly true on Flynn’s last anniversary in May 2017.  I didn’t blog about the anniversary, the second time in 8 years. I thought that I had wanted Landy to observe the anniversary with me, in fact the year before I had asked that he spend the next anniversary with me and he agreed he would. That is what we did, we spent the day together and we both agreed it was awkward, anxious and disjointed. Admittedly, it was the third anniversary observed together in fifteen years and we didn’t really articulate our expectations; we would do it differently next time. However, this blog is not about May 3^rd, it is actually about May 5^th, the day we went for a visit with Landy’s grandma.

We haven’t often talked about Flynn with Landy’s grandma, he seemed off limits for her. When he was born and died she was in Winnipeg visiting her sister and so she did not make it home for the funeral. I don’t remember expecting her to be there and as anyone who has stood in the shock of death can attest, I didn’t even know who was there. It was approximately a month after the funeral before we had dinner with her and while I probably said Flynn’s name nearly twenty times, she would kindly and firmly change the subject and finally it was clear that he wasn’t going to be discussed further.

For years I was unsure how to “be” around Landy’s grandma. She had experienced the death of two adult children, her son (Landy’s dad) and after Flynn, her daughter. While I felt like an outsider in my family, my friend group and in general, I wanted to feel connected with someone who understood and had knowledge on how to cope with grief. It was an undiscerning need to make meaning and find community in our loss and it became clear that would not be Grandma’s role. Following Flynn’s death, I would experience anxiety or panic about visiting with her and it would take me many more years to gain the perspective that stories of death and grief could co-exist without invalidating each other. To be clear she never said anything dissuading me from looking to her in grief, quite the opposite, she said nothing. In some ways her silence around grief and Flynn’s death became a source of shame and insecurity around my own identity as a bereaved parent.

2017 was different. Landy made plans for us to visit, 2 days after Flynn’s anniversary and I had vocalized that I did not think I could go. The year had been particularly difficult for me and I did not want to set Flynn aside to visit with Grandma. Landy asked me to reconsider, his grandma is in her mid 90s and while he understood I was struggling, he wanted me to be there. I agreed that it would be better if I went. Dinner was nice, we made casual conversation, caught up on extended family news and after we were finished Landy took the kids to play in the facility's game room. I sat with Grandma and talked about some recent work success including an upcoming presentation at the International Grief and Bereavement Conference. This is the conversation that followed:

“The What? Oh my, that is not something we would have had in my day!” She continued, “I know you counsel people {about grief} but we just didn’t go out and talk about this.”

“Well Grandma, you likely found support at church or in your community which may have helped. Today we live in a secular society where people do not always have a sense of community or they are not geographically able to access it.” Grandma nodded and I am unsure what spurred me to continue but I did, “when Flynn died I felt isolated and lonely and counselling really helped me.”

It was then that she said the thing that I will be eternally grateful for, “it must have been devastating to go through that, it is never easy to lose a child.”

Through tears I told Grandma that he would have been 15 just 2 days before, she looked at me and I felt extraordinarily vulnerable, she said “I often think about Flynn and wonder who he would have been. I wish he was here and we would have gladly made room for him in this family.” Even as I write these words, I do so through tears.

Sometimes you don’t know what you need or what your heart has been missing until that moment comes along to fill it. That short but meaningful moment with Landy’s grandma, Flynn’s great grandma was an act of kindness and grace that filled a tiny hole in my heart. She made room for Flynn in her family that day and for that I am so thankful.

How I Know I am Strong

In the early days of grief people told me that I was so strong for how I reacted to Flynn`s death. Numb and unable to experience or express my emotions, I put my energy into tasks. I called friends and family and recited the facts of Flynn`s birth and death, I met with a funeral director to make funeral arrangements, talked with a florist about flowers for Flynn`s tiny casket, and chose cemetery plots and a plot marker.  I wrote Flynn`s funeral service and made the remembrance card that attendees would take with them.  Essentially I was finding a way to simply put one foot in front of the other not out of some sense of strength but merely as a way to survive. I wasn`t the only one being asked to muster strength in a time of grief; Landy was also told to be strong for me, Flynn`s mother, because I would need him and both of us were told that our responsibility was to focus on our oldest and let him bring us strength.

I often wonder if people would have told me I was weak if I had cried or even wailed and expressed my profound sadness that my tiny son was dead and I would have to somehow carry on without him.  I am curious why our society asks or even demands that grievers are "strong" in the face of such despair and heartbreak? What a disservice our language serves in the aftershock of death and how unfortunate that our discomfort with grief has us asking that people restrain themselves (an act of strength) rather then expose the depths of their pain (an act of vulnerability).

So here is how I know that I am strong. I allow myself to fall apart when I no longer want to hold myself together. I seek out relationships that support me in being vulnerable and exposing my pain. I courageously experience my feelings and share them through meaningful connections with those I love. I experience empathy and compassion from those around me and ensure that I am capable of showing it in return. I willingly share Flynn with friends and family so that his impact on our life leaves a legacy beyond the mere hours he spent alive. I don't ask people to be strong in the face of death and grief, I ask them to be kind and generous with their heart and soul and that I am there with love and compassion.

This type of strength is a continuous and ever changing journey and just last week I cried. It was a loud, wet, messy sob that lasted for several minutes and did not in any way resemble the Hollywood version of crying~ one tear slowly trickling down the cheek. Tears pooled in my eyelids until they dumped down my cheeks, washing away the foundation and smudging the mascara I had so carefully applied to appear polished for the day.  The noises from my throat and mouth sounded like honks and grunts while my mouth curled into a grimace that simply opened and then closed again. Between sobs I gasped for breath, gulping whatever oxygen the slight pause in my crying would allow, chest heaving and empty inhalations wheezing through the silence. Every muscle in my body hardened and tensed while my emotions, suppressed until this moment, rushed forward escaping through the opportunity my crying had presented. There was grief, heartbreak, helplessness and frustration interwoven with tones of love and hope. On that day a week ago I was reminded that the earth had continued to turn and another 360 days had passed; soon I would be facing 15 years since I last held my tiny son kissing him and whispering I love you while simultaneously saying good bye. It has taken a great deal of strength to grieve, sometimes every fibre of my being, because while that was the first day without him, I now know that I will have to face every day for the rest of my life without him and that is more goodbyes then I can count.

We All Lose - An Essay by my Very Talented Son

I want to start by saying that this is a very raw narrative that my oldest wrote for an assignment at school (not for the faint of heart). While I am very proud of him for his honest and at times heartbreaking look at his life, it was not easy to read.  The reality is that while he has lived this, so have we - beside him, at times feeling terribly powerless and afraid. If I could have written in the margins of this assignment I would have reminded him that his existence was me winning. Our family has experienced loss and his struggle is his to navigate but not alone and not by losing. Maybe we have a future writer on our hands (even though he says he hates english).

There are many things to lose, almost too many. Losing isn’t avoidable it is a part of life. Whether it be a game, a loved one or an opportunity, if we lose hope or motivation, we all lose. A born winner takes losing much harder than a born loser. Everyone deals with loss differently and for different reasons. For example, losing a game may be experienced differently then losing family or friends. In life we all lose, some just lose more than others.     

I am a born loser. I have managed a few lucky wins here and there but the rest of the time I am losing. I have lost members of my family, I have lost my motivation for success, I believe I am lost. My best friend is the complete opposite, he has been winning since day one. He had a small hiccup when his parents split, but for the most part he is winning. He is intelligent, athletic and has a drive to be successful; I believe he can’t lose.

When I was born I was diagnosed with cellulitis which lead to late onset group B strep.  I was hospitalized for two weeks and was at risk of contracting meningitis, that was when my losing started. At age two and a half my parents told me that I would be a big brother. I was almost three years old when my baby brother died just two hours after he was born. I don’t remember much from that time period other than the dramatic shift in our house from joyous anticipation to devastating despair. My mom became a shell of her former self, empty like the room he was supposed to fill.

It would be seven years later when the Grim Reaper would rear his ugly head again, this time taking my “uncle” away from me, from his family. This man who I aspired to be like. A father who had just welcomed his fifth child. He was the most caring man I knew. I became extremely aggressive in a futile attempt to suppress my pain, the feeling of losing, the feeling of emptiness I had only experienced once before. If a streak consists of three, then this is where my losing streak begins.

Four months later I was on my way home from Disney World with my family, when my mom got a phone call. She sunk deep into her seat, face slipping into a hollow frown as streams of tears flowed from her eyes. Those same awful streams from seven years earlier. It wouldn’t be until we were home that she would tell us that my Grandma died.  I lost control of all my emotions, experiencing endless fits of anger.  The loss of her felt like fuel had been thrown on the fires of an already burning fury.

I went two years without losing anyone.  At the end of grade six I lost my dog. Copper the only dog I ever knew. He was my confidant, he comforted and understood me, we grew up together. Suddenly he was gone and my heart was ripped from my chest. The hurt was immeasurable and the emptiness reached new levels.  I felt so empty like there was nothing left in me to be empty.  I began to slip away, just coasting through life trying not to get attached to people. I wanted to prevent myself from losing more than I already had.

My simmering anger now turned to rage and I blamed it all on my parents.  I tried to run away from everything, love, attachments, my home, but that didn't work because I was only thirteen. I resorted to thoughts of killing myself so I would never lose anyone ever again. I would be freed from the sadness, the anger, the emptiness, the loss. These thoughts were in my head for years; how to do it, when to do it, where to do it. This was how I spent my formative years of thirteen, fourteen and fifteen. At some point the thoughts stopped, I began to realize that if I died I would just become someone else's loss.

At sixteen I lost my great Aunt to lung cancer and my Uncle to a heart attack. I felt nothing. I wasn't affected by their passing and I was not sure if it was because we were not close or just because I was so empty that I had stopped caring. I don’t know. It scared me to think that I could not feel and maybe never would again.  How could I live without emotion, was that even living? For just a moment I wondered if I could bear to keep losing if that was what life was.

Just last month I lost another one of my uncles. We saw him two to three times a year and when we did, him and I would have long conversations about how I was doing and if I was still playing baseball?  He would tell me that he would like to come and watch me play and I would always say that he was welcome but I would never reach out and give him a schedule and so he never made it to a game. Then he was gone, gone forever and I cried.  There was sadness and pain which was followed by a profound joy at the realization that I was alive.

Some may say that I have been burdened by loss. From my earliest memory I was losing and it followed me throughout my life. At times it seemed unbearable and something that was suffered in silence and other times it seemed to scream through my anger derived from my emptiness.  Life can be a collection of losses or an accumulation of memories, I still trying to figure out which one is me. For now, I have lost. I am lost. I will lose, we all do.