I Didn't Cry at Her Funeral

I didn’t cry at her funeral.

 

Actually, that’s a bit of a lie. I shed one tear at her

graveside, and then I stopped myself. And now… I can’t. No matter how hard I try. I thought I would shed some tears at her funeral but they wouldn’t come.
 

 They were frozen inside.

 

What is wrong with me? Am I broken? (Well, isn’t that

redundant, since I can’t even begin to count the pieces of my shattered heart) Did I use all of my tears up in the hospital? In the days following her death? Is this just how grief goes?

 

I cried at her bedside. I couldn’t stop at times. When we

found out that the cancer (adenosarcoma) had, in her words, jumped a racetrack to her lungs, I cried an ocean of tears. Salty tears licked my cheeks and stained them, leaving a path that identified my broken heart.

 

I knew when they told me the cancer had spread that she was

dying.  And I felt like I was too. Maybe not my physical body, and perhaps not all of my soul. I was losing a piece of my heart and how was I supposed to function without a whole heart?

 

I cried so hard I choked myself on tears, because I did not

want to lose her. I sat with her in the hospital, and held her as she cried, because even though she knew the reality of her disease, she was suddenly faced with her own mortality. (And, because death doesn’t care about convenience, her

sister died the day after she was told of her cancer spreading. I watched her sob, heartbroken at the loss of her best friend. And it made me realize that I was going to be her soon – sobbing at the loss of someone who was my happy place.) I felt my heart, beating strong only days before, as it fractured inside me.

 

But then, when she held my hand, and asked me not to leave

her, the threads rejoined, if only for a while. When she told me I could leave the room if I “didn’t go chatting” with my husband, or didn’t leave the building.  To feel needed by her made me stronger.

 

She had us at her beck and call, and we never would’ve changed that.

 

For five days, my family and I took turns with her. Crying,

laughing, telling stories. Quietly sitting with our matriarch.

 

Laughing especially helped us to mask our sadness. The

nursing staff surely hated us, for we moved into the two family rooms, where many of us remained 24/7 for the five days she was in Palliative Care. That was what she wanted, and needed. Arguably as much as we needed to be there, she needed to know we were there, not just in the hospital, but in her room, taking turns with her and keeping her company, protecting her as best we could from the monster that is death.

 

We prayed her pain away, silently, but loud enough for the

world to hear.

 

Prayer doesn’t cure cancer.

 

Like a thief in the shadow of the night, it stole her

breath. It filled her lungs with fluid.

 

The hardest part of this was not simply in knowing that her

life was slowly leaving her, but in knowing that her presence was slowly leaving me.

 

Selfishly, I wept. Knowing that I wouldn’t receive her texts

or her phone calls anymore was crushing. I wouldn’t feel her arms wrap around me, and hold me tight. Her fingers would never again tickle my back, while she hummed off key. I wouldn’t hear her witty one liners. How would Christmas

taste, without her Norwegian treats? I was (am
I ever going to be?) not ready to give that up. If I knew it would’ve saved her I would’ve dug my heels into the dirt and screamed until I got my way and she stayed.

 

The Doctor’s gave her the choice of pain meds to numb it all,

which would essentially put her in a near comatose state until her lungs, and heart, finally gave out or she could have a chest tube that would drain the fluid that had so rapidly built up in her lungs. With the chest tube, she would still “be present”. She chose the latter.

 

When the Doctor pierced her back, and inserted the small

drain – I felt it in me. Her quiet whimpering roared in my eardrums – any indication of pain, no matter how minute, was deafening to me. I wanted to take all of the hurt, and carry it with me. I would bear her burden if it meant one peaceful night for her.

 

After four restless nights, we knew it was time to say

goodbye. She was ready to go, but she wasn’t ready to leave all of us. I think she was conflicted right up until the hour before she let go.

 

I will never forget walking into the room, and seeing her

hands aimlessly reaching out, her wrists rolling in a little dance. Almost like she was trying to hold on.

 

The last words she spoke to me were “I’m dying”.

 

The last thing I told her was that I loved her.

 

She took her last breath at 7:32 a.m. on Sunday, May 3, 2015.

Surrounding her were her children, in laws, and my sister and I, her Granddaughters. A cocoon of love held her as she closed her eyes for the last time. Like a chrysalis, when we released her, she had wings.

 

I held my sister and we wept. Our arms entangled in a tight

embrace so that the halves of each of our heart that left with her last breath could, even momentarily, become one.  I

had walked this path fifteen years prior, and seen our Grandpa take his last breath. I knew how deeply it would hurt. My sister had not experienced the monstrosity and beauty of death firsthand – we broke together.

 

The restless nights, the quiet creeping around her room so

as not to wake her. I wouldn’t take them back.

 

What I’ll miss hearing the most? “I Love You, Jay Bells”.

 

She was my Vena Cava, only instead of filling my heart with

blood, she pumped it full of love.

 

I was angry. I’m still angry.

 

I feel guilty. I told her it was okay to let go. Why did I

tell her that, when it was not okay? Why didn’t I take more photos? More videos? Why did I ever leave her side, when what I want so badly is to be back there?

 

Death is something I have always been intrigued by, it is

fascinating to study the ancient funeral rites of passage, to delve deeper into a topic that most people shy away from. I freely and openly discuss the topic. I embrace the right to die with dignity, the reality of the mortal soul. I see the beauty in death.

 

But this was personal and I didn’t want to face it.

 

My reality was not that one day she was here, and the next,

a beautiful memory.

 

I watched as she suffered, uncomfortable, in pain. I did

everything I could to make it easier on her, and I have little doubt that I was a great comfort to her in her dying days. We all were.

 

She was blessed to be surrounded by love and light in her

life, and in her dying days that was no different. When you bring joy into the life of others, that joy will be returned to you.

 

With the help of some family, we washed and dressed her. We stroked her cheeks, her arms, her hands. Those hands, they held hundreds, maybe thousands of babies in her thirty-seven years as a Maternity Nurse. They held her four Children, her fifteen Grandchildren, her Nineteen Great Grandchildren (and she has two who aren’t here yet, that she was waiting to hold). Her hands, they baked, cleaned, cuddled, and caressed. Her hands held my heart. Her

cheeks, soft as silk, dampened with my tears as I lay beside her in bed, hugging her. As the dampness of my tears dried and disappeared, I feared that the memories would too.

 

All I want right now is to hold her again. Even for a moment

longer.

 

The hospital gave us all the time we needed. We took five

and a half hours to caress her, to talk to her, to cry. None of us wanted to say goodbye to her.

 

I don’t know how any of us found the strength to leave her.

How does a person leave, knowing that the physical body you have been comforted by your whole life is going to be gone?

 

It is heartbreaking to say goodbye to someone you love so

deeply. I know it was right, I know that she, in the end, was ready. I know that peace enveloped her as she left this Earth. It doesn’t mean I am okay with it.

 

I am not okay.

 

I will grieve for some time, and my heart may not ever be stitched back together.

 

I feel guilt, and I feel peace. I am conflicted.

 

I didn’t cry at her funeral.

 

 

 

Peace and Love,

Jay

Falling & Choosing to Fly

I recently came across this quote on my favorite website (www.etsy.ca) and I instantly was drawn to it.

I have tried my whole life to find my footing in the world, and, at several points, have lost it. Sometimes I run, and make giant leaps, others I stumble and step backwards. More often than not, I am walking like I'm intoxicated - swaying back and forth between choices, side to side with different thoughts and feelings. Lost and trying to find my way - or, sometimes, trying to create my own way.

My teenaged years were full of stereotypical angst. I jumped between groups of friends, I made my personality fit with individuals, so I wasn't "cast out" for being me. I ran around trying to find a me that everybody would like. As I grew, and matured, I realized that everybody is not going to like me - it's just not possible. I need to be true to me, and to be who I am.
I feel again like I am in high school, trying to fit in.
I have made mistakes, huge earth-shattering choices, and I stand here, seeing the aftershock and wondering how we all got here. While, on the inside, I am still the same scared teenager. I still want to fit in, I still want to laugh and smile and have my friends and family surround me. I am emotionally fragile, yet at the same time, empowered. I am scared and introverted, but at the same time confident and loud.
As an adult, I have struggled immensely, responsibilities weigh heavily on a person, and I am no exception. I have ran into, and out of, the arms of a marriage. I have stumbled through the dark forests, tripping over roots, and pulling them up. I have planted seeds, sown seeds, and, more often than not, I have watched them wither and die. The past cannot be changed, and as frustrating that may be, I must move on. Forge a new path. Plant new seeds. Hope that my feet keep me grounded, while my wings lead me to new horizons.
Feet - why do I need you? You have made me fall, you have led me to dark places. With my wings, I can fly.


Peace and Love,
J

Things I Do/Do Not Know

Things I Know...

-Love is unconditional.

-It feels worse to hurt someone than it does to be hurting.

-A child's love is unconditional, and a Mother's love for her child cannot be contained or described by any measure.

-Happy times can occur even when you're sad.

-Forgiveness is an act of picking up your pride, and trying again.

-Life is what you make it.

-There is nothing better than cheesecake.

-I am a good Mom.

-I have a wonderful family, and I need them in order to breathe.

Things I Do Not Know...

-How to express myself when not through writing.

-Where I will be in a year.

-Math.

-Why my world turned upside down and right side up at the same time.

-Why it is humanly impossible for me to stay awake through a movie.

-The heartache that others feel.

-All of life's answers.

Peace and Love, J

-

Look To The Sky

I was just going through old stories and ramblings of mine, and I came across this little story I wrote the summer that my paternal Grandpa died. I had turned 14 that year, and it was the year that everything really went downhill for me...it's nowhere near a "perfect" essay, but bear in mind I was quite young :)

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

On November 1st, 1999, I was told that my Grandpa, Donald, had cancer. It wasn't until May 14, 2000 that I realized just how serious it really was.

 

You see, when you care so much about somebody, the thought of losing them seems so unimaginable. I guess you could say I was in denial about the whole thing. Whenever I visited him, after find out, I wouldn't sit there and cry, but I wouldn't think about it much either. As far as I was concerned - he was all right. If he walked, if he talked, if he did anything normal at all, it didn't amke me worry. Which is good, except it all made me forget. Naturally, the thought was there, in my mind, but it was in the back. It never really surfaced. Anyways, on May 14th, 2000, Mother's Day, I walked upstairs into my kitchen to see my family - Mom, Dad, and two older sister's - red faced from crying. When I asked them what was wrong - was it Grandpa?- they told me what I hadn't anticipated hearing. Grandpa wasn't doing well, and wouldn't live much longer.

 

That was the day the thought surfaced.

 

That was the day that I truly realized that Grandpa was dying, and probably wouldn't be here in a few weeks. My Dad and his younger brother, Kevin, went up to see him within two hours, promising to call us if things started to deteriorate. We never got that phone call, so, once again, the thought nestled itself back into what had now become familiar territory - the back of my mind. During the next week, with the thoughts held back, I tried to concentrate on school, and other things, mainly my friends.

 

I went up to visit him on the weekend of May 19 to 21st, and he honestly didn't look that terribly bad. I think he was starting to realize, more and more, how short his time really was. He kept telling everybody how much he loved them, and cared for them, which made me feel better, if, when in this situation it is humanly possible to. When I left the hospital that weekend, I wasn't feeling much better than the day I found out about the cancer. And, on Wednesday, May 24th, my Mom came and picked me up from school at lunchtime. She didn't have to say anything - the tears in her eyes said it all. After picking up my sister Sarah from the high school, Mom told me that Grandpa didn't feel right that day, and he thought that something was going to happen, and he wanted to see everybody one last time and tell them how much he loved them.

 

Grandpa didn't die that day, but I'm sure glad he at least gave me the opportunity to see him, as himself, one last time.

 

Because of what happened the Wednesday before, my family returned to Edmonton the following weekend. On Friday, while visiting Grandpa, I noticed that his skin was starting to yellow - jaundice - and that he looked a man of 74, ten years older than he really was. I left the hospital that night worried, not terribly, but worried nonetheless.

 

The next day, May 27, 2000 at 5:36 p.m., my beloved Grandpa, Donald Henry Johnson, passed away, with my small hand wrapped in his own. I couldn't believe that he was really gone - how could he be? It was just so fast. I loved him so much. The world could never contain the amount of love I had for him. Ever.

 

The funeral was held on May 31st, 2000. A bright sunny day in New Norway, the small town where he grew up.

 

Grandpa's death has brought a stir of emotions in me. It has made me feel detached, and I've cried myself to sleep countless nights. Mostly I've felt depressed.

 

It may sound horrible to say that something good could ome out of his death, but it has. Grandpa was a strong believer in the Christian faith, and he wanted us to put God first and foremost in our lives, but, you see, me and faith don't really go hand in hand all that well. I wish that I could say I believe in heaven and God, but I can't. I don't think I ever truly have. But I can tell you one thing - On those clear, blue days I can see my Grandpa's face smiling down from in the clouds. With a sparkle in his beautiful blue eyes. That is the gift that Grandpa gave me. The gift of heaven. Because I know that he is up there, watching down on me, and he'll be watching me on all the important days of my life. My graduation, my wedding, the birth of my firts child, even, on my funeral, where I'll be right up there with him, watching over my loved ones, making sure that everyone is okay, and knowing that I loved them. Like Grandpa always made sure he did.

 

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

 

Reading through that, I am finding it hard to look over the grammatical errors, and poor punctuation, but I left it as is. I may re-write it to give it a "grown up" feel, but I think I will leave it as it is - raw and emotional, written by a confused and grief-stricken child.

Peace and Love,

Jay

Memories of a Friend

As I sit here with my heart and my head on thoughts of a beloved friend, I cannot help but feel the importance of sharing my feelings with those who also knew and loved her, as I did, and do. I have so many happy memories, so many funny and charming thoughts and many an outrageous story of a woman who was twice the person I could ever aspire to be.

Catherine Dean Watson, or, as I and many people referred to her as, Kay, made an impression on everybody she met. For many, it was not always a pleasant impression, but for others, it was lasting.

I can still picture in my mind the first time my eyes caught sight of this tiny firecracker of a woman. I was visiting up at Northcott with my son, then less than 1 year old. I turned to look towards the dining room and saw an awkward looking woman in a green dress, trying to propel herself forward in her wheelchair. Not knowing whether I should help her or not, I simply watched as she slowly wheeled her way into the dining room for what I would later come to know, was, to her, an unimpressive dinner.

When I came to be employed at Northcott Care Center, in September of 2006, I learned that this woman was referred to as “CD”. I instantly fell in love with her. Not only was she a joy to look at, with her enormous glasses, twice the size of her face, and her rapidly thinning shock of white hair, but she was an absolute joy to converse with. I instantly recognized her as the woman I had watched at the dining room just a month or so prior, and eagerly introduced myself.

“Jessica” she repeated harshly, afflicted with the raspy voice of a life-long smoker, “I’ll remember that.”

And she did. From that point on our morning routine consisted of me rushing my way to her room to answer her over-active call bell, kissing her on the cheek and whispering, “Good morning beautiful.” We became fast friends, (her “Kay“ and me, “Jay“) and I anticipated every minute I could sneak away to visit with her, and was always welcomed with a smile.

My afternoon routine, at precisely 3 o’clock, was to push Kay to the dining room, where she would wait at the ropes for them to open for dinner, which was not until 5 o’clock.
Kay kept her trusty talking clock with her at every moment, and you always knew, when you heard that automatic voice state, “It is 2:57” that the light outside room number 132 would flash, and she was ready to go. Now.
Long visits were spent at those ropes, where I learned many things about Kay’s past, and she in turn learned a great deal about my past, and present life.
She told me stories about her father, James, and her mother, Martha, who, in pictures I could see was a wisp of a woman, no different from Kay herself. Kay told me of her brother, Charles Hyram, who died suddenly of a “coronary thrombosis”, and her younger sister Frances, who passed away only 4 years prior, in 2002. She spoke often of her older sister, Mary, and frequently questioned how she was doing, always growing concerned about her health. It was glaringly obvious of the importance of family to Kay.

Like myself, Kay had an amazing memory for dates, times, names and places. She never forgot a name, and could reminisce about her school days, and still list off the names of her classmates, and where they were now. In turn, Kay never forgot my name, nor did she forget my son, Donovan’s name.

As I got to know Kay more, she shared with me stories of pain and heartache that she had experienced as a young woman. She sadly shared with me that she was unable to bear children, due to a childhood illness, and because of that fact, had ended two engagements, feeling it cruel to marry a man and not be able to bear his children. When I introduced her to my son she meekly asked me, “Can he call me Grandma?”
Donny and Kay shared few visits, as their schedules differed, but pictures of him decorated her bulletin board, and questions of him came daily. “How is my grandson Donovan?”, she would ask. She worried greatly about him when he was ill, be it just a cold, the flu, or teething pains, and always sent her love.

In early October, Kay had a fall out of bed, that left her with two black eyes, and bruising that stretched up into her hair. When I asked Kay what had happened (“had somebody left the side-rail of her bed down?”), she explained to me that she was having a dream that she was witnessing a war in Israel, and that she had stood up to put an end to it, and awoke on the floor of her room. It became a longstanding joke for me to tell her, upon leaving, “not to go fighting any wars”.

A memory I have of Kay’s reliability that constantly sticks out in my head is that of Remembrance Day, 2006. On a walk up towards the dining room she caught sight of a box of poppies. Wanting to make a donation towards one, but knowing the office was closed, she pondered aloud how she would be able to get one. Knowing that she was too proud a woman to ask me for the money, I dug around in my purse and came up with nothing more than a quarter. Putting it in the bin, I took out a poppy, and pinned in on Kay’s sweater, above her heart.
The following day, Kay called for me, and asked me to push her to the office. Obligingly, I did so, and sat with her while she discussed her finances with the receptionist. Asking to withdraw $5.25 from her account, she stated, “I want to buy a poppy, and I owe a friend some money.” Telling her that a quarter, in my eyes, was not worth paying back, she smiled, and told me “As a single mother, I’d imagine you need all you can get. And I do not leave a debt unpaid.” Together we deposited the $5.25 cents into the donation box, where I also withdrew a poppy, and wore it with pride.

Christmas came and I inquired to Kay about what she might need. She simply stated, “I need nothing. I’m afraid that as much as I would like to, I do not have the money to buy you a gift in return.” Feeling that the holiday season is not about the gifts that you receive, but the gifts you give, I put special effort into finding her something, and came up with a blue chenille cardigan. Kay was thrilled with the gift, and wore it immediately, and frequently.

In the months that followed, Kay slowly began to lose physical strength. Mentally, she had never been stronger, but physically there were things she was finding herself unable to do. Be it something small like eat her meal, or push the buttons on her clock, it became increasingly frustrating for her. I took special effort in helping her, and, knowing the way she liked things to be done, explained to other staff the “acceptable” way to do them.

In March of 2007 Kay became ill, when the home was inflicted with it’s second bout of Nor-Virus, or, “Norwalk”. She was put under 24-hour isolation on her birthday, the 15th of March, and I was unable to go in and see her. I simply left some cards on her dresser, and left her to sleep, knowing that should she wake up, it would merely frustrate her not to be able to look at them.

From the time she became infected with the virus to the time of her death was seventy days. In those seventy days I saw a change in her so drastic, it breaks my heart to remember. Gone were the days of wheeling herself to the dining room, Kay now spent the majority of her days in a large “Broda” chair, essentially, a bed on wheels. No more did Kay fret if her hearing aid was not in her “right” ear, nor did she concern herself with wearing her glasses. The talking clock had long since retired to the dresser, and her hair stood around her head like the beams on a sun. The only constant that remained with her was her memory. I could still enter a room, and she knew I was there, (I have had staff share with me that on the evening and night shifts she called for me) she still called for me after mealtime to take her to her room, she still held my hand as I silently cried beside her.

Only slowly she was becoming less and less of the Kay I had met less than a year before.

When the time came that Kay had deteriorated so drastically that she hardly spoke, I made a special effort to be her primary caregiver. Be it feeding her her meals, dressing her, or just holding her hand, I made sure to be there as often as I could. I knew that she would have wanted me there, but could not speak for herself. I became her voice, and instructed staff of her needs far more often than they desired, and openly critiqued them for any errors they’d make, as minor as putting her in a dress she did not like, or forgetting to comb her hair.

This brave soul fought as hard as she could to remain in this world, and when the time came that her death was imminent, she pulled out a fresh batch of stubbornness.

Tuesday morning, May 22nd I learned that she had not been doing well at all the previous night, and would remain in bed for the duration of my shift. Knowing what this meant, after almost a year in the nursing home, I became immersed solely in her. I was working the other wing that day, but made a special effort to be there with her, if only for a mere moment. I washed her hair and bathed her in bed (something I know she would have argued against), and sat with her holding her hand. I knew by looking at her that the end was near. I left that shift feeling desolate, and afraid.
By ten o’clock that night I was frantic, feeling the need to get there as soon as possible. So I did. I sat there with her through the night, making sure to swab her open mouth and administer eye-drops to her dry, open eyes. I held her hands and performed all of her care by myself. Rolling her from side to side, and moving my chair accordingly so that she was always facing me, and would know she was not alone, nothing was too much for me. Nothing was too much for her. I slept with my head next to Kay’s, and held onto her hands the entire night. I could sense her fear, and it scared me. I could feel that she was holding on, but to what?
Returning that morning after a few brief hours of rest, I found a small scripture book in her closet. In it there was a list of prayers to say for a variety of occasions. I found a prayer to read to the dying, and read it to her, praying that she would let herself go to a place where she would feel no more pain, where I would not have to see her suffering.
I was afraid to leave her side, for fear of her being alone if she were to pass, and remained at her side that night until midnight, reading her scriptures, and praying for her myself. Telling her, “Do not be afraid to go. I will take care of Mary for you, you have nothing to worry about. You need to go and see your family. You need to escape this pain. I love you so much and it hurts me to see you like this.” She just refused to let go. And in turn, so did I. Essentially it was the night nurse who demanded I go home, and promised that somebody would be at her side every minute until I returned.

But I did not return in time.

I called the nursing home the minute I awoke, and was told that there was no change, and I should spend some time with my son, and relax, and they would call me if and when they needed me. Thirty minutes from the time of that call, I was back on the phone with them, tearfully listening as they told me to come now, that Kay needed me, and she knew I was coming for her. Frantically I dressed and ran out the door, strapping my son in his car seat, and honking for my sister to hurry up to drive me to Kay. Ten minutes on my way there, only five minutes from Ponoka, I received a call from my Mother, who, at the time worked in dietary. She quietly asked me if I was on my way up there, and told me that sadly Kay had just passed., no more than 5 minutes prior.
I started to tremble. I wept, choking out sob after sob as my heart shattered inside of me. Gasping for air, I cried, “No! No! No!” I was supposed to be there. She needed me there. I felt a failure.

I arrived at the nursing home and ran immediately to her room, where I fell into the arms of one of my co-workers. I cried until I felt the tears had run dry. They understood my pain, and they understood the importance of her not being alone, and there were five of them with her when she left this earth.

I asked for privacy, and I walked over to Kay, taking her hand and kissing her forehead, I whispered, “Goodbye, beautiful.” And, as tears spilled from my eyes I walked away, glancing back one last time at one of the best friends I have ever had.

Kay had become a fixture in my life, as previously mentioned. I anticipated our many encounters, be it for a mere minute to give her a hug, or for a long talk lasting through an hour past shift change, every second I spent with her was cherished deeply. Every talk, every word spoken, touches my memory.

Finding a way to deal with her death has been trying for me, knowing that, as told by so many of my co-workers, I should not “get attached” I found it so very hard not to. I still miss her incredibly. I still think of her daily. I have visited her grave, and sat weeping, and felt her presence around me. I know that Kay will never leave me mentally, and physically, I have her name tattooed right on my wrist, and when people question me about it, I love to tell them the story about a “cranky old woman” who stole my heart. All of these memories and two blurry photographs are all I have left of her, and I wouldn’t trade it for the world.

I loved Kay, and will for the remainder of my life.

Peace and Love,

J

A Letter To My Past

Thanks to everyone for their wonderful comments and support regarding my speech. It has really touched my heart :)

I have had a few messages regarding the jerk-off I dated in high school, and thought a few of you (Mindi especially) would enjoy this e-mail I sent to him in January of 2008, after he contacted me and wanted to "hook up".

It was great, and his response was...."uhh....sorry?"

Hey,

I read your e-mail and I didn't even want to respond, nor do I see any reason to now, but I guess I will say my piece.

Whether or not you are the same guy now that you were back then, you still were a bad guy at some point, and made life very difficult for me. A 14 year old girl should never be pressured into sex, constantly lied to, and manipulated. You were just a kid yourself, so I don't know why you tried to act like such an adult. Truth be told, after years of reflection, I still consider you to be an asshole.But, because you were such a jerk to me, and because I allowed you to be, I have become a completely different person today.
Life for me, at that time, was difficult, not only because of our relationship, but due to a lot of things (the loss of my Grandpa..puberty...family struggles) but, in a way, I am thankful for your controlling nature, because it set me over the edge, and forced me to seek help.

Anyways, us hanging out would be stupid.

Regardless of the fact that I forgive you, I doubt if I can ever truly like you as a person. I can accept that you are who you are, and at the time you maybe thought you were doing something good for us, when there was an "us". I can accept that maybe you are just the kind of guy who likes to elaborate the truths, and tell stories to boost your own ego, but I will never like it.

A coffee, one day, could possibly be arranged, but I wouldn't count on it.

And you had no idea what I went through until you called me up. And we did not go through the same thing. We were both cheated on, but that doesn't make it the same.

And I wouldn't call me a sweetheart for forgiving you. I would call me human.

Like I said before, because of the shit you put me through, I knew who not to look for in a man. And now I am with the man of my dreams. So, thanks for that. Perhaps we'll invite you to the wedding. Not.

-Jess

Peace and Love,

J

A Look Inside My Heart

Here is a very intimate look into my life, and my struggles with depression. The following is a speech I presented to a Mother's group, along with my sister Janice. (Her speech will hopefully be made available here)

 

I was 14 when it hit me like a tidal wave. A wall of emotion that hit me so hard that I was left fighting for my breath.
A tidal wave can sometimes be predicted by extremely low tides, the eruption of a volcano near a large body of water can initiate one, a brewing storm can set one in motion.. Little did I know, the storm I had only just begun to feel brewing inside of me had the capacity to completely obliterate me.

Being a teenager is an incredibly delicate time. You experience puberty, feelings of "not fitting in", your blossoming body is both ridiculed and revered by your peers. On top of that throw in not one but 2 Grandparents deaths, an abusive relationship, and a constant fog inside of your mind. That was me. I went from running around in the dirt playing with my best friend with an absence of real responsibility, to a young woman, my shoulder's heavy with the weight of the world. I lost my grandfather after a brief battle with cancer and I was there, holding his hand in the room when he left this earth. 6 months later I lost my other grandfather. In my life I have always held a certain candle for my grandpas, both revering and respecting them. And now, suddenly, they were both gone. I felt as though I had nobody to talk to about my feelings of sadness. None of my friends understood a loss of this magnitude, not one of them had seen a person take their final breath, their soul depart the frame in which you once clung to. My boyfriend would brush off my requests to talk about it, more interested in himself, or my aforementioned blossoming body, to care about the soul and the mind within me. I needed an escape...but what? I retreated further and further into myself and eventually, there was nobody left for me. In addition to my boyfriend's lack of interest in my thoughts and feelings, he had also managed to alienate me from my friendships, leaving me with only him to rely on, when he chose to be my pillar of strength which was rare and only out of some morbid thought that I would "owe him" for his kindness. Eventually he grew tired of my negativity, my constant crying, my clinginess. I had nobody because of him and yet he didn't want me either.What had I done?
What could I do to escape this life that was slamming doors in my face?

I was a little girl lost, on a spiralling descent into the pits of despair, with nobody I felt was willing to save me from myself.
My pain was not unnoticed. My Mother who herself had dealt with depression, whose Mother had also dealt with depression, felt I needed to see a therapist. I was immediately diagnosed clinically depressed.

At 14, I should have been doing my hair, my make-up, playing on the basketball team at the high school. Instead, I would spend my lunch hours sitting by myself in front of my locker, or in the bathroom. where I would go unnoticed. At that time I dutifully took my anti-depressant, Zoloft. I reunited with my boyfriend, who did not agree that I needed prescription drugs, and would verbally berate me for taking them. I was too weak to stand up to him, I sometimes skipped taking them to appease him. After a short reunion he again broke up with me, leaving me devastated.

I remember leaving my English class, unable to tolerate being in a room with my peers, who knew of the break up. Who laughed in my face and called me a "stalker" because I trailed along behind him like a lost puppy dog. I couldn't take their constant mockery, the constant pain inside of my head. I don't recall making a specific plan that I would kill myself, but I attempted that day. I had a pill container full of extra strength tylenol in my backpack and I removed it and in one fell swoop, downed one after another after another tablet until 16 had been ingested. Had I had more tylenol with me, (or any pill for that matter), I would have swallowed it also.I hoped that I would be able to escape from the sadness that had overtaken my body, and dampened my spirit.
My suicide attempt was witnessed by a classmate of mine, who told a teacher whom we had a somewhat personal relationship with, and she later questioned me about my actions, which I vehemently denied.


Denial is one of the biggest parts of being depressed. A constant refusal to admit your sadness, to deny your pain and your actions, so that others are happy. I did not want to ruin anybody else's life as I felt mine was already in shambles. I wanted to quickly and quietly end mine so that my family and my classmates could carry on without me, and the toxicity I brought along.


Shortly after my first suicide attempt, I had a bad day. Again reunited with the boy who I now know enabled my negativity I was lucky to have any semblance of a "good" day. However on this particular day, he called me derogatory names, and told me in a note that "[he] wished I were a guy, so [he] could pound [my] face in." I was at the end of my rope. The waves were coming up faster and faster, more and more at once. Crying uncontrollably, I tried to leave my house at 12 am, telling my Mom that I wasn't coming back. I had no plan ahead of me, I just knew I had to leave. My Mom held me close, and told me to stay. I remember arguing with her, horrible and negative comments spewing like venom from my bitter mouth. She called the therapy clinic and I was taken to hospital by two on-call crisis counsellors. There I had a choice laid out in front of me. I either go to the AHP for treatment (the AHP being a well-known psychiatric hospital employing more than half of my community), or I go to a group home in Red Deer, where I would undergo intense 24 hour surveillance and counselling. I chose the latter, in order to protect myself from prying eyes.


I lived in a group home in Red Deer for a week, where I went to an on-site school to catch up on my schoolwork. I was visited by my therapist, my school counselor sent letters and phone calls. I secretly called "him", lying and saying that I was on the phone with my siblings or parents. Unfortunately they were pretty lax in the phone department, and nobody checked up on me. Unfortunately I chose to ignore their help, and continue down the self-destructive path in which I was on.


After a week there I was allowed to go home, with alterations to my medication, and a medical note to excuse me from school for a few days while I regrouped. Upon my return to regular classes, I resumed my relationship (if one would call it that) with "the boy". Desperate to please him and prove to him that I was normal and not the burden he claimed, and I felt I was, I refused to argue with him. He wanted sex, something I knew I wasn't emotionally strong enough to give, but I did. From that point on, our "relationship" consisted of nothing more than this; sex, avoidance, namecalling, and loneliness.



At 15, I learned that I was pregnant. I was terrified. I told my parents, and he promised he did the same. The same weekend that I broke the news to my parents, I miscarried. I hadn't even had time to accept the pregnancy yet there I was, in my church clothes in the bathroom, a bloody clot in my hands. How could I not crack even deeper than I already had? The next day, I broke the news to him, and his response is what finally gave me the strength to break free of him; "That sucks, let's have sex.".

I spent the next 3 years trying to clean up the mess that I had generated, to try to rid myself of the stigma that I had bore like a scarlet letter attached to my chest I had become "The crazy girl". I had chosen, upon finding out about my pregnancy, to discontinue the use of my anti-depressant. Through weekly counselling sessions with my therapist, I was able to continue to live without them. I slowly felt myself becoming stronger, and standing my ground. I finally broke free of the mold I had become cast in, and became "Jessica".

I wish I could say that my life continued on in a positive, medication-free path. Unfortunately I can not.


At 18, I again became pregnant. My boyfriend was mature, older, kind. He promised to take care of me and our child. I finally felt safe. As I have come to learn, in my life when it comes to relationships I am seldom right. As my pregnancy progressed he became more and more distant. He missed the birth of our son by over an hour. I know why, though he has never admitted to it, and I refuse to hear him say the words. He was a drug addict. He is a drug addict to this day, nearly 5 years later. He chose to spend his mornings waking up to a crack pipe, and not a crying infant; for comfort he inhaled white powder, and not the scent of new life, instead of caressing our son, he caressed a bottle of alcohol. While he was welcoming a new encouter into his life, I welcomed an old friend. Depression came crawling back, reminding me that I was worthless, that my life was over. That nobody could give me the love I required. Especially not the perfect little human being I held in my arms.


I began to have trouble sleeping. I cried more than what was deemed normal. I denied my feelings of sadness for as long as I could. I did not want this to overtake me, and tried to fight the feelings inside of me. One day while holding my son, I found myself picturing his demise. Not imagining myself actually committing these crimes, but having them happen to him. Today, thinking of losing him knocks the wind out of me. Then, I felt nothing. I was hollow. I knew that I needed to start my medications and counseling again. It was no longer just my own life at risk, it was my son's. I refused to give up this bright light that sliced through my dark days.


Taking the steps to acknowledge my post-partum depression were exceedingly difficult for me. I had to admit my feelings of failure, again. I had to begin medication, again (this time Effexor.) I had to face my demons, and overcome them, again. I thought I had done this already, that I paid my dues to the devil that is depression. Oh how foolish I was.


I battled with my demons for the next 6 months, taking my medication as prescribed, enjoying every second that I could with my beautiful son; taking time for myself. Ending another relationship that was detrimental to my health. When things got hectic at home, teething especially, I would take a deep breath; I would leave the room and let my son cry. Anything that would defer negative thoughts from crossing my mind, I did. I opened up to my family and friends about my depression struggles in the past, and my current struggles. Though I did not become the "Jessica" I was in high school, I did become something more amazing, I became "Mommy."
I wish that I could say at the end of this, that I am a stronger person. That depression does not still affect me. But I would be lying if I said that. When my son was 2, I was put back on anti-depressants at my Doctor's request. I will now take them daily, for the rest of my life. And I am okay with that.
Although my life has taken many twists and turns, broken friendships, a failed marriage, personal let downs - and worse, letting my family down, I have come away from things
a strong person.

On January 10, 2011, I was in a very mixed up, dark place. My life changed from that day. I nearly let everything go, and succumbed to the demons in my head. But I am here today, which says something not only about my emotional health, but about the love I know surrounds me.

2011 was a rough year for me. I struggled with accepting the choices I made to end my marriage, the disappointment my family felt in me, and the new relationship I was in - with someone nearly twice my age. I was in my first year of school to become a Funeral Director/Embalmer - my dream job - and was letting all of my personal drama overwhelm me, which ended up costing me that career.

The only thing that kept me going - besides my son, who showed bravery despite the chaos of our lives - was Rob. Because even when my life was crumbling around me, he was holding me up. My best friend. The piece of the puzzle I had been yearning for - together we fit. We work. It's the most incredible relationship, although strange perhaps to some. To finally be in a place of peace. With my life, with my family. I could have never imagined I would be here.

I have grown immensely as a person, someone I at 14 did not imagine could exist. I love being "Jessica", or "Mommy", or partner to the love of my life. I embrace the joys, the stress, the memory that each day brings with it. Sometimes I want
to lay in bed and have a cry, and a pity-party, and I am okay with that. As long as I do not let that pity
overcome me, and I remember that I am a warrior, and I will survive, that I am only human, and nobody is perfect.

Though I was overtaken by the tidal wave of depression and carried miles away with it, eventually I was
brought back in with the tide. I was thrown a lifevest (effexor) to keep me afloat, and, though I
occasionally have nightmares that I am drowning once more in the abyss, I wake up and find beside me a
solid ground in the form of my amazing partner, and my wonderful son.

I am blessed.

Peace and Love,

J