Returning from the Depths

Reflections on grief and paperwork from the sideline bench

My dear bright stars,

At the end of July last summer I got the call I’d been dreading. My mom had fallen, and since she was my dad’s carer, the ambulance took both my octogenarian parents to the hospital. I threw four outfits in a suitcase and booked a one-way flight from Vancouver to the island where my parents lived. Gazing out the airplane window at the coastal mountains and the ocean I was hyper calm and super present in a way I’ve only ever experienced in the nanoseconds of awareness before a car wreck. These were the last moments of before. Everything was about to change.

At the hospital my parents were in the same room together, my dad in valiant spirits. My mom was a tiny, unworried bird, her eyes glowing bluer than I’d ever seen them. Just a few weeks before when I visited she was still pushing herself—driving, running the household, cooking, and telling all her stories. Still such a force that when she said she’d stopped chemotherapy because it was no longer working and she didn’t think she’d see another Christmas I didn’t believe her. She even sent me home with a half dozen homemade muffins.

In the hospital she had so little tension on her face she looked radiant and beautiful. She was letting go. From there her journey home only took a week. My dad, brother, nephew, aunt, uncle, and I were all with Mom on her last day, buoyed by a few of her loveliest friends. She passed on August 8, the astrological Lion’s Gate Portal, and that night a gigantic orange moon shone, sparkling on the water. Now when I think of Mom I sense her in ceilings and skies. I see a lot of butterflies and dragonflies.

Then things got much harder

My dad remained in hospital as we made mom’s final arrangements. He’d lost so much weight we scrambled to get him dress pants to fit him for mom’s funeral. But even though he was frail he was still very with it mentally. We had some good talks at the hospital. My nephew brought me more clothes from Vancouver and we all tried to get Dad appropriate seniors housing—a hot mess too complicated to recount here.

At the end of summer everyone else in my family had to return home to other cities to work but I stayed. I parked my life and career on a big imaginary bench and showed up for my most fervent supporter and best reader, returning to the hospital every day to keep Dad company and be his patient advocate.

My dad had lung and old age issues, but nothing imminently medically wrong. Everyone, including his doctor, told me to go back to Vancouver. But then I’d look into Dad’s eyes and I couldn’t leave him alone. Mom and Dad were married 59 years and he was half of himself, floundering without her. My heart was broken missing Mom, and even though he was stoic and didn’t say, Dad’s heart was crushed. I kept seeing duos everywhere: two deer in the yard; two moths dancing mid-air; two eagles soaring. I even found out from a cab driver that the neighbourhood’s nighttime marauding bear was actually two bears.

Then on the Friday of Thanksgiving long weekend Dad was diagnosed with life-threatening pneumonia. My brother flew in the next day and we each held one of Dad’s hands as he breathed his final breaths on Sunday morning, leaving us to join Mom. That night the constellations were the brightest I’d seen, like Dad was sending me a map from the stars.

Grief and paperwork

Winter was a lonely blur. I finally returned to Vancouver for a reprieve but spent most of my time back on the island traipsing around to offices and institutions with a folder containing two death certificates and two wills. Death requires a lot of paperwork. There were also many frustrating phone calls trying to get accounts closed and incorrect charges reversed, and two final tax returns to file. None of it was easy.

Loss sent me spiraling into anxiety. And bereft, I cried so much my nose and cheeks were red and raw from the salt of my tears. All I knew from my collected wisdom as writer and reader was it’s necessary to feel fully. I let the grief flow through me, and as winter storms raged on the island I would often howl along with the wind. Grief doesn’t need to be quiet!

I’m so grateful for my dear friends who advocated for the importance of me taking ample time to grieve. Some people are able to push through, but for me time and rest has been a balm and a gift. Taking a career break is a radical act in our culture, but for me I know I never produce good writing while under duress.

Beginning again

After the worst storms of grief subsided an idea for a new book emerged in spring. As I continue to heal my heart I’m writing again, and listening to lots of audiobooks for inspiration.

Please stay tuned for news and updates. I’ll produce new episodes of the podcast when I’m able (maybe fall?).

The imaginary bench is fading.

Soon I’ll be here taking a stand again.

In the meantime please read the obituaries I wrote in tribute to my beloved parents:

Mom

Dad

Sending you stardust and courage,

Suzannexo

One of my favourite photos of Dad.