The Festival of Lights

Latkes are my favourite!

When I was a kid, I quit Chanukah.  

Chanukkah.

Hannukah.

Hanukkah.

However you spell it, I wanted nothing to do with it.

I was about 9 years old when I declared my disenchantment with the festival of lights. I told my Mom that I wanted to celebrate Christmas instead, because all of my friends at school did. I was one of only a handful of Jewish students in a small elementary school, and I wanted to do what everyone else was doing. Naturally.

My Mom found this humorous. She thoughtfully reminded me that I was born into the Jewish faith, and there was not one thing wrong with that. She also told me that I was free to choose the religion I wanted to subscribe to, and if I chose none at all, she would love me all the same. She even took me to our local public library, so I could read about the Jewish holidays, and the holidays of other faiths. If I was going to make a decision, it was going to be an educated one. With colorful pictures and huge print.

That year, I explored Christmas. I read about the baby Jesus, the wise men, and the *gasp* Virgin Mary (Hey, I was a kid!). I helped a classmate decorate her Christmas tree. I was pretty much done with Chanukah. My family, however, continued to celebrate the holiday. My Dad would help my brother hold the shamash as he lit the other candles. They all said the prayer, as I sat at the kitchen table and didn’t participate. They lit the candles, and then we all ate dinner together. When I reached for the latkes, my mother smirked and jokingly said “Those are for Chanukah.” I scowled at her.  This went on for several nights. As the holiday drew to a close, I approached my Mom to say I had changed my mind. I wanted to be Jewish again.

She smiled at me and raised her eyebrows when she asked me what had changed. She hugged me tightly when I said: “I missed lighting the candles with you, Daddy and Adam. I didn’t like being by myself.” And that’s how I learned the most important thing about faith: Having faith, no matter where you stand on the idea of religion, is about being with family, and never ever feeling alone.

Although I’m not religious at all, and often joke that I’m Jew-ish, I have always had faith. I have always believed in family, and tradition, no matter the format. In my home, there will be a menorah AND a Christmas tree, for both me and Tyler. This weekend when I head to Trenton to visit his family, I’m bringing the menorah my Mom got me for my first apartment in Toronto, and a bunch of fancy candles to light. Lighting the menorah is how I stay connected to my heritage, but mostly how I stay connected to my family and my childhood. It is the only holiday I truly celebrate, because it reminds me of the freedom I was given to choose, and to be my own person. And I also love latkes, and would eat them every day if it were socially acceptable. With applesauce.

So to all of my Jewish friends, I wish you a very festive and happy Chanukah. May your latkes be plentiful, and may your dreidel games win you heaps of gelt.

Here's some Adam Sandler to make it extra special. Eight craaaaazy nights!

To everyone who is reading this (thank you!), Jewish and not: 

May you always have faith in something. And let there always be family and friends to support you, and remind you why just being YOU is enough.

Happy Holidays!

Nameless Thanks

Always get the Cheeseburger.

When my brother and I were kids, there was this one restaurant the family always frequented. We always ordered the same thing, and the car ride to the restaurant was just as exciting as the actual meal. The words “Are we there yet?” and “I’m hungry!” were uttered so many times, my parents turned up the radio to tune us out. Even parking the car was a good time, trying to find a place close to the restaurant, which happened to be on the always-busy Rue Ste-Catherine Ouest. The restaurant of choice was Mr. Steer, and they still make my favorite burger EVER.

When I come home to Montreal, I still try to get out to Mr. Steer for a bite. When I’m there, my mind is always flooded with memories of my brother and I staring at the menu and ordering our burgers, eating the bread and butter pickles out of the jar much to our mother’s dismay. Walking in there now, the floors are still slick and slippery with burger grease and/or a recent cleaning, and the booths are still too small. There is still a small plastic dispenser of Kraft French salad dressing at each table, and jars of bread and butter pickles that remind me of the old days. The burgers aren’t huge, but they are thick and very juicy. The signature ‘Suzie Q’ fries still make us say: “Check out how long and curly this fry is!” They even sell the Thrills gum behind the counter at the cash, the kind my Mom loved even though it tastes like soap.

Although the restaurant fit most of the requirements to be a dive, it was our favorite place to eat. It was Mom’s place first, when she was a kid. And then it was ours. A place we all loved. A treat we enjoyed as a family, even if Adam and I bickered and annoyed each other the entire time, and drove my parents crazy.

The Millers didn’t need fine dining. It was always about being together, sharing fries and a piece of my parents’ history. The whole process of driving downtown from the suburbs was an adventure in itself: If it was a nice night, my father would roll down the windows for us so we could people watch on Ste-Catherine. My Mom would point out the *ahem* street walkers, which probably was ill-advised for kids under 12, because we took it upon ourselves to yell “Look at the HOOKERS!!!” not really knowing what we were saying. Did I mention the windows were rolled down?

Over the years, I’ve tried many different burgers. In Toronto, my boyfriend and I were on a burger mission of sorts, trying the best of the best that our city had to offer. Still, the Mr. Steer cheeseburger is my favorite. It might not be the biggest burger, and it might not be made of bison or buffalo, but it’s delicious and it reminds me of my childhood, and my Mom. You can travel the world and try a million different flavors, but the taste of home is hard to reproduce.

One particular Mr. Steer visit will always be in my heart, and the point of this post. I’m just taking a long time to get there. Although totally possible that I’d write it someday, this isn’t just a blog post about burgers.

A few weeks before my Mom died, she asked if she could go home. We couldn’t give her the full spectrum care that she needed at our house, and the Jewish General Hospital truly took such amazing care of her it didn’t make sense to remove her from her care team. The doctors and nurses felt that no harm would be done if she was home for a day, and organized it for a Saturday afternoon. 

I’m not sure it has been mentioned on the blog before, but the placement of my Mom’s tumor was such that its size enabled it to push through her bladder and press directly onto her sciatic nerve. She had no mobility in her left leg, and was so swollen she could no longer walk. She was also hooked up to morphine, and a catheter. Coming home was going to require some effort, and she was coming home on a hospital bed.

The ambulance technicians arrived at our house, and began to carry her bed into the house. As they brought her up the steps to our front door, she softly asked them to stop. They paused on the front stoop. It was unseasonably warm out that day, almost like summer, and she told them that she wanted to feel the sun on her face. She took her arms out from under the sheets and held them up to the sun, tilting her chin up to feel the sun beaming down on her face, warming her.

They placed her gently on the sofa, where my brother and I sat by her, holding her hands. That was the last time she ever came home.

When it was time for her to return to the hospital, the ambulance technicians gingerly placed her back on the hospital bed and put her back into the ambulance. And then they created what might have been the most beautiful moment ever, simply by asking: “Is there anywhere else you’d like to go?”

Mr. Steer.

That’s where she wanted to go. She wanted a burger and Suzie Q fries.

So on arguably the busiest street in downtown Montreal, the ambulance double-parked, and the technicians waited with my Mom while my Dad went in to order burgers and fries for everyone. She didn’t eat much of her Mr.Steer burger, but the small bites she had were, in one word: “Delicious.”

My Dad always says that his one regret was that he never got the names of the ambulance technicians that day, because he so wanted to thank them for their kindness and compassion. I wrote this post today in hopes that this makes their way to them, so they know that their wonderful deed has been remembered and appreciated all these years:

On April 29^th, 2006, two ambulance technicians from the Jewish General Hospital gave my Mom, Judi Rival Miller, the gift of sunshine, love, and a trip to Mr. Steer. If you’re reading this, thank you from the Miller family. You made her day, and ours. We have never forgotten you, we just never knew your names. 

Rebel With A Cause

In a previous post, I mentioned having some trouble with family members that did not have my best interests at heart. Although I’ve moved on from them, one thing I heard mentioned in the last 15 months of drama was that I’m not a good person, and terribly selfish. I’m the “black sheep” of the family, apparently.

Selfish:(Adjective): Concerned excessively or exclusively with oneself. Seeking or concentrating on one's own advantage, pleasure, or well-being without regard for others. Arising from concern with one's own welfare or advantage in disregard of others <a selfish act>.

And so I sat here, at my computer, for an hour. Typing and erasing. Wondering if that’s true. And coming to the realization that no, it's not.

We all have our need for “me” time, and sometimes that’s disconnecting from all social media (which I’ve done), or taking a Yoga class. Sometimes it’s taking yourself away for a weekend to re-balance.

I think we all often peg ourselves as selfless, but I wonder if those who consider themselves beyond altruistic really understand what that means. Being charitable and giving your money away doesn’t make you any less selfish if you’re only about yourself on a regular basis.

My immediate family has always been a charitable bunch, with our hearts, our time, and sometimes in a monetary manner. My Mom was always available to help a friend, be it by listening to someone talk out their troubles, or by stocking a fridge when a friend was on their way home from an extended trip. It was a never a question. It’s just who she was. She was like the best concierge ever at Hotel Friendship. In more news, my goodness was that corny.

Dad is the same way, if not more. He is selfless beyond what’s necessary, and sometimes is so helpful with labourious tasks that he exhausts himself. This drives me nuts, and I shake my fist at him often. I don’t like when he’s not feeling well because he wanted to help, but that’s just the wonderful human he is. When a gift to friends and family is required, it is often a donation in their name to my mother’s Cancer research fund at the Jewish General Hospital in Montreal, the Judi Miller Fund. If my Dad only had $5.00, and needed to get someone a gift, he would donate it. Most of us would take that $5.00 and buy a latte at a fancy coffee shop, myself included.

My brother and I learned early on that giving is more important than receiving. My Mom stressed that notion to us often. In our thirties, we both try to help people where we can, when we can. Sometimes giving can take a turn for the worse, and my Dad is often on my case because I’ve been known to befriend people because I think I can help them, only to learn that it’s not my job to help those that are trouble unto themselves. I have learned from my Dad that although I can certainly help with sailing tips, the boat and the wind are someone else’s to master.

I’ve only volunteered once in my life, and I think that will be a 2013 goal to rectify. I can do more, and time is something I can definitely give. And though I haven’t donated tons of money, I’ve given of myself in other ways: In 2003 and 2007, I cut off my ponytail and donated it to those going through chemo so that they might have wigs made. Short hair on a redhead with curls is not a good look, I can assure you. I looked like Little Orphan Annie. 

Both donation moments were shared with a tremendously close friend, B, who chopped my locks both times, and then let me cry and hugged me at the meaning of it all. She’s the good egg who shaved my Mom’s head in our kitchen, when the chemo began to take its toll. My Mom asked her for help, and B didn't even hesitate. She even asked my Mom if she needed a moment to reflect and take a deep breath before she turned on the electric razor. You don't find hearts like that very often.

In 2008, I participated in the Weekend to End Women’s Cancers, and walked 60km in the cold rain in my Mom’s memory, raising money for the cause. It was the most intense thing I've ever done, and something everyone should try once. Just to be part of something so meaningful and amazing.

Since I lost my Mom, people recommend me to friends who have suffered familial loss as someone who has gone through the same trauma, and who is a very good and empathetic listener. I try to be that person every day. Some days aren’t so easy, and sometimes the shoulder I lend is abused, but I do try to be available when friends or “friends of friends” need to talk, no matter the situation. And although I write this blog for myself, I know that it serves a purpose for the bereaved in the Hope and Cope group at the Jewish General Hospital.

This week I’m hosting a swap party in my home, where my girlfriends and I can swap clothing and accessories without spending a cent. Anything leftover is being donated to Goodwill or Dress for Success, which if you haven’t heard of please click the link. It’s such an awesome cause, and one my Mom for sure would have supported.

If you’re reading this and saying “She’s trying to prove something!” I can assure you I’m not. I have a hard enough time remembering to drink enough water daily, so trust that my motivation is communication only.

What I’m trying to say is that there are ways of being charitable and selfless that don’t require your money, just your heart. Maybe one person will read this and be energized into doing something small, something amazing.

If you’re lacking inspiration, I’ve got some to offer:

My 11 year old cousin just chopped off a foot of pretty blonde hair, and donated it to a charity that helps children with Cancer get wigs made with real hair. Although she’s only 11, she has been touched by Cancer three times already. She lost her Grandpa (my Dad’s brother) and two beloved aunties, one of which was my Mom. That’s a lot of loss for one kid, for anyone really. She’s so young, and yet she has taken her sadness and allowed it to motivate her to do good things for others. Maybe her Mom will let her read this one post, because I don’t think I have ever been prouder of anyone in my whole life. Tea, you’re a very special little lady. And you’re my favorite, but don’t tell anyone. *wink*

We can all do something small, even if it is just giving an unsolicited cup of coffee to a stressed out colleague.

Let’s all mirror the heart of a 6^th grader today.

Do something good.

The Times They Are A Changin'...

This is going to be a weird post, because my Dad reads these.

In the last 9 months, my father has been seeing someone. A woman. He’s DATING A WOMAN.

I’m his biggest cheerleader in terms of getting back “out into the field,” but I don’t think I really ever realized what it would feel like once he actually did. It feels crazy. My heart beats all happy-like and breaks at the same time. I feel weird.

On the one hand, I can’t even imagine what it must be like to start dating someone once you’ve been widowed. As someone who has been divorced, moving on makes sense. That person, for whatever reason, wasn’t the right one for you, nor you for them. But when your spouse dies…that’s a whole other kettle of fish.

My parents were happy. I mean, they had their moments (who doesn’t), but after over 30yrs of marriage, they clearly loved each other very much. So I admit here on the interwebs that I am working on how to cope with these feelings I’m having, and maybe my Dad is feeling the exact same way. I’d only ever known him with my Mom, so the notion of seeing him with someone else was foreign, even uncomfortable for me as I pictured it in my head.

For months, it was like this woman was a secret. It seemed like my brother and I would never meet her. She was the Snuffalupagus. All in all, we were happy for him. His zest for life had made a return, and I could hear happiness in his voice when I spoke to him. I helped him plan meals and desserts when he cooked for her at home, and I went shopping with him for new clothes for a trip to the tropics. I even went out and bought her a Christmas gift, because the thought of him being in a mall trying to figure it out in the midst of the holiday madness made me nervous, and I was fairly certain he’d come home with a potato, a ceramic giraffe and a bag of black licorice (for himself).

Months went by, and it all seemed fairly normal. Except for the part where we hadn’t met her yet. And then I started to wonder if maybe my Dad was afraid for us to meet her. Or that maybe he just wasn’t sure how HE felt about the whole thing. About dating in general. About his children meeting a woman he was fond of, that wasn’t our Mom. I don’t even know how you do that. I am clueless as to what this feels like for my father.

On a trip home in mid-July, I finally met my Dad’s companion and her daughter. My father hosted a BBQ for us to meet. Adam had met her prior to me coming home, so I was essentially the missing link. When I called my brother to ask what she was like, hoping for some insight, he said “She’s short.” Which wasn’t much help, clearly. I had daily panic attacks for the week leading up to this meeting, so I can only imagine my Dad was feeling a little anxious as well. I cried when I was alone with my boyfriend, and couldn’t put my finger on the real WHY. My father has a right to happiness, and to companionship. My weird and obscure fear of meeting her bothered me.

This weekend after some bizarre nightmares about my Mom and weird memories of our time in the hospital, I realized what was upsetting me: It wasn’t that my father has moved forward with his life. It was that it is another reminder that my Mom isn’t coming back. And as juvenile a notion as that is, that’s how I was feeling. She is gone. And my memories of her in my kitchen are still so vivid, so seeing another woman in there helping me slice tomatoes and pickles was unfathomable to me. Seeing her gently touch my Dad’s forearm at the table, and hearing the smack of a kiss in the hallway simultaneously gutted me and made me happy for my Dad. I thought people saying “I’m not trying to replace your Mom” was something they only said in the movies, so when she said it to me during a moment alone at the BBQ, I almost burst into tears.

I always think about what it must be like for my Dad to move on and to try and create a new normal as a widower. I try to picture his side of the coin before I ask questions or make decisions. And I wonder if this time we’re feeling the same thing, for the same reason. Fear, hope, and love. All at once. Some days I get it, and some days I don’t. I figure it’s the same for him.

Oh, and meeting “J” and her daughter was totally fine. They were great, we had a nice evening, and “J” is clearly quite smitten with my Dad. I mean, he’s pretty fantastic so that’s a given!

Just when I think I’ve got it all in the bag, life moves forward with a new change and a new kick in the pants. It doesn’t much care if I'm ready or not. Like anyone else, I just have to manage through whatever the pivotal moment is, and cry if required. I have good days and bad days. And I learn from both. My Dad is dating. And even if I’m not ready for it, he is. And that is the most important thing.

Music Notes

My Favorite Dance Partner

In order to fully appreciate this post, I ask that you click the music links. That way you get a feel for my love for music, and a peek into our kitchen where the music happened.

I have been obsessed with music for as far back as my memories go. Music is so enmeshed in my genetic make-up that I don’t think I could function without it. Basically, I can’t live without music. It’s a bold statement, I know: It’s the truth.

Some of my first steps were probably dance moves, wiggling my little diapered bum in time to the music. And some of my first accidents were because I didn’t have enough balance yet, and danced myself face first into the bricks surrounding our fireplace. My father loves to tell that story, by the way. And it happened 35 years ago. *sigh*

I loved hearing the tunes in my ears. I didn’t know what band it was, I didn’t know who was singing, but the moment my parents threw the needle on the record, I was in heaven. My earliest memories of music are of my Mom singing to me while strumming on her guitar. She had the prettiest voice, and I remember feeling warm and safe when she sang to me. Sometimes it was The Beatles. Sometimes it was Carole King. It was always Leonard Cohen. I knew the words to So Long, Marianne before I knew the words to Raffi’s Baby Beluga.

My parents always made sure there was music in our home. We had a very fancy turntable and stereo system. We even had speakers in OTHER rooms in the house, and it was the 1970’s. That’s some very advanced technology. Although there was plenty of kiddie music to go around, like Sharon, Lois and Bram, Raffi, Fred Penner and Free To Be, You And Me, I was obsessed with all of my parents’ music. This song by Flamenco Fever Hands and Feet made me go insane with joy when my Dad played it. The clapping, the stomping and the beat: I went nuts for it. I stomped my little feet, slapped my hands together and laughed my face off. I think there is probably incriminating video somewhere, my Dad tends to keep all of my embarrassing moments on tape.

We grew up in a house filled with music. Our vinyl collection was insane. As a kid, my Mom gave me the important job of making sure the albums weren’t out of order. Beatles with Beatles, in order of year. James Taylor’s albums needed to be at the front of the pack so she could see his face, her “Sweet Baby James.” My Dad is planning on living to be 107 years old so that the fight between Adam and I over who gets the Iron Butterfly album is delayed. I even remember locking myself in the bathroom with Heart’s self-titled album in 1990, trying to get my eye make-up to look like Nancy Wilson’s.

In a previous post I mentioned that whenever my Mom was cooking, she would put on The Beatles. Her favorite song was Rocky Raccoon, and she taught my brother and I the words so we could sing it with her. She loved music with a story, just as I do now. She once taught me the words to Why Don't We Do It In The Road, with a funny little smile on her face. She explained Lucy In The Sky With Diamonds to me. I grew up in my kitchen, watching her cook, learning about music. Listening to the lyrics, and soaking it all in. I’m guessing my strange ability to learn and recite lyrics after one listen is due to my Mom’s instructions to “open my ears”. I can’t remember where I put my keys, but ask me the lyrics to any song and I probably know them.

Every time Julia came on, my Dad would stroll into the kitchen and sing to her, giving her a little squeeze as he walked through. Julia was her full name. Judi was the name she preferred. To this day, I have a fairly intense reaction to hearing that song. It’s like I am instantly back in my Mom’s kitchen, watching my parents love each other, while a song about a beautiful girl with seashell eyes and a windy smile plays on. I miss those days so much I ache. I ache for a time when things were simple. And the only things that mattered were love and music.

My mother and I shared love, music and a car, and there was always some CD or other already loaded, ready to go before she even put her seatbelt on. Road trips required some very essential CDs, like the Gipsy Kings, Emo Philips comedy, and James Taylor. One time when we’d had a fight, my mother left her love note to me in the car. A post-it note on the steering wheel said “Put on song #7, from me to you. Love Mom.” And when I did, Carole King’s beautiful voice came out of the speakers, singing You’ve Got A Friend. Music said things we weren’t brave enough to say. It said with lyrics what was in our hearts when we were at a loss for words.

Even at weddings, I never needed to bring a date. If my parents were going to be there, I danced with them. So did everyone else, for that matter. They knew how to get a party going, and danced long after the “old folks” had gone to sit down and pick at the sweet table. My Dad even has a specific dance move that I love. And whenever our song comes on, Stevie Wonder’s Sir Duke he is nimble on his feet, busting that move with me with a smile on his face.

If you think I’m a little music obsessed, I got it from Dad. He’s a music freak. I’ve made him numerous mixed tapes and CDs over the years, introducing him to The Avett Brothers, Rufus Wainwright, and other artists he’d not listened to before. Whenever I go home to visit, he guilt trips me with this sentence: “You haven’t given me any new music lately.” His musical collection rivals mine. He’s been at it longer than me, natch. Being able to share music with my Dad makes me so happy. Above all else, we have bonded over music. We have healed our hearts while listening to bluegrass. We have laughed while my Dad dances around to My Humps by the Black Eyed Peas. I also am shaking my head that I just linked to that song. What a difference 30+ years make.

I love music so much that I’ve gone so far as to not want to date someone who doesn’t love it as much as I do. This is crazy, I know. I live according to Nietzsche’s quote: "Without music, life would be an error." So to, would be dating someone who doesn’t love music. When telling a friend about someone new and special in my life, she asked me: “But Amy, does he love music as much as you do?” I’m true to my heart, if not totally predictable. Oh, and yes he does: This someone is so special that he surprised me with tickets to see Leonard Cohen in concert.

I can attribute songs to my favorite memories of my Mom, for nearly every year of my life. Truly, my Mom was music for me. She was, and always will be my favorite song. Music and memories are built to last. Our job is to make sure to play the tunes and tell the stories that mean something to us.  

Music you have healed me. You have propelled me forward. You have opened my heart and mind. Without you, Music, I never would have known my Mom or Dad. And I certainly wouldn’t dance in my kitchen while cooking, just like when I was a kid.

And as John Lennon sang for his late mother, Julia, I write to my Mom in this blog post: “When I cannot sing my heart, I can only speak my mind…”

The Storyteller

My Mom's favorite treat. Best enjoyed frozen.

On May 11, 2006, my Mom died of Cancer. Today marks 6 years since she left us.

I've decided that today’s post is going to be a different one. There will be no lessons I’ve learned, or things that have caused me to shake my wee fist.

Instead, today I’m going to share my Mom with you.

If you’re a friend of mine, there’s a strong possibility (we’re talking 98.6% chance here) that you’ve heard some stories about my Mom more than once. I love being able to share her silliness and sweetness with the friends who never got to meet her.  It’s my way of staying connected to her memory, and explaining how I came to be, well, ME.

I once dated someone who became visibly irritated when I repeated stories about my mother.  If I was telling a tale about something funny she’d said, he’d say: “You already told me that one.” And then he’d sigh as though I was boring him, annoyed that I’d clearly forgotten I’d already told that story. I was hurt every time he did this.

If you’ve lost someone, telling stories is how you keep your memories alive. And if someone loves you, letting you share those stories when you need to is how they help you keep your soul intact.

My Mom was the best storyteller I’d ever known. She knew how to keep our interest, weaving in and out of her childhood experiences as though she was still just a kid. She smiled, she laughed, and sometimes she cried at her memories. My brother and I ate up every word like candy, as each story taught us something new about her. We held her eyes in our own, rapt with curiosity, watching her face as she regaled us with stories of her upbringing, her best friends, her travels, my father, and us. And even if we’d heard the story before, we’d beg her to tell us again. She never said no. For those brief moments, we were in Judi’s world. And we loved it.

She’d tell us about how her father used to bring home May West’s fresh from the factory so that she and her older brother could enjoy them. They were the rejected sweets, broken, crushed and couldn’t be sold, so my Grandpa would give them to his kids as a treat.  I can’t even count how many times she told that story. Even now that she’s gone, we still talk about it. And when I eat a May West cake (which is almost never because they’re kind of gross), I’m reminded of the story. And I smash it with my hand in the package so it looks cracked and broken.

Then there was the story about the hideous Hungarian porcelain doll with the creepy sunken eyes. It was one of those dolls that you have repeat nightmares about: Its sightless eyes would open and close, it had blood red lips, and my brother and I hated it. We would hide it so that it wouldn’t stare at us, yet somehow it would resurface. It got worse with age: The eyes fell out of the sockets, and I thought for sure it would kill me in my sleep. My Mom would put it in my bedroom just to mess with me. She told us the story of how it had actually been her mother’s doll.

When their marriage crumbled under the strain of surviving the Holocaust physically but not emotionally, my Mom’s parents separated. The belongings and children were split up and my Mom went to live with her father, as her mother had decided she didn’t want her. The old doll was left behind in the dust. My Mom assumed ownership, and gave it a home where her mother had abandoned it. We learned about her childhood through this doll’s path. It stayed in our home and remains there to this day.

What’s great about this sad story is that my Mom found the humor embedded deeply within, and shared it with her kids. Her horrible experience cemented her love and devotion to us. A couple of weeks before she died, she asked my brother and I if we wanted anything special of hers so she could let my Dad know.

Adam quipped: “Amy wants the creepy doll.”

I quickly responded: “No way, Adam said HE wants it.”

My mother, in pain and so very tired, jokingly piped up with: “Forget it. I’m taking her with me.”

She was a funny parent. As non-traditional as they come, she found interesting ways of getting to know her kids. She’d tell us stories about us as babies. Her favorite stories stemmed from us being upset or outraged. For example: My brother cried a lot as a baby/toddler/kid. He always seemed to be in some sort of state of upset or frustration. Mom took Polaroid pictures of him so that later in life she could show them to him and ask him what the problem was. Not a word of a lie, she actually did it. She also sent me out to play in the snow with a metal ladle. I don’t even know how many times I came in from playing outside with the damn thing stuck to my tongue.

Although I try to disguise my sappiness, I'm definitely a romantic at heart. My favorite stories about Mom were of boys she had dated and how she met and fell in love with my father. I asked her to tell me the story about her first date with my Dad over and over again. I was in love with her stories, relishing my moments with her. She was in another place, remembering, animated and shining with happiness as she told me about my Dad, and how she knew he was the one. 

She had been fixed up on a date with “Norman” by her friend Peggy and my dad’s friend Allan.  My father was going to pick her up from her art class, so she told him “I will be the little artsy girl standing outside”. He drove up in a shiny silver Firebird 400. They drove around for 2 hours, stopping on Mount Royal which is notorious for its look-out. Sadly, they never got out of the car: It rained non-stop. But it didn’t deter them from talking and laughing, and it turned out that they got along VERY well. And that’s where the silliness begins: Because when it came time for her to go home, Norman didn’t want to get out of the car because it was raining. He didn’t want his hair to frizz. When Mom got home, she called Peggy and said “How tall is he?”  The rest is history. 

When I was a 13 year old metal-mouth brace-face, I noticed my Mom wearing a beautiful glass pendant. It had an antique chain, and there was a woman carved into the glass. A classic nude. I begged her repeatedly to let me wear it. She always said no, because my father had gotten it for her in Paris, and she didn't want me to lose it. When I was 14 years old and had gotten my braces removed in time for class pictures, she offered the necklace to me as a gift. I was floored. I asked her if she was sure, because I knew it had come from Paris (a fantasy land in my head). She waved me off and said "Oh, he got it for me in Plattsburgh." It is one of my most prized possessions EVER, and I still wear it often. While writing this post, I reminded my Dad about this story. He told me the pendant was indeed a gift from his travels abroad. I laughed for an hour. The fact that she joked about its origins just to get a rise out of me is hilarious, but that she still had me fooled 23 years later? Priceless.

My all-time favorite story is actually about when my Mom was pregnant with me. It reminds me of how much she really did love me. When she became pregnant for the first time, I was “unexpected”. She told me she wasn’t sure how she felt about having a baby at the time, and was both scared and excited. One afternoon she was leafing through a magazine, and came upon a picture of a little girl. She said to herself: “My little girl will look just like that.” She tore the picture out and put it in a frame.

The picture was of a little redheaded girl with freckles.

When she showed me the photo for the first time, she said: “See? We were destined to be together!”  That photo is still in a frame, in my childhood home, next to a picture of me. Her real life redheaded freckle-face.

There are so many more stories to tell. I could live my whole life, and never run out of tales and anecdotes. And frankly, I never ever want to stop telling stories about my Mom. That’s how she stays alive inside me. So if I tell a story about her over and again, know that although it might seem repetitive to you, it is my way of remembering someone that I love with every last bit of my heart. And always will.

Happy Mother’s Day, Mom. And as we always used to sign off our letters and emails: Miss you muchly.

This post is for my brother Adam, and for all of the times we sat at the kitchen table listening to Mom goof off.

Love you, Addy Paddy.

You Say It's Your Birthday

Today is my Mom’s Birthday. She would have been 62.

Her firstborn, I was born 5 days after my mother’s 25^th birthday. I was her birthday gift. She was my heart.

I remember our birthdays were always fun, hilarious and love-ridden. So much goodness. In my mind, I can picture her freckled face and her beautiful smile, happy and glowing on her birthday. When I wake up on April 12^th, I always feel empty. A little melancholy. I want to call her and wish her a Happy Birthday, I want to see her and hug her. I want to eat birthday cake for breakfast with her.

We always celebrated “our way”. It was simple, but perfect. We would go to Tim Horton’s to get a coffee for her (tea for me) and a sour-cream glazed doughnut to share. After our birthday snack, we’d head over to the local Winners to buy something fun for our birthdays. I miss those moments so much. I’d hold up a shirt that would look cute on her, and she’d find something horribly tacky and wave it over the rack saying “Amy, this is SO YOU.” My friends reading this are nodding right now saying "Oh GOD, Amy does that to me all the time." Now you know where I picked it up.

Because her birthday was so close to mine, this time of year is naturally not a great time for me. I enjoy the time with my friends and family, and I’m never one to shy away from a celebration. Truth? I force myself to go out and have fun. I don’t ever wait for anyone to plan a birthday party for me, because I know sitting at home alone is detrimental. I’ve never had a surprise party because I’m afraid if I don’t plan something right away, no one will plan anything, and I will end up home alone with my memories of my Mom. I’m okay with that any other time. Just not on my birthday.

This year I have elected to not go out on my birthday. Next Tuesday, I will be staying home with Lily. I might make myself a nice dinner, and watch a movie. That’s all. It’s time that I sit with the discomfort of not having my Mom around on my big day. I can’t avoid it anymore. Although the weekend following my birthday a friend has planned a little dinner get-together, my actual birthday is mine alone. To remember the woman who brought me into this crazy world, and then left it too soon.

Today, however, is Mom’s birthday. And the friend she never got to meet but would have loved is coming with me to Tim Horton’s. And then we’re going to Winners, where we will look at hideous shoes, people watch, and maybe cause a little trouble.

Happy Birthday, Mommy. You are missed more than you will ever know. You are loved more than anyone could ever dream possible.

Rowing Upstream

I moved to Toronto in early April 2004. I was so nervous about moving away to a city I’d only visited as a kid, let alone an entirely different province. My Mom was my biggest supporter, excited for me to start my new job and life. I’d been unhappy in Montreal, and when the opportunity arose to move to the Big Smoke, I couldn’t say no. And frankly, when I tried to say no and balked at the challenge of doing everything on my own and alone, she pushed me harder. She said “I will miss you so much, but I want this for you more than I want to keep you here for myself.”

And exactly 7 months and 20 days after I moved, she was diagnosed with terminal Cancer.

And I bet you, like a lot of people, are wondering why I didn’t just move back to Montreal to be with my Mom and my family.

I don’t mind if you wonder.

I would, however, mind if you judged my choice to stay in Toronto. Or any part of my journey and the choices I made the moment my Mom was diagnosed with Cancer. Not one decision was easily made. Not one decision was made alone.

When the Cancer was discovered in November 2004, I took the train home to be with my family and met with the Doctor overseeing my Mom’s file. After the Doctor left us to digest what we’d been told, I went over to my mother and put my head in her lap, crying as quietly as I could. After having cracked a few jokes, she stroked my hair and played with my curls the way she always did, picking out the springy ones she liked best. I choked out a whisper, telling her that I would move back, and she said “No, you won’t.  I love you, but I don’t want you to move home. You can love me and support me from Toronto, and you will come home when you can.”

I had a very hard time with this. I know she did too. I called her once I’d gotten back to Toronto, and told her I didn’t want to be so far from her. She said it would make her sad for me to give everything up to come back, and she wanted me to be happy. Still, the conversations continued for months. And every time I called her she pushed back, telling me she did not want me to move home. She was proud that I’d taken the steps towards independence, and didn’t want to hold me back. She sent me funny Hoops & Yoyo Hallmark eCards every week, telling me she loved me and how proud she was of me.

From November 2004 until March 2006, I went home to Montreal every other weekend. Any vacation I had earned was used to go home to my Mom. We would lie in her bed and watch Smack The Pony and laugh our heads off. We would nap together. We’d go to Tim Horton’s and share a cinnamon roll, each of our napkins piled high with raisins because we hated them.  When I couldn’t go home to visit because I was sick, I sent her care packages with cute shoes, coffee mugs, chocolate, etc…all the stuff she loved. And when her health took a drastic turn for the worse in March 2006, I left my job on compassionate care leave and went back to Montreal.

Recently, my Dad and I were talking about people not understanding what our loss felt like, or why we made the choices we made. In his gentle way, he let me know that he was surprised that some of the friends and family we were close with thought I should have moved back home and that I had made the wrong choice to stay in Toronto.  Clearly I didn’t love her if I lived 5 hours away.  

When I turned inward after my loss and suffered deeply in my grief, family members and friends of my mother would call me to instruct me how to be. I was often told in a roundabout way that I was being selfish and not taking care of my Dad and brother the way I should be. In the eyes of friends and family, nothing I did was right. Because it’s not how they would have done it.

In an earlier post, I wrote “Grief is like a fingerprint.” If you take anything from today’s post, let it be this: Nobody has the right to tell you how to mourn. There is no documented “right way”. There is the way that makes sense to you.

Whether you blog through the bereavement process like I do, write about it on Facebook, or document it on Twitter, you have to do what makes you feel whole again. Just because someone else wouldn’t have done it that way doesn’t mean it is the wrong way. Being judged by people who’ve never experienced loss or big trauma is almost forgivable because they come from a place of unawareness. When we don’t know, we judge. It is sadly a way of life. Walk my path, and then tell me what you would have done.

What angers me to the point of tears are those that have suffered loss and think that it is acceptable to judge others in the same boat because of how they choose to mourn their loss.

To those people I say this:

You, too, have lost someone.

You’ve lost your Mom or your Dad. Perhaps you’ve lost a sibling or a spouse. You’ve felt sadness, pain, confusion, frustration. You’ve cried real tears. Maybe you’ve become unable to sleep like a lot of us. Maybe you don’t like to talk about your loss. Maybe you’ve never actually dealt with it. But PLEASE, for the love of God, stop judging the ones that ARE dealing with it every single day.

If what we say bothers you, try this: Don’t read our blogs. Don’t read our Twitter posts. Don’t read our notes on Facebook. If you can’t handle it, then you can choose not to read it.

It is beyond unfair to judge someone who is in the exact same boat as you, just because they’re holding the oar differently. The boat is the same. The direction is the same: We are moving towards healing. Being uncomfortable with your own personal grief is not an acceptable reason to make someone feel like less of a person with less worth because of how they deal with theirs. And if you ever want to talk about your loss, we are all ears. You might be surprised to learn that even though you’ve judged us, we are here to support you. Because we get it.

To those of you reading this who have suffered loss and been judged for how you chose/are choosing to get through your grief:

Please never stop sharing. Your stories are not meant to be locked away. You can’t heal if you hide. The path to healing is a bumpy one, please be easy with yourself.

This post was inspired by my tea-time confidante, Lauren. The path you choose is yours to walk, and the journey is yours to share as you wish. Namasté.

Timeless Gifts

Every now and then, I like to give my friends gifts to let them know I appreciate them, above and beyond me telling them. 

I picked this up from my Mom, no doubt. She was always giving thoughtful gifts, and nothing was ever ridiculous or overpriced. It was a hand cream, a box of tea, a pen and notepad set: Always a little something to let her friends know she was thinking of them. Sometimes when I see something I know a friend would love, I wrap it up and give it to them. Or at least put it in a nice plastic bag. Hey, sometimes I’m pressed for time. It’s the thought that counts.

I learned that early on from my Mom: It isn’t so much the tangible gift that matters, but the thought behind it that is of true value. Over the years, my mother always bought me little gifts. Sometimes because she thought it was funny, other times because we’d gotten into a fight and she wanted to apologize. Last year I had to part with a snow globe that she’d given me 13 years earlier, because it was moulding on the inside. It killed me to throw it out, because it was a peace offering after a very big argument.

And then yesterday, after seeing something a friend said on Twitter, I remembered the book.

When I was 22 years old, my Mom gave me a children’s book.  At first I thought she was joking, and thought maybe she was implying I needed to “grow up”. She wasn’t always overly subtle.

We were in my bedroom when she gave me the book, sitting together on the edge of my bed. My Mom always made a big deal about presenting us with gifts, watching eagerly to see our excited reactions. With her watching me intently, I un-wrapped the very large and hardcover book: The Velveteen Rabbit.

If you’ve not read this book, please do. It was the quintessential children’s book, about a boy's love for his stuffed toy rabbit.

When I looked at her quizzically, she said: “I forgot to read this to you when you were little, so I want you to have it now.”

And when she left my room, I cried. I cried because sometimes I thought my Mom felt she wasn’t doing a good job of being my Mom.

Her own relationship with her Mother was non-existant, and they stopped talking around the time I was born. I never met that Grandmother. Their relationship was so bad, I think that sometimes my Mom worried she would turn into her, and hurt my brother and I. She had no Mother/Daughter relationship to learn from, so ours was often fiery as we learned how to love each other.

I’m not sure I really ever told her what a great Mother she was. I say it here a lot, but maybe I didn’t say it to her enough. I don’t know. What I do know is that she made me the woman I am today. And that I wouldn’t be able to do half the things I do without having had her as my Mother. If I’m ever blessed with a daughter one day, I hope I’m a Mom just like Judi Miller was.

And if you’re reading over my shoulder, Mom, you were the best. You really really were.

Painting Pictures + Making Soup

Matzo Ball Soup, the cure all.

In the nearly 6 years since my Mom died, I’ve noticed that my absolute lowest moments are when I realize that I can’t share my hugely amazing / horrifyingly bad experiences with her.

She wasn’t there for my wedding, or my divorce.

She wasn’t there for the following months of depression, when I was trying to remember who I was or what I was all about.

And now as I work through a recent break-up and equally recent job loss, she isn’t on the other end of the phone talking me through, and making me laugh at my foibles.

In a thoughtful conversation about loss last month, my father asked me if I was angry with her for leaving me, for dying. For not being around when I need her and even when I don’t.

At first I said no. And then realized that maybe I am a little mad after all. Just not at her.

Although I know my mother can’t be blamed for getting Cancer, I often find myself feeling angry that she isn’t at the other end of the phone, and resentful that she was taken from me. Those feelings are always soon replaced by a gaping sadness, and sometimes tears.

I often wonder if there is something wrong with me, still crying at my loss 6 years later. I tell stories about her and still get that lump in my throat. Part of me wishes that feeling would go away, and the other part embraces that sadness for what it is: A colorful memory, a reminder that I’m human. And an ever present reminder of how much I loved my Mom, and how much she loved me.

Every new happening, every new experience, is a jolting reminder that I have to figure things out on my own. Although my Dad has become my sounding board, and the person on whom I can lean when I need to, it isn’t the same as the Mother/Daughter chemistry. And I’m pretty sure my father doesn’t want to hear about my leg waxes and bad dates, although he feigns interest because he loves me.

As a little kid, I would paint pictures or draw at the kitchen table. I would hardly look up from my project, dutifully coloring within the lines, or painting rainbows and houses. And every single time I was done, I would hold it up proudly for my Mother to see, and wait for her to say “That’s beautiful!” or “Good job!” It was that loving validation that made everything worthwhile. I painted for her, I colored for her, and I even brushed my teeth for her:  I only ever wanted to make her proud of me. And now, as an adult, I so miss that validation. I miss hearing my Mother tell me not only that everything will be fine, but that I’m doing a good job.

When you lose a parent, it can feel like you’ve lost your decision-making abilities. You second guess yourself. You can’t make choices without running it by them first, or at least letting them know you’ve done something you’re excited about.

In losing my Mom, I have become my own sounding-board. I do seek opinions and validation from those I love and respect, but at the end of it all the final bang of the gavel is mine. My amazing Dad celebrates my successes and gives me the best advice he can on a regular basis, but I know that I have to be able to stand behind the decisions I make. I am the only person who can really and truly celebrate my accomplishments and learn from my mistakes.

So today as I sit at home with a fever and a sinus infection, I’m making my own damn soup. It’s exactly how she would have made it, but with some tweaks from me.

And it’s really good because I said so.