Be My Valentine

I am always a little sad on February 14^th.

It isn’t all because I don’t have a Valentine. I mean, I’m not the Queen of the Lonely Hearts Club, but I’d be lying to you if I didn’t admit that this sickly sweet holiday doesn’t make me feel a little low. There is something to be said for someone making you feel totally loved and appreciated. With perhaps a little sprinkling of dark chocolate (the good kind).

That being said, the hollow feeling in my heart is 80% because I miss the Valentine’s Days of years past. My mother made this day so special for my family, that it is hard to imagine it could ever be as good without her.

Every single Valentine’s Day for as far back as my memory goes, my brother and I would awaken to the sight of hearts and cupids, and chocolates galore strewn all over our rooms. Imagine that: Being a little kid, and opening your sleepy eyes to see a festival of pink and red hearts everywhere. Even the glass of water on my nightstand had a heart floating in it. I was awake and dreaming at the same time. When I moved to Toronto, she mailed me huge parcels of chocolate.

Just like our birthdays, we got cake for breakfast. Yeah, I know. Pretty awesome, right? My mother outdid everyone else. We never got just one single birthday card or Valentine: We got three or more cards, each one filled with more humour and love than the last one. And every year was better than the one before.

There was never any question about how much my mother loved us. Every single holiday was celebrated with such joy and heart. Even when she got sick, she made sure our birthdays were special. Less than a month before she died, she ordered a birthday cake to the hospital for me. She didn’t want me to feel like my day was any less special. In her hospital room, she sang Happy Birthday to me. It was the last time I ever heard her sing, her voice etched in my heart forever.

The lonely part of Valentine’s Day for me is that I have seen what true love looks like. My expectations might be unrealistically high, but I don’t want to settle. Life is too short and precious for lacklustre love. Truthfully, I cannot help but want what my parents shared. A friendship and love so full and real, it was like they were made for each other. No other partnering in the world would have made sense. There was something so special about how much my parents loved each other.

She was the funny girl to his straight man. Sometimes they switched roles. They played off each other in a way that was so effortless and so natural. Even as a kid, it was so easy to see that THAT was what marriage was supposed to be like.

When my mother got sick, my father was destroyed on the inside, just like my brother and I. But she never ever saw him crumble. When we cried, he held it together for us. When my mother went into the hospital for the final time, my father slept on a lawn chair next to her bed every night for nearly two months. When my mother was scared and in pain, he held her hand and kissed her forehead. And when she asked to be put into a drug-induced coma because the pain was uncontrollable, he let her go. They would have been married for 34 years.

On Valentine’s Day, I cannot help but think about what kind of person my someday Valentine will be. The holiday has been so clouded by commercialism it’s hard to see through the fog of candy hearts and bouquets of red roses. What it comes down to is this: The material things don’t matter. What matters is real and honest LOVE. What will matter to me is that my Valentine holds my hand when I’m scared, and picks me up when I am down. That he is golden-hearted and kind. And that he makes me laugh, even if there is nothing to laugh about.

This post is a tribute to just such a man. My father. The best man I know.

Monarch Butterflies

So you know about the Fish Tacos.

Here is where the Monarch Butterflies in my blog title come from....

For as long as I can remember, I have always stopped in my tracks at the sight of one particular butterfly: The Monarch. The stark contrast between the crisp white, searing orange and inky black of the wings have always held my attention. I used to draw them in school, coloring my orange and black crayons down to nubs, long before the other colours ran out.

I also used to only be able to draw with my tongue sticking out of my mouth. Don’t ask.

Spring and summers with my Mom always involved walks in our neighbourhood, eating banana popsicles, stealing lilacs and looking for Monarch butterflies. I still do all of those things, in case you were wondering. Right down to the lilac theft. If I could keep every tradition my mother and I shared alive, I would. Instead, I pick the ones that remind me most of her free-spiritedness, her sense of play...

Before she died, there was a moment shared between my mother and father, where she promised that she would come back to him as a Monarch butterfly. This was before I believed in signs. I didn’t think people could come back as anything. I was angry that I was losing her. All I wanted to hear from anyone was “we found a cure.”

After sitting Shiva and the mourning period was complete, my father was coaxed by close friends to play a round of golf. Most of his golf games had been with my mother at his side, cracking jokes and having a good time. I think she once injured a squirrel with one of her shots. This would be his first game without her. I clutched my cell phone the entire day, waiting to hear how his day had been, worried that it may have been too soon, and too difficult. This was our conversation when he called, late in the evening:

Me: “Hi Dad! How was your golf game? Were you okay to play alone?” (Yeah, I could have opened with something less blunt, I know.)

Dad: “I didn’t play alone. I played golf with my wife today.”

Me: “Um, what do you mean?”

Dad: “A Monarch butterfly sat on my golf bag for 18 holes.”

18 holes.

That’s an entire day.

That’s taking clubs out of your golf bag, and then putting them back in. That’s dragging your golf bag across a golf course for hours on end. That’s INSANE.

My mother had always been a woman of her word, but come on: 18 holes??

Following my father’s experience, I have been a more astute observer of when the Monarchs show up in my life. Once when I lost my job, one landed on my arm the moment I left the office, in the middle of the downtown core. When I visited the cemetery one summer, one flew right by my nose as I knelt to put some roses on her grave.

In the summer of 2010, my cousin lost her beautiful baby boy just 4 hours after he was born. There was no rhyme or reason to the loss. Her pregnancy had been healthy and perfect. Our family was devastated, trying to make sense of how such a tragedy could occur. When I visited the hospital, I learned that in the maternity ward, small notices are put on the doors to the rooms where a woman has experienced babyloss. Mostly so that nurses and visitors know to enter the room with increased compassion and sensitivity for the mother and father.

I walked down the corridor to my cousin’s room, noticing pictures of kittens or a rainbow on the doors. As I reached her door, I literally stopped in my tracks: On her door was a picture of a Monarch butterfly. It was the most amazing thing I had ever seen. I told her and her husband a few days later, a moment I am so blessed to have been able to share with two people I love very much.

There is no doubt in my mind that my Mom is ever present in the free and fluttering body of a butterfly. It is a constant reminder of how unique, special, and colourful she was.  And every spring and summer, I look forward to the return of the Monarch butterflies, wondering just where and when they will turn up.

Fish Tacos

I realize that the title of this blog is odd. Here’s how I got to Fish Tacos:

My mother was the best cook. Ever. It didn’t matter what she made, it was always amazing. Soups, elaborate 5-course meals, peanut butter and jelly sandwiches. Everything she created was delicious. She made a chocolate chip banana cake that was so perfect in its chip to cake ratio, people actually called her to request it for parties, or road trips that required a snack.

What was wonderful about her cooking was the joy and heart that went into it. She would dance around the kitchen to ABBA or The Beatles, singing her heart out, and cooking up a storm. Those are the moments I miss the most. I remember walking into the kitchen and having her grab my hand, spinning me around while singing “Why Don’t We Do It In The Road”. Hey, I never said she was appropriate.

When she was diagnosed with Cancer, she kept on cooking. It was her happy place, and she could zone out and not think about being sick for an hour or two. As the disease progressed, Chemotherapy and radiation made her feel sick and tired her out. Cooking for my Dad and brother became labourious, and the meals were harder for her to make. She decided then that she would make cooking easy and fun for herself, by bringing in pre-made processed foods. Not healthy, no, but it afforded her the ability to cook for the people she loved without maxing her out.

I would call her from Toronto (my family lives in Montreal), and ask her what was for dinner. It was our routine. I asked as though I was planning on showing up any minute, and she would dutifully respond with the evening’s menu, as though she had set a place for me. One night, I asked what she was making, and her response was: “I’m cooking my way through the colour palette. Tonight, we are having BEIGE.” Curious, I asked her what BEIGE food entailed, and it was the following:

1.    Tater Tots

2.    Egg Rolls

3.    Fried Rice

4.    Fish Sticks

There were also nights of other colours, but I will leave that with you to imagine. The GREEN evening was particularly gross.

About 6 months before she died, she fell in love with a meal she had created. She made it all.the.time: Captain Highliner fish sticks tossed in a taco shell with the standard taco fixings like guacamole, sour cream, cheese, salsa, etc.

When I called her to see what was on tap for the evening meal one night, she said “Fish Tacos”. My grown up response was obviously: “That’s disgusting.”

It became an ongoing joke between the two of us. When I called, she would tease me and say “We’re having your favorite tonight! Judi’s Fish Tacos!!” I would retch appropriately, making her laugh. When she went into the hospital for the final time, she asked me if I thought they made Fish Tacos. I told her I would make them for her, but never got the chance to do it. There will be a post in here someday about my few regrets in life, and that is definitely one of them. Less than 2 months later, she was gone.

When I returned to Toronto after sitting Shiva, my cousins took me to Buffalo for a weekend shopping trip, hoping to cheer me up and reintegrate me into my life with some serious retail therapy. We got up so early my eyes were burning. With our Tim Horton’s coffees in our hands, we sat in the parking lot at Target, waiting for it to open.

I sat in the back of the car, with my head pressed against the window, taking in my surroundings. Old run-down buildings, a hair salon, and an auto-repair place. Really nothing extraordinary.

That’s when I saw it: A small free-standing building, a restaurant, painted bright blue.

In red lettering, the restaurant’s name read: J’s Fish Tacos.

In the back of the car, between tears and laughter, my cousins heard me say "Hi Mom."

I couldn't explain to them why. I suppose I should send them this blog post....

Grief's Abyss

Loss comes in many different shapes and sizes, and every single solitary soul copes in a different way. Grief is like a fingerprint.

I coped with mine by pretending I was fine.

On the outside, I looked okay.

On the inside, I was completely destroyed, an empty shell.

Every day following my Mother's death was an exercise in futility. Everything was an obstacle, from walking the dog, to trying to do laundry. I just couldn’t do it. I couldn’t get out of bed. The loss was insurmountable.  I alienated everyone.  I tried not to cry, and held it in when I could. Somehow I convinced myself that crying was stupid because she was already gone, and I had not saved her.

What I type next may upset the people that love me. For that, I am truly sorry:

August 8, 2006: “I am no one anymore.  It doesn’t matter. My soul is dead. I can’t feel it, so it must be gone. My heart is just beating out of habit. I feel cold all the time. Everyone is looking at me and telling me they think I am strong. I hate it. I want to just scream to everyone that I fucking hate everyone and myself and to just leave me the hell alone already. I hate that I am still alive and she isn’t. It feels wrong that I am alive, when she was a better person than me.  I have locked myself in the bathroom a few times now. I drink wine while sitting in a hot bath, and wonder what would happen if I drank enough to drown. I wonder how much it would take. Yesterday I held a bottle of Advil in my hand, and tried to calculate how many I needed to take to kill myself.”

There is more, but that’s enough.  It was the lowest low I have ever experienced. I would be lying to you if I said that re-reading that journal entry did not rock me to the core. It's like someone else wrote that.

Eventually, my Dad became concerned with how low I was and pushed me to get help. It was only then that I began to really deal with the loss of my Mother.

If you are reading this right now, and dealing with recent or impending loss, please consider the following things. Learn from my mistakes:

1.       Do not pretend you are fine, you don't have to be anyone's hero.

2.       Let people love you and support you, don't push them away.

3.       Ask for help.

I still remember the first time I really and truly cried for my loss. Being honest with myself and talking to someone about my pain forced me to look at losing my Mom in a raw and open way, and it was only then that I cried the real hard tears of loss.

And it happened in a Winners changing room.

Almost a year after my Mother had died, I found myself in pieces while trying on clothing. Out of nowhere, I cried heart-wrenching sobs so painful and body-wracking that the people in the change rooms on either side of me came to see if I was okay. I did not stop crying for 45 minutes. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t speak.

When I got home, I went to bed and slept for 14 hours.

All of those tears that I had held in, the anger, the guilt, the pain, the depression….all of it came out in one huge overwhelming explosion.

Over 4 years later, I still get quite emotional when I think about my Mom. It's a given. The difference now is that I don’t feel the soul-crushing ache of loss as much as I do a ridiculous surge of joy and love. My heart explodes just remembering how amazing my mom was, and how lucky I am to have had 31 years with her as my very best friend. Choosing those feelings over the dark ones is easy now. I have a lot to live for.

I could not have pulled myself out of those dark months alone, and I know that. To the friends and family that stood by me even when I pushed them away, there aren't enough words to thank you for loving me. 

I am still here because of you.

Party Princess

It is important that I share the great as well as the devastating, so that a true picture is painted. As my friend Sarah commented in the last post, the greatest love breeds the deepest grief. Anyone who met my mother was instantly in love with her outgoing sunny personality, her gorgeous smile, and her insane sense of humour. If anyone lit up a room, it was my mother. Losing her was like the sun had just fizzled out.

There was always a great deal of hilarity that ensued with my mother. I don’t even think there are words to really describe how pee-in-your-pants funny my Mom was, because those words don’t exist in our lexicon.

Of course as a teenager, I definitely didn’t think she was so funny. Now 20 years later, I appreciate the genius of her sense of play and mischief.

When I was a few weeks shy of my 16^th birthday, I begged my mother for a Sweet Sixteen party. And by beg, I mean: “Mom you’re horrible if you don’t make me a party and I will hate you forever, and everyone else is having one so why can’t I have one, you’re so mean if you tell me I can’t have a party.”

I was a very reasonable teenager.

Wonderful and tolerant woman that she was, my Mother humoured me and confirmed she would make me a party. I was allowed to invite 5 friends over for my birthday dinner. Anyone who knows me knows I immediately negotiated. I wanted 8 friends, AND I wanted to have music. She rolled her eyes and agreed. I was a really tough customer.

As an aside, I think that was a pretty fair negotiation. I’m pretty sure if I was turning 16 tomorrow, the ask would be for 400 friends, a plethora of Cirque du Soleil acrobats hanging from the ceiling, and a red velvet cake the size of Iowa.

I dreamed about my party. I talked about it every day for 2 weeks. I drove my family crazy. On the day of the party, I helped my Mom put up balloons. I was so excited and couldn’t sit still. An hour before the guests were to arrive I went to look at the table. And that’s when the shit hit the fan.

What 16 year old Amy should have said: “Mom! That looks awesome! You’re the greatest!”

What 16 year old Amy actually said: “Those napkins are ugly. I want the special occasion napkins.”

My mother looked at me. I looked at her. It was a stand-off, and I was determined to win. After a lethal staring contest, she acquiesced and said: “Okay, you can have the special occasion napkins.”

I walked out of the room so proud of myself that I hardly noticed the emphasis she had put on the word SPECIAL.

Soon, the doorbell began to ring, and my friends were ushered in. I was so excited to see my friends that I didn’t once think of the table.  We all walked into the kitchen for dinner, and that’s when I saw what would be humiliatingly etched in my mind forever:

On the table, which was perfectly set, were “special occasion” napkins indeed. Maxi Pads. Always brand Maxi-Pads. Huge, thick, cottony sanitary napkins. She had carefully un-wrapped each pad, peeled off the paper backings, and stuck them firmly to the table, in place of a regular napkin. Each place setting had one, with a fork and knife carefully placed on top.

Naturally I freaked right out.

My mother, laughing at the prank she had just played on her obnoxious child, smirked and said: “Oh, aren’t those the special occasion napkins you wanted?”

It was clear to me in that moment that my mother was the master of practical jokes and searing wit - and I should know better than to mess with her ever again.

My Past Invades My Present

April 7, 2006: "In 10 days, I will be 31 years old. I think it is safe to say that my life, my person, my right-at-this-moment are as real as it gets.  I have always felt a little scattered, a little all over the place with my thoughts and my decisions, but right now I am in the very center of my life. It is amazing how much you can learn about yourself and your depth as a human being, when you find out someone you love is dying. Of all of the absolutes in the world, my mother dying of Cancer is one I can’t shake or deny, and I can’t sleep because all I think about is my life ending when hers does. Because without my mother, I won’t know who I am.”

April 8, 2006: "Today was hard. All of them are hard. My stomach hurts every second of the day. I am holding in every feeling I have ever had. I shut myself in the bathroom, run the tap, and cry. She doesn’t know that, but I think my Dad does. Her beautiful freckled face is twisted in pain, her eyes are tearing up and her lips are trembling. She holds my hand so tightly I actually think she will break it, and I don’t care. Fucking break it. I would not wish this on anyone…no one should ever see someone they love be totally obliterated by Cancer. It ruins you. I’m pretty sure I look as vacant as I feel.  Mom, I just want to curl up next to you on your bed, like we used to. When we watched Natalie Wood movies, and you played with my hair, and we fell asleep holding hands.  I miss the old days selfishly, because I’m not ready to lose you. I want things the way they were. “

When I look back on old journal entries, I liken it to being punched in the gut. All of those feelings I think I have sorted through, well, it’s like I haven’t sorted through a single thing. I am instantly angry, sad, and guilty.  Old notes and journal entries remove me from the present, and bring me back to a time that I don’t want to revisit.

Writing all of the content for this blog has made me cry more times than I care to count. Last night I threw a tangerine across the room, because my loss was once again so raw, and I was so angry. With no angst towards tangerines, I realized that just when I thought I had run out of tears, and lost my ability to really “feel” things, re-reading these memories and journal entries have reminded me that I am alive. And that although I will never ever get over my loss, I actually did get through it.  And that being mad and passionate sometimes causes one to throw perfectly plausible fruit.

Lilac Lullaby

My mother loved Lilacs.

In the Springs of years past, my mother would stash nail scissors in her pocket so that on our long walks together, she could sneak a snipping off of other people’s Lilac bushes. I always laughed and told her we would get caught one day. Her excuse was always the same: “Our Lilac bush never blooms. I’m just taking what Mother Nature owes me!” Our stolen blooms were proudly displayed on the kitchen table in a kitschy ceramic vase, and she inhaled deeply whenever she walked past them, sighing with pure contentment.

As she lay in her coma, I would get Lilacs from the park outside the hospital, and place them on her pillow. Although she was in a place where I could no longer reach her, her head always seemed to turn towards the Lilac bloom on her pillow, so that she could smell them.  In those moments of unconscious movement, it was like she was just innocently shifting in her sleep, dreaming of something she loved.  

After her funeral, I stood by the dining room window overlooking our sporadically blooming lilac bush. The Rabbi came over and stood with me, and I asked him if he believed in signs. Of course he did. I told him that the lilac bush we were looking at hadn’t bloomed in years. And then I showed him what I was really looking at: In the absolute center of the naked shrub, were three huge lilac blooms. There was no rhyme or reason to them, and yet there they were. He stood there, as surprised as I was, and then said: “Those are for you.”

For a long time after my mother died, I was awoken in the middle of the night by the smell of strong perfume. Sweet, cloying, but familiar. I would wake up thinking I had left a candle burning, and would get up and search my surroundings to make sure I wasn’t losing it. It was only after 3 years of these perfumed awakenings that I realized what I was smelling: Lilacs.