Etching Postcards

In 2005 I miscarried twins. I don’t say this looking for sympathy. I say this because I want to talk about miscarriage. I say this because I still grieve despite the notion of others that I never should’ve grieved at all. I’ve learned that people have strange notions about miscarriage. They use gestation dates to determine whether a fetus is worthy of mourning or a parent is entitled to feel a sense of loss. They shrug their shoulders and say, “Better now than later.” Let me state this clearly: There is never a “better” time for a miscarriage. Let me also state this clearly: A person who makes a statement like that is an insensitive asshat.

After my miscarriage I met a lot of insensitive asshats. Most of them were family members. Some were co-workers or their spouses. While I would like to think they had good intentions the hard, little kernel of truth is that they simply did not see my miscarriage as a big deal. It was just one of those things that happen like weather or the price of gas; no one understands it but they all have something to say about it.

Some of the more hurtful things that were said:

• It’s for the best. There was probably something wrong with the babies.
• You have to focus on your stepson. He’s alive so he’s important. [As if I was ignoring him and as if my dead babies were not important.]
• Don’t spend time dwelling on it. There’s really nothing to dwell on.
• You should never tell people before the second trimester that you’re pregnant. [As if this caused the miscarriage].
• I never had a miscarriage. All of my pregnancies worked out right.

So between the accusatory statements and the smug statements I was left feeling I constantly had to defend something I couldn’t explain. I had to defend my body’s betrayal, and never ever show grief in front of people because I had to defend that too. A tear here or there? That was considered acceptable. Outright crying? That was over-reacting.

I lost more than two babies. I lost two dreams and all the things that went with them. Right now I’d have two children on summer vacation fresh out of their kindergarten year. Yes, I think about it. And I don’t have to defend it. This does not negate the love I have for my 4-year-old son. However, a lot of people do not understand this. But here’s the thing: I do not have to explain or defend my loss or how I grieve it. It took me years to figure this out.

In 2005 as my hormones went crazy post-partum fashion I didn’t understand this. My body had experienced a birth and all of me had experienced a death. I had undergone a D&C. This procedure was no small thing as I woke up in Recovery feeling hollow, and despite the pain medication coursing through my blood, my throat was on fire from the endotracheal tube that had been there. I was feeling all these things as asshats said their asshat things and I would say nothing. I would go home and cry.

So if a friend or loved one experiences a miscarriage a simple, “I’m sorry for your loss” or “Would you like to talk about it?” will do. Don’t accuse, don’t give advice. Don’t tell them how they could’ve done things differently or taken a different multivitamin. Understand they are grieving and need support. If they want to do something like plant a tree or hold a quiet ceremony with close family, don’t offer your opinion. It’s not wanted or needed. This is grief in action. Don’t tell them that at 10 weeks a fetus isn’t worth mourning. Don’t say anything at all.

At 10 weeks my babies had all their internal organs. Their neurons were firing. They had fingerprints. While you may see them as a collection of organs and not a baby, they are MY BABIES. And I will argue with you on that until I no longer have breath to argue. So when I plant two rosebushes this summer, this is me grieving because I never understood before that it was ok. I listened to the asshats. When I plant two rosebushes this is also me healing. Don’t let the asshats stand in the way of your healing.

In 2003 I worked occasional day shifts at Sorrento. After lunch rush I usually had an hour or two to do wine inventory or shine glasses. I often chose to shine glasses because I could set myself up near a window and look down on most of the skate park. There was always someone down there doing what I call tricks because I know nothing about skateboarding. It looks like witchcraft to me. Yeah, I know, it’s athleticism and physics. Whatever. The point is, I saw bodies do amazing things from completing those tricks to wiping out but then quickly bouncing back up. The worst I personally witnessed was a young fellow scrape his leg on the concrete. He came in latter for pizza with his mother and proudly showed his wound to me.

The skate park was only 2 years-old back then. Now it is coming up on its 10 year anniversary and is in desperate need of some upkeep. The big question is – who is in charge of the upkeep? An even bigger question is – why isn’t there general maintenance every year to keep the ramps and other pieces of equipment safe as possible?

I spoke to three skateboarders. They all feel there are a couple of problems with the management of the park. One is the maintenance issue I mentioned and the other is a security issue. Most people who come use the park respect the rules posted on the gate. However, not everyone who uses the park does so to skate, bike, etc. Public drinking sometimes goes on (police have been called on those occasions) which leads to rowdiness, fights and smashed beer bottles.

One person told me for a while he just started bringing his own broom and dustpan because he expected there to be smashed glass. Why not call the city? Because of concern that burdening the City will mean removal of the park; that something good will be spoiled for all by a small, rowdy few. So what can be done to discourage drinking at the skate park?

It’s partially secluded, or gives the feeling of being that way. Yesterday the suggestions offered up were occasional police patrols up and down the street. The park itself is lit by only one flood light and there is only one street light nearby. Perhaps also trimming trees on the upper bank would help since it removes the sense of being hidden. From Park Street you can already see most of the skate park, but if the trees were trimmed you could see all of it.

The maintenance issue is also a tricky one. No one is sure who is responsible. The Kinsmen donated the skate park but assuming they are responsible for it is not something these skaters want to do. I will be contacting the Kinsmen to get their thoughts on the issue and will re-post in another article.  People are also hesitant to approach City Hall about general upkeep. Again, they don’t want the park taken away because of fiscal issues. Some skaters there even said they’d be willing to pay a fee to help with upkeep. They walked me around to show me what wear and tear at a skate park looks like.

Like any piece of equipment these ramps go through a lot of wear and tear. As a result screws that attach the aluminium flashings of the ramps to the concrete have loosened and pulled up. In some cases the screws are missing completely and the aluminium has become bent. One skater demonstrated why this made approaching a ramp more difficult and dangerous. An unsecured piece of aluminium means your front wheels raises the flap and your back wheels hit the edge, making it much more likely to wipe out. These guys are willing to put screws back themselves if they had the power tools to do it with. That’s dedication.

It occurs to me that you don’t simply make a skate park and walk away from it without a plan. Do you? It’s a great start to have the thing, but wasn’t there any thought given to maintenance or was that something to worry about later? There are a group of skaters worried about it now.

So we have a concerned group who wants to keep their skate park in the best possible condition but know that asking for money or help might mean having a poor light shone on their chosen sport. They continue to use sub-par equipment because they don’t want to lose what they have. They do appreciate the effort the Kinsmen and Kinnettes made back in 2001 and feel that if a few changes were made their skate park would not have to be sub-par. As I look up to Park Street I think it’s ironic that the beautiful new City Hall that took millions to build overlooks a dilapidated skate park that would likely only take a couple of thousand to fix.

Warning: Language NSFW

http://youtu.be/yQpAUE56_io (“Sick Newfie skateboarding clip”)

Yesterday I visited my Dad’s horse. She always seems to enjoy company. I’m sure it has nothing to do with the treats I bring her.

Bubbs, like most horses and most people, gets bored when she’s in her stall. The rope you see to the left usually has something tethered to it. We’ve found that vinegar bottles work well. She likes to bat them about and crush them. She also likes kicking around a basketball. There used to be a soft ball hanging from the ceiling but she didn’t seem to play with that one very often so we took it down. Vinegar bottles, basketballs and treats. That’s what Bubbs likes best. And company.

Recently a family of robins have set up nest on a narrow shelf on the tack wall. You might have to look closely to find it.

Yep. Right above the ropes there is a robin’s nest and even more exciting – there are eggs. We were careful to keep our distance and our picture was taken by a guy who is over 6 feet tall with a long reach. I am not making that up. The robins are still happily flitting about taking care of their nest. Until they are ready to move out we will cheerfully keep our distance and let their family grow. (Notice the vinegar bottle to the right!)

The wall and the eggs are similar in colour. It makes me wonder if that’s why the robin chose to build a nest there. However, I know nothing about robin behaviour. If you do, let me know!

I love parsnips. LOVE them. You know how everyone has their favourite dish at Sunday dinner? Mine is the roasted parsnip and I usually have it all to myself. I’m told it’s an acquired taste. Well, I’d love to tell you this soup (Jamie Oliver’s Parsnip and Ginger Soup) was perfect, that it would make a parsnip lover of anyone. If I did that, however, I’d be lying.

It was very disappointing. Usually Jamie Oliver recipes work out well and are fabulous. I own a number of his cookbooks and my weekly mealplans usually include at least one Jamie recipe. This one will not be included again. My husband says it’s just that it’s sweet. I tell you it is more than just that. And I’m the parsnip lover.

Parsnip and Carrot

That is what 1 and 3/4 lbs parsnips and 2 carrots look like, sliced.

Onions, garlic, ginger

The kitchen smelled lovely. There was so much promise here. I have no idea what happened. I blame the carrot since that’s what I tasted so much of.

blending

The brand of veggie broth I used may also have thrown off the taste. I meant to mention that earlier. It seemed heavy on the carrot scent. I am not a fan of carrots. I only eat them because my grandmother told me they were good for me. …and she wouldn’t give me dessert unless I ate them.

The soup

The end result. It was thicker and a different colour than the picture in the recipe book. I did love the parsnip and ginger together. I will try this recipe one more time but without carrot and with a different type of broth… maybe. Still, we were fearless. We ate it and it did feel warm, comforting and nourishing on a rainy day.

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Drove the night toward my home

The place that I was born, on the lakeside

As daylight broke, I saw the earth

Don’t Give Up – Peter Gabriel

On a June day in 1986 my mom made a detour on the way home from grocery shopping. Her teaching colleague, Christopher Dennis, had some rhubarb for her. I sullenly wished mom had chosen to pick up her rhubarb some other time when I would not have to politely say hello to a man I didn’t know. This is probably one of the only times in my life I recall being shy. We crunched down a gravel driveway and there stood Christopher Dennis holding a brown rabbit. My Mom took a large shop bag ready to burst with rhubarb stalks and Christopher bent down so I could gently stroke the rabbit. “Would you like one?” he asked. He was serious but I knew my Dad would be equally serious about saying no. And that is how I met Christopher Dennis.

Safe by Taralyn Q

Years later after he died I sat in a coffee shop with his wife, Wanda, and told her this story.  She said, “That’s my Christopher. You captured the essence of my soul mate with that story.” He made an impression with his kindness, his gentleness. He was sharing. He was funny. As Wanda puts it, “He died of a nice man’s disease” because she’s met so many wonderful people who suffer from it. Christopher died of Amyotrophic Lateral Sclerosis (ALS).

ALS is not a disease with a sudden onset. A person may have many small signs for years that can easily be dismissed or written off. Wanda recalls:

Diagnosis is one of the more difficult aspects of ALS and the reason being is it presents itself as, I’m gonna refer to as “silly” or minuscule, little symptoms in the beginning. And if you’re over the age of 50 you don’t go down to emerg or to your family doctor and say, “ Well you know, I couldn’t put a nut on a bolt the other day. There’s something very wrong with me.” Because you’d probably be laughed out of his office. And there were little things like this and we would laugh and I would say, “Well you know, you just turned 50, I think it’s time for me to turn you in for two 25-year-olds because they were little things, you know? He lost the muscle between thumb and forefinger first. His hit the extremities. Buy new shoes – where’s your toe? The toe wouldn’t come off the floor because those motor neurons were now destroyed… and those messages weren’t getting through.

Cornflower - the symbol of the ALS Society, Photo by dichohecho

In hindsight, they had gone through 18 months of symptoms. However, during those 18 months they had never once considered they might be dealing with ALS. They began to think they might be dealing with Multiple Sclerosis or a brain tumour even though the symptoms didn’t exactly fit. The wait for a neurologist was 6 months. Wanda called a nurse friend and told her what was happening with Christopher. They were at the neurologist’s office within a week. Christopher was diagnosed in the office that day with a 90% certainty.

What did they do after such a serious diagnosis? Wanda said the first thing that went through her head was the Sue Rodriquez story: “So I knew this was bad news, really bad news.” She asked if ALS was hereditary so she could let her stepsons know. The neurologist told her it was not and asked if she had any more questions. She said she didn’t then but would let him know next time. What happened next?

“We held hands and we walked out. And we went to Wal-Mart because we had to do a few things. We went to McDonald’s, we had lunch. We went home and did what we always did. And I started phoning a few people and he was up on the roof seeing what was going on with the skylights that were coming out. We got up the next morning and we went to work.”

I asked if this was shock in action. Wanda is certain it was not. It was acceptance. ”By the time we finally gave in to all these “silly little things”, these symptoms, and knew that it was not little any more. We were going there with at least one eye wide open as to we were gonna learn something.” They learned a lot – that life, though changed, must go on. Christopher stayed home from work by himself for two weeks to “turn his head around it.” He went back to work and finished out the school year. In the summer they reassessed. He decided to teach until Thanksgiving. He made it two days and “he knew.” He resigned and went home.

Wanda continued to work while Christopher maintained an amount of independence. She would make him breakfast and leave for the day. He would have his days to himself. Summer came again and they reassessed their situation. They decided Wanda would work until November 11, but she only made it to Thanksgiving. She said when she came home that Friday she just knew.

“Christopher I know you like your independence but I need you to think about something: Do you need me home?”

“I don’t need to think about what you asked me. I know I need you home now.”

Fresh Snow by Wonderlane

The decision was made. Wanda would take her sick days and spent every moment with Christopher. They had 6 months at home and only 10 days in palliative care. Wanda moved into palliative care with him. “When I married him the promises were to love, honor and protect. It was easy. He was an easy man to love. He faced ALS with a most unique attitude. He was accepting of it. He never “why me? “ or “woe is me.” Even in palliative we found things to laugh about. We continued to live , basically. It’s really funny that people think if you get a diagnosis like this you’ll go on this round the world trip…. no. Home. Home was our comfort before, and home was our comfort during and home was my comfort after. We spent our time together the way we always did.”

During one of those 10 days in palliative care Christopher had something he wanted to tell Wanda. He could no longer talk so deciphering the message took hours with Wanda asking, “vowel or consonant” and waiting for a blinked response. If it was a consonant she’d recite the consonants until she hit the right one. She started to ask, “Is this really important? Do you really need to say this?” He did. Two and a half hours later Wanda had the message:

“This day is just like the last day that we tapped the maple trees in St. Judes.”

“And I cried and I cried and I cried. Ran up and down the hallways. This was so important to him. It was a weird, ugly weather kind of day. Remembering this was important to him.” Another message Christopher left was written in a journal she’d left for him on the kitchen island. He did not write much by this time but he wrote to her:” Home is your comfort. You are my security and my greatest love.”

Tapped Maple Trees, Photo by Bob Clark

Just like they held hands when they left the neurologist’s office, Wanda and Christopher held hands until the end. He died in April 2004. Since his passing Wanda has taken part in numerous ALS Society walks and is now more deeply involved with the ALS Society of Newfoundland and Labrador. The Society is “small but substantial” says Wanda. “We supply equipment that can be serviced and sent out again: wheelchairs, lift chairs, hospital beds, scooters, breathing assists. We have some of the equip for feeding tubes, safety rails, bath tub chairs, endless equipment. Sent on courier the day it’s requested, all from one small office in Corner Brook for the entire province.”

I asked Wanda what her hope for the future is.

“My HOPE is to help open people’s eyes, spread awareness and shut the door. I want to see Cheryl (Executive Director) unemployed. We joke about that… being a little more realistic… I’m not so sure that I will live long enough to see it but I hope and pray my children, Christoper’s sons and his daughter (because he always said he had 3 chldren) live long enough to see the cause and hte cure found and hte door shut. Go big or go home. I dream big … and I dream in colour too. Without hope you have nothing. I have hope. It will happen. I believe.”

This year’s Walk for ALS will happen in Corner Brook on Sunday June 12 at Bennett Hall on West St. Registration begins at 12 p.m. and the walk will begin at 2 p.m.  Please visit http://www.envision.ca/webs/alsnl/ for information on how to donate or take part.

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I would like to thank all my friends who sent pictures of their tattoos so I could share them with all of you. To make some space between tattoos I’ve used quotes mined from the internet. I’d rather keep your special stories private and let the art speak for itself. Once again, I think you all for participating. I owe you all hugs, cookies and maybe a beer when next I see you.

Show me a man with a tattoo and I’ll show you a man with an interesting past.  ~Jack London

A man without tattoos is invisible to the Gods.  ~Iban Proverb, as quoted on vanishingtattoo.com

Sometimes when you fall, you fly

When the designs are chosen with care, tattoos have a power and magic all their own.  They decorate the body but they also enhance the soul.  ~Michelle Delio

Everything was beautiful, and nothing hurt.

Usually all my tattoos came at good times. A tattoo is something permanent when you’ve made a self-discovery, or something you’ve come to a conclusion about. ANGELINA JOLIE, USA Today interview, July 17, 2003

People have asked me, what about your tattoos when you’re ninety? Why would it bother me then? I would still want to get tattooed even when I’m a grandmother.
~Nicole Miller, noted fashion designer

The universality of tattooing is a curious subject for speculation.
~Captain James Cook – 1779

“An everlasting gem that you will take into your grave.”
Line from a traditional Polynesian song about tattooing

In Galatians 6:17, Saint Paul says, “From this time onward let no one trouble me; for, as for me, I bear, branded on my body, the scars of Jesus as my Master.

“My skin is my canvas. The artwork on it represents something that is very powerful and meaningful in my life. I look at my skin as something of a living diary because all my tattoos represent a time in my life. And I never wish to shut the door on the past, so I carry it all with me.” - Dave Navarro

“My body is a journal in a way. It’s like what sailors used to do, where every tattoo meant something, a specific time in your life when you make a mark on yourself, whether you do it yourself with a knife or with a professional tattoo artist.” - Johnny Depp

“If the body is a temple, then tattoos are its stained glass windows.” - Vince Hemingson, Nov. 10, 2010

The only difference between a tattooed person and a person who isn’t tattooed is that a tattooed person doesn’t care if you’re tattooed or not.
(Sign often seen in tattoo shops)

True Love is like a tattoo. It hurts when it bleeds but it feels good within & last forever till the end of your time.

Yes, Wednesday is the nickname people called me behind my back in high school, but you know what? Wednesday Addams is a kick-ass character. One night, early in our dating life, Jon and I were watching television. I can’t remember which show. Something of the crime scene / murder mystery / profiling milieu. The profiler stepped up to do his job. “They’ll be looking for a white male in his 30s. He’ll drive a pick-up,” I deadpanned. I’d seen so many of these shows. The profiler on screen echoed pretty much what I’d said. “Way to go, Wednesday,” said Jon, “Homicidal maniacs look like everybody else.”  I’m not sure *facepalm* was a written action then, but it sure was performed. So, yes, Jon calls me Wednesday, and I don’t mind.

Today the weather was gorgeous. Twenty-three luscious degrees (that’s Celcius) which meant lots of outdoor time. My son and I went to the beach where he discovered that a stick is a better toy than anything that’s made of plastic and bought in a shop. I don’t know what it is about the water but it’s my sure cure for calm. We had a great afternoon creating sculptures from driftwood. As my son piled up wet sand to make a castle I made some quick notes in my mini-journal. This summer’s project is to write a screenplay. I have never written a screenplay before. My son hadn’t made a driftwood sculpture before this afternoon either, but he did it. He tried and so will I.

This update is being written at the same time I should be hauling together my feature on Allison Crowe for CornerBrooker.com. This is all tangentially related. I told Allison yesterday that the moment I heard her play “Dearly” I knew it belonged on the soundtrack of my yet-to-be-filmed, yet-to-be-produced, yet-to-be-written movie. She still seemed as excited as I. And this is how Wednesday had a good case of the Thursdays. Oh! The mushroom gravy on the mashed potatoes? The graffiti my son and I found as we left the beach:

Dearly – Allison Crowe

Today I read an article by a friend of mine. In “I Believe In It (but what is it?)” he talks openly about the impact a young peer’s suicide has on his adult life. He talks about how he views her death now and wishes he could have taught her that life would get better – lessons that very few of our young selves know. He writes about his own awkwardness and alienation:

I know that feeling and it is scary on both ends, never being able to create a true bond with someone you like, and knowing, beyond a doubt if you make a misstep that tentative hand someone holds out to you will be taken away.

I recall my awkward high school years, though I would rather bury them in a dusty box along with my yearbooks. I was socially awkward, but wanted to be social. However, the more I tried to talk to people, the harder things were. I didn’t say the right things. I didn’t wear the right things. And even if I lose some facebook “friends” for saying this – the people I usually did call friends were not. They were users who hung out with me when their preferred friends weren’t around. But I was just so happy for a bond I didn’t even care if it was real.

anthony & the johnsons: knockin’ on heaven’s door by visualpanic

At sixteen things got strange for me. Stranger, I mean. I found it increasingly harder to relate to people. I felt angry all the time. My high school guidance councilor told me it was called teen angst and I would grow out of it. My style of dress changed. My interests changed. My behaviour changed. All of these things would now be called warning signs. In 1995 it was teen angst, a phase. No big deal – except to me who was finding every day harder and harder to deal with. I was bullied and called weird. And I was weird, though I didn’t know why. I just knew I couldn’t make connections with people and I stopped wanting to. For me, however, the fortunate thing was someone held out a tentative hand and I took it. And I held it as tightly as he let me.

I felt there was a black cloud hanging over me. Kids called me Wednesday Addams behind my back. In my final year of high school I even won an award called the Wednesday Addams award. Take that one home to your parents and explain it. But I digress. I never had a plan to kill myself. I just often wished I didn’t exist. I dreamed that school could be over and I’d never have to deal with the bullying or the anxiety again. And one night I told my friend all these things. He said, “It’s only for now. Think of all the fun things you’ll do when school is over.” I couldn’t think of a single thing. I didn’t care. But he kept calling. And he kept me talking. I’m sure our parents would be glad, if they knew how many phone hours we logged, that our calls were local.

Field, Telephone poles by Jukka Vuokko

This friend kept on holding my hand through my first two years of university as well, when I was diagnosed with Bipolar Disorder. Suddenly everything that was wrong with me made sense. And with treatment everything that appeared wrong with me went away. So did the black cloud hanging over my head. But I was still angry because so much of the hate and hurt I received from classmates, even teachers, was because I was sick. My weirdness, my moodiness was an illness out of my control. I felt angry because I’d been doubly punished – first by being handed a brain with faulty neurotransmitters then by being ostracized because of it.

One day in the middle of being angry I realized that without my friend (now gone from my life due to circumstances I don’t need to recount here) I’d never have made it to a diagnosis. I’d never have had the chance to be well. To get my degree. To fall in love. To get married. To have a baby. To write and write and write and write. To laugh. To read so many wonderful books. To learn to love the world with all its ugliness and wonder. To believe in anything, everything.

So I appreciate those tentative hands. Keep reaching out. You won’t know what it means until 15 years later when you read something like this and realise how grateful someone is that you did.

Roman Candle by Lauren Rushing