I dwell in possibility

As it turned out, it was not the long drive, snow, wet and icy roads, cold, dark, or commuter traffic that had been stoking the intangible anxiety that had underpinned my existence for days.

Nor was it the specialist appointment itself, or the doctor’s arrogant attitude, the loss of dignity revealing a private condition to a near stranger, or the pain that comes with the exam.

In the end it was the return to a place I hadn’t been since July 29, 2024 – the University of Alberta campus, in an annex part of the hospital. Heading north, north west.

(Under the dog star sail—

Over the reefs of moonshine—

Under the skies of fall—

North, north west, the stones of Faroe)

I was about three minutes in to my drive when suffocating trauma memories from the cardiac ICU ward unexpectedly flooded back. The memory blinded me temporarily. I gasped, as one would if suddenly stabbed in the back with a knife, and tried to regain my bearings. Another, blinding like lightning, I gripped the wheel and was grateful for a red light.

(All colours bleed to red)

Thus began a long, 45 minute journey back in time. I realized as I turned onto 23^rd Ave I was retracing my steps of that last morning. After the hours of sleep Dad had granted us 3:00-5:00 am, and after the phone call for family to gather.

I passed through the same 91^st street intersection that gave me a speeding ticket when I was racing to Dad’s bedside, after being told his situation was grave a few nights prior to the 29^th (I spent that night with him, holding his hand, pouring my heart out. Despite being unconscious, he rallied for a few more days).

I passed along the familiar road Dad and I drove every day of my three years at Strathcona High School where he taught, remembering the talks, the tapes we’d listen to. Songs I’ve mentioned before running through my head-

(All this time—

The river flowed—

Endlessly—

Like a silent tear—)

It’s funny how memories go. When they return, you’re reminded not just of what happened, but your mind state, your emotions – I remember the feeling of blessed completeness of feeling at the center of a massive wheel of intertwined family and love, when all my grandparents were still alive and in my orbit. The excitement at being exposed to new thoughts and possibilities and the hope and promise I felt of a life before me, including the excited apprehension anticipating university. Worlds – no, universes – away from where I am now. It’s that screeching reality pressing in, and the awareness of the chasm between then and now that rips through the chest.

I turned onto Argyll, driving the same path Dad and I took every school day morning at 7:30 am. I passed where the pulp mill workers were on strike for years on end – where the acrid smell of wood and smoke would flood the car vents.

At last, I deviated from the well-worn wagon trail, but on to another. Instead of turning to take the High School route, I continued straight. A later trod path, from the days of attending University to earn my degree, and 7 years after graduation and teaching when I would return to work at the Stollery with pediatrics.

The final stretch of road toward the Mazankowski Alberta Heart Institute was especially rough. It was hard to distinguish what was splashes on the windshield and what were my tears. And then finally a sudden veer left, turning away from the place where my heart died a thousand deaths. 

Denoument

The specialist appointment had its usual assaults and indignities but before long I was turned around and headed home. Oddly enough the sunshine came out, to the point of blinding brilliance, as I made my way south. The sunshine and blue sky offered a more hopeful outlook, and I reflected on how in time, at some point when things felt less bleak, I would need to forge a different, new path for myself.

(It’s a cruel, crazy, beautiful world—

One day when you wake up I will have to say goodbye—
Goodbye—)

(It’s your world so live in it!)

***

• Songs:
• Why Should I Cry for You, Sting (Twice)
• All This Time, Sting
• Cruel, Crazy, Beautiful World, Johnny Clegg (Twice)

Pictured above- Heather showering, about to be assaulted by intrusive thoughts.
Image from https://thefilmstage.com/who-directed-the-iconic-psycho-shower-scene/

There are some circumstances where being alone with your thoughts can be very positive. I love mulling things over, making connections, reflecting on experiences, solving problems, etc.

During the period of grieving and healing though there are certain activities that I find especially challenging. They seem to be a nourishing space for intrusive, unwelcome thoughts that can quickly gain a foothold. I wonder how this compares to others’ experiences. My most dangerous thought scenarios include:

• Middle of the night, in bed (nothing good ever comes of this time!)

• At bedtime, in bed

• Showering (such a vulnerable time! No wonder so many were horrified by Psycho’s murder scene)

• Driving (for me there’s also a disconnect with the surroundings as you pass by without interacting)

• Cleaning floors, vacuuming, shovelling

Below, Heather’s intrusive thoughts coming at her. Pic from https://backlots.net/2011/10/31/hitchcock-halloween-day-3-psycho-1960/

I find the latest OECD stats (November 5, 2024) for OECD countries (38 developed and dramatic countries spanning the world) rather sobering. Be kind, everyone. It’s tough times for many. ❤️

I have always embraced the candles, lights, and lanterns of the season. I have a particular fondness for the multicolour incandescent variety- both miniature and old school individual screw-in lights. The colours bring such joy to such a cold, dark season, when spirits can be low and to do lists rack up faster than you can check off items.

Below, last year’s tree at Mom and Dad’s. A true labour of love that includes 60+ years of ornaments. The rule is every ornament goes on the tree.

Our family’s always loved visiting outdoor lights as well- I still remember the tinsel and light ones down streets and avenues in downtown Edmonton and driving along Candy Cane Lane. On Christmas Eve, as late as 2022 Dad would always drive us around to look at neighbourhood lights with radio music playing.

When Grandma and Grandpa Davies would come to visit for Christmas (or when we’d visit in Winnipeg) Dad would drive us all around on snow covered streets in a packed car. I still chuckle remembering Grandma’s reaction of horror as the verses of Grandma Got Run Over By A Reindeer were revealed. (Oh, Ritchie, how terrible!)

We would be driving around and see all kinds of spectacular bright light displays with motion in all colours, and then pass a subdued house with a few clear lights. My Grandma would always, reliably say “I think I like the clear lights best”.

As an explosion of colour loving granddaughter, I never could understand this perspective. Sometimes it was a single, weak strand of clear lights tossed haphazardly on a bush and she’d still make the same comment. Even the last Christmas when she was terminally ill, many years after my grandpa had passed away, when she was so sick and in pain, we took her for a holiday ride, and she came to the same conclusion – “I think I like the clear lights best of all”, leading to a quiet chuckle.

Too many years have passed since that Christmas and I’m facing my first Christmas without Dad. There will be no tree this year, and for the first time ever, none of the family traditions we enthusiastically carried out over the decades will take place. It is the year of ash. Quiet reflection. Sadness. And that cutting awareness of how much we’ve lost. A few weeks ago I ordered a few strings of lights online. A momentary pause over the multicolour lights- but they weren’t right this year. I settled on the clear. Two strings of clear lights on a fig and bamboo tree – purchased for Dad’s Celebration of Life – adorn our home. This year I like the clear lights best of all.

I’ve not had a chance to post here as often as my heart longs to due to work – damn work – and other life obligations, including many new ones since dad’s passing. I will always stop in when I have a minute to spare.

I was over at Mom and Dad’s today, shovelling and feeding Dad’s birds. I stopped in to Dad’s study to grab a password. His haven. A treasure trove- pure sensory overload of all that was meaningful and inspiring to him. I promised more posts on this and will eventually deliver.

I was struck by the apple calendar by his computer. Dad had a calendar to change long before box calendars became popular. Teaching high school he reliably changed a very well worn, large, cardboard, Royal Bank calendar. When he saw my teacher’s Apple calendar based on the same premise at our garage sale many years ago, he quickly snapped it up. He loved marking each day this way, but changing the numbers.

The calendar remains on July 9, though the Leonard Cohen clock on the wall above ticks on. Dad had changed it the morning he headed to emergency, never to return home again. A branch in the road, leading to more branches, mercilessly dragging us along as we fought each inch. Dad’s life in his beloved home ended that day. Ours continues painfully onward.

Today is the Grey Cup football game- the final chapter in the 2024 Canadian football season. As expected, the Edmonton Elks (although grammatically correct, insert Dad wince here. Our family would have preferred Edmonton Elk when they were renamed from Eskimos a few years ago…) are nowhere to be found, but our family is still represented. The Winnipeg Blue Bombers made it to the final.

Dad was born in Winnipeg, and Winnipeg was where Mom and Dad met in University. My Dad still had my Grandpa’s Blue Bomber squall jacket, it’s still hanging in a closet at Mom and Dad’s. My Grandma and Grandpa Davies lived in Winnipeg all their lives. It’s a beautiful city and every visit there (including the last one, with Mom and Dad in 2019) was magical.

The Grey Cup and Super Bowl was always a time to come together and share good food and laughs. Below, a typical family room set up- football hamster ready to sing if the team we were cheering for scored; Dad’s referee cup holder; tv commercial bingo; snacks in football-shaped containers; Edmonton Eskimos football from a game Dad and I went to long ago; and (partially hidden) “D-Fence” headgear, which I usually wore. AstroTurf coasters are on a table behind.

The most notable and prized treasure of football finals, and the item that best sums up Dad’s playful, lighthearted nature, was the paper football table centrepiece. It is notably battered, taped poorly on the ends, barely stands up, and Dad added a bandaid for effect several years ago. Oh, how we loved getting together, and we always had so much fun.

Just a brief, contemplative post on the many exits to life I’ve witnessed or been close to over the years of those closest to me. There are so many ways to face that final transformation. They all unfold differently and must be respected. I am in awe of the fierceness of spirit of all. I’ve been beside those struggling to breathe, to live, and those peacefully gasping their last breaths. I am all too well acquainted with suffering. Oh, how I love and miss them all.

My first pet, beloved Pepper, died in my arms, in the physical heart of the home, after waiting for the entire family to be home.

My first guinea pig had a horrific end of pain, with a bladder stone blocking her ability to urinate. I made the painful decision to end her suffering.

My second piggie and I had a deep bond, and he waited until I was home before passing away peacefully.

My third and fourth piggies were deeply bonded. After long lives, I had to take one for her final trip to the vet. The other had stayed alive through sheer will power to stay with her sister over the months as she was very ill. She passed away that same night at home lying next to where she would lay next to her sister.

My fish was deeply bonded with me and fought to live. There was no merciful way I knew to handle him. It was a rough few days before he finally passed away.

My grandparents all left this earthly existence in different ways. A common thread was a resistance to leaving home and facing hospitalization or hospice. One passed away with family around. Another waited until they heard news of a hospice, and chose a time – a brief lunch break of loved ones- to pass away quietly.

One passed away at home in the night, also alone. And one passed away on the same day at the hospital before transferring to hospice, within an hour of their spouse’s passing 9 years previously, with family present.

I’ve had a friend discuss with me quality of life and then choose assisted suicide to end her suffering, and I’ve been close to near and final deaths from meth.

Of all deaths though, my beloved Dad’s was the most dramatic. The doctor thought he’d make the night before dialysis but my heart felt differently. I just knew. Mom insisted on staying the night despite the positive prognosis. I stayed with her. We weren’t in the room together half an hour when vitals went critical and we were ushered out.

We called my brother while they initiated dialysis stat. The doctor talked to us in a family meeting and we reiterated Dad wanted every last chance to live. After dialysis there was peace and my brother and Mom visited again… until they were ushered out again. There was a long wait.

Perhaps around 2 am or so I ventured at one point to the end of ICU, the room. The doctor was sitting on the bed. Literally sitting on Dad’s bed, beside him. Just staring at the myriad of monitors. I could see how worried he was. I headed back to the family waiting room. The staff were all outside and buzzing. It was awful.

After several eons we were permitted back. I went with Mom first. The nurses were outside and calm, but breathlessly recounted what had just happened, jotted on a tiny note paper in pen crudely.

—the defibrillator plates still lay on a table, cooling off—

Dad’s heart rate, which had been so low for so long, had suddenly took off, wildly fast. Absolute racing. The doctor gave a first bolus to slow the heart, no response. They gave a second bolus to slow the heart, zero response.

They stopped his heart. Restarted his heart. Still tachycardia +++++.

They stopped his heart again. Restarted his heart. Heart rate was still runaway, off the charts.

They stopped his heart a third time.

They restarted his heart.

he was okay.

The cardiologist performed surgery *in* the room, implanting a pacemaker.

and he was okay.

We visited, filled the room with love. He was so peaceful, absolute beauty, had not seen him resting like that for so long. He was going to be okay. He had the pacemaker, he was on dialysis, and his vitals were great. And he was resting so beautifully.

We told him to have a good sleep, and we would see him in the morning, and we as an entire family left, the first time we had left him alone in days and days. We were exhilarated and so happy. Dad was a fighter and he wanted to live. And he would.

The call from the ward to return came a few hours later. We are all certain the few hours of peace and sleep we had was Dad’s last gift to us. He knew we needed each other, and we needed rest. He sent us home together telling us not to worry, without speaking a word.

A remarkable last day, and last gift. An incredible human being. My Dad.

In addition to honouring all who have served, including my own family, I am remembering my Dad today. He always set up a beautiful display, which included pictures of my Grandpas. The below display Dad set up last year has deep meaning to our family. Thank you to all who have served. ❤️

Hurt (Trent Reznor)

I hurt myself today
To see if I still feel
I focus on the pain
The only thing that’s real

The needle tears a hole
The old familiar sting
Try to kill it all away
But I remember everything

What have I become?
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know goes away
In the end

And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt

I wear this crown of thorns
Upon my liar’s chair
Full of broken thoughts
I cannot repair

Beneath the stains of time
The feelings disappear
You are someone else
I’m still right here

What have I become?
My sweetest friend
Everyone I know goes away
In the end

And you could have it all
My empire of dirt
I will let you down
I will make you hurt

If I could start again
A million miles away
I would keep myself
I would find a way

Best version: Johnny Cash https://youtu.be/8AHCfZTRGiI?si=N5M3XFcOjOv0-Tpg

It’s been another tough, impossible afternoon, the kind of afternoon where my throat is a painful lump and breathing hurts. I’m on a precipice of another long weekend. I dread the additional time. Just more time to grieve and hurt. My tired physical body will appreciate the break, though. 

I miss Dad’s encouraging words through the week. He’d always offer me positive words trying to get me past the frustrations of work and life. He’d hand me CDs and books and DVDs when I saw him for grocery pick ups on Tuesdays and Fridays to open my heart and mind and sustain my soul. 

He’d often offer to host Friday “pizza and wine” (a Dad classic) or some other dinner ordered in where none of us would have to lift a finger and could just enjoy each other’s company. Just to celebrate the week and enjoy a few laughs, and maybe he’d sneak in a computer technical question or two and playing a bit of something he’d taped on the PVR.

Earlier in the week he already would have been inviting us over for Remembrance Day and coffee and apple turnovers. He’d be letting me know when the Oilers are playing this weekend and I’d be wincing about late starts and my early bedtimes. He’d let me know via email with web links that the Leonid meteor shower arrives tonight.

I miss you so much. 💔