I dwell in possibility

Dad and I have always shared a wicked sense of humour. Like most families, we shared “in” jokes, ones that our only our shared histories could appreciate. We also shared an ongoing, decades and decades long appreciation of and shared amusement over rats.

It began with my guinea pigs. The noble guinea pig, beloved domestic rodent. An unexpected guinea pig landed in my classroom on a cold -30 degree celcius day. A school bus driver spotted an opportunity to bring some new excitement to a tough farm piggy’s life. Becky had had already lived long life, loved burrowing in farm field hay, and had even enjoyed a litter with her long predeceased husband Rupert. As a new teacher, I was keen to take up the challenge, bringing her into the fold as a classroom pet, teaching kids about the joys of living beings and fostering empathy. The only issue: Becky did not spend one night in the classroom, of course. I fell in love with her carrot-chomping ways instantly and brought her home to stay, although she enjoyed many 30-minute drives for day trips to the kindergarten classroom.

Below, sweet but tough Becky, accepting a treat:

Molly (later Mozart, and finally Mo, in a shocking gender twist) was soon to follow, and later my Moxie and Roxie. The last two came into my life during a particularly sad and heartsick time on a cold winter’s Valentine’s Day when I was seeking to bring joy into my life and love into my heart once more.

Christmases for the guineas were always celebrated on Orthodox Christmas, after the distractions of the bigger celebration two weeks earlier for the family. My Grandma Reade (with Duokhobor origins) would affectionately refer to Orthodox Christmas as “Little Christmas”, an affectionate nod to her background. Little Christmas and smol sweet beings were an obvious fit, and when describing the event to Dad I shortened it to “Ratmas”. My connection to rats was forever cemented.

Below, Mozart (Mo), and baby Roxie and Moxie, watched over by Grandma.

Dad loved making connections, especially connecting people close to him with their passions, interests, hobbies, and jokes. A wealth of rat newspaper clippings followed, and, in the 2000s, website links and YouTube videos. Every newsworthy rat made my inbox, bringing so many smiles and laughter over the years. Pizza rat? Yep. The rats driving vehicles? Of course. (and don’t even get me started about the Year of the Rat!)

Celebrating the rat in a rat-free province, (at least a province with no overt reproducing populations, cross border rats are quickly neutralized), was delightfully rebellious, of course, but our shared humour went deeper than that, I think. At the heart of it, I think Dad embraced my love for the vulnerable prey animal, and we both rooted for the much-maligned underdog (underrat, as it were). We both saw myself in my deeply sensitive, wired-to-fire guinea pigs – at times in sensory overload; often at odds in the world; and at risk of being misunderstood.

(And besides, who doesn’t love a feel good story about rats learning to drive miniature cars? https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=ZO11r_8_Xe4)

***

Yesterday (Sunday), while vacuuming (chores are one of the hardest; the toughest thoughts always come then, so do the tears), I was straightening up some other cherished gifts from Dad, and thought of this rat connection we had shared over the decades. I was deeply saddened I wouldn’t be receiving any more rat news, and thought about blogging about this oddity – to put it out in the universe, juuust in case friends or familiars wished to still send me (what would be thoroughly embraced) rat news. I put it on the backburner of my mind.

Today, I was attempting to catching up on a few posts from several weeks ago on Mastodon on a Monday morning coffee break. One of the first few posts I encountered in my feed was a link to a highly informational rat cartoon to explain how rats have a highly developed hippocampus. The synchronicity was pure delight. I took it as a good sign indeed that I was meant to write this ratty little post, and so here it is. ❤

Dad always marvelled at the connections I would make online. He encouraged our passion project, building a safe, billionaire-free, ad-free, algorithim-free community with like-minded people and “floofs” (small fluffy beings we share our lives with, whether literally or in spirit, such as hamsters, guinea pigs, and rabbits) on decentralized social media (specifically Mastodon; a Twitter/X alternative for those not digging ethical guilt).

A “Zoom Meeting” on Mastodon with floof friends, otherwise known as #FloofCon:

Dad would always seek updates on the guinea pigs, rabbits, and other connections I made with others and the countries they lived in, with a genuine curiosity. Our connections span the globe- particularly across Europe, North America, and Australia. Dad enjoyed hearing stories from familiar places he’d visited or read about and even hearing updates how the weather was overseas in a distant land. A remarkable expansive consciousness occurs when you build relationships with others on the global scale, helping to transcend day to day life and connect on higher planes and on the deepest, heart-t0-heart level.

Despite obvious differences – climates, countries, cultures, socioeconomic status, time zones, occupations, backgrounds, even languages – remarkable bridges have been formed with the most beautiful, kind-hearted people. Although the common thread between these connections has been a deep love of animals, it seems to go a step deeper than just this. The particular types of people who are drawn to, rejoice in, and care for the smallest, most vulnerable creatures on the planet – those that are usually considered prey in the animal kingdom – are the most empathetic, sensitive, kindest, gentlest, resilient, strongest, funniest, most giving people I’ve ever met. And providing a safe social media haven for these absolute jewels of humanity has been one of the most rewarding experiences of our lives.

One of the few lights in July was the kindness the community showed while Dad was in the hospital. Many words of strength and support poured in to him and our family – sending love, good vibes, prayers and well wishes. Dad knew from the time he was in emergency to the coldest, darkest nights of ICU when I would read messages as they came in from around the world that the beautiful people from around the world were thinking of him and wrapping him in positive thoughts and love. Throughout his stay in the hospital he was constantly wrapped in a soft blanket (loved by nursing staff) designed by one of our dearest, most gifted artist friends. The global village kept him warm and wrapped loving protection around him, both physically and in his heart, and for this I will be eternally grateful.

There may come a time
When I will lose you
Lose you as I lose my light
Days falling backward into velvet night
– Paul Simon, Further to Fly, Rhythm of the Saints album

How many times I listened to this song with Dad in the car, on trips, at home. We celebrated the ecstasy of listening to Paul Simon’s Rhythm of the Saints album and he loved this song. We were so blessed to see the tour when Paul played Edmonton, bringing over four drum sets to the stage on a cold -30C night. I remember how we left that concert and didn’t need our coats; Paul had ignited our souls.

I awoke with that familiar takes-your-breath-away aching pain, and these lyrics poured into the hole in my heart.

(Dad wearing Rhythm of the Saints shirt in California, early 90s above)

In July, during the worst of times, I grew extremely ill, and a horrific death rattle in my lungs settled for two long months. Two days before Dad’s Celebration of Life I had a medical crisis and things began to spiral. An unchecked sinus infection was expanding in my skull, with lightning bolts of nerve pain, and my teeth were pushing down so far from the pressure I couldn’t chew.

We’ve never been able to pinpoint the cause of this severe illness, although I did tell ICU staff that it was simply my system failing from crying too much. Early in its onset I lost my sense of smell and taste. It’s not returned. I’ve lost a sense. Actually, I’ve lost two. My metaphysical sense lies dormant. I haven’t been able to tap into the sublime and awe of the Universe, either. Of the two, if I could have one sense back, I’d choose the latter. I long to connect with the rhythm of the Saints and be in tune once more with the great pulsing of the universe.

Today we finally had two City Inspectors out to check out the new air conditioner (A/C) at Mom and Dad’s. It’s an extremely painful topic as Dad had wanted the A/C so badly and never got to enjoy it. In fact, he had delayed going to the hospital at one point to ensure the system was being installed so he was available to help if problems arose. When I arrived to take over so he could head to emergency, he stayed on a bit to properly introduce me to the workers and do a formal handoff. Like always, Dad wanted to make sure we were properly cared for before looking after himself.

He was home for one night after not being admitted but my broken heart is not emotionally ready to talk about it except to say that the theme of “if you can stay warm you shall not perish from the cold” played a role in his last night at home.

Unfortunately the A/C will haunt us further as more work by the company is needed to fix it, then another City inspector will have to follow up. It is very discouraging that this extremely painful reminder of Dad’s last days will drag on for weeks more.

After a lengthy installation process fraught with problems, an alarm system is in place bringing peace of mind at Mom and Dad’s. Despite the stressful day, it is reassuring to know the house (including Dad’s precious book collection) is safe while Mom stays with us, and that she will be secure too when she is there.

The security system replaces Dad’s old security system, which had been installed on a window:

The sign was a loving nod to our beloved poodle of 18 years, Pepper. Here she is enjoying one of her birthday celebrations, likely in the early 90s, decked out in firefighter hat.

Out flew the web and floated wide;
The mirror crack’d from side to side;
‘The curse is come upon me,’ cried
       The Lady of Shalott.
(The Lady of Shalott – Alfred Tennyson)

The Lady of Shalott, oil-on-canvas painting, John William Waterhouse

I’ve alluded to the myriad of symbols and portents signalling the great disruption of our family’s universe, the passing of my dear Dad. The poem by English poet Alfred Tennyson, The Lady of Shalott, provided yet another motif over the past six months.

It began around March/April, when Dad asked for my Enya and Loreena McKennitt CDs. He’d heard them in passing, but wished to revisit them more deeply. We had been blessed to encounter her several times at the Edmonton Folk Music Festival over the years. We reminisced over hearing her magical harp echo over the hill of glimmering candles with the Edmonton skyline lit up behind the stage under the starry sky.

He was particulary struck revisiting Loreena’s The Visit album, and took special note of her painstaking and haunting rendition of The Lady of Shalott, true to the poem’s spirit and form. (Canadian Juno Awards version of song performed by her here: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=Z77PR0JA0gU)

Later in the Grey Nuns Hospital, during the period of time where our pure purpose was to either head to, be at, or come from, the hospital, while passing time as we often did, Mom impressed Dad by suddenly and unexpectedly quoting the above lines of the poem.

A few days afterward a large tarp covering a sandbox and well-secured with a substantial bag of dirt went missing one night from Mom and Dad’s yard. Mom found the sandbox exposed; dirt bag on lawn; the tarp was never seen again. She made the connection immediately, there was no hesitation, automatically reciting “Out flew the web and floated wide“.

Later that day after the Breaking of my world on July 29 – oh, how those hellish days and nights and how they blurred into one continuous amorphous horror – I looked down at my phone with finally seeing eyes and was startled to see my own shattered reflection looking back at me-

my mirror had cracked from side to side.

Skye, our little warrior bun, has hopped back from the brink of death itself yet again. After three days of round the clock life support she is now back to her ebullient, mischievous self. Her toughness, resilience, and spirit continues to be an inspiration and pure joy.

On my lunch break from work, doing another one of those excruciating tasks. I’m in Dad’s email again. It kills my heart to be in there. I shouldn’t be anywhere near his personal stuff. He should be in here, monitoring emails, deleting junk mail, responding to people, reading interesting things. It’s just all so wrong, and I’m forced to face that surreal juxtaposition of what what should be and brutal reality.

I realize this is a common scenario, having to monitor old accounts, etc. How on earth do people do this and manage to carry on? I must not be as strong as most people, it just absolutely ruins me. My nephew continues to send weather updates to his Grandpa. I weep. Has anyone ever been electrocuted from crying over a keyboard before?

I prepare to go back to work for one. My coworkers won’t see the invisible ice pick in my chest, the blood stains from an open wound that won’t stop bleeding.

An excerpt from an email received from another beautiful friend today of Dad’s 🙏—

I know that it is very difficult for you to cope up with the pain and sorrow caused by your father’s death, the extraordinary man who was like a star, radiating eloquence, nobility and invention. He was the first Canadian writer to offer me his sincere friendship when I, as a writer from Europe, first appeared on the Edmonton literary scene in 2013.

Richard edited two of my poetry books entitled [omitted for privacy].  He also wrote an excellent review for both of these books. Our ideas about literature and our aesthetic tastes were very similar.

Let me to express my deepest condolences on the loss of your beloved father, who left indelible marks on the literary world of Edmonton and enriched Canadian literature with his wonderful works in several literary genres.

How has a year gone by since this beautiful, heaven-sent day late August 2023. Dad had encouraged me for a few weeks to bring my cruiser bike over to reunite for a ride together around the neighbourhood- a beautiful trip back in time, in the spirit of past bike rides and adventures.

He taught me how to ride. I was a nervous, off-balanced latebloomer when it came to riding without training wheels, but he was determined to enable me to feel that freedom of the bike. That joy it had always given him throughout his life. Delaying had come to that critical point, it was time to push the bird out of the nest. He took me to my Elementary School parking lot and around and around I circled, with him running behind, catching me if I tilted, and letting go quietly when he sensed I was ready to fly solo.

We had so many beautiful rides together. Safely down sidewalks to new worlds my young eyes had never seen. We even parked outside the University and rode in to enjoy fall and its offerings, and he introduced me to the beauty and magic of campus and Hub mall with its coloured shutters opening to the mall strip below lined with services and glorious windows above.. and lines of vending machines (to a young child this was quite marvellous!)… I fell in love with University and longed to return (and did, as undergrad and alumni).

On this day our trip was shorter, but just as impactful. Down familiar roads I grew up, making the journey from house to our old condo in Lakewood Estates blocks down, where my first memories of childhood begin. We rode around the old development, stood in front of our old home, reminisced. I must admit I peeked through the back fence boards to see the back yard, too. I remember so much, the fence he painted, the shed he built, the balls he’d teacher me to catch and throw. So many memories.

(Dad and Heather by the condo as it was being built, below, 1977)

I’m so grateful for that bike ride with you that day. Thank you for having the foresight as you always did, the energy to propel that experience forward for us to share ans savour together. How I wish I had more rides with you left, more days where I followed your bike, letting you forge the path and enjoying the ride.

I’ve not taken my bike out for a spin this year. The catastrophic crises of the last ten months and a late spring start and then suddenly July kept me from even filling my tires with the bike pump Dad lovingly bought for me. I’m just not brave enough to ride solo again, or to forge a path without him in the lead.

Starting my second partial work week back from being off for almost two months and I can definitively now say

that work

is not a distraction.

It is merely a place

where I try to suspend the reality of the unimaginable loss.

I try to fool the mind

so that I am able to perform a few functions

in order to get some meaningless things done for others.

All the while, the pain builds and builds inside

to extreme levels of pressure, to the point of hyperventilation-

I am unable to breathe deeply from the dam’s walls bending and threatening to burst.

End of day arrives and the pain is released from its temporary hold

the horrors of reality return

and the endless tears from bottomless pain

flow once more.