I dwell in possibility

 “Everything is energy and that’s all there is to it.” – Albert Einstein

Throughout the last month I’ve touched on some of the cataclysmic happenings and portents our family faced in the lead up to Dad’s death, including water and floods, bird motifs, and the Lady of Shalott. I’ve also briefly touched on the failure of the 50+ year old freezer on the day of Dad’s Celebration of Life and burial. There is still much more to share, both in months prior and following July 29.

The freezer failure was one, of many other, house-related failures leading up to Dad’s death. A separate post at some point in the future will need to cover lights burning out and dimes, which were the motifs of my Grandfather and Grandmother Reade’s deaths. Of note, a light burned out a week and a half before Dad passed away in the hallway and I had quickly changed it, trying to ignore the obvious symbolism it represented.

My approach to energy and forces is grounded on a rudimentary understanding in basic theoretical physics concepts, a rich appreciation for mythologies and religion, a grounding in middle eastern concepts, training toward becomming a Red Ribbon Master in Black Tantric Buddhism Feng Shui, an intuitive energetic sense, and lived experience. My knowledge and experience have led to an interesting approach toward the world. I truly believe everything we experience is connected by an intricate tapestry of energy and force. Even a drop of the ocean contains the essence of ocean-ness. So too do we each contain universe-ness. I am reminded of one of my Dad’s favourite quotes by Walt Whitman, words he lived by: “I am large, I contain multitudes”.

There are many things unexplained in this world. Some employ belief and blind faith, others cry foul… I choose keep an open mind, borrowing perspective from Arthur C. Clarke’s “any sufficiently advanced technology is indistinguishable from magic”. We are nowhere near close to understanding the universe in all its multitudes, and just because we can’t explain it, does not mean it is not true.

It is through this lens I view 2024. The severe disruption in time and space to our family, along with such an emotionally tormented time, seemed to ripple outward, both backward and forward in time.

What especially astounds me are how what we would call inanimate objects, but certainly objects of energy, were affected by the disruption. The failure of the freezer after 50+ years the day of Dad’s burial? The coincidence seems far too much. Throughout his over 50 years of his life, that freezer was a constant presence in the background of his life. It was a symbol of Mom and Dad’s union as they were starting out, in fact. Similarly a gorgeous, intricate crystal vase gifted to Mom by Dad, found itself inexplicably smashed, its shards covering the entirely of the garage floor.

The beloved Toyota he so generously and lovingly gave me, as well as what was his present vehicle, a Dodge Caravan, both inexplicably and suddenly needed major servicing, directly before and after his death. Even taps and plumbing within Mom and Dad’s house (yes, more floods, which I hadn’t mentioned previously, because they’ve been since July 29) started failing in the aftermath of his death, leading to more pricey repairs. A fence began failing and collapsing, the posts finally reaching a critical weakness from within. What does it all mean? Did he imprint some undetectable energy supporting some of the items around him, like an imprint of baby geese on its mother? Was there some kind of symbiotic exchange of energy and force on some level not yet understood? I don’t have answers or scientific explanations, but intuiatively it would seem that the disruption and upheaval of Dad’s passing has been so extreme that its effects seem to have gone far beyond simply my family’s private, internal, extreme grief. It continues to reverberate throughout space and time. Such was the magnitude of my Dad’s influence in our lives.

Right then, let’s continue onward examining these stages and assessing where I’m at. I think I covered SHOCK enough yesterday…

EMOTIONAL RELEASE

My experiences are more akin to waves. Massive, unrelenting crashing waves of pain that completely overwhelm me and leave me without breath. There can be waves washing over with greater and greater force, or sometimes a sneaker wave just unexpectedly attacks and knocks me flat. My spine liquefies and my physical being bends over, collapsing. These moments are always to do with the acute horror of no longer having Dad in my life. Sometimes it is the juxtaposition between remembering how things were and how we expected them to be and the dark reality before me. I become aware of that infinite fracture within me of unfathomable pain. It is limitless.

DEPRESSION

Depression and I are well acquainted, but interestingly I would not describe myself as depressed right now. Grief is different. I would describe this instead as a complete cut off from your life source. A severing of the cord that ties me to the very source of the universe. This leads to the question – if the fires that used to burn within you go out, what propels you forward? Why would you read a book, or listen to music, or tend to a garden? There are those brief moments of doubt that come suddenly, too – the awareness of the enormity of the task and the feeling that one cannot go on.

PHYSICAL SYMPTOMS OF DISTRESS

My personal experience is chest pain, stomach disorders, loss of smell and taste, and an inability to breathe in deeply. A quaver at the end every time I try threatens to explode into hyperventilation.

ANXIETY

Yes. The hyperventilation has been a new tool added to my anxiety arsenal. But in the dulling of the senses and disassociation, there is also a “why worry, the worst has already happened anyways”, almost a laissez faire attitude toward risk. In that sense things that prompted anxiety in the past no longer do so.

HOSTILITY

No, no hostility here. In my case, it’s echoes of HELPLESSNESS. A screaming into the void from the helplessness of how everything went down. Dad’s final six months, and even worse, last month, were terribly unfair and unlucky, and it is deeply saddening that he had a raw deal in his final month. July was like falling into a bottomless pit, and you constantly are fighting, trying to cling to the sides, trying to grab onto anything like a branch or root, and having them snap off in your hands, and continuing to fall. We repeatedly could not, would not, catch one break. There is, without question, the strongest sense that he deserved better. However, there is no hostility. I’ve not any fight left in me to be mad. Only infinite tears.

GUILT

I’ve always lived my life as carpe diem, no regrets, and this is how I always was with Dad over my lifetime. Right until the end I did everything physically and spiritually possible, with the clearest heart and most sincere intentions to the best I could. I even spiritually sent an SOS, begging my grandparents to send him back if they saw him coming toward. I have no regrets. I’d give this one a N/A.

HESITANCY TO RENEW NORMAL ACTIVITIES

More than that, it’s just that bizarre feeling that you’re fundamentally broken inside but you can go on, detached from life, without anyone at work realizing how broken and disconnected you truly are. It’s surreal. I am able to fake it and operate at about 60-70% capacity, but with nothing left after the work day for anything but sitting and staring.

HEALING OF MEMORIES

This comes naturally, and refocus largely happened from finding ways to celebrate Dad’s life. The Celebration of Life ceremony was part of that, but my life will find meaning finding celebrating in other ways, too. I will never be rid of the trauma flashbacks, although in time they may grow less. They join the ones that already visit me from previous traumas.

Of note, Dad also provided some guidance on finding ways to heal and honour him within a box beside his desk in his study…

ACCEPTANCE OF ONE’S NEW ROLE IN LIFE

This one I find cringe. Shed the cloak of grief and take on the robe of peace and renewal? Are you kidding me?

I will say that this, though. My own personal Breaking needs to cycle through the seasons. Ashes and void need to meet each holiday and season we shared. I don’t expect there will be any attempts at rebuilding a semblance of a life of meaning until the first cycle is complete. Everything has changed in the breaking, and what is built, although impossible to conceive of right now, will be entirely new. I am under no illusions – the way I’ve joyfully lived my life for five decades is no more.

I realize there are many grief resources out there. The hospital shoved us an envelope of resources as we were walking down the corridor dazed, still with Dad’s blood on our shoes. We threw it out later as anything associated with ICU was discarded due to the trauma associated with that place.

The above sheet was provided by the funeral home and crematorium as part of their package. It’s neatly presented, like a handy one page tip sheet. It’s just missing the bow. I shouldn’t be so facetious, the intention is good, my mindset isn’t today. There were other tempests on the horizon that revealed themselves this morning. “You Want it Darker” by Leonard Cohen is going through my head.

The day is an especially grim one, more air conditioning follow up work which is associated with pure trauma, as the installation had started on the second last day of Dad’s being at home in July. The AC baggage is still too heavy to unpack.

I found myself on my lunch break, feeling bleak as ever, so I figured I might as well go through the list, and see how I score in the grief stages. I only made it to analyzing the first stage. I’ll try again tomorrow…

SHOCK

Yes. Death was unexpected. Throughout the entire experience, right up until the night before, our family (and Dad), as well as medical professionals, shared a belief that this was an entirely survivable event.

That sense of the world going on around me in dulled shades of grey since the Day of the Breaking fits in well to this concept of trauma and dissociation.

I remember leaving the room on July 29. The ICU had had a change in staff at 8:30 am, and everyone was buzzing in the hallways. Life was continuing for everyone around us, but we were frozen in that minute. 9:18 am.

The doctor jumped on me as I began to leave, vulture-like, asking for/demanding Dad’s eyes (my g-d, his eyes! I support organ donation 100% but this was done with such blunt harshness and disrespect. His eyes, although depleted and upsetting were one of the last signs of life we clung to that last week.) The doctor stopped and then said carelessly “oh, I guess all his organs are too damaged to be used — but what about for science?”*

This incident left me with such a deep trauma it has haunted my days and dreams ever since… Anyways, I digress…

… I followed the Doctor With No Humanity back to his chair, to express to him this wasn’t just simply the death of a 74 year old man in an ICU bed, but that this was something greater… a loss to society… I tried to sum up the beauty of my father’s life in 30 seconds, failing horribly, but still desperately fumbling for, touching on his essence. He listened politely, an iron-like impenetrable armour guarding his demenour… but I digress again…

…yes, after that, I remember continuing to walk away from the room, Dad still lying there in the bed, machines silent, Mom and my brother standing vigil. Trying to leave. I still had to go through all the protocols for infectious diseases…taking off those hell rags I had to wear for the damn MRSA for the very last time. Hundreds of changes and one last change… for the damn MRSA the damn hospital had given him… but still I digress…

… I remember passing by the staff outside Dad’s window, the ones who had seemed to care days earlier and be supporting his recovery, and who had offered hope during setbacks. They were grinning stupidly and making jokes with each other as I made my way by. They turned and grinned at me with these joker-like grins, mid banter, wildly inhumane and inappropriate. These were not grins of kindness or empathy, but grins stemming from a total lack of awareness and being unable to read the room.

>>>Let’s take a brief pause here: Let’s strip down to the basic tenets of what makes us human. We live, we die, we feel joy, we feel pain. And when someone has died, a semblance of respect to those left behind, even if you don’t feel it, even if you’re a bloody psychopath, is appropriate. Please. Go through the motions. Be silent if nothing else. Please. We are human. Remember Albert Camus – The Prisoner? In all things of the sky and earth. Please….<<<

I realized then that the nurse’s smiles were not real. Those smiles we had interpreted as kindness- the same ones that provided reassurance to our family in the days prior – were simply masks that they don, along with their scrubs, at the beginning of their shift, in order to survive this hell ward. Self preservation. I get that. I worked in health care. I dealt with all kinds of horrors and sadness and grief and had to protect my heart. Just, don’t smile. Please don’t laugh minutes after someone’s beloved father has died a horrible, sad death. Put on another mask, for g-d’s sake, anything…

Okay, so, well, I’ve gone way, way, WAY off course here. It’s safe to say I’ve lost the way entirely. You want it darker? I’ve got it darker. But yes, shock. There is shock.

    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    This is the way the world ends
    Not with a bang but a whimper.

(TS Eliot, The Hollow Men)

***

* For any ICU physicians out there reading this, I recommend the following (hastily written by blogger) script instead:

Hi. Are you [insert name of deceased here] next of kin? [eg., Richard Davies’ daughter] I’m so deeply sorry for your loss, I realize it has been a very difficult time. I need to talk to you a minute, maybe you can come over here to a quieter spot (out of the frey) and sit down?

I’m so sorry as I know everything is so raw right now, and you’re probably in shock… the hospital has to ask some questions because of the timing. You’re familiar with the organ donor program? Had you talked to your Dad about this program? We were wondering if you’d like to donate his organs? I know this is very difficult and I’m very sorry to be asking. Would you be interested in donating his eyes to a recipient?

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.