Thursday, December 13, 2012
A letter to my daughter on the occasion of her birth.
Hello Helen,
I was wondering how it would feel to write to you. Would it be morbid? Or creepy? Or vain? I don’t really have an answer. I’m just rattling off words here. You were supposed to be born this week. And up until yesterday I thought I was holding it together reasonably well. Then your aunt Jennifer called to tell us she was pregnant, which is great news…but her timing could probably have been a little better.
To tell you the truth, I think most people have forgotten about what happened. Or that’s how it feels anyway. I guess it’s just one of those things that I think people can see as plain as day, because I carry it around with me all the time.
Do you know I can’t eat flavoured pretzels anymore? They were a part of a condolence basket that some people in your mother’s office sent to the house. I was eating some and all of a sudden I knew that if I ever had flavoured pretzels again I would only think of losing you.
I hate that story. But it sticks to me and I can’t forget it.
You have a song. (I have a song for everyone. It’s not something I do intentionally; it’s just a thing that seems to happen.)
Your mother’s song is So Sober by The Trews. Yours is Words & Fire by Sam Roberts. I’m keeping it Canadian I guess. I heard it when I started jogging after you passed away. I started crying in the middle of some unpaved road in the middle of Haliburton and I knew then that it would be your song. It pops up on my iPod from time to time and I’ll stare morosely at the wall for a bit, or if I’m alone I might tear up some.
For some reason I take a small modicum of comfort from the fact that a song reminds me of you, but absolutely none when I have the same recollection to a piece of food.
I’ll be happy to see the backside of 2012.
To first lose your great-grandfather and then you, it’s been more than I can take at times. I tend to react to bad news by barricading myself in a room and just being alone. (Its glorious) Unfortunately I don’t get to that anymore so I’ve had to find other outlets for my grief. I’ve been trying to pick up writing again. I was laying down a page or so every couple of days before we got the news and I’m trying to get back in the swing of things again. I’ve been exercising more. Being physically exhausted means I don’t have to feel so goddamn much.
And for a while there I thought I’d throw myself into work. I applied for my boss’ job and for a couple months I thought the position was mine for the taking. Getting the job was a really handy escape; I had lots of idea of what we could do differently. Unfortunately the position was filled by someone else and once again I felt like I had the rug pulled out from under me.
I put a lot of myself into trying to land that job, and without it I feel devoid of purpose. I badly need something to work towards, a reason for going through all this. Something just for me. Will it be writing? I sure hope so.
Because I think having a purpose would go a long way to filling up the emptiness that’s inside me. (I rewrote the previous sentences half a dozen times trying to come up with a way of expressing that sentiment without sounding so goddamn emo.) I just want something to strive towards, something to work for. And to be honest I don’t know what that is. I know the answer won’t just appear to me out of thin air, but I don’t even know the first step towards figuring it all out.
Anyway, I just wanted you to know that I’m thinking about you right now.
Love,
Dad
Friday, October 5, 2012
Monday, September 10, 2012
Thursday, August 2, 2012
Words and Fire
Getting out bed for the past three weeks has been a challenge. I wake up and in those first brief moments, when my brain is flopping around trying to find its bearings, everything is okay. But of course reality slides in pretty quickly and the ache in my chest always reappears.
Miserable doesn’t begin to cover it.
I spent two days in the hospital with my wife delivering a child we knew was going to be dead at its birth. It was the worst experience I have ever gone through. It was like some kind of awful mirror universe parody of the birth of our first child. There was none of the giddiness or excitement, none of the anticipation and joy. It was just a hideous mockery of that first event. Every aspect of those two days was steeped in dread and misery, every milestone clouded by the awful truth of what awaited us.
I’d seen pictures of babies born as early as ours was and I thought that I was as emotionally prepared as I could be for something like this. But when you hold something that small and tiny in your hands I don’t think it’s really possible to be prepared for the emotions and thoughts that flood through you.
Worst of all, the hits just kept on coming. Every time I thought I’d gotten control of my emotions, locked down what I was feeling, something else would happen and I’d be reduced to a mess all over again. The body grew cold, we took pictures, they took her away. Every step was just more salt poured in the wounds.
It was a girl. We named her, Helen Christina. A name from each of our own. A way of giving her a piece of ourselves.
I cried like a baby. Uncontrollably. Which was incredibly uncomfortable experience, almost shameful, for me because I don’t like outward displays of emotion. Reserved and controlled is pretty much my bailiwick.
I’d never come from an overly macho household. My parents were fairly open and accepting of any emotional response. But I’ve never seen my father cry. Not once. Despite the knocks and bumps that all of us take in life I’ve seen my father keep it together each and every time.
Maybe behind closed doors he lets it all out, just like the rest of us, but if anyone else was present he was always tough and in control. I envy his strength.
When we got home we were done. Emotionally, physically, mentally. By any measurement of the human condition you care to examine, we were just gone.
In a sense our two year old has been a blessing and a curse. She doesn’t understand what’s happening. Oh, she can tell something is different, but she still wants to go to the park, or play in her wading pool. And, she still needs to eat, have her teeth brushed and take a bath every night. Which means we still need to behave like fully functioning adults and provide all those things for her. Her very presence forces us to keep on keeping on.
But it also means there’s no time, to grieve, to cope, to process.
We’re putting everything we have into our daughter and nothing into ourselves. We just carry our hurt around with us like luggage and every so often something will poke at it, a reference on a TV show or a song, and pop, the clasp springs open and all our emotions come rushing out.
Miserable doesn’t begin to cover it.
I spent two days in the hospital with my wife delivering a child we knew was going to be dead at its birth. It was the worst experience I have ever gone through. It was like some kind of awful mirror universe parody of the birth of our first child. There was none of the giddiness or excitement, none of the anticipation and joy. It was just a hideous mockery of that first event. Every aspect of those two days was steeped in dread and misery, every milestone clouded by the awful truth of what awaited us.
I’d seen pictures of babies born as early as ours was and I thought that I was as emotionally prepared as I could be for something like this. But when you hold something that small and tiny in your hands I don’t think it’s really possible to be prepared for the emotions and thoughts that flood through you.
Worst of all, the hits just kept on coming. Every time I thought I’d gotten control of my emotions, locked down what I was feeling, something else would happen and I’d be reduced to a mess all over again. The body grew cold, we took pictures, they took her away. Every step was just more salt poured in the wounds.
It was a girl. We named her, Helen Christina. A name from each of our own. A way of giving her a piece of ourselves.
I cried like a baby. Uncontrollably. Which was incredibly uncomfortable experience, almost shameful, for me because I don’t like outward displays of emotion. Reserved and controlled is pretty much my bailiwick.
I’d never come from an overly macho household. My parents were fairly open and accepting of any emotional response. But I’ve never seen my father cry. Not once. Despite the knocks and bumps that all of us take in life I’ve seen my father keep it together each and every time.
Maybe behind closed doors he lets it all out, just like the rest of us, but if anyone else was present he was always tough and in control. I envy his strength.
When we got home we were done. Emotionally, physically, mentally. By any measurement of the human condition you care to examine, we were just gone.
In a sense our two year old has been a blessing and a curse. She doesn’t understand what’s happening. Oh, she can tell something is different, but she still wants to go to the park, or play in her wading pool. And, she still needs to eat, have her teeth brushed and take a bath every night. Which means we still need to behave like fully functioning adults and provide all those things for her. Her very presence forces us to keep on keeping on.
But it also means there’s no time, to grieve, to cope, to process.
We’re putting everything we have into our daughter and nothing into ourselves. We just carry our hurt around with us like luggage and every so often something will poke at it, a reference on a TV show or a song, and pop, the clasp springs open and all our emotions come rushing out.
Wednesday, August 1, 2012
Tuesday, July 17, 2012
A Letter.
A week ago today the bottom fell out of my world. We were called into our doctor’s office to talk about the results of some of the blood work your mother had done a couple weeks previous. We were told that there was an abnormal reading, that the test showed a positive result for spina bifidia and that we would have to go and get an emergency ultrasound in order to determine if everything was all right.
Everything was not all right.
Doctor Dave assured us that everything was going to be fine. “False positives happen all the time,” he said, “with a reading this high it has to be a mistake.” We had an hour or so to kill before our ultrasound appointment so we went and got some lunch. It was a pretty somber affair. Going to lunch just gave us something to stop our minds from constructing nightmare scenarios. Your mother and I talked to each other, tried to buoy each other’s spirits, tried to take the edge off the black cloud that had crept over us both.
I hate the place where we went to get the ultrasound. I’ve sat in on a couple ultrasounds now and this place always makes me wait outside like a naughty child while they do the imaging. They call me in after the whole thing is over and run me through the highlights. Of course, that’s great if everything is routine but it gnaws away at your chest when you’re waiting the outcome of what could be terrible news. I much prefer the other ultrasound place on College Street that lets me see what’s happening every step of the way.
They kept your mother in the examination room for an hour and a half, about three times longer than they expected to. At the end they didn’t bother to ask me to come in, they just sent your mother out and said to call our doctor in an hour or so for the results.
I knew then that the news was going to be bad.
I went back to the office to try and distract myself with work but I wasn’t very successful. I met up with your mother again shortly after to check on the results and all I could do was listen to her half of the conversation over the telephone and slowly watch her fall apart. It was our very worst fear come to life.
No one should have to listen to the anguish of a parent getting such terrible news. No one should have to listen to well-meaning doctors try and put the best possible spin on the situation. No one should be a prisoner of their own mind as it turns over endless scenarios in your skull, relentlessly prosecutes you for a million unrelated sins and refuses to let yourself just shut down and ignore the whole thing altogether.
I am sad that I will never get to know you the way I know your big sister. All the milestones and achievements and happiness that she has brought into our life will be denied to you and me and that breaks my heart. And as bad as things are now I know that there are still darker times ahead. I have to keep reminding myself that as unhappy as I am at this moment it’s important that I be there for your mother. She is the one who is bearing the brunt of all this. I cannot even begin to imagine the pain she is feeling.
I don’t want you to think that just because there is so much sadness attached to what is happening now that I love you any less. There is a place for you in my heart and even though I’ll only know you for a very short time I promise to treasure every second of it.
You will never be forgotten. You will always be loved.
Dad.
Monday, January 9, 2012
Writer
I’ve decided to start writing again.
I pop my head up periodically to make that statement and then slink away quietly after a couple weeks of spinning my wheels.
I have the best of intentions but my follow through sucks. There’s an extensive laundry list of why my plan never sticks. I usually blame it on life getting busy and time being short, but really those are just handy excuses to explain my fear of failure.
I let myself put writing aside because after four years of studying all day and working all night I wanted to have a little fun. Then not writing because the status quo and I found other things to fill the time I used to devote to writing. Later on, when I tried to go back I started to second guess myself and fretted that I didn’t have the chops to be a writer. I was so rusty that when I compared my work to that of my colleagues and my friends I was painfully aware of its short comings.
I was held back by doubt.
I told myself that writing would always be there for me when I had the time to devote to it. Nearly ten years later I realize just how effectively I’ve been lying to myself, convincing my vanity that the fault for my lack of output lay in circumstances beyond my control, when really I should have been taking a closer look at myself.
After co-opting a fellow lapsed writer and printing off a copy of HEINLEIN’S RULES FOR WRITING, by way of Robert Sawyer, I’ve made a promise to myself write again.
But I’m going to let myself be a terrible writer first.
I’m going to clear the cobwebs out of my brain and let out a couple of the ideas that are rattling around inside of my thinking meats. And I’m going to finish them. Then, I’m going to forgive myself for writing them so badly.
After which I’m going to pick up my pen (laptop) and try again. I may find that I’m a poor writer, although I’m hoping to at least be able to achieve the dubious status of mediocre.
But the point is I’m going to follow through. And if I suck and fail, well, at least I’ll be able to say I tried. I’m not quite sure how that’s better than deluding myself into thinking I’m a great writer with poor time management skills but it is.
This is something I really want, and I finally realized that fact in time to put the work into it.
I pop my head up periodically to make that statement and then slink away quietly after a couple weeks of spinning my wheels.
I have the best of intentions but my follow through sucks. There’s an extensive laundry list of why my plan never sticks. I usually blame it on life getting busy and time being short, but really those are just handy excuses to explain my fear of failure.
I let myself put writing aside because after four years of studying all day and working all night I wanted to have a little fun. Then not writing because the status quo and I found other things to fill the time I used to devote to writing. Later on, when I tried to go back I started to second guess myself and fretted that I didn’t have the chops to be a writer. I was so rusty that when I compared my work to that of my colleagues and my friends I was painfully aware of its short comings.
I was held back by doubt.
I told myself that writing would always be there for me when I had the time to devote to it. Nearly ten years later I realize just how effectively I’ve been lying to myself, convincing my vanity that the fault for my lack of output lay in circumstances beyond my control, when really I should have been taking a closer look at myself.
After co-opting a fellow lapsed writer and printing off a copy of HEINLEIN’S RULES FOR WRITING, by way of Robert Sawyer, I’ve made a promise to myself write again.
But I’m going to let myself be a terrible writer first.
I’m going to clear the cobwebs out of my brain and let out a couple of the ideas that are rattling around inside of my thinking meats. And I’m going to finish them. Then, I’m going to forgive myself for writing them so badly.
After which I’m going to pick up my pen (laptop) and try again. I may find that I’m a poor writer, although I’m hoping to at least be able to achieve the dubious status of mediocre.
But the point is I’m going to follow through. And if I suck and fail, well, at least I’ll be able to say I tried. I’m not quite sure how that’s better than deluding myself into thinking I’m a great writer with poor time management skills but it is.
This is something I really want, and I finally realized that fact in time to put the work into it.
A Letter to My Daughter on the Occasion of her Second Birthday
You have a personality now?! When did that happen?
Now granted, you’ve always had a personality, but it seems like every day you add a new range of expression and emotions. After a couple day’s at Nanna and Grandpa’s house you came back armed with a whole slew of new words. Before you used to be Claire the Baby, who did what she wanted and didn’t take shit from anyone. Now you’re Claire the Person, who does what she wants and still won’t take shit from anyone. The only difference is now you’re learning so quickly about what gets you results is that it’s hard to keep one step ahead of you, walking that tricky parental line that’s supposed to be about taking what you need and making it think it’s actually what you want.
Where do I start? There are so many milestones or moments of the past year that I’d love to immortalize, but every time I try to nail one down in my mind it slips away and sort of blurs into a larger, poorly defined memory that I simply call ‘Roo’.
There’s no mistaking that you’re a Mommy’s Girl. Daddy is definitely the runner up prize right now, even less if there happens to be a pet or a visiting family member in the room. You wipe off my kisses, spurn my hugs and angrily demand your mother take care of any and all tasks that involve you. Which is great when she’s in charge of reading stories before bedtime and somewhat less so she gets stuck with the shitty diapers.
I’ve read the books and I know it’s just a phase. And, I try really hard to pretend that it doesn’t bother me when you push me away, but it’s like a little kick or punch to the heart every time. I can see your teenage years now, armed with a whole arsenal of words that hurt the emotional wiliness to use them. That’s going to suck. (It also makes me wish I’d treated my own parents better during some of the more emotional times. But understanding is easier when you’ve got twenty years’ worth of hindsight on the subject).
Your hair is always a mess. Always. The back of your head looks like an angry birds nest all the time. No matter how often we come it out or try some magical hair product on it, it always looks like you’ve spend the last twenty minutes sitting outside in galeforce winds. Your mother used to say it was just because you a newborn and slept on your back, now I don’t think even she has any idea what’s going.
Speaking of which, your mother keeps insisting on cutting your bangs so your hair isn’t in your eyes. I’d prefer to just push your hair back in a clip, but since you can’t stand to have one in your hair cutting it back is just easier. Only your mom apparently can’t cut a straight line to save her life. Of the two times she’s trimmed your bangs this year I had to come in after the fact and fix it up. Not because I’m so kind aesthetical genius, but rather you get so excited whenever your mother is around that I think its hard for you to keep still.
Your memory is amazing. Many months after the fact you remember important details that even grownups would be hard pressed to remember. You recall the names of your great aunt’s lama (Migo and Nefi), the time you fell out of your high chair (bumpa head) and the name of the little girl who went to stopped going to daycare with you nearly a year ago. And yet you’re stunned that ever night is tooth brushing night, like it’s something you’ve never seen before. Talk about selective memory.
You are utterly fearless. Even now as you grow up and the idea of your actions having consequences start to seep in. You’re not afraid of the dark, after 5 minutes you completely lose any sense of stranger danger around new people (double edged sword that one, we’ll have to work on that) you love meeting new kids, new animals, playing around in new situations, jumping in a pool, or a boat or swimming in the lake. When I flip you around on my shoulders or slide with you across the wooden floor you’re always game for another round. “Again!” has been your favourite word for a long time now and is likely to be this way for quite some time to come.
We got to go out West in May to visit family and it was probably the worst family vacation we’ll ever have. At the very least I think it will set the standard for some time to come. We think you got sick in the hospital when you went with Mommy to see your cousin Ayla be born. The end result was a diarrhea and stomach bug that laid you (and everyone you came in contact with) out for a couple weeks. All we wanted to do was stay in bed and feel miserable but instead we had to attend family events and generally try to just tough it out. There were a couple bad nights there where you soiled everything you came in contact with and we had to use Great-Grandma’s washing machine at 3 in the morning to clean things up. As a group we were one sorry bunch. The only saving grace was that you were so worn out that you slept almost the entire flight from B.C. back to Ontario.
As always, I love you like the dickens. You’re just old enough now that all the sharp points of the hallucinogenic fever dream of your first crazy year are starting to get smoothed out. It’s less about looking after you these days and more about getting to know who you are. I’m really looking forward to talking and conversing and learning with you in the years ahead. (Not math though, never math, that’s your mother’s forte.) I’m excited to get to know you. And as we enter your terrible twos I’m proud as hell to know that you’re not going to go through life being anyone’s stepping stool.
Love,
Dad
Now granted, you’ve always had a personality, but it seems like every day you add a new range of expression and emotions. After a couple day’s at Nanna and Grandpa’s house you came back armed with a whole slew of new words. Before you used to be Claire the Baby, who did what she wanted and didn’t take shit from anyone. Now you’re Claire the Person, who does what she wants and still won’t take shit from anyone. The only difference is now you’re learning so quickly about what gets you results is that it’s hard to keep one step ahead of you, walking that tricky parental line that’s supposed to be about taking what you need and making it think it’s actually what you want.
Where do I start? There are so many milestones or moments of the past year that I’d love to immortalize, but every time I try to nail one down in my mind it slips away and sort of blurs into a larger, poorly defined memory that I simply call ‘Roo’.
There’s no mistaking that you’re a Mommy’s Girl. Daddy is definitely the runner up prize right now, even less if there happens to be a pet or a visiting family member in the room. You wipe off my kisses, spurn my hugs and angrily demand your mother take care of any and all tasks that involve you. Which is great when she’s in charge of reading stories before bedtime and somewhat less so she gets stuck with the shitty diapers.
I’ve read the books and I know it’s just a phase. And, I try really hard to pretend that it doesn’t bother me when you push me away, but it’s like a little kick or punch to the heart every time. I can see your teenage years now, armed with a whole arsenal of words that hurt the emotional wiliness to use them. That’s going to suck. (It also makes me wish I’d treated my own parents better during some of the more emotional times. But understanding is easier when you’ve got twenty years’ worth of hindsight on the subject).
Your hair is always a mess. Always. The back of your head looks like an angry birds nest all the time. No matter how often we come it out or try some magical hair product on it, it always looks like you’ve spend the last twenty minutes sitting outside in galeforce winds. Your mother used to say it was just because you a newborn and slept on your back, now I don’t think even she has any idea what’s going.
Speaking of which, your mother keeps insisting on cutting your bangs so your hair isn’t in your eyes. I’d prefer to just push your hair back in a clip, but since you can’t stand to have one in your hair cutting it back is just easier. Only your mom apparently can’t cut a straight line to save her life. Of the two times she’s trimmed your bangs this year I had to come in after the fact and fix it up. Not because I’m so kind aesthetical genius, but rather you get so excited whenever your mother is around that I think its hard for you to keep still.
Your memory is amazing. Many months after the fact you remember important details that even grownups would be hard pressed to remember. You recall the names of your great aunt’s lama (Migo and Nefi), the time you fell out of your high chair (bumpa head) and the name of the little girl who went to stopped going to daycare with you nearly a year ago. And yet you’re stunned that ever night is tooth brushing night, like it’s something you’ve never seen before. Talk about selective memory.
You are utterly fearless. Even now as you grow up and the idea of your actions having consequences start to seep in. You’re not afraid of the dark, after 5 minutes you completely lose any sense of stranger danger around new people (double edged sword that one, we’ll have to work on that) you love meeting new kids, new animals, playing around in new situations, jumping in a pool, or a boat or swimming in the lake. When I flip you around on my shoulders or slide with you across the wooden floor you’re always game for another round. “Again!” has been your favourite word for a long time now and is likely to be this way for quite some time to come.
We got to go out West in May to visit family and it was probably the worst family vacation we’ll ever have. At the very least I think it will set the standard for some time to come. We think you got sick in the hospital when you went with Mommy to see your cousin Ayla be born. The end result was a diarrhea and stomach bug that laid you (and everyone you came in contact with) out for a couple weeks. All we wanted to do was stay in bed and feel miserable but instead we had to attend family events and generally try to just tough it out. There were a couple bad nights there where you soiled everything you came in contact with and we had to use Great-Grandma’s washing machine at 3 in the morning to clean things up. As a group we were one sorry bunch. The only saving grace was that you were so worn out that you slept almost the entire flight from B.C. back to Ontario.
As always, I love you like the dickens. You’re just old enough now that all the sharp points of the hallucinogenic fever dream of your first crazy year are starting to get smoothed out. It’s less about looking after you these days and more about getting to know who you are. I’m really looking forward to talking and conversing and learning with you in the years ahead. (Not math though, never math, that’s your mother’s forte.) I’m excited to get to know you. And as we enter your terrible twos I’m proud as hell to know that you’re not going to go through life being anyone’s stepping stool.
Love,
Dad
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