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.

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.

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

The Trews - Tired Of Waiting

Harvey Danger - Sad Sweetheart of the Rodeo

Saying goodbye

I was 13 when I learned that my grandmother wasn’t actually my grandmother, well, not by blood anyway.

As far as earth shattering news goes this was pretty much a non-event. What it did do was go a long way towards explaining some of the people who would periodically show up at family gatherings. And that picture on my mother’s night stand of the red headed woman, who I’d never actually met, suddenly made a lot more sense.

My grandmother died last Thursday of complications from a perforated bowel. Her health had been flagging in recent years and while everyone knew she was generally unwell the news that there was now some sort of ephemeral life clock counting down to zero was like a punch to the gut.

I’ve been fairly blessed in my life not to have had to truly experience the pain that the death of a loved one can bring. My great-grandmother died when I was very young and about 8 years ago my grandfather passed away. And that’s about it. In the grand scheme of things, those are pretty small numbers.

My grandmother could be a complicated, even prickly woman. As I grew older I was exposed more often to the tensions that came from joining two fully developed families into one. The melding wasn’t always harmonious. For reasons, never satisfactorily explained to me, my mother and uncles had been at times cool to this new woman in their father’s life.

And while the hatchet has been slowly buried over the years, in no small part to shelter us grandchildren, there was no doubting that my grandmother never forgot being slighted. And as the grandkids grew up into adult types in our own right the veneer of civility could sometimes wear a little thin. Holidays and special occasions would be notable by her absence as she chose to spend that time with her ‘other family’. And when she took my grandfather with her there would sometimes be hurt feelings and unhappiness.

In retrospect I think we were unfair to her. Now married, with a daughter of my own, I know full well how difficult it can be to please everyone when it comes to making the rounds on holidays. Some days it’s just impossible to please everyone.

But I never felt, not for an instant, that she was anything other than a loving grandmother.

I have so many great memories of her. So many stories of our time together that are mine alone to tell now. Like how, at four, when we went to Florida I picked up a dirty paper bag and couldn’t be made to let it go. Or when, at University, she’d take me out to lunch and wrap up the bread on the table in a napkin (and whatever condiments that weren’t nailed down) and stuff them in her purse to give to me in the car. (I was clearly a starving student who needed the food.)

Whenever she visited it was my job to keep her entertained. That usually meant endless games of cribbage until dinner was ready. Whenever we counted up our points at the end of each hand she always seemed to find one or two that I’d missed. She always told me that the little old ladies she normally played with would have eaten me alive if I played like that with them.

Nana died about a week after her initial diagnosis. I managed to see her twice in that time. On her deathbed she taught me that even when the end is near we’re still the same beautifully flawed and wonderfully generous people we’ve always been. She was just as fierce and strong on that hospital bed as I have ever seen her. And I am eternally grateful I had the opportunity to say good bye and let her know just how much I loved her.

At the funeral the tears and laughter of those who loved her was as fitting a tribute as any words I could ever string together. The joy and sorrow managed to bring two families together in a way we’ve never managed before.

Nana loved, laughed, fought, cried and was loved in return. That’s a life well lived and a legacy I plan to carry with me.

Bad Wine and Lemon Cake by Amanda Palmer