Sarah

The Beginning-An Unexpected Journey (Part 2 Of The Summer That Could Have Been Idyllic)

Everything was going well the summer of 2018. Having just arrived in Canada after a wonderful trip to Alaska, I was at the cottage with my husband, two oldest children, and mother. My youngest daughter was at camp. We were in the one place that has always brought me happiness: Muskoka; a wonderful place to continue an already idyllic summer. Life, however, has a funny way of sneaking up on you. Just when you stop holding your breath waiting for the next bad thing to happen, you are hit hard. The path you thought you were taking changes course completely.

The day started like any other. I was getting ready for an early morning run because I was training for a half marathon, the first in many years. Outside, the sun shone bright; we were promised a beautiful day ahead. My husband had been over at the cottage. I heard him walk up the stairs and enter the bunkie (the rooms over the boathouse where the two of us were staying). When he walked into the room, I heard him say: “Bay is ok, he’s asleep, but we have a problem”. Confused and readjusting my thinking, I sat down on the couch.

As my spouse sat down beside me, I was handed a letter my son had written the night before. The only words I remember are “I’M STILL HERE”. The letter went onto explain the depression and plans of suicide that he had over the last few years. My middle child had planned to take his life the night before, but instead wrote us a letter. We were lucky.

I was stunned and in shock. My husband and I both were. Over the last year we had asked Bay to talk with us, but he kept insisting everything was “FINE”. My middle child did not want to let us know just how much he was suffering. Everyone has their breaking point. The point that tips someone over the edge can be something that others would find insignificant, but to that person it is everything. Bay had reached the edge and was at a critical point.

Memory is a funny thing. Sights, sounds, smells, and music are among the things that can trigger a part of your brain that pulls a vision from the past, forward. Sometimes it is the wind blowing, with undercurrents of cold, or the way the sunlight plays upon the landscape that allows me to recall years gone by. When I think about that day just over four years ago, I remember the numbness. For me time stopped and I didn’t know what to do…..

How should we proceed? Would the correct thing be for both my husband and I to take Bay home? With both our daughters in Canada, maybe one parent should stay at the cottage and the other take our son back to the states…..we went over many scenarios about what to do for our child. In the end, the answers was staring us right in the face, but it never even occurred to me.

That morning while, Bay was still asleep, we went over to the cottage and told my mother what had happened. We all sat, with tears in our eyes, while we talked about the best path forward. Suicide was not new to my family: my aunt was schizophrenic and took her life in the late 1960’s, then my dad took his life in the September 0f 2010.

The phone rang, it was our neighbor. My mother automatically picked up the phone, although she was too choked up to talk. The friend on the other end of the phone line knew something was wrong. Down the road our neighbor drove in her golf cart. When she walked into our cottage, she asked my mother what was wrong. Our neighbor was told what had happened. This no nonsense woman looked directly at me and said: “take him to the emergency room”. If my child had an accident or was extremely ill physically, I would have done just that. For a mental health condition, it never occurred to me that an emergency room would be the right place to go. The advice was taken. We woke Bay up, grabbed him something to eat, then headed into town. The whole way to the hospital I asked myself: “Is this my fault?”; “Has DNA been the cause of Bay’s suicidal ideation?”; “Did I make a mistake in finally telling my two youngest children, just the summer before, how their grandfather died?”. These thoughts circled, around in my mind.

Once we arrived at the emergency room we were seen quickly. The morning was long however, with all of us being spoken to: Bay by himself, then my husband and I together, then the three of us. We needed to give the history of our family’s mental heath issues. My family had the conditions that were known, so my part in the discussion with the doctor and social worker were detailed and tiring. Little did I know this would not be the last time I told of my family’s past.

The morning turned into early afternoon. In the end, it was determined that our son was safe to return to the cottage with us. Weekly we drove to town, Bay would meet with social worker that he felt comfortable with. Calls were made, and mostly unanswered, to find a therapist for him to see when the summer ended and we were home. For the time being our middle child was free from self harm.

That summer I needed to talk. Not having a therapist to talk to, I was fortunate to have a life long friend that I could confide in. We took some long walks together. During one of these excursions, she said to me: “you are only as happy as your saddest child”. For months, those words felt solid and true. This morning, four summers later, I look over the calm lake and think about how far this unexpected journey has taken me….

Authors note: As a mother, I feel fortunate to have a strong bond with all three of my children. Each relationship is different, yet wonderful. This story, although mine, surrounds my middle child. For those of you who do not know me, the name of my second child has been changed to “Bay”, to protect their privacy. As this is a story of my experience, it will be continued, most likely with other stories in between. Keep reading to find out where this journey leads. Perhaps my story will help some of you.

Standing At The Edge of the World

Part 3 of An Unexpected Journey

To see Part 1 and 2 of An Unexpected Journey, follow the links: Part 1: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2022/08/26/the-beginning-an-unexpected-journey-part-2-of-the-summer-that-could-have-been-idyllic/. Part 2: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2023/02/01/on-thin-ice/

When I was fourteen, my grandparents took our whole family to Hawaii. On our way to the Hawaiian islands (and most likely on the way home) we stopped in Los Angeles, The City Of Angels, for the night. I remember going out to dinner, with some relatives who lived in LA , near the beach. At some point that evening, we walked on the sand. The water was frigid as we stuck our feet in the waves lapping along the shore. The temperature of the Pacific Ocean, along that part of the California coast, was far colder than even the water we swam in every summer in Ontario, Canada; it was numbing! The quick stop-over in LA was my last time in that part of California for 37 years.

Being a teenager for most of the ‘80’s, and a 20 something for a better part of the 90’s, I had a very limited view of LA. What I knew about The City Of Angels, I gleaned from television and the movies: either a person came from an extremely rich family or from a dangerous part of town. Los Angeles was the last place I wanted to go! In 2019, my idea of the type of place LA is, changed dramatically….

By May 2019, it had been 10 months since our middle child, Bay, told us he was suicidal and depressed. Our family had been in crises for almost a year, but Bay had been carrying this heavy weight for much longer. The upcoming summer was looming over me. I couldn’t watch Bay 24/7, however I felt he couldn’t be left alone for several hours at a time. Unbeknownst to my family, I had been looking for a residential treatment program for Bay. My searches weren’t fruitful. I knew wilderness was out of the question because Bay didn’t like spending time outside or test his limits physically; a wilderness program would crush him, rather than help him. I also knew Bay hated the heat, so I was looking north and northeast.

Then, in late May, Bay’s therapist told us that she had been consulting with a colleague (keeping it strictly confidential) about our son’s long term depression and thoughts of suicide…their recommendation was to have Bay attend a treatment program for mental health, in the LA area, for the summer.The thought of sending my child across the country, and to Los Angeles, took my breath away! However, I was trusting these psychologists to advise us; it was up to us to make the final decision. As a parent, I will do anything I can to help support my children. My son liked the thought of going out west for a summer mental health treatment- not caring about the heat. I wanted him to be safe; if LA was the place for Bay to go, then we would make it happen.

Being a mother of three children, I felt guilty because I was focusing so much of my energy on just one child. My eldest daughter was home from college for the summer; the weekend that everything started to fall into place with Bay’s summer plans, her boyfriend (of a few months) came to visit. I didn’t spend very much time with either of them and that made me sad. When we couldn’t be there for our youngest daughter, we came to rely on my in-laws (who had just moved to the area) to help support her.

My sister, a therapist in Northern California, helped us vet the treatment program where we hoped to send our son. Summer plans, for Bay, came together quickly. We scheduled the trip to take our son out: my husband and I would leave with Bay very early on a Saturday. Our middle child would be taken to his residential program, early in the afternoon, the day we arrived. My spouse and I were scheduled to return home on Sunday.

June 22, 2019, my husband, middle child and I boarded the plane to LA. When we arrived, on a typical sunny day in Southern California, it was still early morning on the west coast. Bay wasn’t due at the residence until just after lunch. The day is somewhat of a blur. I remember seeing the jacaranda trees for the first time in my life, with their beautiful purple-blue blossoms; going to Target for items Bay forgot; eating lunch, most likely, at my son’s favorite spot: Subway. Then, still having time on our hands, we drove around the area (in the San Fernando valley) near Bay’s residential treatment program; this helped us get a feel for where our child would be. When we arrived at our child’s home for the summer, we were given a tour, signed some paperwork and said goodbye to our son. I tried hard to hold my tears in.

As we got in our rental car, my spouse asked me what I wanted to do. I needed to see the ocean, knowing water helps to sooth my soul. We drove through the mountains; I marveled at the beauty that surrounded us. The views were spectacular as we reached the top of a mountain and headed down to the Pacific Coast Highway. When we reached to coast we got out of the car, walked a little, and stopped to take in the world around us. Despite the views and the water, there was a hollowness in me. My husband and I stood overlooking the ocean, barely touching, each of us holding in our own pain. I felt like we were standing at the edge of the world…

Other related stories:

https://tell-me-your-story.org/2022/07/23/the-trip-of-a-life-time-the-summer-that-could-have-been-idyllic/

https://tell-me-your-story.org/2023/06/08/the-last-place-i-wanted-to-go-2/

On Thin Ice

Part 2 of An Unexpected Journey

Imagine life is like a frozen lake. You decide to walk out on the ice because you think it is solid. Unfortunately, you hear a cracking sound and feel the ice breaking. The ice is not as solid as it seemed.

We felt those cracks the summer of 2018.

Bay, (our 14 year old) wrote us a five page letter entitled “I Am Still Here”, but in reading an email I wrote to a friend the actual title was “I Am Alive”. In that letter our child told us about his past year and how he was suicidal, depressed and had made plans to kill himself. We were fortunate; Bay took pen to paper, that summer night of 2018, and wrote us the letter rather than taking his life. I was at our family cottage with my husband, eldest daughter, son, and my mother. The morning we read the letter we were in a state of shock and sadness, not knowing how to proceed. A friend of my mother’s telephoned my mom while we were trying to process this. My mom was crying when she answered the call. Our neighbor took it upon herself to come right down to find out what happened. She did not come because she was a gossip and busy body; she was the opposite of that. She showed concern. When she found out what Bay told us, she said: “Take him to the emergency room”. An answer that was staring us in the face, but I never considered a mental condition would be looked at in the ER.

We went to the ER, and they were a great help, but it was determined that Bay was no longer in danger of killing himself and he could go home. We saw a social worker every week, for four weeks, while were at the cottage.

The ice held steady.

When we got home from our time in Canada, it took us a long time to actually find somebody who had any availability to see Bay. He started seeing a therapist in October. Bay seemed OK. However, he hid what he was thinking and feeling from his therapist and from us.

Bay’s friend group changed that fall. A few more cracks formed.

By December of 2018 Bay looked like he was closing in on himself. He would come home from school and go to bed. On the weekends, he barely got out of bed except to do routine things ( eat, shower, etc.). I guess the fact he still had a semblance of routine was good, right? He would eat very little and then had junk food late at night. At the dinner table Bay would make himself as small as he could. I was the only person in the house he would have a conversation with.

More cracks in the ice, with open water ahead.

One afternoon, I took him out after school and told him I could see how much he was struggling. I let him know we were trying to find a psychiatrist because therapy alone was not working. Bay agreed that he needed medicine.

I called around to find a psychiatrist that would take our insurance. In December of 2018, just before Christmas, I made an appointment to see a psychiatrist in April. There was no availability to see this psychiatrist for four months! Meanwhile, his therapist knew nothing of what was going on. WE only knew what we saw.

The ice continued to break. But I had not fallen through.

In early January we found Bay’s journal. We discovered many things that might be contributing to his extreme depression and suicidal ideation. He had been depressed for almost two years. Until then, we really didn’t understand how dark things were for him.

You might ask why we didn’t take Bay to the hospital. I wish I could put myself back in that time to answer this question. Why didn’t we? All I can remember is that we were in crises and “walking on eggshells”. Bay wasn’t truthful about how he was feeling and we didn’t want him to know we had been looking in his room for answers. I do know we wouldn’t have been able to get Bay in the car, unless he agreed. To be admitted to a hospital for mental health reasons the person has to be able to say they are in danger of hurting themself; at least that is what we understood at the time.

I ran, I swam, I practiced yoga….This allowed me to sleep at night. Every morning I held my breath not knowing if my child had made it through the night; when I heard him move in his bed I would let out a sigh of relief.

At this point, I felt like I was on a thick piece of ice floating in the middle of an open lake.

I found a little support group of sorts with some women I met in yoga, along with someone I had known for 19 years. One of these women was going through something similar, one was a psychiatric nurse, and the others had been touched by severe depression in one way or another. I also had made another friend, a single mom and pastor, who was easy to talk to.

By late February/early March, my husband found Bay’s journal again and told him so. Everything was out in the open…

With the way our son was treating us, our home had become increasingly unhappy. He would yell at his father, tell us he hated us and to “fuck off”. I knew Bay said these things because he was hurting; no matter what was said, we loved him unconditionally.

My youngest daughter, who has the biggest heart, was beginning to suffer. I was sad all the time and my husband was hurting too. Luckily my eldest child was in her second semester of college and away from home.

In early February we went to our lawyer to change our will and prepare for what the future might hold. Tears came to my eyes and I started crying because I didn’t know if my middle child had a life ahead of him. Our lawyer gave us the name of a fantastic psychologist who had saved her daughter. I called the psychologist and left a message using our lawyer’s name. I discovered, at the time, it is all about who you know to get anywhere. A week later I had heard nothing back. Then a friend, who was (and still is) a school counselor gave me the name of the same psychologist. I called, using the names of both the women who recommended us to this psychologist and was called back right away. Unfortunately, we had to wait at least a month for an appointment.

I continued to float on my piece of ice.

In February and March we told Bay’s therapist (the one he started with in October) all the things we had found out, they finally started to make some headway. Really, it was too little too late. The last time they met, she finally suggested medication.

The first day we saw the new psychologist, she suggested we take Bay to an inpatient clinic right away. She didn’t know how he was still alive. Bay would have been admitted to the clinic, however there were no beds. We went to the ER. In an emergency room, if it’s determined a person is a danger to themself, they have an obligation to find that person a bed. After 9 hours between the inpatient clinic and then the ER, Bay came home with us.

My heart was heavy, I was constantly afraid of what I might wake to. I was still floating, but my piece of ice was shrinking.

The following week (mid April), we saw the psychiatrist that we had been waiting months to see, only to be told: “Did you know March, April and May are the highest months for suicide? I fully believe that Bay will need medication, but it may take several appointments to reach that point”. We were looking at the end of May before our son MIGHT be given medication. When Bay told his new psychologist this (on his third visit) she was appalled and suggested we pay out of pocket for a private psychiatrist. She gave us two names. I called both of them. Simultaneously, she gave them the heads up that I would be calling. We were seen within a week.

We saw the psychiatrist and Bay was put on Zoloft; a medication that starts on a low dose and takes some time to take effect.

Not quite a week later, My eldest called us in the middle of the night and said she was really worried about Bay. She had been sent pictures of her brother’s side of a Snapchat conversation. What Bay had said was extremely ominous. My eldest thought her brother might take his life that night. After I hung up the phone, I went into see my son. He said the crisis had passed for the night. My eldest sent the pictures to me. I, in turn, sent them to both of his doctors.

In real life, the area of Muskoka, where our cottage is, was flooding and destroying property at this time. I was worrying about that along with what was happening here. My little piece of ice felt like it was being tossed in the flood.

We had an emergency visit with Bay’s psychiatrist the afternoon following the phone call from my eldest and an emergency visit with the psychologist the day after. When I say an “emergency visit”, it’s because there are certain times that are saved for a patient in crisis; he was in crisis. The psychiatrist put him on lithium, a medication that helps reduce the risk of suicide.

The lithium seemed to be working. However, there was still a long road ahead of us.

The ice started to freeze over again; I felt safer.

A few cracks were heard along the way:

I was called about a finding on my mammogram; I went in for further testing and was fine. Then my mother fell and broke three ribs. She probably would have died if her significant other hadn’t been with her.

During this emotional turmoil I ran so I could breathe; went to yoga so I could focus; swam to allow the water to hold me up; and went to therapy so I didn’t drown if I fell through frozen water. Sometimes you don’t realize the how fragile life can be. Four years ago we were a family standing on thin ice, every day thinking it might break. Even now that life is fairly solid, I hear distant echoes of the ice cracking.

Author’s notes:

In May of 2019 I wrote an email to a friend to explain what I had been going through since the summer of 2018. This story is taken from the “letter” I wrote, hoping to paint a picture of why my year had been so incredibly hard. For those of you who have not read The Beginning- An Unexpected Journey, this story summarized some of it. The name of my child has been changed.

If you or someone you know is experiencing a mental health related crises, please call 988 or chat with somebody at https://988lifeline.org/ . Suicide is a leading cause of death in the United States; if you are reading this story from another country and have a help line to add, please share it in the comment section.

The Trip Of A Life Time- The Summer That Could Have Been Idyllic

The summer of 2018 dawned bright with the beginning of a beautiful summer. I had just turned 50. My eldest daughter graduated salutatorian from high school in May and was about to turn 18. As a gift for these momentous occasions, my mother offered to take my family on the trip of a life time. Four years ago, in late June, off we went: a trip that seemed like the beginning of an idyllic summer. Travel with me to the great Northwest, as I traveled 4 summers ago:

Vancouver, British Columbia

In late June my family joined my mother and her partner in Vancouver; there were seven of us in all. We spent a few days seeing some of the city, before embarking on a cruise to Alaska.

Gastown: Vancouver’s oldest neighborhood and original settlement

Stanley Park

On Board The Star Princess: the beginning of our Alaska cruise and land tour

Traveling to The Land of the Midnight Sun

Ketchikan, our first stop, was founded as a salmon cannery site. Of the three ports of call, the time in this city was the shortest. Our time ashore was spent walking around the city, visiting the Totem Heritage Center and seeing the Ketchikan Salmon Ladder and waterfall.

Juneau was the second port of call. We passed the morning hours walking around the capital city of Alaska….Someone, perhaps in the visitors center, told us to go to a waterfront park where there was a sculpture of a whale in an infinity pool; for me that was the pinnacle of our morning.

The afternoon was spent on a Whale Watching and Mendenhall Glacier tour:

Skagway, our third and final port of call, is known as a town of the gold rush era because it is a gateway to the Klondike gold fields.

An amazing tour was taken from Skagway, by bus and railway. We had a fabulous tour guide named Bruce Schindler; he came to Skagway one summer, from Washington State, to be a guide on a tour bus and basically stayed. I mention Bruce, not only because he was such a great tour guide, but also because guiding tours was rare for him at the time. We were lucky to have him give us our tour. He had become an artist, creating sculptures and carvings out of mammoth tusks, as well as using the ivory and Yukon gold to make jewelry. Look him up.

Rail and Bus Tour

The bus took us to salmon bake buffet for lunch at Liarsville Gold Rush Trail Camp and ended at The Red Onion Saloon. I have no pictures of these.

The City of Skagway

After Skagway, we had one last big adventure aboard the ship:

Cruising Glacier Bay National Park and Glacier Fjord

The Cruise ended in Whittier, where we disembarked. The fascinating thing about Whittier is that it was built as a secret facility during World War II to support the war effort and provide a reliable trade route to the Alaskan Rail Road; the water here is ice-free all year making it an ideal area for a military base.

The Alaskan Land Tour Begins

On The Train

From Whittier, we boarded a train to Denali National Park. The trip on the train took about 10 hours, but we saw beautiful scenery along the way:

Denali National Park and Preserve

Moss and lichen grow in abundance in Denali National Forest. Among other things, lichens provide a good food source for many animals and moss helps control soil erosion.

Some Of The Flora and Fauna in Denali National Forest

The official land tour ended in Anchorage, where an unofficial tour began

We spent a few days in Anchorage after our excursion with Princess Tours. Like most tourists in a city, we went to a museum, walked around, and ate at extremely good restaurants.

Unlike many visitors, we scattered my father’s ashes in an area south of the city called Girdwood. My father had been an anthropologist, whose work focused on the people and the land above Arctic circle. We couldn’t make it up as far as the town called Kivalina that was so close to his heart. A former colleague of my dad’s suggested scattering the ashes in Glacier Creek: we wouldn’t have to walk on mudflats that could be dangerous, but the water would eventually be taken out to the Pacific Ocean by way of the Gulf of Alaska. I had arranged for the remaining half of my fathers ashes to be sent to one of two Anchorage hotels where we stayed. The other portion of my father’s ashes had been scattered seven summers before on a lake in Ontario; the thought was to spread what remained of my father in the water of the two areas he loved most: Muskoka, Ontario and Alaska.

At 10:00 in the morning, on July 4, 2108 we toasted to my dad. My three children, husband, mother and I sipped bourbon (his favorite drink) out of tiny bottles, while my mother’s partner looked on.

After the ashes were scattered, and we said our goodbyes, there were two more stops on that little road trip: Alaska Wildlife Conservation Center and Alyeska Resort.

Alaska Wildlife Conservation Center

The Views from above Alyeska Resort

Our Final Day In Alaska

On our last day in Anchorage we had one final destination: Potter Marsh Bird Sanctuary.

My mother took us on the trip of a life time! Truly this was the beginning of an ideal and beautiful summer. Unfortunately beauty can be fleeting. When we arrived in our summer home in Muskoka, about a week after our trip, our lives took us on a different kind of journey; one nobody could have expected…

Then The Quiet: The Little Things Chapter 4

Part 5 of An Unexpected Journey

(Unedited)

2020 started out on a positive note when Bailey decided to embrace “new year, new you”. We were told she was starting to do what she needed to do to help herself. Although I didn’t go to Los Angeles for a month following this news, the improvement in Bailey’s mood and spirit was evident through our phone calls and therapy sessions. When I reached the residence on Saturday, February 1st, one of the parents (who I had become friendly with) said: “You will be amazed by how much Bailey has changed!”. I was stunned! Before the new year, during Saturday morning family sessions, Bailey sat with her hoodie pulled up and barely spoke a word. That morning, in the parent/child group, Bailey was engaged and talkative, offering constructive comments and insights on herself and others; things had definitely improved! About a week after my visit, she moved from the residential treatment center back to the extended care house.

In mid-February, my husband youngest daughter and I went to visit Bailey. On the flight out to California, there was a medical emergency on the plane. We didn’t make an extra stop, nor did we find out what was wrong with the woman. In hindsight, I feel maybe it was the beginning of what was to come….

The first morning in LA, while Bailey was in school, we spent some time on Venice Beach. I don’t recall what we did with Bailey that weekend, most likely a road trip and a movie; the fact that I don’t remember means that it felt natural and good.

My next trip to LA was by myself, at the beginning of March. There were rumors that things were going to shut down because of something called the Coronavirus. I was worried that the planes in California were going to be grounded. Arrangements were made with my sister, that if my flight was canceled, I would drive my rental car to San Francisco to stay with her family; this was something small I could do to give me peace of mind. With the assurance that I had somewhere to go in case the inevitable happened, my weekend out west was thoroughly enjoyable.

A little thing I always did on my trips to LA was add some extra time just for me; this trip was no exception. After a morning swim on Friday, I spent time exploring a new area to me: Marina del Rey.

That evening, after family therapy, Bailey snd I went to dinner at a sushi restaurant where we tried sea urchin. Later, after a trip to Target, she showed me an area she liked to view at night.

On Saturday, we drove up the PCH to Santa Barbara to see the old mission. The two of us spent a really great weekend together!

By the time I visited in early March, our middle child had made such progress that we would be able to have an overnight with her on our next visit. If the overnight was successful, a weekend together was the next step. I started planning to venture farther than LA. The prospect of taking Bailey out of the city was exciting! At the end of our time together, when my goodbyes were said to my middle child, I didn’t realize it would be several months until we saw her (in person) again. Three days after I arrived home, it was evident that the world was going to close down: the stores were packed and an announcement was made that public schools were going to close. Then, for me, the quiet came and the world stopped…

Dark Days: Chapter 3 of The little Things

Part 5 of An Unexpected Journey

In December of 2019, as the days grew shorter, we realized Bailey wasn’t getting better; in fact, she was worse than we thought. Our middle child was put on new medicines, but these would take some time to start working. If it was within my means, I would do anything to help my middle child. Besides going to LA and spending time with our daughter, there wasn’t much more that I could do. Speaking with my therapist, she suggested I talk with someone she knew who might be able to help: a holistic healer. My thoughts were skeptical, but needing to do something, I reached out to this woman who said she could help heal my child from a distance. Perhaps this was an aspiration. However, if a little thing would help Bailey, maybe this was it. I still had hope. The holistic healer was hired, and the first appointment was held on December 12. When the session ended, I asked how long it would take to see a change in Bailey. The answer “about 3 weeks”.

As we moved toward winter solstice, darkness slammed into us. My husband and I were told we would need to look for a long-term residential treatment center for our child. Again, this was taking us down a path unimagined.

What would a long-term treatment program look like? This was something I needed to know, but didn’t want to find out what it entailed. We received this information mid-December. I was trying my hardest to plan a nice a trip out west for Christmas. A hotel had been booked: a room for my oldest and youngest daughters and a room for my husband and me; it was in a good location near stores and restaurants and within walking distance of the residence where Bailey was living. I had made reservations for a late lunch on Christmas Day, at a Jewish deli, as it was the one restaurant in the area that was open. My sister and her family were hoping to drive down from San Francisco to LA the day after Christmas to be with us for part of our time out west……would Bailey still be in California?

We kept our reservations and had our fingers crossed that everything would come together as planned. Gifts had been bought, but our most important tradition of making Christmas cookie hadn’t been completed. When my first born arrived home from college she took the reins and made sure we had Christmas cookies for us to decorate.

Our search for a long term treatment center had barely begun when the Christmas holiday was upon us. Bailey stayed in California. We arrived the day before day Christmas. The week we spent in the San Fernando Valley was excruciating at times. Bailey was very unstable; all she wanted to do was to go home and kill herself. Luckily my sister, her husband, and their two teenage boys came down the evening of December 26 and added the distraction my oldest and youngest daughters needed. Although I enjoyed our times as a nuclear family, before and after the arrival of my extended family, Bailey’s sisters needed more than just my husband and me. I found solace during my early morning swims (in the 40° darkness under the stars, with only the pool lights to see onto the deck). However, the arrival of my sister’s family also added the extra layer of levity I needed…

Christmas week in pictures

On New Year’s Eve we came home from California. Either that night, or New Years’s day, we received a call from Bailey’s therapist: she had turned a corner. She had decided to embrace “new year, new you” and was starting to do what she needed to do to help herself. Whether it was the new medicines taking effect, the support she received from her extended family or something else, we will never know. Perhaps the strength that had allowed Bailey to stay alive all of this time, through the years of depression, had finally come through in full force. Whatever it was, the stars aligned and we were so thankful!

The Little Things, Chapter 1: Chasing Joy

Part 5 of An Unexpected Journey

In the summer of 2018, our middle child (Bay) told us he was severely depressed with extreme suicidal ideation. For almost a year, I woke up every morning dreading that Bay had taken his life while we slept. I was anxious and sad for my child. Time was spent seeking joy: I ran, swam, and did yoga. Friends would walk and talk with me. My husband, youngest daughter and I laughed for many months with the show Schitt’s Creek. As a family we took road trips. Although I didn’t see it at the time, all these things, small as they were, helped me wade through that dark time: I was chasing Joy, but it remained elusive.

A year later, in the summer of 2019, Bay was in a treatment center in Los Angeles, California for his mental health. July began with my husband and I traveling to California together from our summer residence in Muskoka, Ontario. Our eldest daughter was living at home for the summer. Our youngest was at camp a few hours away from our cottage.

We arrived in the City of Angels on July 5; that afternoon we met with our son and his therapist. In that session, our middle childth old us that he was transgender and would now be using the pronouns “she” and “her”. Bay wanted to “come out” to her sisters and grandparents herself. For the time being, my husband and I kept it a secret from most of our family members. When we talked about Bay with our family and friends, she was our son and the male pronouns still applied. My husband and I were trying hard to use the correct pronouns when we talked with each other, Bay, and anyone associated with the treatment center. We also learned that our child was trying to decide on a new name, eventually Bay became Bailey.

Almost every other weekend either my husband or I flew from Toronto to Los Angeles; these trips were solo. However, on August 1, 2019, my husband, youngest daughter and I flew to Los Angeles where we met our eldest daughter who had arrived several hours earlier. This was the weekend Bailey was going would reveal herself to her siblings.

I would have liked this trip to be purely for pleasure; it was the first time our two other children had been to California. We tried to add some fun experiences during our trek out west. The first morning we were in LA, was Friday. Family therapy was scheduled for that afternoon, so we took our oldest and youngest daughters to El Matador State Beach, in Malibu and then to lunch at the Santa Monica Boardwalk.

After our morning and early afternoon out, it was time for family therapy. I don’t remember much of that hour when Bailey came out to her sisters. Also, there is no memory of how she presented her news. What I do remember is my eldest, who was and is very enlightened, was not able to wrap her mind around the announcement that her middle sibling made. My youngest just seemed to absorb the information. I’m sure there were tears and questions, but the memory escapes me.

Although we talked with Bailey every day while she was in treatment, we could only see her Saturdays or for family therapy. On Saturdays, after a morning group therapy sessions at the residence, there was lunch (if we chose to stay). Bailey was allowed to spend time away from the house with us; the break from the center could be a few to several hours.

The Saturday Bailey’s sisters were in Los Angeles was rough. While my husband and I were in our parent group, Bailey’s sisters arrived early, hoping to spend a little time with her. Apparently, she engaged very little with them. After lunch Bailey didn’t have any solid thoughts on what we should do during her time with us. She had suggested “window” shopping to my husband the previous weekend. I proposed we drive through Beverly Hills and walk down Rodeo Drive, as it is unique to LA. We didn’t plan to buy anything, but I thought it might be fun; this wasn’t the best idea. We spent maybe an hour on Rodeo drive. Bailey went into the stores that we went into. In the last store, however, I pointed to an outfit and said “Bailey, this outfit would look good on you, because you are tall and thin”. Within a minute she left the store and joined my husband outside. My 13-year-old later said, she thought Bailey would have preferred to stay at the house.

We drove around LA and had a good sushi dinner not far from the house where Bailey was living. We thought she appreciated it. After dinner, as we headed to have ice cream, we passed a few teenage couples. Bailey said, “I really don’t like teenagers”. My eldest responded, “I hate to point out that you are a teenager”. My middle child responded with “Yes, and I don’t like myself”; it felt as though Bailey had relapsed.

Our last day in LA we didn’t see Bailey. Our time to visit with her was over. The rest of us tried to enjoy more of what LA had to offer. We attempted to hike to the Hollywood sign. About an hour and a half into the hike we were extremely hot and didn’t seem to be close to where the hike was going to take us, so we turned back. Besides, there was a three-hour limit on our parking space.

Finishing our hike we decided to try In-N-Out Burger, as none of us had ever been to one: it was very crowded and nothing special…after lunch we went to Venice Beach. The sand was burning hot; because of this, my daughters and I had a clear path to run to the ocean, while my husband waited for us on the opposite side of the beach. We didn’t spend much time on the beach but strolled through the Hare Krishna Festival, walked along the board walk and saw some interesting buildings on our way to the car.

We arrived back at the hotel knowing this was our last night in sunny California. Our moods were anything but sunny, I think we all felt deflated. The next morning, at the airport, my husband, youngest child and I said goodbye to our eldest. The anticipated “family trip” had come to an end with each of us carrying our own burden. Even though we tried to engage in enjoyable activities, the purpose of our trip wasn’t for joy. We were there for love: to support and see Bailey.

I Didn’t Break: Chapter 2 of The Little Things

Part 5 of An Unexpected Journey

In early August, many of our conversations focused around Bailey going to an extended care program before coming home; this would be with the same treatment center. At one point, Bailey said, “the only reason you think I should go is because it is better for you”. I tried to explain how it would be a good segue from residential care into normal life: we wanted her to have a healthy transition so that she would be in the best place possible when she came home. Frankly, I wasn’t sure Bailey was ready to come home. She had a way of misleading people into believing all was well when it wasn’t….in the end Bailey moved to extended care.

I missed Bailey, but maybe her words “it would be better for you” rang true. Perhaps knowing she was somewhere safe was what I needed to focus on my own healing; it hadn’t occurred to me how the “trauma” from my past had taken a toll on me. Actually, I hadn’t thought of all the hard things I went through as trauma. Late in the summer, as schools were already in session, I realized that running, swimming, yoga and talk therapy were only helping me feel a little better. Were the tears that were always ready to flow partly due to my changing hormones? Mid September was the time when I had my women’s wellness check. Sobbing when I saw my gynecologist of 21 years, my story was told. She put me put me on Zoloft. I also started energy healing along with traditional therapy. The Zoloft calmed the anxiety I felt for my middle child. Energy healing helped me let go of things I was holding deep inside myself.

October began with my mother, husband, youngest daughter and me flying to LA to celebrate Bailey’s 16th birthday. The weather was beautiful! We were staying in a new area of LA. Our first full day was without our middle child. We spent a good part of that day at the Getty Museum.

We picked up Bailey on Saturday morning and she appeared to be doing well. There seemed to be enthusiasm about spending her down time with us: driving around the city; taking in a museum; hanging out and playing cards.

The Museum of Death was the place of interest that we decided to visit with Bailey. Permission was given from the treatment center. In hindsight, this might not have been the best choice.

Her grandmother treated us all to a wonderful dinner to celebrate Bailey’s birthday. One afternoon we brought cake to the hotel. Then our time with Bailey was over for awhile…my next trip was not for a month.

When the leaves on the trees started their transformation from greens to the bright autumn hues, my mindset also began to change. The weekend before Halloween I took a solo trip to visit my eldest daughter, who was a Sophomore in college; this was I knew something had altered for me. I had planned my weekend around long walks with and without my daughter. For a few weeks I hadn’t been running because my knee had been bothering me, so a hotel with a pool had been booked. I arrived on a Thursday night. Friday morning I met my daughter for breakfast. My plans were set for the day: first breakfast, then a long walk to make returns that I hadn’t had time to do at the stores near home. The walk was at least five miles round trip. After breakfast I said goodbye to my adult child until that evening. The day was beautiful and very warm for a fall day in Massachusetts. Enjoying my walk, I was about a mile from the stores when my knee buckled and took me down to the ground. With the pain surging through my knee I sat on someone’s stairs in the middle of Somerville, MA. Eventually the pain lessened. I got up and decided to hobble the rest of the way to Assembly Row. Once I reached the the Mystic River, near the shops, I calmly installed the Lyft App, then went into the stores to return my things. The 2.5 mile walk back to the parking garage where my car was parked wouldn’t be happening.

Although, I was in pain and spent a good part of the afternoon icing my knee and resting, a satisfaction of sorts settled over me: with the exception of not having a great walk, everything I set out to do had been accomplished. An appointment with the orthopedic surgeon was made. Also, I learned how to use a Lyft. The last thing may seem extremely small, but every time I learn something new I hear my dad’s voice in my head: “It’s good to learn something new every day”.

That evening, I met my daughter and her boyfriend, at the university, and walked into town for dinner. Sadly, the dinner was interrupted; it was necessary to talk with someone at Bailey’s treatment facility. Once again, my thoughts were divided between the conversation at the dinner table and my concern for my middle child out west. For the second time, I felt sad that the small amount of time I had to get to know my daughter’s significant other was interrupted. Although I knew my child in LA was going back to in treatment care, my college age daughter and I enjoyed the rest of our weekend together. We took a road trip on Saturday to Marblehead. Sunday we met for brunch, then I made the long drive home in the pouring rain.

Between my weekend drive to Massachusetts and my flight at the end of the week to LA, I was able to see the orthopedic surgeon about my knee. On my visit I was informed that there was “severe arthritis behind each knee cap”. My main question of the doctor was “Will I be able to run anymore?” He gave me a look and said, “What do you think?”. Obviously the answer was “no”. “Just another ending, another thing to mourn”, was my thought that fall day. I had been running for 33 years. I was not old, just 51, but I had known for a long time my knees would give up on me. For so many years I ran through worst things to happen in life. I could’ve railed against the unfairness of this news, along with everything else that was happening/ had happened in my life. Walking through the hard things and stopping to face them was something I knew could be done. As much as it hurt to stop running, I didn’t break. There was pleasure taken in my growth to be able to stand up to the bad; this is how recognizing joy the little things began for me: to take something negative and find the positive…..

A Love Affair with Roses

By Marcia

I don’t remember when I planted my first rose bush. In 1976, I started a garden at our first home in Pennsylvania. My husband and I planted rhododendrons, a weeping cherry tree and a magnolia tree, and I attempted to create a “rock garden”. The garden was a disaster. I was new to gardening and had more enthusiasm than knowledge. I re-purposed the large rocks from the rock garden into a border for my next gardening attempt: a strawberry patch. I don’t remember growing roses at that house.

We built our second home in 1986 on a 20-acre rural property outside of Indiana, Pennsylvania. As my interest in gardening grew and I dug more holes in the yard and planted more beds, my husband delighted me by adding a six-foot chain link fence, around a quarter acre of our yard’ because the deer liked my gardening efforts, too.

Baba, my Ukrainian-born grandmother, had a bubble-gum pink rose growing in her garden. Both my mother and my aunt had Baba’s roses growing in their yards and my mother gave me a start of that rose. If it wasn’t the first rose I planted in my garden, it was among my favorites for its beautiful, full blooms and its heady rose fragrance. That unnamed rose set me on a path that gave me years of joy and pleasure.

By 2001, my husband and I had been married for 30 years. He pursued his hobbies on weekends and free time. Our sons were adults and away from home. I guess the time and my emotions were ripe for me to embrace a new pastime, a new ‘lover.’

I love roses—their large, colorful flowers and sweet scents. I adore the history of the old garden roses. Some have been grown for hundreds of years. While less lovable, I accepted their thorny canes as one might overlook the less-than-ideal mannerisms in a new love interest.

In my fence-protected garden, I planted dozens of rose shrubs—one of my lists included the names of 80 roses I bought and planted over the years! I enjoyed walking in the garden and smelling the roses. I didn’t bring too many bouquets into our house—I almost couldn’t bear cutting the blooms from the plants. Reading postings on Internet garden forums, many with photos of beautiful roses grown in others’ gardens, became addictive and fueled my desire to buy more roses. Not only could I read about the plant, eventually they could be ordered via the Internet! How easy was that?! I was obsessed!

It is likely that Baba’s rose was an old garden rose. Most Heirloom roses bloom once a year, usually in late spring and early summer. What is lost by growing a once-a-year blooming rose plant is made up many times by the abundance of the flowers covering the plants and usually a very strong rose fragrance. The scent is what I loved the most about them, however the flowers were very photogenic as well, doubling my pleasure in growing them.

I grew the “Apothecary’s Rose,” a rose that had been grown in medieval gardens and used by herbalists for various remedies and perfumes. I added a deep pink rose, “La Belle Sultane,” who enchanted me with her frilly yellow stamens against the dark petals. She was named for a French woman Aimée Dubucq de Rivery who was captured by pirates in 1776 at the age of 13 and became a cherished concubine and mother of “Sultan Abdul Hamid the First of the mighty Turkish Empire.” Another rose, “Maiden’s Blush,” was originally named “Cuisse de Nymphe” (translation: “Passionate Nymph’s Thigh”) by the French. Perhaps the English found the original name too vulgar. There are similar stories about the names of some of the other roses I grew. And, of course, I grew Baba’s Rose.

Some fellow rose enthusiasts widely promoted alfalfa tea as a fertilizer for roses. A gardener could make this magic concoction herself. Using a 55-gallon plastic garbage can filled with water, marinate alfalfa cubes in the can over a period of days or weeks. The resulting elixir was extremely pungent (I would say it smelled worse than a neglected livestock barn). Wearing rubber gloves, unless I wanted my hands to smell for days, I used water from the soaked and rotting alfalfa to water my rose plants. I don’t know whether or not it helped the roses. As one might do unpleasant tasks for a lover, it was one ritual practiced during my rose love affair.

While the roses themselves brought me joy, my garden also provided the perfect place to practice a new hobby: photography. With a digital camera, I was able to take photos of my beautiful blooms and the fauna (insects) that enjoyed my roses. That was so much fun and added another dimension to my gardening pastime .

Then in 2003, a deadly scourge entered my little piece of paradise: rose rosette disease (RRD). It didn’t affect people or animals, just my beloved roses. I learned about the disease on gardening forums and the Internet. Sadly, there was no cure for the disease. RRD is caused by a tiny mite that infects the rose with a virus. Symptoms of the disease include deformed stems and flowers, an excessive number of thorns on the canes, and an abnormal number of stems growing from the rose stems. The mite can spread the disease to other roses and eventually kill them. Looking at a rose bush with RRD, it is clear there is something wrong with the plant. The advice was, and still is, to dig out and destroy any rose bush showing signs of the disease.

Each time I found a rose bush showing the infection, the grief I felt was similar to what someone might feel when discovering a loved pet was ill and nothing could be done to heal it; this may sound stupid…after all, it is just a plant! But at that time it was so much more to me. I spent hours in the garden and there was little I could do to help and protect my ‘loves’ from this disease. I was sad and angry when removing those diseased roses. After discovering the disease in my garden, I bought fewer new roses bushes and started adding companion plants to my garden beds. My love affair with roses was on shaky ground.

There were other dalliances with plants that weren’t roses: fragrant peonies (that flopped when it rained which ruined the huge blooms); iris (the iris borer decimated many of my plants); colorful daylilies (vigorous plants that needed divided often—like wrestling with an octopus and requiring the strength of Hercules); clematis with huge flowers but no fragrance (the rabbits liked them almost as much as I did); and flowering perennials, shrubs, and trees. I also had a flirtation with growing plants from seed and participated in a pagan rite by sowing them on the winter solstice (which made the sowing seem a little magical—like a celebration of the “birth of the sun”). The romance was never as strong or as long as my love affair with roses.

Over time, my garden became too large for me to care for. I began referring to it as my chaotic garden because it was so sprawling, untidy, and unkempt. I continued to find joy in the explosion of flowers during the spring and summer months.

It has been over twenty years since I began my love affair with roses. We moved from Pennsylvania to a much smaller property in the sunny south. I said good-bye to my loves and look back with fond memories. My days of having a huge rose garden are over. My hope is to always grow a few fragrant rose bushes to love and enjoy wherever I call home.

The Little Things: Prologue

Part 5 of An Unexpected Journey

This past November was a difficult….

On the 10th of the month, we received word that a good family friend from Toronto had passed away. She had been in my life since I was very young and was one of my mother’s closest friends. Our families were (and still are) somewhat intertwined in the history we have with one another. I always considered this wonderful woman and her extended clan a part of my family.

A little more than three weeks after our friend died, it became apparent that we needed to help our beloved dog, Murphy, go over the Rainbow Bridge. He was just a puppy when he became a member of our family in August of 2009. Murphy had a good life and at 14 1/2, our dog was in extreme pain. Everyone knew it was time to let him go, but I wanted just a little more time with him; this wasn’t meant to be. The day before Thanksgiving, with his family by his side, he took his last breath.

I wasn’t ready for either of these losses. The deaths, on top of other things that were happening, made it difficult for me to find joy. I had momentarily forgotten how to rejoice in the simple moments or find the tranquility in something that might seem insignificant.

The Sunday after Thanksgiving, my youngest daughter and I drove north with my mother. We were headed to Toronto to attend our friend’s funeral. My sister, who arrived the day before, was waiting for us at the hotel when we reached the city. In addition to being sad, I was stressed. The traffic was awful (due to road work as well as a Christmas parade). I was afraid we might not make it to the visitation that afternoon. Luckily, all went according to plan, but I didn’t feel any better.

The next morning, being an early riser, I planned to walk to the nearest Starbucks and arrive when it opened at 6 AM. Around 5:30, I went down to the lobby with my coat and mittens (my hat having been forgotten at home). Coffee was just being set up. I decided not to go to the coffee house but went for a walk anyway. The fresh air would be good for me. The morning was brisk, about 16°F and a light snow was falling. The city was quiet, the roadwork on Bloor Street had not started up for the day. Despite the torn-up streets, there was something magical that morning. With the shops lit for Christmas and the snow lightly falling in the crisp morning air, I felt a calmness wash over me. I walked about two miles that morning, until my ears were unable to stand the freezing weather. That time outside was more than just a good stretch for my legs: with that walk, I was reminded how I learned to find joy in the little things….

Authors Note: Stay tuned for the next segment of this story: it will be released somewhat like an old-fashioned serial.