Sarah

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.

I Remember

In memory of the victims of PAN AM Flight 103

The fall of my Junior year in college, I left my college in New Jersey to study with Syracuse University in London. I had applied to the Syracuse program because I needed a change from my college, which had begun feeling small.

I wanted to spend a year in London, but was afraid of feeling homesick. I fully intended to meet friends from my hometown and travel during winter break. The Syracuse program gave me the opportunity to extend my stay to a year if I was happy. About two weeks in to my semester in London I decided to stay for the full year.

I loved my time in London. Words can’t describe what a wonderful and exciting experience it was for all of us who studied there. We were young, practically still children, full of hopes and dreams.

34 years ago today the dreams were taken from 35 of my fellow students. The tragedy of Pan Am flight 103 changed all who it touched. For those people who were connected to the disaster over Lockerbie, Scotland: I remember.

Pictures flow through my mind…

Traveling for the first few days of winter break with my roommate, Deirdre

Leaving London

Traveling to Amsterdam, Cologne, Munster, Brugge and Brussels

Arriving at the Brussels train station where Deirdre and I would part ways:

She to a family she knew in Belgium,

I back to London to meet with friends for Christmas.

Liz, at the train station saying “There has been an accident on one of the planes”

Me stupidly saying “was anyone hurt?”

Being told, “Everyone is dead.”

Darkness fell,

Walking from the Syracuse center after laying flowers on the steps…

Being approached by another student “Sarah, thank God…I did not know your last name, there was another Sarah from our program on flight 103.”

Slowly finding out who I had known:

Ken Bissett, who sat next to me on the flight to London and was supposed to return for spring semester…

Miriam Wolf with her vibrant hair and welcoming personality.

The others: Pamela, from Bowden; Turhan; the Cocker twins…

Feeling guilty that I had not been on the plane.

Lighting candles all over Europe, in remembrance for those that had died.

Moving through the dark. Finding light. Letting go of the guilt.

Authors note: I wrote this 4 years ago, on the 30th anniversary of this tragedy, and published it last year as the first story on this blog.

You Were Loved

Murphy, thank you for the joy you brought us.

You were, and always will be, loved.

Two Lost Souls

This story was published last year (2022), but I am reposting it today. Happy Halloween!

One morning, in late August, the lake was shrouded in mist. Looking out on the water, the low clouds reminded me of a veil between the living and the dead. I thought about the children who died off the shores of this property….

The History Of A House And The Tragedy That Happened

In 1908 James Stroud had a “cottage” built at the end of an Island, on one of Muskoka’s 1,600 lakes. The house was grand: made partly of stone and steel, with gardens and paths surrounding the property. Fireplaces were in many of the rooms: four on the main floor and one in almost all 7 of the bedrooms. There was a grand staircase: a sweeping set of steps that split off into two smaller flights going in opposite directions.

At the back of the house were two more set of stairs: the first gave the servants easy access to the kitchen from their room upstairs; the second went down to a room in the basement. A dumb waiter moved things up and down from the ground level to the kitchen. The doors at the back of the house were those the domestic help used, as they gave easy access to the other side of the estate. There was an incinerator on the opposite bank of the property, down the hill, beside the lake, where trash was set afire. Things that could not burn were placed nearby.

The owner, James, had two grown children: James (Jimmy) and Martha. The son never had a family of his own. His sister, however, married and had two children: Anna and William. Three years after the cottage was built, while perhaps playing a game of hide and seek, the seven year old girl and her five year old brother ran away from their nanny: down the hill, toward the paths near the incinerator. Sadly, this playfulness ended in tragedy. Their little bodies were found in the water with their arms wrapped around one another, as if in an embrace. This is how I pictured them when I heard the story. An assumption was made that Anna who was older, went in to save her sibling and they both drowned.

How My Family Become Part Of This Story

In the late 1930’s, James died in his summer home, a place that he loved. The house was left to his son Jimmy, as Martha (although she still vacationed nearby) did not want to be reminded of the devastation from years before. 20 some years later the property was left to my grandfather because Jimmy had no heirs.My father’s family started spending summers in the Muskoka region.

In the 1960’s my grandparent’s built a small cottage on the other side of the island from the one built in the early 20th century. The two houses became known as the “big cottage” and “little cottage”. When I was young, my immediate family spent our summers in what we called the “little cottage”; it was all one level with three bedrooms. My father’s parents stayed in the “big cottage”. My uncle would come up for a while every summer. When I was 13 my grandparents decided that they would prefer to stay in the smaller house. The younger generations now had summer residence in the big cottage.

Strange Happenings

At the age of 14 some friends and I decided to play Ouija. None of us knew the rules…as I played, my fingers, and those of my friends, hovered above the planchette. Playing the game mostly “yes” and “no” question were asked. The little wooden plank flew across the board with no one touching it. We all assumed we had contacted Anna and William because one of them couldn’t spell. I don’t remember saying goodbye, we weren’t aware we should.

One night, the same summer, a good friend and I were sitting in one of the old wooden, luxurious, boats that Jimmy had owned. This was a comfortable place to sit and listen to the party on the island across from ours; an event that we were not quite old enough to attend. While we were waiting for the gathering to start, the two of us talked in the quiet night. All of the sudden, out of the dark night, we heard a young melodic voice way say “Moooooommy“.We looked at each other and realized the haunting sound was heard by us both. We were scared because there were no other children living near by. It wasn’t an echo we heard but what was it? As in a horror movie, we didn’t choose the smart thing to do by running up the lighted path to the cottage. Instead, the two of us agreed that sitting in the old boat was a bad plan…we moved to one which we could drive, waiting to hear the words again.

At the big cottage there were unexplained things that happened: screen doors that slammed, when I was at the house alone; the feeling that someone had walked into the room, but no one was there… At the age of 20, the cottage felt quiet. I said to my sister, “I don’t feel a presence here anymore.” That night, while lying in bed, my lamp fell over by itself: an entity telling us of its presence. Was it old Mr. Stroud who had died there or was it one of the children?

As the years went by, my uncle married and started to bring his wife and three step children up to the little cottage. Eventually they had two girls of their own. In my early adult life, I wasn’t able to spend much time in Muskoka. Something odd happened to my uncle’s family This is what I was told: One night, as everyone slept, the babysitter who was up for the summer (to help with the 5 children) awoke. She saw two little “girls” in white dresses, roaming the house. Assuming they were my Aunt and Uncle’s youngest children, she followed them. Down the stairs they went, then out into the night and disappeared. These were not my cousins, but the children from so long ago. Apparently, the baby sitter was pale and shaking when she recounted what had happened.

By the mid-1990’s my grandparents stopped going up to Muskoka; it was decided to sever the property and sell the side that the big cottage was on. The upkeep was too much money and we hadn’t kept the house in the splendor it deserved. My uncle and his family bought another summer residence on the same lake. We continue to go up to the little cottage, which is now bigger because my sister, brother and I all have our own families. On our property strange events have still occurred. One night, several summers ago, my husband awoke to a light brushing across his cheek and a soft voice calling his name.

In May of 2020, my youngest daughter and I went to stay at my mother’s home. We hadn’t seen her and Paul (her significant other) since the world locked down. That evening, we had dinner with them, on their back deck. As the sun was setting we told stories about things that go bump in the night. I started to tell my Ouija story. As these words were spoken by me: “…we all assumed that the two children who had died along the shore, years before, had been contacted” Paul looked over in shock. He said, “Two children drowned just off your property? I’ve seen them, on the road, wearing white dresses.”

The paranormal activities at our cottage continue to take place. When the border into Canada reopened in the summer of 2021, we went to our beloved cottage. My eldest daughter drove up with two friends. Around 3 or 4 in the morning, one of the young ladies woke up screaming. At the same time in a bedroom over the boathouse, my youngest daughter was awakened by the clock radio turning on; there was no music, only the sound of gurgling.

Today we met my mother and Paul for lunch. They had arrived back from Canada two weeks ago. We were talking about this story. My mother said, “maybe you could say: perhaps they are happy here and don’t want to leave the property? ” Under his breath, Paul said “I saw them again.” Mom responded, “Why didn’t you tell me?” He answered, “I didn’t want to scare you. I saw them twice, they looked lost.”

Somewhere in Muskoka, two souls have wandered the land for over a century trying to figure out where they belong….

* Author’s note: All names have been changed. Permission to take and use the pictures of the 1908 cottage and property was granted from the present owner.. Last week I did a little research (which turned in to several hours) on the 1st owner of the cottage. I learned a a lot of history and interesting facts, however, the most relevant are these: 1) I did not know that anyone had died in the cottage. 2) I always presumed the children that died were both girls.

A Writer Among Us…

My cousin Amy, 10 years my junior, is a very talented writer. She tells a story with levity, which is pretty much the opposite of me. In January of 2022, a month after I began my blog I asked her if she would like to write a story for Tell Me Your Story. Her response was this:

“Thank you for thinking of me! What a neat idea for a blog. It makes me think of that “views from my window” Facebook Page.

I’d be happy to have one of my stories in your blog, but honestly, I’m not very good with follow through. The sitting down and actually writing part of me is not very dedicated, I usually just start with a sentence and end up with a blurb, and they are almost exclusively on Facebook.

If you see one there that you think is a good fit, let me know, and I’ll say either yea or nay…”

I loved her honesty and then got busy with other people’s stories, as well as my own. Over a year and half later, Amy has started a blog of her own: A twenty year adventure and more; her story starts with an idea of a three week whirlwind trip, with her husband and kids. Their trip took place in the fall of 2023 and she was dedicated to her writing.

As the trip flowed with the theme of Tell Me Your Story, I reached out to my cousin to see if I could reblog her stories. Amy responded:

“Go ahead! Thanks for asking. It is for sure a very real telling of our experiences, no sugar coating….”

Originally I shared all Amy’s adventures, but have taken them off to free up space. The link to her blog is at the bottom of this page. Is my cousin going to continue to write? I don’t know the answer, but as Amy says: “Let’s see what happens next!”

https://letsseewhathappensnext.art.blog/

The Twilight Years

unedited

On July 4, 2023 I traveled north and slightly west. Through mountains and valleys I went. As I drove, I noticed the gentle blue Cornflowers, elegant Queen Anne’s Lace and some jaunty yellow flowers that I cannot name. Behind me, our dog sat on the floor of my husband’s truck. Every once in awhile, I would glance over my right shoulder to see how Murphy, my trusty companion, was getting along. The day was hard on him (and me somewhat) as I had to lift him in and out of the vehicle.

I hadn’t traveled any great distance with Murphy since the summer of 2019; that year he was able to jump in and out of my mini van with very little effort. In mid June of this year he turned 14, but his brain told him he was younger. Every time we were at a rest stop on our way to Muskoka, instead of waiting to let me help him in and out of the truck, he tried to jump and do it himself; this made it difficult for both of us. Neither of us thought we would be taking this trip together; my husband was supposed to drive up to our summer home with him ten days after I arrived. At the very last minute, with my car packed, my daughter and I ready to go, I was asked to stay home for a few days. My husband took my vehicle, with all my things, and headed north. Murphy and I were left behind. When I departed 4 days later, our beloved mutt came with me.

For the most part, Murphy slept the whole way to our cottage, except when we stopped for bathroom and water breaks. On the last mile of our journey, as we turned onto the road that leads to our cottage, he sat up. Murphy knew exactly where we were, even after almost four years.

When we arrived in the late evening on July 4th, 2023, the sun was still high in the sky. After unloading and having a bite to eat, I took Murphy on a short walk toward the beach. I thought it would be good for both of us to stretch our legs after the long journey. To get to the beach, there are fairly steep stairs on both sides of a hill.

As we walked, with the moss like a cushion under our feet, I intended to turn back before we reached the steps. However, Murphy (on his long leash), had other ideas and started toward the stairs. Before I knew it, he tried to climb the first step and fell. Again, I thought my companion remembered the boundless energy he used to have: when he would go up and over the hill to the beach. In the little sandy bay our dog would play fetch with a tennis ball, then burry it in the sand. Sometimes he would chase the ducks or join my husband in a kayak.

We have had Murphy since he was a puppy. He was adopted at the end of the summer of 2009. For nine years he joined us on our trips to Canada. For several of those summers, Murphy and I would walk two miles together almost every morning.

However, life and our routine changed: in the summer of 2020 none of our family was able to set foot in Canada due to COVID. Then in the summers of 2021 and 2022, my husband chose not to join us at the cottage and Murphy stayed at home with him. Over a year ago, when I was in Muskoka, my trusty companion started walking slower; at the age of 13 he had entered his twilight years. Perhaps he had passed into his dotage before this, but I hadn’t noticed.

This past July, my husband departed our cottage about a week after I arrived. Murphy was left with my 17 year old and I until my spouse came back at the end of the month. This unexpected time with Murphy was special and important for both my daughter and me. Walks with our dog were shortened to several small strolls every day. We had to practice patience and remember he wasn’t young anymore. Our mutt’s steps were slow and painful, but he kept moving. In Murphy, I saw a reflection of what I might feel like in 25 years: slower movement, achy joints, and the desire to do something that physically I would no longer be able to do…

With the regular short walks every day, Murphy and I finally went on a successful walk to and from the beach. We didn’t stay long, but he played for a few minutes before we trekked back up and over the hill. Just over a week later, my husband took him home.

Murphy’s story doesn’t end here, but it raises the question: how do we know when it is time?

As summer turned to fall, my husband and I traveled up to the cottage to experience autumn in Muskoka for the first time. Murphy came with us. He has become too much responsibility for a busy high school senior to take care of; if something happened to our precious canine while we were away, it wouldn’t be fair to burden our daughter with this…. Although this was our first time seeing the changing of the leaves in Ontario, Murphy has probably experienced his last moments there.

We have been home from our short trip north for about three weeks now. The leaves on the trees are showing the bright yellows, deep reds and the brilliant burnt oranges of Autumn. As the leaves start to fall, I see Murphy stumbling often on our daily strolls, choosing the smooth side of the curb to walk on, rather than the grass. Each step Murphy takes looks excruciating. Every day, for the last week, I’ve asked myself: “When the trees are bare, will our old dog still be with us or will his rest come with the quiet of winter?”. Only time will tell.

No Ice, No Water

Unedited

https://open.spotify.com/track/6iblnklMzUKIXAtjk5lzIy?si=IS0XH8amSRSNxvTVa6VPmw

While I was growing up, every evening my siblings, parents and I would meet in the family room for cocktails. We kids would have soda. My mother probably had a glass of white wine and my dad often had whiskey. Cocktail hour was a time for us to come together and talk. Dinner was still being prepared and we didn’t rush through it, like one might at a meal; it was nice. There were times that I would miss these gatherings because of my swim team practice, but that was only for a brief period of my childhood.

My father drank his whiskey “neat”: no ice, no water; almost anyone who knew my dad was aware of this. He held his liquor well. If he had a few drinks too many, you couldn’t tell; the man was as smooth as his drink.

When my siblings and I grew up, and moved out of the house, my parents would come together at the end of their busy work days and continue the tradition of cocktail hour. One night during such an occasion, the pleasant evening my parents were having took a turn and my father ended his life. Just like that: no warning, no note. My mother was left trying to make sense of what made my dad snap. He ended his life in front of her eyes.

The fall that my father died, I had just started to run again. Running was my therapy; time for me to process what had happened. At the time, I didn’t run with music. One song kept playing through my mind; it was “Whiskey Lullaby”. The circumstances of the man in the song were very different than my father’s, but it was these four lines that stuck in my mind:

I ran with these words playing through my head. The run would eventually end with tears in my eyes and a lump in my throat.

That fateful night he put the whiskey to his lips and pulled the trigger; he no longer had the strength to go on. Dad didn’t think, but only acted, leaving trauma in his wake. Unlike the woman in the song, my mother had the incredible strength to get up off her knees…

For me, the “her” in the song was my father’s life: he had suffered so much and he was tired.

Music sometimes resonates with you for a certain reason. “Whiskey Lullaby” filled me with sadness; it evoked an image I didn’t want to see. When my father died, I couldn’t listen to contemporary music of any kind. For a few years following my father’s death, the music from my youth were the songs I chose to listen to; these tunes filled me with the sound from a time when my family would sit around talking, sharing our day, while my dad drank his whiskey: “no ice, no water”.

Authors note: We are nearing the end of September, which is National Suicide Prevention Month. Suicide can happen any day of the year and any month; awareness should be always be present. Remember to support those around you. Know the the risk factors and warning signs of suicide (https://afsp.org/risk-factors-and-warning-signs). There is also a National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, the number is 9-8-8. Please ask for help, if you need it. Learn to recognize the warning signs that might lead to suicide. Unfortunately, my father didn’t ask for help and we hadn’t recognized the signs that told us he was in distress.

12 Years

Last year I published the following story about the day my dad died. Today is the 13th anniversary of his death, I am reposting this story as it was written last year.

I find irony in the fact that September is National Suicide Prevention Month. This is the month the unimaginable happened to our family. The date will be forever embedded in my memory: Thursday, September 16, 2010.

Twelve Years…. It is hard to believe that so many years have passed since that night. The year that followed is what I call a lost year. What is a lost year? To me, it is a period of time where I am pushed out of my comfortable, benign life to face a hostile, unknowing reality.

I remember that night like it was yesterday. We had sent our youngest child to bed early because she refused to eat her dinner. I felt awful because she cried herself to sleep. As my husband (Greg) and I read a bedtime story to our middle child, the phone rang. We ignored it. The phone stopped ringing and then immediately started to ring again. I said this call must be important, so Greg answered the phone.

The next thing I knew, the phone was being handed to me: “It is your mom”, Greg said, “you need to talk to her”. My mother was on the other end of the line crying, someone from 911 told me that my mother needed to talk to me. Then I heard “Sarah, your father has killed himself”. I told her I would be there as soon as possible.

I threw some clothes into a bag. Greg gave me some cash and asked if I was sure I could make the 1.5 hour drive, to my parents house, by myself. My eldest child asked me what had happened. I said “something is wrong with BopBop, I need to go see Nana.”; it was hard to believe what my mother told me was true. We had just seen my parents the previous Sunday. My father seemed off the day we saw him, but he had a lot weighing on his mind. I just thought my dad was concerned with a heart issue that might impede the upcoming surgery that he had scheduled.

With my bag packed, me partly in shock and denial, I got into the mini van. Driving into the night, a light rain started. On auto pilot the minivan drove, with me behind the wheel. How could my mother be helped before I got to her? Friends, I needed to contact someone who would go to mom. She couldn’t be alone.

Luckily, the hands free cell phone law hadn’t gone into effect. Dialing a number I knew by heart, into my little Nokia push button phone, I called the mother of a good friend of mine and at the same time a good friend of my mother’s. She would know what to do to support my mom. The phone rang for a long while. Finally the answering machine picked up, but this wasn’t the sort of thing to leave on an answering machine. Hanging up, I thought of someone else to call; this time the operator was dialed, because I didn’t know the number. Again, no answer. Old family friends…who could I call? I finally settled on somebody. “Just a friend”, I thought, “that is what she needs”. I called the operator again and another number was dialed for me. Finally, there was a voice on the other end of the line: Bob. I told him what had happened and he said that he and his wife would go right over.

On that long drive in the dark rain, the phone calls went on. There was a call to my sister, who was unreachable at the time. Eventually we spoke. She said she would make the calls to the rest of our extended family: our brother, aunts and uncles. The last call I made was to a close friend who talked to me through part of my drive, but then she had to go. Before she hung up she checked to make sure I was ok. “Yes” was the word that left my mouth, but really was I all right?

When I reached my parents house, there was a police car in the driveway. The lights were flashing in the drizzle like you might see in a movie. Bob was out there waiting for me with an umbrella. He said we needed to go through the front door. For some reason I couldn’t go in the door that I always went in. The door that lead to home: through the hall to the kitchen and then to the family room. I so rarely went through the front door. I didn’t really understand what was happening. Then it occurred to me that not only was Bob a family friend, but he was my parents lawyer. An investigation was underway.

As I was led into the living room, I saw all the friends that I had tried to contact, but had failed to reach. My mother sat on the couch, looking frail. I think she was all cried out at the time. There was a little spray of blood on her sweater and a small spot on her face. These are the things I remember.

The rest of the night is a blur. Anne, the first woman I tried to contact, asked us to come home with her. My mom’s friend and assistant, Sandy, offered to take my dad’s beloved dog to her house, just until my mom got back on her feet. Bob said he would go to my grandmother’s house in the morning to tell her what happened to her eldest child. I told him, “I need to be the one to tell her”. In the end, we agreed that he would pick me up at Anne’s house in the morning and we would go together.

I don’t know how I slept that night. The next morning I did the hardest thing I have ever done in my life: I sat with my almost 95 year old grandmother and told her that my dad, her son, had taken his life. She put her hand on her heart and started to cry. Then she straightened and said “I need to be strong for all of you”. My grandmother, who had lost her middle child to death by suicide 40 some Septembers before this, wanted to be strong for us. She knew how to survive the unbearable.

Anyone who has experienced a tragedy, knows that life can change in the blink of an eye. Our lives were forever changed the night my father ended his. We will never know why my dad chose to do what he did. His death was instantaneous.

I find irony in the fact that September is National Suicide Prevention Month only because of my experience twelve Septembers ago. At the same time I am extremely hopeful that, because of this month, more people are aware of how to help prevent suicide. Remember to support those around you. Be aware that different events may cause someone to consider suicide. Know the the risk factors and warning signs of suicide (https://afsp.org/risk-factors-and-warning-signs). There is also a National Suicide Prevention Lifeline, the number is 9-8-8

I hope that sharing my words this September will help you or someone you know realize that it is OK to ask for help or at least help recognize the warning sign that might lead to suicide. Unfortunately, my father didn’t ask for help and we hadn’t recognized the signs that told us he was in distress.

My Choice

Today is the 40th anniversary of a surgery I had when I was 15. I am reposting this story (published about 1.5 years ago) because the choice I made helped to shape me; it is personally important that I recognize 4 decades of this significant event.

“Mom, how did you improve your posture?”, my eldest daughter asked me last week. I looked at her and smiled, questioning, “Did I improve my posture?”. She said, “I don’t know, but I know you have tried over the years; improving my posture is my New year’s resolution.” “Oh,” I said, slightly chuckling to myself. For over 38 years I have been trying to improve my rounded shoulders, a bad habit, that I may have started because of a choice I made.

When I was eleven, my pediatrician discovered I had scoliosis; this is a medical condition in which a person’s spine curves sideways. Often people with scoliosis are put in a back brace. My parents took me to an orthopedic surgeon who did not feel that the curve in my spine was significant enough for me to wear a brace. Over the next three years I went to a few different doctors about my scoliosis. By February of 1983, when I was 3 months shy of my 15th birthday, I was told I would definitely have to wear a back brace and possibly have an operation.

The last doctor we went to, Dr. Harrison, recommended two methods for straightening my spine. The method he felt would be most effective was a spinal fusion; a stainless steel rod would be placed along my spine and fuse my spine in a straighter position. If I chose the spinal fusion with the Harrington rod, I would be in the hospital for ten days, wear a back brace for three months, and be out of all sports for six to ten months.

The second method Dr. Harrison recommended was a Milwaukee Brace. This brace would extend from my hips to my chest, with a neck brace that would extend up the back brace (think of the girl that Joan Cusak played in Sixteen Candles). There was one catch to the second method : I would have to wear the brace for four years. At the end of the four years of wearing the Milwaukee brace, there was a good possibility I might still need an operation.

My parents allowed me to make the choice between the two methods. In 9th grade, this was the hardest decision I had ever made. Giving me the ability to make my own decision was a very empowering gift. I chose the surgery.

On August 17, 1983 I had the surgery to correct my spine. I am told I was in a lot of pain. I remember none it, except when the nurses stood me up for the first time, and also when I was sick on the morphine I was given for pain. After eight days in the hospital, my back brace was put on. I went home the next day.

I wore the back brace for three months. I think this was the hardest part of the whole process. Having always been a stomach sleeper, I had a hard time sleeping for the first few weeks. The brace, made of leather and steel made my body immobile from under my arms to my hips. the only part of my torso I could relax were my shoulders, thus creating a very bad habit that I am still trying to break.

“My Cage”
This is the back brace I wore for three months

Unfortunately, the brace was screwed on. I, who was used to taking one to two showers daily, was limited to one shower a week. Every weekend, my father would unscrew the brace, and I was allowed out of it for one hour. I was very fortunate because many people (at the time) who had my type of surgery were not able to have their back braces off for showers. Some people had to wear their brace for six months.

Having been a competitive swimmer from age six to age fourteen, I was not used to being inactive. After the surgery, I was not able to do any physical activity, except walking, until February 1984. At that point Dr. Harrison said I would be able to ride a bike and swim, but “I was not to get too tired”. By June, a month after my 16th birthday, I was given the go ahead participate in everything I enjoyed.

I will never regret the decision I made. Having been given permission to make my own choice helped me grow into the person I have become.