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My Father’s Influence

Fatherless Recently my husband said to me “I do not want YOU to do anything for me for Father’s Day”. His expectation was clear to me. This is Father’s Day.

Last fall, as my Father-in-law was dying, I watched somewhat with envy, as my husband saw him through those last days. My dad ended his life almost 12 years ago. The weekend before his death my parents came to visit us. I didn’t know this would be the last time we would see him. The chance to say goodbye escaped me. With both my husband and me fatherless, will there be another Father’s Day celebration? That is for our children to decide.

I think about my father often. He truly was a wonderful dad! When he took his life in September of 2010 we were in shock, but that is another story…my father gave me so much over the years. He truly helped shape the woman I have become.

My dad, holding my sister’s hand. I am on his back; if you look closely you can see a second hood with fur behind my father’s -that is me. This picture was taken in Kotzebue, Alaska where we were living at the time.

When I was young, putting words on paper and creating a story was joyful for me. Raising children and living life pushed my creative energy to the back of my mind. The very last gift he gave me was the gift of writing. How did my dad give me this final present? When he passed, feeling compelled to say something at his memorial service, I wrote him a letter to say goodbye. Although reading the letter, while fighting off tears was nearly impossible, the creation of the letter reminded me of how much I loved the art of writing.

The Goodbye Letter To My Father (This is written in the present tense, as written in September 2010, a little rusty from years of not writing. Some names have been omitted for privacy.)

Dear Dad,

Every once in awhile Greg will ask out of the blue: “What do you remember about your parent’s while you were growing up?” This of course takes me by surprise and I mumble a few things. When asked this, I thought of you and mom collectively.

Over the last four days, I have had pictures and memories flood back. I cannot write them all down or put them all into words. These are some of the things that have made me into the person I am and the habits I have formed:

When we were very small you used to tell us stories of the Three Ninnies, who we knew were really us. My siblings and I would die of laughter.

As I grew older and stopped having bedtime stories, I had a hard time getting to sleep. One night I wandered out of my room and complained that I couldn’t sleep. You sat me down and said: “You should read before you go to sleep because it will take your mind off of the day’s events”. I followed your lead and for the most part have gotten to sleep without a problem.

In being active yourself, you taught me to be active. As you know, I was a swimmer. When I could not swim after my spinal surgery, I followed your example of staying active by walking. When I was able to slowly start doing more, I cycled and then I swam. Finally, following your lead, I ran and rarely ever stopped.

Dad, I remember cross-country and downhill skiing in the winter, and cookouts in the snow. You said you weren’t a builder, but you built: a playhouse that we loved, ice skating rinks in our yard in Winnipeg and even an igloo one winter in Muskoka.

You sat with me and cried as you explained the options I had ahead of me when my scoliosis had gone past the point of wearing a brace. You supported me as you allowed me to make my own decision to have the spinal surgery. Then following the surgery, every Sunday, you patiently unscrewed my brace so that I could take a weekly shower.

There were so many trips that gave us our love for travel. You encouraged us to explore the world and never discouraged us when we were heading into dangerous territory. When your eldest daughter, two of our friends, and I were heading to a country on the brink of war, all you said to me was “Don’t go to Sarajevo, there is fighting there”. You never stopped me from going to Mauritania, even though you were were scared to death of the high slave trade in the area. I never knew you felt that way until last year.

When I was pregnant and alone, you helped me turn my house into a home by hanging shelves and showing me how to do it myself. You held my hand when my first marriage ended and let me go when I met Greg, you knew I was safe and happy. You gave me your blessing when we were married, because you said I was not only marrying a good man, but a good family.

My father with my eldest child, his first grandchild.

Dad, when you became a grandfather you wanted to be called grandpa, but my eldest had other plans. First she called you “Gucky”, much to your chagrin. She said to me the other day “I must have called Bop Bop ‘Gucky’ first because I loved ducks so much. Eventually, my child coined the name Bop Bop and that became your name. All the grandchildren loved you, even though Nana was doing all the work. You only had to smile and play the “mousie” game and the kids would laugh and laugh.

There is so so much more I could say. You taught me to always do my best and be strong in whatever I did. I never saw your scars emotionally or physically. I am sorry. I hope you know how much we all loved you. Although you never believed in Heaven, I hope there is one. I hope that you and your sister are looking down upon the day. We have come together to celebrate your life. We will never forget you.

Love, Sarah

My Father’s Continued Effect On My Character This piece of writing was pulled out last week; it is unpracticed and raw, written on a computer that wasn’t my own. What struck me, when reading the letter for the first time since 2010, is how my dad’s influence still resonates today, in my words and life. I didn’t realize, until now, how so many of my stories have echoes of what is contained in this goodbye. Me and my siblings were truly lucky to have such a great dad! Sitting in the Denver Airport, across from an elderly man, I wonder: “Who my father would be now?”. He had a good life, yet full of trauma, perhaps he chose how he wanted to be remembered.

This is a photograph given to my eldest. Until I made this digital copy, there wasn’t one in my possession. The peace, love and joy on his face is how I remember my father. Imagine a sparkle, in the bluest of eyes, and that was my dad.

All Aboard! Self-Compassion and Acceptance with Heart Failure

By Heather Cartwright

My friend Heather wrote this beautiful and moving story about her heart condition called Arrhythmogenic Right Ventricular Cardiomyopathy (ARVC). The account of her journey living with heart failure was originally written and published on Our Heart Hub, https://ourhearthub.ca/. I contacted Heather and she was given permission for me to publish this on Tell Me Your Story.

I have lived over 30 years with Arrhythmogenic Right Ventricular Cardiomyopathy (ARVC), and for the past eight years I have lived with heart failure. ARVC is an inherited heart disease that can cause deadly arrhythmias leading to sudden cardiac arrest.
As the disease progresses, the heart muscle is replaced with fatty and fibrous tissue, causing it to weaken and pump inefficiently. In the worst cases of ARVC, heart transplant is needed.

I have learned that the best way to cope with the anxiety and uncertainty of living with this unpredictable cardiac condition is to treat myself with self-compassion, to accept the realities of my disease, and to live the best life I can.

My journey has taken many twists and turns. It’s like a train trip over rough terrain; down deep gullies, up to the highest peaks, around hair-raising turns, and over precarious bridges. Each section of the track offers its own challenges such as cardiac episodes, ER visits, ablations and device surgeries, PTSD after ICD shocks, and new diagnoses and treatments. Yet my train keeps chugging along, finding safety along the way in quiet stations. In those moments of calm, the views have been lovely and the company fine. I have met fellow passengers on this journey who have enhanced my trip, sharing inspirational stories of their own. I hope my story helps you. Come aboard.

The Beginning of the Journey

I was twenty years old when I collapsed with ventricular tachycardia following a rowing race. I was a collegiate varsity rower at Western University with aspirations of competing at the Olympics. I identified as a strong and skillful athlete, enjoying the thrill of outdoor pursuits like whitewater canoe tripping, cliff jumping, and ski racing. I used exercise for stress reduction, going on long runs to clear my head. In rowing I got the opportunity to push my body to its limits, enduring pain, and elation, at the outer edges of my potential. Suddenly, all that had to stop. When I was diagnosed with ARVC, I was told by my cardiologist that I could never do competitive or endurance sports again.

The particularity of ARVC is the unpredictability of deadly arrythmias. Some patients go years between events, and some may never experience a “hot phase” of recurring and random episodes of ventricular tachycardia, and even cardiac arrest. Whether influenced by stress, caffeine, physical exertion or other unknown factors, the heart can beat wildly and erratically, despite daily medications to keep it in line. The only way to save a patient during an event is to shock them with an ICD, inject them with anti-arrythmia drugs, or defibrillate them in the ER. Just like unplugging and plugging in a computer when it freezes, the reboot gets it back to normal.

I was devastated. I was in denial of my diagnosis. In response, I often pushed myself and took unnecessary physical risks that landed me in the ER.

Rough Terrain

During my twenties and thirties, I was angry and resentful at the limitations to exercise, diet, and day-to-day living I faced. I saw it as a betrayal of my body against the wishes of my mind. My dreams of the Olympics were over. I over-ate to numb my pain, lashed out at others, and retreated from intimate relationships in a misguided attempt to keep myself safe. I overworked in my career, trying for some fulfillment I could not find in my personal life. On the train journey of my life, I was in the lowest gully.

But from the depths, I could see new mountains ahead. It was not my nature to wallow in self-pity, and it was clear that my rebellious self-harm was only hurting me. I decided that big changes were necessary in my lifestyle. So, I quit my corporate job to become a full-time rowing coach at elite US colleges.

An Upward Climb

I loved coaching. Being on the water in nature, helping students reach their potential, and leading a group towards shared goals gave me purpose. Yet, even as my train was scaling higher peaks, I encountered scary hairpin turns – like the year my ICD delivered therapy 54 times. My type A+ personality had not diminished when I traded a corporate pantsuit for sweatshirts, a cubicle for a coach boat. My electrophysiologist encouraged me to slow down, but I simply changed schools to a more competitive rowing program.

Finally, my hard charging personality of always pushing myself caught up with me; I collapsed on the dock during rowing practice and was rushed to the nearest hospital where they saved my life. Later, my doctor, with tears in his eyes, pleaded with me to quit coaching. He warned me that my next cardiac episode would be my last. The reality of my situation hit me: no matter what adjustments I make to my work schedule or environment, it was incumbent upon me to change my attitude to save myself.

After quitting my coaching job and returning home to Toronto, I signed up for a week-long meditative retreat for mindfulness and self-compassion led by psychologist Dr. Christopher Germer and researcher Dr. Kristin Nuff. This retreat challenged every assumption I had about achievement and self-care. I had been brought up to believe that listening to that dark inner critic inside myself was necessary to my success. Initially, I pushed back at their encouragement to be gentle with myself, to forgive my body for its limitations, and to embrace my new reality. They advocated taking a pause and being mindful to provide a safe place for my body and mind to self-soothe and find relief. But it all seemed too soft to really work on a high achieving person like me.

Yet, as resistant as I was to their practice, I decided to give it a try, even if only to show it would not work. To my surprise, it did.

Over the years, I have attended many more retreats. I have learned to meditate by using phrases of self-compassion such as “May I be safe, may I be calm, may I live in peace.” I said these words with as much intention as possible. I tried to be open to whatever pain or unpleasantness came up and used these words to soothe myself. When sitting cross-legged on the meditation pillow, I resolved to make friends with my heart. I saw that it was not to blame, but to be forgiven. When words did not comfort me, I simply pressed my warm hands over my heart center. In time, I found myself less angry, more grateful, and more open to accepting the volatility of my condition.

This new-mind set was helpful when my mother was diagnosed with stage 4 incurable lung cancer. As her primary caregiver, I was with her each day and at all her doctor’s appointments, chemo treatments, and operations. We shared more than just a familiarity of the ins and outs of the hospitals along Toronto’s University Avenue: I had been living with the threat of sudden cardiac death to my mortality since I was 20; my mum was now confronted with the end of her life at age 78. Together, we shared our understanding of the impermanence of life, that nothing is for certain, and that accepting one’s reality of “what is” instead of “what one hopes for” is the most grounded way to cope. We had deep conversations about life and death, and where one goes after they die. We did not have answers for our questions or assuage all of our grief, but just talking about the taboo subject of death lessened our anxiety. My mother died a peaceful death, surrounded by loved ones, comforted by the fact that everyone was fine and it was her time to go. It was a profound experience.

Unchartered Territory

Just four months after my mom’s death in 2014, I was diagnosed with heart failure. The train was now crossing over a bridge to an unknown land. But I felt confident that I could handle what came next because of my attitude shift. I was learning to love myself and to practice self-compassion in the darkest times. I was accepting my heart condition as it was. And I was no longer so occupied with my fear of death, but instead on living my fullest life. That shift encouraged me to embrace what I could do; to appreciate my friends, family, and loved ones with gratitude; and to live in the moment.

In short, I have negotiated a peace with my limitations, with death, and with living with ARVC and heart failure. “Negotiated,” because it’s an ongoing process to love myself and accept my condition when setbacks occur.

One aspect that has been helpful is to know my body. With heightened awareness of my heart rhythms and body feelings, I have an acute sense of when something is “off,” relative to times when I felt better. This gut feeling is so critical. When I feel “off,” I know how to begin again – with self-compassion meditation, healthy food, time in nature, and, most importantly, rest. That way I can enjoy the activities I love, like walking my dog, golfing, fishing, and kayaking. And if things don’t go back to how they once were, I have the mindset to try to accept my “new normal” with loving compassion.

The Journey Continues

My journey with ARVC and heart failure has been a long one, but I am not alone. On my train I have the best drivers and engineers: the doctors and medical team at the Peter Munk Cardiac Centre always find the smoothest, and safest, routes for me to take. Working in partnership with them, I know I have the support to go the distance.

And to enjoy the journey along the way, I have filled the passenger cars with my partner Karin, my friends, and my family. No matter the destination, I am determined we will appreciate the trip together. I will do what I can do, for as long as I can do it, for now.

It’s been one heck of a trip so far.

Where In The World

Do you have the desire to see the world, but not the pleasure of doing so? Have you been bitten by the “Travel Bug” or is it preferable to be in the comfort of your own home? I am a mixture of both: there is the love to see new places and things, yet it is peaceful and comforting to be in my own surroundings. Lately, globetrotting has been on my mind. Perhaps I am thinking about traveling because my eldest has taken a trip abroad, solo, for the very first time. Maybe, because in a week, I will be visiting my former roommate from London. Although she lives in the USA, her home is far enough away for me to have to fly. The mixture of memories from our adventures together, combined with the fact that this will be the first long trip I have taken in 21 years, for fun and by myself, is exciting!

When my siblings and I were young, our parents introduced us to traveling, domestically and abroad. The first trip I remember taking, not counting our yearly drives between Manitoba and Ontario, was to Alaska. My father was an anthropologist. Alaska was central to all the research he had done for his PHD and the work he continued to do. Although I had lived in Kotzebue, AK at a very young age, I did not remember being there. Dad wanted us to see Alaska before the beauty was destroyed by a pipeline that was supposed to be built.

The summer of 1976 we left our cottage early to spend three weeks in Alaska. I was eight years old at the time and my memories are a little fragmented. These are the pieces of our voyage that I do recall:

On our way to Alaska we stopped in Vancouver to see friends we knew from previous years We ate salmon and corn on the cob An indoor pool was visited, where I jumped off a high diving board for the very first time

In Kotzebue, we watched Nadia Comăneci on the television as she won a gold medal, at a house I don’t remember, but memories of the couple who owned it linger

Kivalina is the place I remember most A village on a small island My family stayed in a house, that felt like home, On this island, we…

…drank TANG and played with the kids, from the village, under the midnight Sun

…Picked wild blueberries

…looked for puppies under the houses

…Walked to the furthermost part of the land, that seemed like the edge of the world, and looked over an endless sea – Russia the nearest country

Last I remember how we spent a day with my namesake (my father’s best friend),in his boat on a river, going ashore and skipping rocks

Anchorage, I don’t recall whether it was in the beginning or the end We were invited to dinner at someone’s house A friend of my parents or a friend of a friend?

The ferry took us to Seattle It felt like many days We probably stopped and saw some towns, But I only remember finger crocheting a hairband

Over the years, our parents enabled us to see a world greater than our own back yard. These are some of the the places we went, but not all.

At age 11, France

In a cable-car we climbed up a mountain, where I stood at the top of the world with my very first camera.

It was at the panoramic view of Mont Blanc where discovered that I am somewhat afraid of heights.

We drove past fields of poppies in the Loire Valley that my mother wanted to capture with her camera lens.

Escargot, turtle soup and crème caramel, were some of the delicacies tried; the first and last of these new tastes weren’t desirable to me.

Great Britain

I had just recovered from at terrible case of the chickenpox that only a 13 year old could have. As we traveled, my sister and I shared a bed where (much to her chagrin) I left my scabs behind.

Through the highlands of Scotland we walked.

A “haunted” medieval castle was a place to stay, where we ate dinner like the gentry in the Middle Ages…with our hands.

Then in Ireland, not a rest stop in sight. Some of us peed (unknowingly) in a patch of stinging nettles, just off the side of the road… can you imagine?

Hawaii…

…the very next year, an island state my grandparents had sailed to years before. Their journey to Hawaii is where their love story began. My Ana and Apa took my family and my uncle there to celebrate a big anniversary.

We toured in a van, eight of us in all, to see the island and a volcano.

I recall a pink hotel, attempting to surf, hours on the beach, and an excursion deep sea fishing.

We were fortunate. The love to see and experience new places and cultures carried on after the family trips of my youth ended. In my late teens and through my twenties I loved traveling; this was during the late 1980’s-1990’s. Life was a lot different then: no social media, cell phones, or instant connection. We actually had to write letters or postcards. My correspondence typically started out: “I’m so sorry I haven’t written in a long time…” If our loved one’s were to hear our voice, the telephone office was the place to go: we would stand in line and wait until it was our turn to make a call. I don’t remember why this was. Some countries had readily available pay phones and a collect call could be made.

My first trip abroad, without my family, was a biking tour in Western Europe

Now, as my daughter is traveling with no one we know, no cellular data, and only the possibility of Wi-Fi connectivity there was some anxiety on my part. I heard from her within the first 24 hours. My mother would go weeks without hearing from me…If I had only known the unease I must have caused!

As summer is starting, many of you hope to travel. With the rise in gas prices and airline issues this might not be possible. Although it is not the same as going on your own adventure, I will share some accounts of my trips; this will take place over several months with stories sprinkled in between (hopefully not just my own). For now, I invite you to play a game with pictures from some of my past excursions. This game called is called “where in the world”. It can only be played from my blog. Go to the comment section at the very bottom of the story. Depending on how you are viewing this, you might see “leave a reply” or “leave a comment”; this is where tell me the location you think the picture was taken. The photos are numbered. This what to do, if you want to guess: 1) write the number of the photo and 2) write the location where you think it was taken. There are no prizes, just the satisfaction that you are right! Good Luck!

The Path You Take

Over the years my family has enjoyed playing The Game of LIFE. On your first turn in the game, you choose one of two paths: 1) Start A Career or 2) Start College. In my family, my eldest always chose to start college, my middle child continually selected the path to start a career. Whether the rest of us picked a typical path I don’t remember…..

Not everyone has the opportunity to go to college. My children are fortunate because the path to higher education was always a choice. My eldest planned to go to university. The two us us went on some fun road trips to find the “right” school. We traveled well together, both of us enjoyed waking up and exercising before our day started. With the exception of my snoring, we were compatible roommates. Walking to explore nearby restaurants, stores and neighborhoods, in order to get a good feel for the area, was something enjoyed by us both. Despite the lack of pictures I took on these excursions, I do love a good road trip!

The first trip, in the spring of my daughter’s 10th grade year, took us to Massachusetts. Our first tour, on a sunny day, was at The University of

Massachusetts. Later that day, when we arrived in Boston, my daughter and I took a walk through the North Eastern University campus just as the sun was setting. After a morning of drizzle, The second tour was taken at Tufts University. Last, we strolled through the Harvard campus. Sometime during or just after this trip, my daughter said, “Tufts is where I want to go!”. In my mid twenties I had lived fifteen minutes from this school, so secretly I was happy with this prospect and could picture her there.

My daughter and I went on the next college tour in November of her junior year. The week before Thanksgiving, we headed to New York: first to Ithaca, then to a small town called Canton. Our last stop was to be Syracuse. Although lake effect snow was called for, we set out under a clear blue sky. Arriving at dusk there was no snow in sight. The next morning, the two of us went running: my daughter was in front and I trailed behind. Wet snow began to fall. That morning, through our tour of Cornell, the snow increased. After lunch, my minivan (with no 4 wheel drive or snow tires) headed to Canton. The snow became heavy and I drove at a snails pace. Finally, after an anxious drive, our hotel was in sight. After a good dinner, it felt nice to lay my head down and go to sleep. When we awoke, the ground was blanketed with about 7-10 inches of snow. While the snow fell, a private tour was taken at St. Lawerence University, my eldest child in her fashion boots, and I wearing my snow boots. Upon returning to our hotel, I lamented to the courtesy workers that we were supposed to leave the next morning to go to Syracuse. Our destination didn’t

look hopeful. I also worried about not having a room booked in Canton, but was told that there was a special “stranded” rate. Stranded we were! The room and tour at Syracuse were canceled. The excitement of the snow made this my favorite trip!

The last trip for her college tours was during the spring of my daughter’s junior year; these were to Pennsylvania colleges. Some schools were in the Philadelphia area: Haverford and Arcadia; two in the Lehigh Valley: Lehigh University and Lafayette College; then Franklin and Marshall College, in Lancaster. The Philadelphia schools and the Lancaster school weren’t for my eldest child. The schools in the Leigh Valley, suited her more. Even though I grew up in Pennsylvania, I had never been to Bethlehem, PA. We found a few good restaurants and enjoyed the town. Although this trip was fun, it made me a little sad because It signified and ending of sorts.

The spring my eldest graduated from high school my middle child finished 8th grade. I was worried that in four years time we would have two graduations on the same day….Life has a funny way of changing.

In the late summer of 2018, my eldest packed her bags and went to Tufts. Despite the stress of things that were happening within her families and the occurrence of COVID, my daughter excelled in her studies and made good friends. Within days, she will graduate Summa Cum Laude. We will celebrate with other families and with her friends. I am proud to see the strong, self sufficient woman she has become!

Although I have had the pleasure of taking road trips with my middle child, they weren’t college tours. There won’t be another graduation to contend with this year. My second daughter’s life took a turn the summer after 8th grade. I am in awe of how far she has come these past four years. Last summer, just before senior year, she decided to end her time in high school. With one more test to go, she should be receiving her GED very soon. That will be something to celebrate! Like in The Game of LIFE, she has chosen a not to go the college route.

I have learned that life can’t be planned; something inevitably changes and this is ok. Celebrate all the little things in life, no matter where the road takes you. Most of all, don’t be afraid to follow your own path!

The Garden of Strong Mothers

Last week, in the 32 degree weather, I headed to swim in the pool outside. I was intent on just reusing words I had written in the spring of 2020, for my next story. As I started to move through the warm water, thoughts and words swam around me. At the foundation of these thoughts, were the original words:

Growing up, I always considered my paternal grandmother (who I was very close to) the be strongest woman I knew. She had gone through tragedy and continued to carry herself with strength and dignity. I wanted to emulate my grandmother; I still hold her as a role model to live up to. She was like an Oak tree, tall and strong.

My mother, on the other hand, is more like a flower in the desert. Something that has to have incredible strength to endure the hardships of where it has to grow. Like a flower, my mother doesn’t appear as if she would have the need of strength. She has had to go through more than one person should have to. Over the past few years, I have come to recognize that my strength comes somewhat from my grandmother, but mostly from my mom. Not only was my mother strong in the hand that she was dealt in life, but has helped me to be strong when I needed it most. She would have come to London, after the Lockerbie tragedy, had I wanted her to. When I was going through a dark period, she came to Boston . She helped lift me up when when I was separated from my first husband and pregnant with my firstborn; then through my eldest daughters first year of life. As life goes on, my mom continues to be here for me and I try to be there for her. I hope her strength will pass on to my daughters.

With each stroke I realized that I have surrounded myself with strong women, all mothers . I envisioned a garden where the flora represented my friends. A kind of poem started to form….

Each time I swam this past week, I thought about this poem (I am not poet). In the end, I couldn’t think of one of my friends who has not had to carry something heavy in their soul. Does everyone have to go through hard times? I look at my grandmother, my mother… perhaps this is human nature. I don’t know the answer. What I do know is that my family and my friends are resilient, each with a special strength to be revered.

The End Of The Fairytale

Growing up I loved fairytales. Like many little girls, I dreamed of being beautiful, like a princess. The year my family moved from Winnipeg, Manitoba to Central Pennsylvania I was six years old. Everything changed: I entered a new school, was introduced to new kids and went to someone else for medical care. My new pediatrician told my mother that I was overweight and needed to go on a diet. Of course, my mother felt the doctor must be correct; our old pediatrician never led her astray. At the age of six, I began watching my weight and felt more like Cinderella’s ugly stepsister’s.

A fun clown costume for me, but I suppose i did my makeup.

My eating habits changed. I ate snacks of celery stuffed with peanut butter and raisins before swim practice; soft boiled eggs instead of fried for breakfast, and never butter only margarine. I loved Halloween and my mom made us elaborate costumes each year. I collected tons of candy and froze all the chocolates; this helped me not consume the calories so quickly. My candy lasted for months after my sister and brother had finished theirs.

I was shy and listened more than I talked. I heard my aunts and mother talk about the latest fad diets. Everyone aspired to be thin and pretty. My grandmother was tiny and was disappointed that my mother was tall and “big boned”, when she was growing up. I feel like I have always known this. The way people looked, how they dressed and what their figures were like was always a topic of conversation on my mother’s side of the family. This is a fact, not a criticism.

What was hard for me to hear was how everyone talked about my sister’s beauty. I loved and admired my sister, but always felt I lived in her shadow. She was tall and thin with sea green eyes that could pierce you when she was angry. My sister didn’t realize that she was beautiful. I just heard the talk surrounding her good looks and felt like a lesser person because in the eyes of others I did not measure up. I was not the beautiful princess. These were my feelings, it didn’t mean this is how people viewed me. However, one year, in middle school, a boy wrote in my yearbook “ I hope you turn out like your sister”, confirming to me what I believed.

The ”chubby” years, this picture was taken in the fall of fifth or sixth grade.

During the ‘tween years, the pre-pubescent years, many children gain extra weight. I did and was probably a little overweight. In sixth grade I became friends with a girl in my class. When I went to her house we would borrow her sisters Candies and dance to ABBA music. This was a sight to be seen, mainly because I have no rhythm and the Candies were three inches high. My friend and I made a New Years resolution to lose weight. I lost twenty pounds. I wasn’t starving myself and I may have grown a few inches during this time. The same pediatrician who said I was overweight was now worried that I had anorexia.

At fifteen I had back surgery, this was a choice I made; it greatly enhanced my self esteem. I couldn’t swim or do any sports for six months. I went outside and walked as often as I could, even during the months I wore my back-brace. Throughout this time I couldn’t worry about my weight, only my recovery. The following summer, I was sixteen. My sister was on a bicycle trip in Europe, I met my first boyfriend. He didn’t know my sister. For the first time I felt “seen”.

In college I started worrying about my weight once again. During freshman year I went to many parties, but during one party in particular an upperclassman looked over at me and said “you’re a whale”, then proceeded to laugh with his friends. In sophomore year, my love for aerobic exercise became borderline obsession. I ran, swam, and cycled; If I didn’t participate heavily in at least two of these activities each day I berated myself. After sophomore year in college and for some years into my twenties I felt good about myself.

When I was 26, I started dating a young man who constantly talked about his heavy his ex-girlfriend. One day we saw her, from afar, in a restaurant. He explained who she was and said, “Isn’t she fat?”. I responded, “She’s not much heavier than me”. Our relationship ended shortly thereafter. My childhood image of myself flooded right back in. I don’t know why he decided to end it, but our relationship was ultimately doomed for failure.

The next man I started dating, I eventually married. There were so many good things about him, but we both had behaviors from past experiences that just worked against us. After we had been dating for about six months I “opened the door” and asked him if I was too heavy; at that moment I gave away my power. He walked right through the door and soon policed all my food. I went to weight watchers and lost about 14 pounds, but was still not thin enough. He wanted me to be a size 4. Having inherited my father’s short waist, made it extremely hard to be this thin. I started cutting out all of the tags in my clothes because I was ashamed that I could rarely fit in a size smaller than a 6. After losing a lot of weight, and keeping my hair just so, he continued to compare me to other women.

Was this bridal portrait foreshadowing the life that would not be?

After a year of marriage we sought professional help. I started feeling better emotionally. The weekend I found out I was pregnant, my then husband was out of town. When he arrived home he told me he was taking a trip to “think about our marriage”; at the same time he asked me not to run, until I had the go ahead from my obstetrician . When I finally talked with my doctor, the nausea had set in and I no longer felt like running. Later in the fall, yet early in my pregnancy, he left for Texas to “ponder” our future together. Upon returning home, he announced he wanted a trial separation. The therapeutic work I had done on myself started to slip backwards, just a little. I was hormonal and working through a marriage that was failing. I ate whatever I craved to help me through my grief. Being busy with work, driving an hour (or more) to and from work, and going to therapy three times a week did not give me any time to swim. I gained 50lbs.

Once we were separated, despite the weight gain, I felt better about myself because I started making my own choices; my sense of self worth once again improved. My free time was used to focus on my mental well being and, just as importantly, the life I was carrying inside me. I didn’t dwell on what my husband thought about my appearance. Eventually, I decided to end the marriage.

This is one of the only photos I have within a year after the birth of my first child. Obviously this picture was taken shortly after my daughter was born.

When my daughter was about 9 months old I had a conversation with my first boyfriend. We remained friends after we dated and corresponded off and on, but not for 10 years. As we started talking again, I was reminded of who I had once been. I took back my power.

Almost a year after my daughter was born, my brother got married. I had lost some, but not all, of my pregnancy weight. At the wedding someone said to me “You know Sarah, not everyone is meant to be thin”. Words that were possibly meant with good intent, were not received well. I internalized them and was once again the 6 year old at the pediatrician’s office.

This picture of me was taken almost 2 years after the birth of my first child.

After my divorce was final, I started to think about dating again. When my daughter was 16 months old I met the man I am now married to. He didn’t have expectations about how someone should appear, nor care if I decided to change my hair. We have been together for over 20 years and have two more children. I am fortunate to have found a man that I love. He cherishes. me despite the roller coaster ride we have had in life

A picture taken of me, just last week, by my youngest child

I read my children fairytales and let them watch “princess movies”, explaining to them that beauty comes from within. Over the years I have tried to instill healthy eating habits for my family, without being negative about food. An active lifestyle was something I encouraged. Candy was allowed. I’m not sure what messages they have received from me. My children have seen me go to weight watchers and participate in Noom, mainly because I want to maintain a healthy weight. I am confident in most of the choices I make and who I have become. There will always be that little girl voice at the back of my mind telling me to lose weight. The young adult me will continue to niggle in my head, telling me I am not worthy because I do not live up to someone else’s standards. I know I am more than this.

Read your children fairytales, but let them know that nobody is perfect. Tell them that Cinderella’s beauty came from the kindness she showed others, the hard work she did, and the life she created for herself with her animal friends…When they grow too old for the fairytales of their youth, read them fairytale a poem by Becky Hemsley. Post it on the wall or mirror and remind them they are who they CHOOSE to be; this is where true beauty lies.

Posted with permission from Becky Hemsley. To find more of Becky’s work check this link: https://linktr.ee/beckyhemsley

Born To Swim

Research says that life on earth may have begun in water. Sometimes I feel as if I were born in the water. I don’t remember a time that I did not know how to swim, although I probably did not start learning until the summer I was two. Water, wherever it is, pulls me like a magnet. I love to swim! I know there are others like me in their enthusiasm for swimming because I have met them. No matter how much I enjoy swimming there are some people who are even more passionate in their pursuit of this sport than me. Are you one of those people?

THE LAKE

Although I swim in pools most of the year, I have typically had one constant place to swim in the summer which is a lake. Growing up and even now, I swim in a lake in Ontario, Canada. The lake, in a regional municipality called Muskoka, was carved in prehistoric times by retreating glaciers. I feel lost when I cannot spend at least a little time each year swimming here; this place renews my spirit.

When I was young I took lessons at a club in Muskoka; then, in my teenage years, I taught swimming at the very same place.

There have only been three summers in my life where I could not swim through the cool waters in Muskoka: the first was when I had just given birth to my oldest child; the second when I was pregnant with my middle child; and the third when COVID locked down the world.

The summer after my middle child was born, I realized that swimming back and forth from the dock to the raft just wasn’t giving me the kind of swim I wanted. I had a bad habit of swimming extremely crooked, thus going off course. I bought what I call a “swim cord” and have been using one ever since. The swim cord is essentially a resistance cord with a loop at one end and on the other end there is an area for a water belt. The loop is attached to the ring on the dock, the belt goes around my waist, then into the water I go for a great workout!

During COVID, I felt like a fish out of water. Everything was closed. As the summer drew near, it became apparent that we would not get to Canada. I spent time pondering where I could easily swim. I thought perhaps I could swim in the little pool of water, created by a creek, about half a mile walk through the woods from our house. I looked at the trees to see if I could attach my swim cord and swim in place. Unfortunately there were two problems. The first was that I had left my long swim cords at our cottage in Canada. The second was the creek ran along a sewer line…in the end the idea was squashed.

SWIMMING POOLS

This past Christmas my husband gave me a license plate frame that says ” I love the smell of chlorine in the morning”; this was the perfect gift for me because for at least ten months out of the year I swim in chlorinated water…

In the winter, when I was little, I swam at a club named for the season. Not only did I swim there, but I learned to ice skate. I suppose if we had lived in Winnipeg long enough I may have also learned how to curl.

From the time I was six until just before I turned fifteen, I spent hours in a pool that was on a Naval base in central Pennsylvania; this is where I swam competitively. I have no idea how my parents found this place for me to swim or the team for me to compete on. Neither of my parents were in the military. I was a good swimmer, winning many races over the years. The smell of chlorine permeated my skin and hair. My blond hair always had a greenish tint. One day, in 4th grade, a boy walked past me in the library…the next thing I heard, was him whispering “Sarah smells like pee”. I knew the smell was the scent of chlorine; I was mortified! From that day on, I took a thorough shower which only lightened the smell. I stopped swimming competitively when I had back surgery at the age of fifteen.

Since my years at the navy base, I have spent time swimming in other pools: the old, not quite 25 yard, one at my college; YMCA’s in Pennsylvania, Washington state, and Massachusetts; then sometimes hotels where I attach my travel swim cord to the handrail of the stairs….

My “second home”

The pool I have belonged to the longest, is a fifteen minute drive from my house; it is part of an athletic club. By this June I will have been a member of this pool for 25 years. When I moved to the area In 1997, I was training for my first triathlon. At the time, there was only one place that had somewhere to swim year-round. When I joined this club, the pools were outdoors: two were 25 yards, one was for instruction and play, there was a baby area and hot tub. I was fascinated to find out that when the weather grew cool, all but one of these pools had a dome that went over top. Typically, the dome going up or coming down takes approximately a week.

I met my first friend at the pool when I was heavily pregnant with my second child. All the lanes were full. A tall, lean woman called to me and said “swim with me, you will be safe. I swim straight and will not kick your belly”. Over a period of months we became “swim friends”. I have made many swimming friends over the years. Occasionally, we take time away from the water to do something else.

When COVID hit, like everything else, my club closed. Luckily, the pool was the first part of the club to reopen. The swimmers were welcomed back before anyone else. Only the downstairs locker rooms that led to the outdoor pool entrances were open and only to use the toilet. The hours and procedures for swimming had changed. We had to reserve a lane for certain hour and there was a limited amount of time we were allowed to swim. We checked in outside, had our temperatures taken and headed to the pool. I was extremely impressed with how organized the managers made the “soft reopening”. Over the next several months the rest of the club reopened. I stuck to the water, my yoga friends were no longer at the club and I decided being near the chlorine was safest. I did not enter the gym until the beginning of last month (March 2022). At my club COVID changed things in a way I can’t quite describe. A place that I had spent hours at with my kids, by myself, and with friends, felt united in a way it had not before. Perhaps it was because there were fewer people or maybe COVID made people slow down and get to know each other.

For many reasons, in 2020, the dome did not go up when planned. I swam outside until December 24th; it was awesome!

When the dome went up last season, the pool was closed for awhile. I got a three day pass to another club. I dipped my toe in a different pool. There were many things I liked about this other place, but it felt strange. I missed my “home”, my friends, and was glad when my pool reopened.

I have been a swimmer forever! The sound the liquid makes when my ears are under the water is something I have always enjoyed. I like the feeling when I am moving through waves or a placid body of water. Life may have changed the speed at which I swim, but it hasn’t changed the way I feel about the sport. I hope to be able swim until the day I die…I love the smell of chlorine in the morning, but hate the scent that lingers in the afternoon!

The sound under water.

The Last Place I Wanted To Go…

Not every story needs to be written. There are other ways to tell a tale. I prefer to use the written word, but I am going to attempt to share a time in my life with (mostly) pictures.

Three years ago, I would have told you that Los Angeles was one of the places I desired least to travel to. In May of 2019, we made a decision that would forever change our lives. The decision took us to LA more times than I could have ever imagined…..one day I hope I am able to tell you about my journey in words.

For now, this is my pictorial story of my time spent in southern California:

June 2019

We drove to the coast, emotionally and physically exhausted, after saying goodbye to one of our own. The sun did not warm the sadness in my soul. The ocean showed me the vast journey that lay before us.

July 2019

These pictures were taken on one of my two trips to LA in July.

August 2019: These pictures were taken on one of my two trips to LA in August.

Sunset: driving the Pacific Coast Highway after a long flight

This trip was for my husband children and myself. During this time we tried to add some levity to a very difficult time

A valiant attempt in the blistering sun: a hike on the Griffith Park Trails to the Hollywood sign.

September 2019

October 2019:

November 2019

December 2019

Trip 1: the weekend of December 14-15

Malibu Creek State Park: a hike to the area where scenes from the tv show *MASH* were filmed.

Trip 2: December 24-31,

An attempt to bring us together and add some fun, in an otherwise excruciatingly hard time.

Christmas Day Hike in Malibu Creek State Park

The only snow we experienced over the holidays

January 2020

February 2020: Finally feeling the sun warm our spirits

Early mornings on Venice Beach

March 2020: I flew to LA, in early March, with a fear that I would not make it home. COVID was starting to close down the world. I had a back up plan if the planes were grounded, but that did not happen.

**I wanted to go to the water, but not the beach. I found an area called Marina Del Rey and was pleasantly surprised to find sea lions.**

Road trip up the coast to Santa Barbara

Mid March – End of June 2020

I used this time to regenerate. During the lockdown, not only was I missing the reason we went to LA, but I was missing the area itself. I had grown to love and appreciate the beauty of the rugged hills and the vast beaches.

July 2020-August 2020: A series of four trips were taken to and from LA. Due to COVID many things were closed, but we managed numerous walks and roadtrips.

Many hours were spent in Marina Del Rey and on Venice Beach, just walking.

Venice Canals

On August 27, 2020 we departed LA. We did not return until March 2022 and that was a trip purely for pleasure.

We were emotionally and physically exhausted. I rarely brought my camera; most of these picture were taken with our cell phones. Obviously not every trip had pictorial documentation.

Run No More

“Will I be able to run anymore?”, I asked the orthopedic surgeon. He gave me a look and said, “What do you think?”. I had just been informed that I had (still have) severe arthritis behind each knee cap. Just another ending, I thought. Another thing to mourn. I ran for 33 years. I was not old, just 51, but I knew for years it was just a matter of time before my knees could take so much

Growing up, I was aware that my father ran almost every day. He typically went out mid day, so I only saw him go out for a jog when I was home. I was born a swimmer. Eventually I followed my fathers lead and began to run. I started in college. On my first or second day of my freshman year in college I was asked if I ran. I said, “No, but I probably could”. We formed a running group. A few days a week we would all run together. Thus, began my love of running.

Me, running with my youngest daughter (not pictured) in Girls on the Run, December 2017. I had not been running for two months due to tearing my ulnar collateral ligament in early October.

Over the years I was in many races: sprint triathlons, 5ks, 10ks, half marathons….

The run, in the picture to the left, was a month post surgery. If you look closely at my right hand you can see that I am still wearing this wrap.

When my eldest child was in high school, I had the pleasure of watching her run cross-country and track. As I watched other runners, I came to realize that some people are born runners and some are self-made runners. The born runners seemed to have perfect form, a long stride and run with little effort. The self made runners were those people who have taken up running not because they were born to run, but because they wanted to run. I was a self-made runner.

My favorite photo from my daughter’s first year running track.

As I approached my 30th year of running, I began to question why I called myself a runner. I did not have great form and I always ran middle of the pack when I raced. Once, I read something about how you know you are a runner. Many of the things it said hit home, but this line summed it up for me: ” your are just not yourself when you don’t run”.

Running became a part of who I was. I was proud when someone said “you look like a runner”. People asked why I ran. “It puts so much stress on your body”, they’d say. Everyone knows that running puts stress on your joints. But running is so much more than that. It helped me to think. It helped me to sleep soundly. It helped me to see the world around me. I could lace up my shoes and run out the front door. Most importantly, running helped me get through many of my darkest times: the times that I felt I could not breathe, running helped me to breathe again

2018 dawned bright with promise. My eldest was accepted at the college of her dreams. My mom took us on a cruise to Alaska to celebrate my daughter turning 18, her graduation and my 50th birthday. I was training for my first half marathon in several years. When we arrived back from Alaska and were settling in for a relaxing summer, our world came tumbling down. Still I ran.

Participation medal from a 5k i went in with my youngest child.

I ran through fall and winter with a heart so heavy I felt like I would implode. I practiced yoga several days a week and used that space to cry on my mat. I ran another half marathon in the spring of 2019, little did I know it would be my last. My running was slower, often I would walk up the hills. My knees did not hurt too much. On I ran.

A year had passed after our life caved in. We were in full crises mode. In the summer of 2019, I ran next to the jasmine scented hills of California.

I jogged through the wood laden roads of Muskoka Ontario.

That summer, in Ontario, I taught myself how to water run properly. I still cried on my yoga mat. By then, my knees were making an audible sound; when I went into warrior II pose, those practicing yoga beside me could also hear my knees rubbing together.

The fall came. I had been slowly working through the pain in my soul. By October my knees were hurting, so I took a break from running. Visiting my daughter in Boston that month, I had plans to do some elaborate walks while she was in class. My first day there, after having breakfast with my eldest, I intended to go on a five mile walk. I started out walking, through neighborhoods I did not know, when my knee went out. All I could do was drop to the sidewalk. I did not run.

I was not able to run to an old age like I wanted. Maybe when I when I became emotionally at peace with everything that was going on in my present, as well as the trauma of my past, I no longer needed my knees to carry me. My running shoes have turned into walking shoes. I go to a pool almost every day. I swim and I run the only way I can: in the water.

MARCH 2021 /March2022

Deanne Burch Alaska February 27, 2022 8 Minutes

When I started writing this story, I could not have envisioned the tragedy that is happening in the Ukraine right now. I was feeling bright with hope. The world was beginning to open up after almost two years of people being isolated from each other. Have we learned nothing as humans, after two years of semi-isolation, about how to treat our neighbors with dignity and respect? I think not and this is very sad! As I go to publish my blog and muse on what last March brought for me, I wonder what this March has to bring for the world…..

A year ago, my birthday coincided with the publication of my memoir: Journey Through Fire and Ice*. Covid gave me the opportunity to launch my book. However, the virus extinguished the celebration of my significant birthday. Starting last March, many of us were slowly able to be vaccinated against Covid, hoping to regain some normalcy to our lives; to some of us it meant being able to travel again. For me, the vaccine, simply meant I could see some family. My older daughter and grandson flew in from California in July. During her visit, Trudeau announced that on August 9, all vaccinated people could cross the Canadian border. My younger daughter, youngest granddaughter and I went to Canada in mid-August for three glorious weeks. It was a joy to be up there! I was overwhelmed when my two brothers and their wives graciously hosted a delayed “Big Birthday” and happy to celebrate with family and old friends.

March of 2022 marks the one year anniversary of my book. For me, writing this memoir, was a journey that was several years in the making. I started writing it after my husband died, not sure if I would ever publish it or even if I wanted to. When the book was finished, I knew I wanted to publish it. I felt women should learn they could deal with a life that was very different than the life they were brought up in. My life in Alaska would show others an example of how to adapt to the triumphs and tragedies that happen along the journey called life.

Publishing was more difficult than I expected. I had sent the memoir out to a few agents with little response. About two years ago, my brother called and said “Deanne, life is short, you really need to get this published”. In the end, I took the self-publishing route, hiring Authority Publishing, a non-fiction company to publish the book for me. They helped me all the way through the publishing process. On March 1, 2021, I had a copy of my book in my hands. It was an exhilarating moment! Of course marketing a book is never easy…I had a social media expert, Cheryl Callaghan, help me as well as a PR agency. This has led to radio interviews and podcasts which were interesting for me, and I hope for others as well.

*Woman on right is one I correspond with*.
*She is now in her seventies*

*parka made for me by one of Facebook Friends:Sonja Barger*

Since writing the book, many of the Inupiaqs who live in Kivalina have been in touch with me and are friends of mine on Facebook. This has been the greatest benefit of all. I often wondered what happened to the people I knew and loved when I lived there. Most of them are deceased but their children and grandchildren are still living in Kivalina. I live their life through their posts and photos on Facebook. When we lived there the population was 150 people and it has exploded now to 450. However climate change is forcing this village to move upriver. By 2025, the island of Kivalina will be underwater.

For those of you who have not read Journey Through Fire and Ice, it takes place in 1964-1965 and is a short period in my life. Kivalina is a place where I learned that life is not a fairy tale. At the time, I had to live with a different culture, in a village with no plumbing, electricity or running water. My life, on a small island 83 miles above the Arctic Circle, was different than anything I could have ever dreamt of: a white city girl cutting up seals, living under the midnight sun and suffering through the minus 30 below weather when darkness set in. I became the woman I am today because of the triumphs and tragedies during my life there. If you haven’t read my memoir, come and take the journey with me and you will understand why Kivalina will live in my heart forever. This memoir is only part of my story.

Writing this blog, I never intended to end this as wish for peace. Today all eyes are on Russia and Putin’s takeover of the Ukraine. I wonder how our country can just stand by and do little to help this proud country. The sunflower, a flower full of happiness is the national flower of the

Ukraine. For those of us who are on Facebook, please post photos of sunflowers in support of and prayers for this country. They never asked for this war and don’t deserve the horrible act of aggression that is taking place now.

* Authors Note: This coming month, to celebrate the one year anniversary of publication, the kindle version of the memoir will be selling on Amazon for $4.99 instead of the regular $9.99 so if you have friends who haven’t read it or if you haven’t read it, I hope you will consider buying it. I have been happy with the reviews and have been surprised to find that although I thought my market was primarily women, men enjoyed it as well. Reviews are very important and I appreciate all of you who have taken the time to write a review for me.