Tell Me Your Story

The Summer Of The Loons: The Beginning

Part 4 of An Unexpected Journey

Unedited

I hear the loons calling again this summer; that lonesome, haunting cry that only this bird can make. Have you heard it? In the summer of 2019, I heard the mournful wail of the waterfowl at all hours of the day and night; it was strange. I remember this so clearly, it sounded as if the loons were echoing the sadness inside my soul…

Play this video to hear the loon call three times.

Four years ago, at the end of June, my husband and I took our son (Bay) to a residential treatment program in Los Angeles. The weekend was a quick trip out and back from the east coast. We left early on a Saturday morning and came home the next day. Arriving home, exhausted, we had new information. We would need to be out in LA more than we had thought: being physically present was extremely important. Family therapy could be on Zoom, if need be, but it would be beneficial if at least one parent was in person as many weekends as possible. Saturday mornings, in treatment, there was group therapy: first the parents of the residents would meet; then everyone who was in attendance that day would gather for a “multi-family” group. After the second session of “group”, we would have lunch and visit with our child for a few hours. Until the afternoon that we dropped off Bay, we weren’t truly aware that the whole family needed to participate in the healing process.

My youngest daughter was due at camp in Ontario, Canada the weekend after we dropped off Bay. The camp is a little over an hour away from where we spend time each summer. Early in the week, my husband and daughter packed up the truck and drove north and west to our cottage. Saturday June 29th, my husband dropped our 13 year old off for a fun-filled month away from us. The next week I was at home with our dog and two cats. During this time, I looked for the cheapest round-trip flights from Toronto to Los Angeles, booked accommodations, cleaned house, and took some time each morning to run or swim. I was bone tired.

Almost a week later, I loaded the minivan with my bags, said goodbye to our cats and put our dog, Murphy, in the back of the mini van. Driving on only a few hours of sleep, I surprisingly made it to our summer home without incident. That evening, all through the night, and the days following the loons were calling; it seemed they never stopped the their haunting cry…

On July 4th, we left the mournful sound of the loons at the lake. We had an early flight, from Toronto to Los Angeles, the next morning. July 5th, several hours after we left Toronto, we arrived in LA; family therapy was to take place in the afternoon. Once we arrived at the residence, we sat in the counselor’s office with our son. By the end of our family session, we were no longer sitting with our son, but with our daughter; the pronouns Bay was using were “she” and “her”. We knew back in April that Bay experienced gender dysphoria, not because he communicated this to us, but instead told a doctor in the emergency room; it was written on his discharge paperwork. Until that day in LA, we didn’t really know what that term meant for our child. Gender dysphoria is distress at the gender that was assigned at birth. People who have gender dysphoria are often depressed with suicidal ideation. We were grateful our teenager was able to explain that he was actually a female and share with us the start of his gender exploration. In our minds, Bay was still our son. The pronouns hadn’t changed for us yet ( as reflected in this segment of my story).

Our middle child wanted to”come out” to his sisters and grandparents in his own way. So, for the time being, my husband and I were keeping a secret from most of our family members. We also learned that Bay was trying to decide on a new name. I told him that when he chose another name I would mess up. The correct pronouns would come with time, when I got in the habit of using them. There were tears all around, but this was our child and we would love and accept him for whomever he was.

The next day, Saturday, was family visitation. We went to the parent group in the morning; it was extremely helpful to hear what other parents were going through with their children. I am not sure how much I contributed. That summer I could barely get out my words without crying. Bay didn’t want to do much with us on Saturday afternoon. He said he was “annoyed and sick of us”. We were sure he enjoyed his past isolation at home, so connecting with his parents was low on the list. My husband and I felt saddened as we watched the other families and their dynamics; everyone had something they seemed to share: music, games, etc. Bay wanted to do nothing. In the past, Bay enjoyed playing games with us. He was no longer interested. That Saturday, our child really just seemed to wish we would leave. From over 2000 miles, I heard the call of the loon echoing in my mind.

On Sunday, my husband went back to Canada; I flew to San Francisco to stay with my sister and her family. During my time in Northern California, I was still emailing and talking on the phone to therapists at the treatment center. I recently found two emails I sent that week.

One of these email’s was to Bay’s therapist. Another was to a clinician at the center who’s background work is in gender and sexuality (this man was the reason Bay was here); to protect the counselor’s privacy, I will call him “Khalid”. During the time I was in San Francisco, my sister, a therapist, was a great comfort and I did confide in her. Also, one of my closest friend’s had come to stay at my sibling’s house, to spend time with me. I told her about Bay’s exploration of gender. While I was in the City by the Bay, I was given the space to talk about what was happening in my life or not say anything at all. I chose to share. The loon’s mourning call was softer but still lingering within me.

By late Thursday morning, I was headed back to LA. I met with Khalid on Friday morning. My learning curve about gender identity went way up that day; some of the things I’ve learned have taken place over the last four years.

When I said to Khalid in my email ” I don’t see any feminine qualities in him/her….” I was viewing Bay through the gender standards that society has impressed upon us.

Late Friday afternoon I had family therapy. Saturday morning was spent at Bay’s residence going to groups, having lunch and visiting. The morning of July 13, Bay came out to to the multi family group; the amount of support and acceptance the people gave her stopped the reverberations of the loons that were so far away.

Sunday morning I left Sunny California and flew to Toronto. I was utterly exhausted, and felt sure that it must be draining to be in therapy and working the healing process everyday. Perhaps this is the idea of intensive therapy: you let negative thoughts and habits flow out of you and try to fill your mind with a more positive ways of thinking and coping.

After six hours on the plane (in addition to all the time before and after the flight), I was finally in my minivan heading north, toward our summer home. I felt the loons circling my thoughts. I was weeping when friend reached out by text (I was using Siri to read and answer). He asked: “How is your son?”. I answered: “I no longer have a son.”. At that moment I realized I was in mourning. My child hadn’t died, but I was grieving the loss of a “son” and an idea of what I thought my life was like…I arrived late in the evening to our cottage. As I lay trying to sleep, I heard the mournful sound of the loon beckoning me to join it’s cry.

To see Part 1 and 2 and 3 of An Unexpected Journey, follow the links:

Part 1: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2022/08/26/the-beginning-an-unexpected-journey-part-2-of-the-summer-that-could-have-been-idyllic/. 

Part 2: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2023/02/01/on-thin-ice/

Part 3: https://tell-me-your-story.org/2023/07/13/standing-at-the-edge-of-the-world/

Other related stories:

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

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

Standing At The Edge of the World

Part 3 of An Unexpected Journey

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Other related stories:

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

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

My Father’s Influence

In honor of Father’s Day and of my dad, I have updated a story I wrote last year. Once again, my husband repeated the words you will soon read. This year we have no children at home to celebrate my husband. My eldest lives out of town; my middle child, who resides 10 minutes away, doesn’t recognize many special days; and our youngest went on a spur of the moment trip with a friend and her family. Yesterday, my husband and I went on a fun road trip. Today, we have some activities planned. Perhaps some good quality time, with just the two of us, will be an unspoken celebration.

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.

In the fall of 2021, 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 it was 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 year before Father’s Day; 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. My siblings and I were truly lucky to have such a great dad! Last year, 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.

The 1897 Spaceman

By Alex Troup

“We were standing outside of a little restaurant, I believe, a high school lunchroom, and a kind of green light appeared in the western sky. This was right after sundown. It got brighter and brighter. And then eventually disappeared. It didn’t have any solid substance to it, it was just very peculiar looking light. None of us could understand what it was.”

-Jimmy Carter

https://www.politico.com/staff/andrew-glass

Have you or anyone you know ever seen an unknown object in the sky that you just didn’t understand? President Jimmy Carter did. He saw something the air that he couldn’t identify in Leary, Georgia in 1969. The following story is about a spacecraft in Texas, 72 years before Jimmy Carter witnessed the sighting of a UFO.

Editor’s Note: This story by Alex Troup isn’t exactly a personal story, but a tale of how he discovered and learned about something that happened in the pages of history; it is a story of the past in Texas. However it is still relevant in today’s world as there are still UFO’s or UAP’s (unidentified aerial phenomena) as they are often called. Read on to find out about a mysterious spacecraft that appeared and crashed in1897…

Over the past 40 years one of the most amazing stories I have been made aware of is the story of the 1897 Spaceman. I have had access to the original microfilm that was made from the old news print of The Dallas Morning New.

The story takes place in several places in Texas. One of the areas that the spaceship was sighted is Oak Cliff, a town outside of Dallas. Apparently this UFO operated at a speed that no one could understand in 1897. There was humming sound, some witness had said, with a light shining from the ship’s front nose as it moved about 300 feet in the air and appeared to be searching for something.

The sightings in Texas were well relayed by telegraph and in early edition newspapers. To calm the public, as word got out, organized evening events took place to help see if the craft passed by or stopped in some field of a farmer or rancher. Although communication of the 1897 event was good back in the day, news articles from the era are very rare. Finding descriptions of the spaceship are also scarce.

I ran across the story in the 1970s, when the local paper ran a story on the gravesite of the spaceman. After being sighted in Oak Cliff in 1897, the UFO journeyed to other areas that April. Late in the month that the phenomenon took place, the Spaceman died on impact when the spaceship crashed into a windmill in Aurora, Texas. The farmer found a dead alien spaceman, who would have had a height of about 4 feet. He was wearing a metallic suit, and was in a state of massive decomposition outside his crumpled craft. The spaceship was later thrown down the farm’s water well, near the windmill where the impact took place. The space traveler was later buried with a casket and a tombstone which was rather crudely cut from river rock limestone; someone had drawn with chalk, two round circles that lasted many years in the Aurora cemetery. Frank Tolbert, the reporter from The Dallas Morning News, even did some investigating on this Texas event.

Roswell has dominated the history of alien spaceships, or UFOs, for decades; because of this, the sensation of the 1897 spaceship has been lost. It is a unique story, since there were many sightings that went on to the pages of history on the spaceship’s movement. Decades later, as the story resurfaced, both the gravestone and gravesite of the alien was tampered with. There were numerous searches on the land where the farmer had his water well. Items were found. Some of the things that surfaced and were identified as a metallic; those items disappeared. People kept silent or were paid to remain quiet about the disappearance of the objects. The discovery was so amazing it was compared to the second coming.

The Roswell incident also had mysterious items recovered; they were placed on a silver bomber airplane and shipped to Fort Worth,Texas. A news article told of a large amount of debris that was recovered and gone over. Later the items from the Roswell incident were shipped to Washington DC.

The purity of finding the spaceship at that time is quite amazing. Movies, TV, and other publications made an event such as the sighting of the airship of 1897, a burnt out and mundane theme by 2005. I found the illustrations of the crafts eyewitness view in a primitive folk art composition; it was quite amusing and unique, in terms of imagination on how the spaceship was seen and drawn up. However, people would deny they even saw the craft at the time.

This was an era of flying machine speculation. The term interplanetary travel came to exist in 1895. A series of stories came out in a weekly journal in the year 1898 on how Edison had conquered Mars. The Aurora crash of April 19, 1897 showed how these fragile, vulnerable crafts could be easily brought down by crashing into a windmill. Once they fell off course in their search of a safe place to possibly land, and begin a colony. Perhaps they wanted to observe what monsters may exist that would not be friendly to them once they found a safe place to land.

There were some humane people back then who did not analyze or bomb or even burn spaceman up in a fire…. for the poor 4 foot Spaceman met his Jesus on his way down to 19th century earth, when he crashed into a Texas weather vane.

Sources

Dallas Morning News 1897
Post Magazine 1947 Roswell
Fort Worth Star Telegram 1947 Plane Lands From Roswell
Frank Tolbert Dallas Morning News The Little Green Man
Jim Wheat Aliens From Mars

The Last Place I Wanted To Go…

Author’s Note: Last year I wrote this story to show that not every story needs to be written. There are other ways to tell a tale. This is a story mostly in pictures. I’m publishing it again as a prelude to Part 3 of An Unexpected Journey, which I hope to write by the end of June.

Four years ago, I would have told you that Los Angeles was one of the places I desired to travel to least. 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; this is a 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: This picture was 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.This trip was for my husband children and myself. During this time we tried to add some levity to a very difficult time

August Sunset: driving the Pacific Coast Highway after a long flight

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

September 2019

Sunrise during an early morning run in Agoura Hills

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 strangely yearning for 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.

The Garden of Strong Mothers

This story was written last May. I am reposting it in honor of Mother’s Day this coming weekend. Wishing all mothers a very Happy Mother’s Day!

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 theirI’m 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 Cat That Followed Me Home

(unedited)

Some people say that either you love cats or hate them. I have always loved cats, but it was the cat who followed me home that solidified my desire to have cats in my life. Cats, I learned, can be fiercely independent. Yet a cat will give love and affection when you require it most and ask for it in return.

Growing up, we always had dogs. For a short while, my family had a cat. Her name was Kitty Cat. I was a baby when we got our cat. Kitty Cat was part of our family. When we moved to Alaska, for the better part of a year, she and our dog came with us.

I don’t recall much about her, with the exception that I used to play with her on the stairs when we lived in Winnipeg, Manitoba. One day, when I was in kindergarten, I invited a friend (Stacey) over for the afternoon. I had grand plans to spend the afternoon with Stacey, both of us playing with Kitty Cat. When we came home, I couldn’t find our cat anywhere. I asked my mom and she said she didn’t know where Kitty Cat was.

That evening, my parents called my sister, brother and I to the basement, where we had a playroom. They had the three of us sit down. My father said “we have some really sad news…”. He then told us that Kitty Cat had been hit by a car and killed. Apparently, a neighbor had found our Kitty and put her in the trash can, in the back alley. That evening, when my parents had people in for dinner, my sister (two years older than me) and I walked hand in hand to the garbage can in the back alley, to say goodbye. That was my first experience with death and my last time having a cat as a pet for about two decades.

When I graduated from college, I went to Western Washington as part of a volunteer program. The first year that I was out west, I lived in a house with four other volunteers. One day my housemate, Charlie, brought home a cat. We named him Gooley, as that was the name of the house we lived in. His stay was not long. The addition of a pet was not unanimous. I think at least one of my housemates was allergic to cats. Also, we were on a budget, only being paid for our living expenses and a small stipend. I don’t remember what happened to Gooley, but I think Charlie found him a home.

When my year as a volunteer ended, another former volunteer and I moved into a two bedroom apartment, on the bottom floor of a house. My apartment-mate, Lisa, also loved cats and soon brought one home. The cat was part Manx and had not yet been spayed. She went into heat within days of taking up residence in our apartment and was constantly yowling to get out because of her estrus. I said to Lisa, “she should be name Ecstasy”. The beautiful Manx was named Tessy, short for ecstasy.

Lisa went went home to visit her family while Tessy was in heat. Not having had a cat of my own in many years, I didn’t realize quite how agile they are. The first night Lisa was gone, I left a high window open. When I awoke, I found the apartment empty. Tessy was nowhere to be found! Not knowing what else to do, I placed food and water outside the front door. A few days later, before my apartment-mate came back, Tessy found her way home. Knowing that the cat could be pregnant, I had to tell Lisa what had happened. Fortunately, there were no kittens on the way!

Less than a year after I moved in with Lisa, my time living in Seattle came to an end. I had been accepted to graduate school in Massachusetts. When looking for an apartment, I made sure it was one that would allow me to have a cat if I wanted one.

During graduate school, I walked to and from most of my classes. I felt a little lost and sad the fall of my first year, for various reasons. One evening, in late autumn, as I was walking home from class, I saw a cat and stopped to pet her. The cat must have sensed a kindred spirit in me because she followed me home. I stayed in the courtyard of my apartment building, petting and talking to the cat. Eventually, I went up to my apartment. Walking up the stairs, I told myself that if the cat was still in the courtyard upon my return, I would bring her in. When fifteen minutes had passed, I went down the four flights of stairs and outside. The pretty gray cat was waiting for me. I brought her inside and she lived with me for just a little while. It was obvious to me that this cat was not a stray. I contacted shelters to see if anyone was missing a cat. Finally, one of the shelters called me. They had heard from the owner who had moved away from the neighborhood several weeks before. The cat had escaped her new home and had wandered back to her old neighborhood. I was sad to see my new friend go, but was happy she found her family.

That Christmas, “Santa” gave me the promise of a cat. When I went back to Massachusetts after Christmas break, I put my name into various shelters specifying that I was looking for “blue” kittens. Early in the spring, I was told that someone was fostering a litter of the type of cat I was looking for, however there was a catch: I couldn’t adopt a single kitten, it had to be a pair. That is how I came home with two cats instead of one. The kittens were called Chloe and Blue and were brother and sister. The male cat, Blue, was all gray. Chloe, the female cat, was gray and white.

As the kittens grew into adulthood, Blue became big and lovable. He craved attention, however he was not the smartest. For an indoor cat he ran into all sorts of trouble that could have caused him great harm, but he was a cat with nine lives.

Chloe was the cat with the brains and more independent. She chose when to give you her attention and love. This soft, beautiful cat would have been the one to survive if she had been in the wild on her own. When I lived in a house in the country, there was a day she came up from the basement and deposited a gift at my feet. I let out a little scream as I realized that the “present” was a small live snake.

Chloe and Blue were my babies before I ever had kids of my own. If I went on a road trip, to visit friends or go to my cottage in Canada, they came with me. These sibling cats went through some of the greatest joys and sorrows that happened in my life: the beginning and ending of relationships; my first marriage and divorce; the birth of my eldest child when I was alone; my second marriage and the arrival of my middle and youngest children….

Sadly, when he was in his teens, Blue was diagnosed with diabetes. Having a kindergartner, a toddler, and a baby on the way, I made the choice not to treat the illness. I knew that there would be no consistency in his care. We kept him as comfortable as possible. One day, when he was 14, Blue couldn’t stand up. I knew it was time for him to leave me. I took Blue to the vet and sat with him until he fell into the eternal sleep, as I wept.

Chloe lived to a ripe old age of 18. When my father took his life in the fall of 2010, I think she kept living to see me through the grief. On my birthday, in the spring of 2011, I knew it was time to say good bye. With a heavy heart and tears running down my cheeks, I sat with my faithful companion as she was put to rest.

In the summer of 2011, having just arrived home from Canada, we had a phone call waiting for us on the answering machine; it was from our cat vet. She had a client who had taken in a pregnant stray. The man was putting the kittens up for adoption, and my vet knew that we no longer had any cats, so she called us. I wasn’t ready to bring a new feline into our family, but when my eldest heard the message on the answering machine, she said “we have to call about the kittens right away”. Of my three children, my oldest was the one who had been hit the hardest by her grandfather’s death and then the passing of Chloe. Even though I wasn’t ready, I thought it was important to see the kittens for my children’s sake; my husband, who claims he only tolerates cats, agreed.

One afternoon, when the kittens were almost old enough to be weaned from their mother, the man who was fostering the cats brought them over. I immediately fell in love with a tiny, affectionate kitten, who may have been the runt of the litter; it was obvious that she would love everybody. My husband picked a second kitten, who was larger, because he thought she had beautiful markings. Eventually these two kittens became ours. The larger of the two cats was named Snicker and the smaller one we called Doodle.

When we first got the kitties my husband said we should call them “Stinkers” and “Doo Doo” for short…remember he only “tolerates’ cats. The nicknames somewhat stuck, but more often than not Snicker was called Blue, and Doodle was called Chloe. Even I sometimes made the mistake and called them by the wrong names.

Doodle proved to be every bit as affectionate as she was on the day we met her. She, like Blue, craved love and attention, but was not very smart. The tiny kitty tried to get our dog (Murphy) to like her, but for the most part he didn’t pay attention to her.

Snicker, on the other hand, has always been intelligent, yet anxious. She took a long while to warm up to everyone. First Snicker only wanted my attention. Sometimes she was like a little dog and would wait for me at the bottom of the stairs. Eventually, she warmed up to my middle child and slowly to everyone else but Murphy.

Last Summer, while my youngest and I were away, my middle child took care of the cats. After a few weeks of us being away, it became obvious that Doodle was ill. My child and husband got our little kitty to the vet as soon as possible, but by then it was too late. Cats are apparently notorious for hiding their illnesses; that is what Doodle did. She had lymphoma. Although I know how hard it was on them, I was thankful my child and husband were with Doodle when she passed.

Upon arriving home from our summer away, I realized how skinny Snicker had become. I took her to the vet and then a specialist that our vet recommended. Originally, Snicker was diagnosed with hyperthyroidism. However the tests came back showing that the more immediate thing to treat was lymphoma. She has been on chemotherapy for a few months now and seems to be doing well.

For the better part of three decades, I have had cats as members of my family. Would my life and love for cats have turned out differently if I hadn’t been followed home by that empathetic feline? Maybe. However, it was the cat who followed me home that showed me how two lost souls could take care of each other, in spite of being different species.

Authors note: perhaps because Doodle and Blue were not the brightest of cats you might wonder why we Doodle was often called Chloe and Snicker (while Doodle was alive) was sometimes given Blue’s name.; this was because of the size comparison, not the intelligence.

Those That Remain

Last Thursday night, I laughed so hard I cried. Less than 24 hours later my tears were caused by sadness…

As a Christmas present for my husband, I had purchased tickets to a comedy show, along with an overnight in a nice hotel and some activities the following day; this event took place last Thursday and Friday. We left our 17 year old to watch our two remaining pets: Snicker (our aging cat with cancer) and Murphy (our elderly dog); this is something she has done before. However, Murphy had been acting odd since the beginning of the week.

I can’t remember the last time I laughed as hard as I did Thursday night at the show. The next morning I texted my 19 year old (who lives nearby) and asked her to go by the house to let our dog out, before she headed to work. Mid-morning, we received a text saying that Murphy was stumbling a lot. My husband and I made the decision to cut our day short and head home. As we drove, I began to wonder if that day would be Murphy’s last. Surely this beautiful spring day wouldn’t take away our beloved family member. With my heart heavy, the tears came to my eyes and I thought “I am not ready to grieve him yet.” In the last year and a half, three of our pets have died: one of our two cats (of the same cancer her sister, Snicker, now has) and my youngest daughter’s two Guinea pigs. Luckily, we do not yet have to mourn the loss of another animal. Murphy is OK for now. In fact, today, our 14 year old mutt appeared even spry as he lunged at an unsuspecting car on our morning walk.

Grief is a hard thing to experience. The mourning process is not only about the death of someone you loved, but it could also be the extreme sadness you feel at the ending of something: a relationship, a job, the person you were before something bad changed who you are now; these are just a small handful of things that can be mourned. People often suggest that the death of a pet helps children understand what it means to die. The problem is that it is almost impossible to teach someone how to grieve. Everyone’s mourning process is different. You can explain to someone the “stages of grieving” which are “denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance”, however everyone experiences these phases differently.

You might ask “Can the loss of a pet be as traumatic as the loss of someone you love?”. In my unprofessional opinion, the answer is, yes. Grief is mourning the loss of something or someone you love. The intensity and the process might be different, however the sadness is still there. Society treats the way we mourn our animal companions differently than the way we grieve our human loved ones:

“Although grief over the loss of a cherished pet may be as intense and even as lengthy as when a significant person in our life dies, our process of mourning is quite different. Many of the societal mechanisms of social and community support are absent when a pet dies. Few of us ask our employers for time off to grieve a beloved cat or dog because we fear doing so would paint us as overly sentimental, lacking in maturity or emotionally weak. Studies have found that social support is a crucial ingredient in recovering from grief of all kinds. Thus, we are not only robbed of invaluable support systems when our pet dies, but our own perceptions of our emotional responses are likely to add an extra layer of distress…”

https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/why-we-need-to-take-pet-loss-seriously/

Grief does lessen with time, but never fully goes away. Life is different because you have experienced a loss. For some people grief stays and doesn’t fade into the background of their life:

“For about 7 percent of those who are bereaved, however, grief sticks around in a deeply painful manner, preventing them from moving forward and healing. Prolonged grief—also referred to as complicated grief—traps these individuals in a loop of despair from which they can’t escape.”

https://hms.harvard.edu/magazine/aging/profound-sadness-prolonged-grief

I think of grief as being like a giant wave: Picture yourself standing on the sand in the shallow water. All of the sudden something happens in your life that is like a giant wave knocking you down. The swell of grief makes you feel like you are drowning. Rising back to the surface might take a long time, and you might feel as if you are lost in the ocean. Eventually, you will move forward with tentative strokes and head toward solid ground; this may take a long time. The sea of grief can be rough and may pull you under again. At some point, perhaps sooner than later, you begin to swim. When you are finished swimming in your grief you will reach land. The landscape will feel different because something important was lost. You have survived and it is your job to treasure the good memories of whatever it is you have grieved.

Having mourned many losses…people, pets, relationships, ideas…I should be an expert by now. Every single “death” has been different. I have learned more about appropriate ways to grieve as I have aged. When I was a child, I would face my mourning mostly alone, retreating behind closed doors. As a young adult, I handled my grief inappropriately and drank too much. Then, as I grew older I would run until I couldn’t breathe and the tears would come; running helped me through my grief. Sadly I had to stop running, because my knees gave out. After over 30 years of running, this was another kind of loss. “Since I can’t run, where will that leave me the next time I have to mourn?”, I asked myself in the car last Friday afternoon, then I remembered laughter. My husband helped me get through my father’s death by making sure we had a comedy to watch….There were so many movies and re-runs of Two And A Half Men. Again, when we were in that extremely difficult period of our lives, and felt as if the world was crumbling around us, we turned to funny, light, entertainment. I am sure, if I remember how I survived the hard times before, I will get though another loss. I know that grief never fully goes away, but will dull with time.

For now, we play in the shallow water, with the waves lapping at the shore. We hold up those who remain, with whatever support we can. My best advice is to live your life to the fullest. When you are knocked down by that giant wave, maybe you can find the laughter through the tears. Eventually, remember playing on the beach of life and think fondly of that which you have lost.

A Box Of Chocolates

My husband and I got to know each other shortly after 9/11. When we met, I had been officially divorced for about 4 months. My first husband had asked for a separation, late in 1999, when I was very early into the pregnancy with my eldest child. In the fall of 2001, I had been “single” for about one and a half years and was ready to play the dating game again…

I didn’t know many people in the county where I was living, with the exception of my neighbors and the few people I met through them. Having moved to the area in the spring of 1997, my job was a good 45 minute commute; there was no time for me to really meet anyone outside of work. When I decided to dip my toe back into the dating world again, online dating was the best way for me to meet someone. After exploring the few free sites there were at the time, I realized most of the men were just creepy and not looking for anything lasting. My friends said, “Sarah, if you pay for a dating site the men who are on there are also interested in a relationship”.

I joined match.com or “Match”, as it is now called. When stating the type of man I was looking for, I said “you must love children and cats” (as I had both). A man responded “I love children and will tolerate cats”; I appreciated this man’s honesty. Over a short period of months I communicated with four different men and went on dates with three of them. Greg, the man who “tolerated” cats, was the man that I was most interested in: we were close in age and both transplants to the area. His honest words touched me, as I felt there had been a lot of secrets in my first marriage.

My neighbor, who had become a good friend, helped me figure out what to wear on my first date with Greg: something understated as I knew he was fairly conservative. My friend and I made a plan as to how I could break off the date if it wasn’t going well; I can’t remember what it was. Most likely she was going to call me and give me an excuse to leave if I wasn’t enjoying myself.

Greg and I met at a bar which had an adjoining restaurant. I was five minutes late. He was five minutes early. We had a drink and good conversation, then decided to extend our date to dinner. At the end of dinner, Greg pulled out a box and handed it to me; it was a small box of chocolates.

By December of 2001, a few months after we met, Greg took the time to help me pick out a Christmas tree and put it up. I was in love with this kind, considerate, gentle man. He accepted me for who I was and all that came with me. We married in January of 2003.

We have both grown and changed over the years. Life’s path can be beautiful, fun, heartbreaking and hard, but we have taken those roads together. Greg has continued to be the man I fell in love with. Over the years, I have learned that he is the one with the romantic heart and giving nature. This year, for Valentine’s Day, Greg (knowing I love written words) tried his hand at poetry. He had a little help, but this didn’t matter to me; the gift melted my somewhat cold heart.

The Valentine’s Day poem Greg wrote me this year

My husband, with his heart on his sleeve, gave me this unexpected gift…and a box of chocolates.

The Keeper Of Stories

(Unedited)

Today I was reminded of a story I wrote almost 1 year ago for my “Professional Facebook Page”. For those of you who only follow my blog, you may not know I have a “professional page”; these words are in quotes because I am not a professional, nor do I make money from my blog. Tell Me Your Story was started because I like to write, tell my own stories (which my husband and kids were getting sick of hearing) and I am genuinely interested in what others have to say about their own lives. I wanted to make a space for people share something about themself- some have taken me up on this idea.

***The story I wrote for my “Professional Facebook Page“ almost a year ago.***

Yesterday, while I was swimming, the pool was crowded. There was a young lady waiting for a lane, so I offered to share my lane with her. Today, again swimming, I was in the lane beside this same young woman We introduced ourselves and started chatting. I asked a few questions and she started talking, then stopped and said “I don’t know why I am telling you my story”. In response I said “I have have a blog called Tell Me Your Story, I like hearing about other people. She talks for another minute or two and she stops again and says “Wait, what? Do you really have a blog”. I just laughed and said ‘yes’…. today I was reminded of my Facebook post from almost one year ago. Remember you are invited to share your story with me and, if you choose, with those who read this blog.