Tell Me Your Story

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.

On Thin Ice

Part 2 of An Unexpected Journey

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

We felt those cracks the summer of 2018.

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

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

The ice held steady.

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

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

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

More cracks in the ice, with open water ahead.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

I continued to float on my piece of ice.

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

A few cracks were heard along the way:

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

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

Author’s notes:

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

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

Cedar Springs- Joy, Sadness and Death in Dallas

By Alexander Troup

The greatest tragedy in the state of Texas, was the shooting of John Fitzgerald Kennedy, on the streets of Dallas. He was shot on the corner of Elm and Houston Streets, early one afternoon, just before Thanksgiving.

I was in Dallas at a private school called Saint Monica. The day JFK came was to fly into Dallas, we were told to go to the school’s lunchroom. We assembled in groups, by class, to see the Catholic president step off the plane. We were watching the news clip on a small TV set. As the flight began to land at Love Field, most of the kids in the lunch room then started to chant “crash, crash, crash!”. This is a true story.

That morning the Kennedy motorcade drove into town to an area where my folks ran a fine art print studio and frame shop. As part of a crowd, my parents stood near the intersection of Fairmount and Cedar Springs, where they saw the president, his wife (Jackie), and the governor drive-by. With this procession of motor vehicles was a large group of security people: Secret Service and motorcycle police from Dallas. However, the president took time to stop and shake hands with the spectators.

As the motorcade moved along Cedar Springs, it passed by C.F. Newtons Miramar Museum; it was a folk art kind of political statement with a neon sign that was to go against conservatives. Having been run out of Highland Park (an affluent area that is surrounded by the city of Dallas) in the late 1950s, the Newtons were exiled to this location. In 1964 the Newtons changed their sign to the John F. Kennedy Shrine and Museum. For years it remained with this sign, until the couple passed away in the mid 1970s.

Later that the day, in school, we were told the president had been shot! Hundreds of kids were crying, regretting what they had said earlier when the flight was landing at love Field.

That evening the capture of Lee Harvey Oswald in Oak Cliff was released to the public. He was apprehended at the Texas theater, and this was the beginning of the mystery that has become the 1963 Kennedy assassination.

Over the years there have been many JFK Memorials. Some museums that opened up were large and others were small, but most have disappeared. In 1968 six places memorializing JFK were open, now few locations exist. Today’s memorials are more for tourists than, for reflection and respect. The big question: Why did this happen?

Almost a decade after John F Kennedy took his drive on Cedar Springs, where the crowd shook hands with the popular president, a terribly sad event occurred….In July 1973, there was a shooting of a 14-year-old boy Mexican boy from the nearby barrio of little Mexico. The sad fate of the boy took place at Bookout and Cedar Springs, across the street from Mac’s Fina gas station, by the side of the Parisian strip club. The shooting was by the two Dallas policeman, who had arrested the youths, for the supposed break-in to a Dr. Pepper machine at the gas station.

When the boys were arrested, my folks and I were in the fine art gallery making picture frames for a bank commission. We missed the noise of the events that took place. When we left the gallery, we didn’t see the flashing lights that were up the street. Here is what happened:

The boys were placed in the backseat of the police car at the time of the arrest. The officers then began to play Russian roulette, with their pistols, on one of the boys, to get him to confess the crime. A round went off by accident in the backseat of the police car, killing the youth and blinding his brother forever. My folks and I heard about the death of the youth (Santos) the next day. I had met Santos once, at the gas station, while getting the flat tire for my bike fixed. A truly traumatic event took place that day, one block from the John F Kennedy shrine museum.

Later in the summer, I recall the city courts in Dallas dismissed the charges; the two officers were only suspended, as it was considered an accident. Riots ensued. Bricks were thrown into the large plate glass windows of our fine art print studio. My folks were advised to move the business. The fine art print studio and frame shop, once on Cedar Springs Road, was moved; sadly the gallery never recovered and my folks lost the business.

Cedar Springs: a road in Dallas where John F. Kennedy shook hands with those along the route of his motorcade. A segment of the route that took the young President to his untimely death. Then, almost a decade later, Cedar Springs was the scene of a terrible tragedy….the memory and excitement of a bright day in 1963, in contrast to the dark event in 1973, but both ending in sadness and death…..why Dallas, Texas?