.
Murphy, thank you for the joy you brought us.
You were, and always will be, loved.
Tag: Snippets of your life
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…
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 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/2023/06/08/the-last-place-i-wanted-to-go-2/
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
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
September 2019
October 2019:
November 2019
December 2019
Trip 1: the weekend of December 14-15
Trip 2: December 24-31,
An attempt to bring us together and add some fun, in an otherwise excruciatingly hard time.
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.
Road trip up the coast to Santa Barbara
Mid March – End of June 2020
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
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.
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.
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.
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.
Run No More
“Will I be able to run anymore?”, I asked the orthopedic surgeon. He gave me a look and said, “What do you think?”. I had just been informed that I had (still have) severe arthritis behind each knee cap. Just another ending, I thought. Another thing to mourn. I ran for 33 years. I was not old, just 51, but I knew for years it was just a matter of time before my knees could take so much
Growing up, I was aware that my father ran almost every day. He typically went out mid day, so I only saw him go out for a jog when I was home. I was born a swimmer. Eventually I followed my fathers lead and began to run. I started in college. On my first or second day of my freshman year in college I was asked if I ran. I said, “No, but I probably could”. We formed a running group. A few days a week we would all run together. Thus, began my love of running.
Over the years I was in many races: sprint triathlons, 5ks, 10ks, half marathons….
When my eldest child was in high school, I had the pleasure of watching her run cross-country and track. As I watched other runners, I came to realize that some people are born runners and some are self-made runners. The born runners seemed to have perfect form, a long stride and run with little effort. The self made runners were those people who have taken up running not because they were born to run, but because they wanted to run. I was a self-made runner.
As I approached my 30th year of running, I began to question why I called myself a runner. I did not have great form and I always ran middle of the pack when I raced. Once, I read something about how you know you are a runner. Many of the things it said hit home, but this line summed it up for me: ” your are just not yourself when you don’t run”.
Running became a part of who I was. I was proud when someone said “you look like a runner”. People asked why I ran. “It puts so much stress on your body”, they’d say. Everyone knows that running puts stress on your joints. But running is so much more than that. It helped me to think. It helped me to sleep soundly. It helped me to see the world around me. I could lace up my shoes and run out the front door. Most importantly, running helped me get through many of my darkest times: the times that I felt I could not breathe, running helped me to breathe again
2018 dawned bright with promise. My eldest was accepted at the college of her dreams. My mom took us on a cruise to Alaska to celebrate my daughter turning 18, her graduation and my 50th birthday. I was training for my first half marathon in several years. When we arrived back from Alaska and were settling in for a relaxing summer, our world came tumbling down. Still I ran.
I ran through fall and winter with a heart so heavy I felt like I would implode. I practiced yoga several days a week and used that space to cry on my mat. I ran another half marathon in the spring of 2019, little did I know it would be my last. My running was slower, often I would walk up the hills. My knees did not hurt too much. On I ran.
A year had passed after our life caved in. We were in full crises mode. In the summer of 2019, I ran next to the jasmine scented hills of California.
I jogged through the wood laden roads of Muskoka Ontario.
That summer, in Ontario, I taught myself how to water run properly. I still cried on my yoga mat. By then, my knees were making an audible sound; when I went into warrior II pose, those practicing yoga beside me could also hear my knees rubbing together.
The fall came. I had been slowly working through the pain in my soul. By October my knees were hurting, so I took a break from running. Visiting my daughter in Boston that month, I had plans to do some elaborate walks while she was in class. My first day there, after having breakfast with my eldest, I intended to go on a five mile walk. I started out walking, through neighborhoods I did not know, when my knee went out. All I could do was drop to the sidewalk. I did not run.
I was not able to run to an old age like I wanted. Maybe when I when I became emotionally at peace with everything that was going on in my present, as well as the trauma of my past, I no longer needed my knees to carry me. My running shoes have turned into walking shoes. I go to a pool almost every day. I swim and I run the only way I can: in the water.
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