Tag / grief

by Sandy Bassie

Waters on which to drift away

Friday, we went to Irvine Creek, my son and I. Saturday, I came home from work early, sudden almost pain and distress, a kind of disorientation I’ve had off an on the past month that doesn’t seem to be blood pressure (that shows optimal) and my manager wondered if it could be silent migraines. Possible. There are several possibles. I’m on vitamin D now because it’s very low. Calcium is another addition, along with regular multivitamins. I’m old, I joke and half mean it. Life goes so quickly and we stay so busy, we hardly notice the lengthening of the line behind in the mist of the one ahead.

Jacob says I must learn to cook, practice, and teach him. He emphasizes practice. I’ve been going through clothes and books. Too small, okay, how long have you had this? Too many things stored where I can’t get at them and too long between cleans. That’s been going on forever, since I was a child. This odd obsession with hiding things to keep them safe. And is it really an obsession when you know it’s one and you know it’s why. My sister getting to keep our room, my closet open access even to newly purchased and not yet worn clothing she wanted to try. She’s a generous heart, dear sweet soul, but back then we were not allowed to be friends and so no template for how to solve things one shouldn’t ask or mother would interject with angry words. We’re learning now and doing well. Life is all about learning, practice, never too late.

Well, not accurate, some things are too late because they get snatched away, not offered in good timing. Things like that; regrets, Jack would say, “you only regret the things you didn’t do.” I didn’t appreciate the depth of his statement at the time. I do now. I regret losing him, not reapplying to the replacement position in Chissassibi that fall. Wondering what if I did. I’m back to parenting part time and it’s nice to have the company, but it burns me at both ends. Jacob is very patient with my online class (nearly done) and the occasional bible studies I do with a pastor who has time on a Jewish discord. The one I’m on the last year and a bit, talking to friends, learning some Hebrew, and missing Jack in less tragic, ongoing healing ways. Jacob and I often take our walks in the cemetery. We stop to check the flowers, water them, talk about or to Jack, then go the long way around the inner roads, stopping here or there to look at a memorial, talk about why one section is all soldiers, another all slots in a wall, their markers in tiny frames. It is a beautiful place of flowers and trees, and we look at where I will be, the plots around me filling in. I want him to be ready when the time comes. He’s seen so much loss in life too. Grandparents as a baby, my younger son meeting neither of the Bassie side, nor my father who wouldn’t speak to us the ten years past Joshua’s birth. A stupid thing, that’s how they go. My dad and I wanting to see each other, but not getting past John’s anger or Sarah’s. Communication. It’s held an odd place in my life and still does.

Jacob’s communication is improving lately. I have said that same phrase for years as it slowly progressed. This has been a year of notable pace. If I was better, or younger, I’d have tracking books out making note of every observation. But those were days my work was my children and my time was theirs with fewer distractions. But even then, I seemed to be always hurrying. I don’t hurry as well lately. I’ve been writing this an hour by now. Some cereal in between. But I only have one hour left until work and my fingers are slowing down, the back of my head into my jaw is threatening, hopefully not what we had yesterday. Some of that may be the walk Jacob and I took down to Irvine Creek. I was telling him about me and Jack, crazy old people, carrying his canoe down those stairs one day when all the usual access points in Elora were disappearing. We made it down and back with a little more ease than I did on Friday. We must have been younger, one of our first years perhaps. It’s hard to believe it’s been almost eight years since I met him and three since he’s been gone. I’m glad my children knew about him. He wouldn’t meet mine unless he introduced me to his, but they knew, they had that much. It helps.

I wrote a long letter to Jack’s sons today. How their rejection hurt me. Physically, emotionally, contributing to the panic attacks, stress, health issues. I’m leaving for work. It will sit in my email server and I’ll stare at it again tomorrow. I need to go more to Irvine Creek. I think that’s why I had to quit early yesterday. The long stairs, the strain. My body not used to the long steps. A man said they are replacing them. Tourist steps. I have to go before that, even if I can barely walk after, I need the ones I remember, the ones we struggle down and back up with that red canoe, or was it the blue one. He had several and favourites. I’m tired. More than tired. and I want to put my feet in the water. Write tears with my finger tracing water bug swirls. I remember going under when I was nine or ten, not able to find footing at our cottage in Georgian Bay. I feel like the last three years, sudden slip and drift away. I didn’t then, I won’t today.

How do you tell children they have hurt you so deeply?

by Sandy Bassie

Place, yes

Two minutes to 7am here. I hurt. I had a good stretch at physio Thursday. I had two good walks with my son. I notice this year there is a lot more flab on my body. I am aging. There are things I want to say and may run out of time. I am strange person. I have always been aware of time in odd ways, long and small, eternal but moment by moment. I live somewhere in between. Place is very important to me. I start to hear the word show up around me and realize how long place has been a concept I value.

Place, beneath the bushes, the gentle arc and quiet rustle of belonging or belongingness, in and among. Creatures live there. I visit. A simple moment or several of childhood. Impractical. A place of ideas and the calmness to feel them. I watch tiny snails, a bee, birds further along in the bush. Learning that silence bring near. The air is warm, the ground cool where shadows intersperse. The world is teaching me about itself. I talk to the bush, the snail, the bee. And I hear my mother calling. Get out of there, you’ll make yourself dirty, what are doing anyway? Words dribble out, but she shouts them away, and I follow her, back to the house.

I’m taking a course, talking to friends, using words I do not know. Sharing again, and again, the story of how I raised my sons, how I left their father, how I am getting by, working and aging. How language played such a large role in our lives, and ways communication took it all apart, caused questions to reframe and restructure my actions, my choices, my beliefs (maybe those).

Places are important to me; behind the couch, under the bed, the back of my closet silent and dark. Places pressed in, embedded in memory, safety and fear, a need for space, a need for closeness. The weight of those imposing their strength, my mother, ex husband, my sons at times. The weight of arms tender in love, a kiss on my head, a hand on my back, the difference of hugs. Safety, compassion, ardour, defense. Are we bonding? Yes. The questions of love. Mom safe? Yes. My son, holding on, learning a hug is more than a touch, ritual of grace we teach when they’re small. And now, in his 30’s my oldest holds me when he hugs.

Writing. It’s how I think at times. After yesterday’s class, I lined up several (ok, more than several) videos to listen to while I work, clean, putter, learn to feel my apartment and not push it away. It is strange to hear people talking about things I’ve been telling those in my life in different ways for years. I have questions on a few integration places. How to ask them into spaces not my own. I consider how many words I have put into this computer the past five years, more than that, twenty or more, and longer if you count early poetry. But specifically, words of memoir and memory, sloshing around, my mind like a swamp. And my body, my poor body, I ask it so much. Push it too hard, and not hard enough to keep it in shape. Pain triggers sleep, drifting awake. Memory intrigues me. I watch others in my course hold phrases and words, work concepts, make frames. I do that best when I hold it all loose. Like these words, in this place, where I watch them appear. Do they come from my brain, or my heart, or where else? They roll down my arms, past shoulders that scream, through channels of nerves and the lump on my arm, out fingers and palms held above keys, where pain hits an 8/10 as I type. But why do I write? Shift in my chair? Make adjustments to angles, how I sit, where I face.

Somewhere in the ribcage and down into the gut, and upward to my throat, where the muscles hurt for days when you smile for hours at a birthday or a wedding, convocation, those we love, those we honour, and embrace. In my body, the knowledge tingles, lights up my eyes, even through the burning, pins and needles, sharp biting pains. The space in my ribs grows greater in size, it changes unseen, unnoticed by the world. But it’s there pressing down, embedding a fine seed; is it hope, is it dream, determination to go on? Purpose and joy, desperation over need. It’s there in awareness talking, something sacred, something real. It’s the place of expectation, I wage war with myself, get in trouble with my mother or my ex who can’t see that this place is very special. It’s the place where I wait on moments of grace, time extended to allow my ability to wait. Ability too often is taught to demand. We break trust with ourselves and don’t realize what we’ve done. We take this home, this body, this mind, fill them with consumption, stale air, and say we’ll pay.

So I sit, in this place, let my hands bypass my mind, let my mind open, my eyes close, breath slow. I feel my body shake. This broken house, this tiny home, rocked by the world and by myself. Slowly, I let the rocking become small movements back and forth, the rhythm of ages, foot on the cradle, silence of peace.

This house is my home, my comfort, my joy, place of waiting, of meeting, outside and within. Yes. To past, to future, just yes.

by Sandy Bassie

Life and Meaning

*possible trigger, difficult subject*

If life and it’s meaning had a liturgy for me, that liturgy would be tears. I cry often and easily. My mother used to say I enjoyed being miserable. It may appear that way at times, but to me tears are tiny trails of prayers. Offerings without words. The dancing of light upon the waters. They are not always sorry, and even when they are, loss doesn’t come without joy. Loss implied something held, even temporarily that had value to lose.

Fourth month of the regular year, first of the Hebrew calendar, times overlapping in interesting ways. Counting things, things I count upon. Work brings stability, a regular pattern, expected activities. Home is becoming a home again. Jacob comes to visit. I have an eight week course that allows me space to have him visit. People say it all the time – being alone is not good – have your kids, friends, family come visit you, make time and space to entertain. I do not entertain. We seldom had friends come for tea even when we were in a community that often extended invites after church. Not us. We went out, but we did not invite in. Strange that, how patterns form. Would I have been that way in another life? Could I have learned to relax and prepare a meal. Perhaps.

I bought myself flowers this week. A simple bunch from my local Walmart; cut flowers for a vase. A bit of colour here beside me at the table. Cheerful and bright. Why that’s relevant, I don’t know. It’s not that important and yet.

I’ve made several people mad at me this week. The reasons are unclear, but I take it at face value. I have hurt someone. I apologize, stand back, wait and see. I cry a few tears, but nothing like the tears of frustration and regret I wept years ago, for my ex, my partner, my mother, or years back for grandparents and inlaws. There is an ebb and flow to loss and return. The thought comes more calmly now, small realizations of what is and may be alongside of the things lost. There is love and that’s enough. I’ve been learning to hold gently things I believe, things I think I need. A lot more time is present lately.

Friday, unexplainably, time folds in; the sharp deep stab of pain I felt three years ago surges over me. Death draws near and stares, its eyes pits of darkness I want desperately to allow. I do and don’t. Was it something in the night? Something I dreamed? All I know is I woke at death’s door and it was wide open, waiting. That was twelve hours ago or more. Several phone calls and texts. A drive down to the cemetery and back. Late for an online course where words from my texts and words from calls, where even the rabbi called back, whether I was Jewish or not. He said he listened to my message and wanted to call.

A friend joined me at the grave, stood holding me while I wept. Nodded and listened even though it’s not a recent loss, but just one reactivated by time and season, family I don’t have. Is this something others go through? I so often think, this is just me, my life, too much loss where I love. And knowing I wouldn’t take it back, not a moment; every second worth the pain it brought. Love, as my course today reminded, is action, like faith, and trust, relationships intertwined. I wouldn’t change it, miss the opportunity I know G-d gave. How could I? I prayed and prayed for this love, this chance to trust and be trusted.

I have a thousand things to do before it’s my turn. Family and friends reminding me I can’t give up, and besides I made a promise to listen to Jack, to his instructions and belief, “you’ll live to be a hundred”. Oh so far away. Is it really a hundred or was that an estimate you made? I called the cemetery, got an update on my grave, the payments I’ve made, next steps and things to account for so whenever it comes, I won’t leave Joshua with the costs that it brings. Like going through my stuff. That needs the many years. I have to shorten that time. Make life more presentable here. Free up the space. Tidy cupboards and floor. I can do it. I just don’t. And today, I asked Lin if avoidance could be the plan; holding off the inevitable and the tug of darkness and dark days. If I don’t clean, it’s a broken promise, and a way to delay. Am I tricking myself into waiting, riding out one more wave, where grief hits like shock, capsizing. Or am I just still avoidant from the days of ugly words and labels and blame? I really don’t know which, and it makes a difference. Impacts the choice. Directs the days.

Maybe I’ll listen another time through. Course material. See what the evolution of religion looks like to philosophers, scientists, and students. That and maybe pray.

Tomorrow is work. Something for my hands. My heart and my mind will have to look after themselves. But at least if I’m moving and doing and interacting with others, there is hope it will fill in the time, keep edging on towards what the future holds. And don’t ask questions. Let’s give questions a small break.

by Sandy Bassie

I don’t know

I’m tired of being tired. Dragging and dragged over rocks of grief. Realizing the many ways and places this grief is laid out over years of unmet grief.

July 15

My first day back to work. Four hours. Folding clothes. I may not make it, there are updates to online training that need to be completed. That’s easy. I can do those. It’s the floor that scares me.

July 20

Yesterday, day three. I shook. Forced myself through four hours. Kindnesses of staff.

A coworker called me brave. I was negating myself again; fear of change, fear of loss. Berating myself for falling, hitting my head, struggling to heal. Knowing I’m not okay. Missing Jack. Showing up triggers me. Too many memories of waiting for him to come through the doors. Working apart. Not able to go to him. Listening to people yell or complain about petty things. I’m afraid. I can’t go back to listening to it right now. Doing this … staying alive and learning to grieve … it does not play fair. I had no idea.

I live with levels of stress accumulated in decades of abuse. Crisis a daily reality. I thought pain would go when I left my ex, slide back into something others call ‘normal’. I would laugh off that word telling people “normal is just the fat part of the graph. Statistics.” But this is not funny. Dissociation is a common experience of abuse, of PTSD. So are the panic attacks that wake me at 2am shaking from dreams or something I don’t remember. It’s strange how …. thoughts lost.

July 25

I had rough days this week. More than rough. I get angry at myself for them, for their unpredictability, for not being able to control myself or the days. Long hanging silences on calls to the crisis line, then sobbing because I’m frozen in bed, my body a lump of shock, sizzling. Blood pressure high, pills taken, bathroom done, back to bed, lay and shake. And so I call,

“hello, my name is …. how can I help you?”

“I, um I …” my mind and thoughts racing with guilt and grief and disasters past and pending.

The thoughts freeze in my head. Instinct. Fear; of living, being, lost and labelled. Something my ex would say, A negative judgement on who and how I am. And I can’t do it. Getting it out takes a breath, and sometimes that’s where they start. But first I give my name, the basics of identity. Then the call.

I talk and talk, through getting up, getting going, going to work. Even with the fear. A rational irrational place where emotion and action don’t fit the norm, but given the circumstances I understand. Tears or not, I have to go. I push too hard. Don’t overdo. Am warned. Holding myself back from demanding full hours. I don’t want to hurt myself again. The side of my head that hit the floor is ok, but not ok. Numb or tingles at times. Stress?

There is so much I can’t predict, so much I just don’t know. I’m trying to be ok with that; not knowing. Living and being is the hard job right now. The rest will ease in slowly, not smoothly. I hope, but am learning I can’t expect it. My body needs to purge the grief, but also years of pent up grief or things attached to it. Chaos of layers, interwoven connections, years forming. I’m just taking it a day or two at a time. Feeling useless, but knowing I’m not. Telling myself to be quiet when I want to rebuff the kindnesses and compliments of others. Still so much fear letting others in. I understood that far too well, Jack. We were kind to each other’s broken places. Love lingers in the tenderness.

Sanctuary.

by Sandy Bassie

Writing Life

I started May’s blog post several times. Got nowhere. The long post I eventually arrived at by June 3rd has been saved to files and deleted here.

7:30am June 6th and I’m starting fresh, though that’s a strange word for the circumstances and my now chronic lack of sleep. I passed out sometime shortly after 6pm and retrieved laundry from the dryer down the hallway around midnight when I awoke. Today, I have an essay to tidy and send off to a magazine whose current theme of ‘ancestors’ finally got coherent words from my tired and broken heart.

That said, this will be short. Off the cuff.

I emailed a note to a local councilor, telling her that I’d like to talk about a request to name or re-name several local streets in honour of persons with indigenous heritage. I have never put such a request forward before. This one flows out of grief, in honour of someone to whom it mattered greatly, and who was still pursuing a request made several years ago.

The past five years (or nearly) I have had the joy of being in a relationship with a man named Jack who died over the May long weekend pursuing another love of his life, whitewater paddling.

Jack was away teaching in a Cree community in northern Quebec. We spoke every day by text or in Facebook. I started to share my loss here, but found it becoming too poetic. I have written actual poems to Jack these last few years and may write a few more. He was an amazing man, the kindest, most gentle and generous man I know. Honest. Full of compassion and integrity. He brushed it off when I told him so, “Then you’re the only person who knows. Most people think I’m a pain.” I don’t believe that, and would reply, “If so then they aren’t listening.”

It’s still too soon after hearing you died, Jack. I wake shaking some days in shock. I read back through conversations shared and look at how many video calls show up on your side of the conversation thread. I’m glad you wanted so much to talk to me, to share your hopes and joys. To let me know how surprised you are it took you so long to say you love me. I shared it with one of your sons last week, and continue to grieve with him that it wasn’t your way to say it more. I understand why it was so hard for you, and why I said it too much. We shared places in our pasts I’m finally digging deep to understand.

I’m listening now, as I write, to Gabor Mate; a recommended listen from someone I volunteer with in mental health. Wisdom I’ll come back to more this year.

I wish we had more time to enjoy each other’s laughter, the gentleness we shared, ways we gave each other space and were discovering some of the things this man describes that need to heal. Not complicating them with demands, just offering understanding and giving each other permission to ‘not fix’. You said that to me early on, ‘don’t fix’. One of the reasons I told you I thought you were wise. So much of my life was responsibility and demands to fix things not mine to touch. You healed me in a way, just giving me space and telling me I need to respect myself and follow my dreams. Then showing me how, letting me watch you and admire your bravery.

I wonder if we messed that up just a bit at the end. You pushed yourself too hard at times. Your wrist was hurting from last time out. I was afraid you were going again too soon.

We had just four weeks to wait until you were home. You told me every day, soon, and let me know how excited you were coming back me. But the short time pressed against your list of things you wished you’d done last fall when the weather allowed you out on the waters. I understood it from the rush of photos you shared, the video rides you took me on coming back from the land. Waiting for open water. “I wish you could come up.” But the borders had been closed. “I wanted you to see.” I wanted that too. You did your best.

And now, I have to wait a little longer still. I love you, Jack.