#100happydays

Jan. 31^st

A number of K.B.’s friends and family members have been participating on Facebook in the “#100happydays” meme. This is a beautiful idea: each day they have been saying what has given them joy while providing an accompanying photo. In a time of grief, it is good to be able to acknowledge those moments of brightness. I have enjoyed seeing what has brought light into their lives since they have started contributing to this project. 

I’m not ready to take part, though.

It’s not that I haven’t felt happiness or peace since January 10^th. Looking into B.’s face, petting one of the cats, roaming on a perfect beach in the Bahamas, laughing with much-loved friends and family in Toronto—all have helped keep these last two weeks since her funeral from being unspeakably grim. I am able to feel gratitude for having these people and these experiences in my life. 

But something stops me from describing these days as “happy days.” I’m not there yet. It may be a while before I am.

Tears

Jan. 30th The Bahamas/Regina

Friend Panic made a re-appearance on Tuesday night, our last in the Bahamas. I went with some of B.’s family to see a film that was playing locally. Almost as soon as the lights went down I felt my throat tighten and tears spring to my eyes. I couldn’t understand it—why would thoughts of K.B. flood back into my head at this particular moment, and why would extreme anxiety be the response associated with them? The content of the movie (“Last Vegas,” of all things) did not seem to be the reason; it had barely started, anyway.

My theory is that since I had spent nearly a whole week with people whom I didn’t know well enough to talk to about losing K.B., it had been a strain to maintain of façade of normalcy around them. To be in their company and yet be able to be with my thoughts, to let the tears run down my face without having to suppress or explain them, must have been something I desperately needed.

Much as I appreciated their kindness in welcoming us into their home and providing us with an opportunity to have a vacation in the Bahamas, I was relieved to get on the plane yesterday and head back home. Here I will be surrounded by people who are grieving as well, people who hunger to talk about her and write about her, too.

I was so glad that Chris was able to have lunch with us today. I frequently had tears brimming up in my eyes, but I appreciated the opportunity to share stories of K.B. with him, whether funny or sad. He, too, is writing. It is interesting how many people who were close to her are individuals who gravitate towards the written word as a means of self-expression. Do writers naturally find one another?

The News Fast

Jan. 28^th The Bahamas

An odd feature of my reaction to K.B.’s death (when will I be able to truly process that phrase?) is my inability to listen to, watch, or read about the news. Other than weather-related news which, given that we are travelling, is scarcely avoidable, I have not allowed myself to consume any news since January 10^th. B. has noticed this and commented upon its oddness. It is an extreme reversal, given that being a “news junkie” is one of my defining characteristics.

Raised in a family in which watching the local news at suppertime and The National before bedtime, not to mention listening to CBC radio news at breakfast and lunch, was the normal pattern of life, I always found people who didn’t keep up with “the news” puzzling. In our family, to be conversant with current events was considered as important a part of citizenship as voting. My parents and I are particularly addicted to political developments and have lengthy discussions only “political junkies” could enjoy (and which non-political junkies like B. find baffling).

And yet for 18 days now I have remained almost completely ignorant of what is going on in the world (someone mentioned a plane crash in Colorado). All I can think is that this is a reaction to the fact that so often what is on the news is bad news. I had never really thought about this until B. mentioned it some time ago as a reason for preferring to listen to the news on the radio. The emotional effect of distressing scenes of people suffering is too great for him.

And now it is for me, too. Going through what feels unbearable—the loss of a beloved friend—the idea of hearing about one more tragedy in the world, large or small, from a massacre in South Sudan to someone losing their dog, is something I dread. I already feel like I am a broken person consisting of fragments held together with the thinnest of strings. My fear is that if I let myself experience any more sadness beyond this greatest of sadnesses that the string will fray, and break, and that I will disintegrate into a thousand pieces.

The First Dream

Jan. 27^th   The Bahamas

My first vivid dream of K.B. I awoke this morning with an image of her as real as if we had been sitting down for tea two months ago. The dream was that I was sitting on a stage, about to give a presentation related to my job. Someone was at the podium, about to introduce me. Then across from me, sitting on one of the nearby chairs, just a couple of feet away, was K.B.! She was wearing a black and white top. I called out, “K.B.! K.B.!” She smiled.

Then immediately the scene shifted. I was walking on a busy multi-lane highway which rose up ahead of me, as if towards a bridge. The person who was supposed to be introducing me on the stage was walking ahead of me. I was saying that I couldn’t go through with the presentation while I was grieving my friend. The person ahead of me called back to me, “You have to get over it! You have to leave it behind!”

The dream ended.

Bahamas Interlude II

Jan. 28^th The Bahamas

Yesterday B.’s cousin arranged for us to visit the Atlantis resort as day guests. As we viewed the huge tanks full of exotic fish and as we explored the water-themed activities of Aquaventure, thoughts of K.B. were ever with me. Just as they were, constantly, when we were on the beach on Sunday afternoon. “She would LOVE this!” How she would have delighted in being alone on a beach with Chris, frolicking in the gentle surf. How she would have loved tearing down the “Rapids River” at Aquaventure in an inflatable tube.

I tried to think of myself as her surrogate, experiencing for her what she is no longer able to experience for herself. I went on two of the “Mayan Tower” slides, one of them taking us through a Plexiglas tube that stretched through the shark pool. The uncontrolled, disorienting, and—to me—nauseating speed was not something that I enjoyed, but I felt that I had to at least try. K.B. would not have wanted to miss out on any water-based thrill, nor would she have wanted me to, either.

Bahamas Interlude I

Jan. 22nd The Bahamas

It is such a gift to be here, and B.’s relatives, with whom we are staying, could not be more hospitable. But I can tell that this week could be hard in some ways, too. One is that, just as in Toronto, I may well get little time for myself. One might say that that might be therapeutic: new experiences and the opportunity to get to know B.’s cousin and his family should be helpful distractions. But an introvert always needs quiet time to “re-charge,” and I am learning that a grieving introvert needs quiet time even more. The numbness still has a firm grip on me and I have to rely on my default behavioral settings, rather like a robot, to maintain a basic level of politeness and sociability.

And I cannot but think how much K.B. would have liked to be in a place like this. One way in which we were truly kindred spirits was our shared love of water. Chris’ choice of an aquamarine engagement ring for her made total sense. How excited she would have been by the sight of the clear, turquoise waters from the plane. How her heart would have thrilled to gaze up at the stars from the shores of this island. How she deserved to be a guest at a house such as this, with its own pool! She loved her trip to Cuba two years ago; she nearly went last year (and her tip about getting last-minute holiday deals inspired us to make our own spur-of-the-moment visit there last February). She was hoping to head south again this year. Chris urged us to dance on the beach as a tribute to her, and we will, but it will be with broken hearts.

Jan. 25^th The Bahamas

It has turned out that while B.’s relatives have been wonderful about giving us the opportunity to take part in their activities, they have also been fine with us being on our own, so there has been time for us to read or go for long walks on the beach or explore the island. Planning what to do, dealing with practicalities such as where and when to eat, all keep the brain occupied. This enforced mental activity lulls one into a false sense of security, though: because I have not been thinking of her every moment, and perhaps for quite a series of moments, then I must be fine, I must be coping. I have not burst out into tears since getting here, so all must be well.

But I know it can’t be that easy. I know that the part of me that is shattered by grief is ever hovering in the background. Every now and then it forces itself to be noticed. It has me counting off the blocks of time (three a day, morning, afternoon, and evening) until I get back home. There is a kind of impatience to return to the “work of mourning,” as the term goes. I need to see what our mutual friends are saying on Facebook and on their blogs (I’m not using my phone here because of the roaming charges)—where are they in this grieving process? I need to know how K.B.’s son and daughter are, we need to visit Chris, I have to see MayB, I have to read C. S. Lewis’ A Grief Observed…I have to get on with it, I have to do all these things without hesitation. These are my priorities now.

Loss

Jan. 20^th, Toronto

I am starting to appreciate the usage of the word “loss” in situations involving grieving. I feel very much as if K.B. is out there somewhere and I have simply “lost” her for a time. Just as if one’s child had run away in a park and one keeps calling out their name, part of me thinks that I can “find” her by doing the same. I look out of the window of the 17^th-floor condo where we are staying, scan the view of the wide expanse of north Toronto and its suburbs, and keep thinking, “K.B., where ARE you?”

Now I can begin to understand the desperation of those who reach out to mediums to help them “make contact” with a dead loved one. Such an action stems from the hope of finding what is lost. K.B. despised—in as much as her sweet nature would allow her to despise anyone or anything—mediums and psychics because she felt they were frauds who preyed on grieving people, exploiting their sadness for monetary gain. As someone who had experienced the deaths of her mother and brother at a young age, she knew well that sense of desolation. If she had not been the strong person, sure in her beliefs, that she was, she might have been tempted to think that contact with them was possible.

Whatever Heaven is like for her, is she able to perceive our broken-heartedness, our profound desire to “find” her? This we will never know while we still live. For those of us who are Christian believers, the knowledge that she is in a better place should be a consolation, but the reality of that barrier between the living and the dead can be maddening. Is Heaven a place above, beyond our reality? An alternate reality? What is it? Where is she?

I should try to focus instead on what our minister said when he came to visit us just days after her death. I was nearly hysterical that afternoon, and he tried to console me by gently explaining that these close bonds we form with others are permanent, eternal, not bound by the confines of human life. That I believe. Just because K.B. is in Heaven and I am here does not mean that our friendship is over. And I keep thinking of that line from the Ron Sexsmith song, “God Loves Everyone”: “…the living and the dead/ may we never lose the thread/ that binds us all.”

Toronto

[K.B.’s funeral was on Jan. 16^th; on Jan. 17^th we flew to Toronto for a few days before flying down to the Bahamas for a week]

Jan. 19^th, Toronto

Yesterday we went into a gourmet food shop on Bathurst Street and I saw some imported spreads made of chestnuts, apples, and apricots. I picked up a couple of packets and thought, “Now, who am I supposed to tell each time I find a new and interesting chestnut product? Oh, K.B.” Oh….K.B.

I guess being here in Toronto is therapeutic in the sense that there is so much to process—how to use the transit system to get places from where we’re staying, which friends and relatives to see when—that that of course takes up some of the mental space previously devoted to thinking exclusively of K.B. But these last two nights I have had long stretches of wakefulness in which those thoughts return and demand to be considered.

Even the exquisite joy of seeing my friend V. for the first time since our wedding three and a half years ago brought up associations with K.B. With K.B. I had a similar sort of friendship, one in which the rush to talk and share can cause frustration because the words won’t come out quickly enough, there is just so much to say. V. also has that lightness of spirit and natural cheerfulness which were characteristic of K.B., who picked V. and her husband up at the airport and drove them out to B.’s uncle’s farm for the rehearsal dinner. It was not a surprise to me that on that long drive, and at the wedding reception, that K.B. and V. sensed they might be kindred spirits. When I saw V. yesterday, I wore K.B.’s headband with be-bowed crossbones and hearts on it, knowing V. would admire it (which she did). They became friends on Facebook and sustained a connection that way. I was always hoping they would have an opportunity to meet again.

The Open Casket

January 15^th

Morning

I have never been a fan of the open casket. When I have been to funerals at which the deceased are available for viewing before the service, I have found it startling; the bodies have often looked like wax mannequins to me. I know that when I was 5 I was allowed to be with my mother during the visitation for my aunt, since I didn’t like the woman who was supposed to baby-sit me and I demanded to go with my mother. I remember seeing my aunt in the coffin but I have no clear memories of my impressions of that experience. I do not remember being traumatized.

When my beloved grandmother passed away, I travelled with my parents and sister to her home community for the funeral. We stopped by the funeral home as soon as we arrived; I declined to see her in her casket and stayed in the car. I just didn’t think that what I would see would be “her.” I remember my sister coming back to the car distraught and my mother commenting that the funeral home had styled her hair all wrong.

And yet, when I heard that there would be a viewing of K.B., I embraced the idea. Partly I think that I will simply not believe that she is dead until I do see her. But another strange thought has been in my head the last couple of days, a sort of counting down until I get to see her. Waking up this morning, I thought, “At least I get to see K.B. today!” That I will be seeing a lifeless K.B hardly makes an impression on my thinking. It is almost as if I am confident that once I see her, all this will turn out to have been a mistake and that she will be ready to get in her little red car with the vanity plate “TIJEAN,” open its door to me, and whisk me off on some delightful outing. This demented sense of excitement cannot be entirely suppressed.

But there is still some rational capability in my brain, some level of awareness that this won’t be easy. I am packing a huge wad of tissues. I am taking out my contact lens and putting on glasses because I am guessing there will be tears. And when B. casually made reference to going to Scottish country dancing afterward, I felt like yelling, “I am going to see my DEAD FRIEND. I doubt I’ll be feeling like dancing!”

[To be fair to him, the dance practice occurs virtually across the street from the funeral home, and he was mainly focused on meeting with some of the participants, those who will be taking part in a musical performance at the funeral, after the practice.]

Later, evening:

She was and she wasn’t there. I saw and talked to her sister before going to look in the coffin.  Her sister said that it did not look like her, and that made it easier; she was not smiling, and when was she ever either not talking or not smiling? I went over. Her sister was right. It was not K.B. It was a pale waxen imitation of K.B. The skin of her hands had smoothed out; there were no veins, no contours. Her hair was pulled back in a way I had never seen her have it in life. Her mouth was utterly expressionless; there was not a hint that here had been a smile that had been so big on her wedding day that it looked like her face would break. They had put on her lips a glossy lipstick. Given that she usually did not wear any make-up, it only helped heighten the impact: this was not her. She was not there. The sense of delirious expectation that I would be seeing my friend this evening fell flat. This was not my friend.

As I was standing there MayB came up and embraced me. I sobbed in her arms. She spoke of how she was determined that K.B.’s legacy was that her friends would preserve their connections to one another and that she would maintain close ties with myself and Wynn Anne. This helped in a way that nothing else yet has. As I went around the room and spoke with her family and close friends, I thought, yes, this must endure, this sense of us all caring for one another. That is where K.B. is, in the love that she had for us all which now binds us together.

In which panic becomes my new companion...

January 15th

Panic. I didn’t know this could be a response, but it is. From the first day, the panicked response of “No, this cannot be, we have to find some way to make this un-be, now” to today, there are moments when the panic rises to the part of my brain which has to do with action. I feel the urgent need to do something. But what, what can be done?

Then last night panic became knitted together with a very specific fear. Yesterday I had been reading over some of the many hundreds of e-mails we had exchanged—which mercifully I had never deleted—and they made me smile. Our extended e-conversations ran the gamut from serious discussions of matters like death and illness to ones which strayed into light-hearted ridiculousness. Reading the e-mail exchanges made yesterday afternoon and evening a little better.

But then last night just before going to bed the panic rose up and gripped me with its talons once again. What about the safety of the e-mails she sent me from her work e-mail address? What if her workplace deleted her e-mail account and all the e-mails went with it? I knew in the rational part of my brain that that is not how e-mail works; once the messages have arrived in my inbox, there they stay until I delete them or the account is shut down. But I couldn’t stop thinking that maybe I, with my limited understanding of technology, had not processed some basic principle of e-mail and our correspondence was somehow in danger. I begged B. to confirm for me that yes, the e-mails in my inbox were secure and would not disappear once her account was de-activated. Of course he said yes, but there was still the panicked thought, “Maybe I should call L. [a mutual friend who worked with K.B.] and ask her to look into this.”

The panic escalated. I had thought that the only times I had seen her after the minor surgery I had on short notice at the beginning of November were when she dropped by to pick up the port-tasting tickets we couldn’t use, when I saw her at the St. Andrew’s tea at the Vintage Tea Room on November 30^th, and when she stopped by to drop off the lemon curd, the last time I saw her. But there must have been another time, as I remember having a discussion with her in person about having seen a naturopathic doctor and talking with her about her thoughts on naturopathy. I saw the naturopath on Oct. 25^th. So when did I see her after that? I know I talked to her about my uncle’s death, which occurred on Nov. 26^th. But was that the same time, or just a phone call?

My datebook, which not infrequently does not include get-togethers with friends made on the spur of the moment, says nothing. The e-mail exchange says nothing. Perhaps I sent her one of my rare texts? I turned on the old cell phone. In one of my efforts to neaten up my text inbox, I had cleaned out most texts except for one each from each person who had previously texted me. The one remaining text from K.B. was from before Oct. 25^th. I nearly had a meltdown. How, how could I have so heartlessly deleted texts from her? Couldn’t I have foreseen that in the future they would have been hugely significant to me? I couldn’t.

Maybe she kept a datebook? Or did she write things on a calendar? Maybe I could get Chris to check once things have settled down for him. Maybe he could look in her phone to see if there are any remaining texts from me.

Needless to say, sleep was fitful last night.

Why does this bother me so much? Perhaps because history is my line of work and I have to know the history of our friendship. I am obsessed with needing to know these exact dates.

Neither do I have in my datebook the occasion when B. and I went over to her and Chris’ for a games get-together one Sunday afternoon. There was a Riders game playing on the TV in the living room; we could also hear the cannon going off at Taylor Field, which was close to their home. It was well before it was clear the Riders were going to be in the Grey Cup. I peruse the Riders’ schedule but I can’t work it out from that. Does B. have it in his datebook? Would Chris have the information somewhere? Fortunately our niece, who was also present, was able to confirm later that it was Sept. 1^st.

And then, the issue of when I last saw her. She dropped off the lemon curd at suppertime on a Sunday. I had no time to use it before we left on our Christmas trip. I thought maybe I could use it as a filling in a cake once we’d finished our travels. My last text to her, on Dec. 21^st, was to ask her how long the curd would be “good” if it were refrigerated. “About two weeks” was the response. My last text from her.

I brought the curd with us to Newfoundland and I remember we finally opened it—it was so fabulously good—at roughly the two and a half week mark. But when did we open it? My sister was still there, so it was before Jan. 1^st. I think it was a couple of days after Christmas. So does that mean I last saw her on Dec. 8^th? I think that makes the most sense.

Eventually I exhaust my friend panic with these mental gymnastics and the numbness returns (hello, friend numbness). But I know panic will be my regular companion for a long, long time. Today, after the Wednesday morning communion service at our church, at which special prayers were said for K.B. and her loved ones, B. said to me, “It gets better. It takes time.” What will this “better” look like? What will be the characteristics of this reality in which the absence of K.B. is an accepted fact?

Guilt

January 14th

And then there is guilt. I can’t imagine K.B. would ever, ever want me to feel guilt in regard to her. But I feel it, nonetheless. I feel guilt over not having responded to an e-mail asking my thoughts on her grade for the course she was doing (it appeared the day I began a heavy work commitment that would last several days, but I should not have left it). She sent me a one-line e-mail—her last to me—on the Monday before she died telling me that Chris had given her ballroom dancing lessons for Christmas. I hadn’t gotten around to responding to that one, either, as I was busy with packing to return here and the next day we were caught up in the turmoil of dealing with weather-related travel chaos and a cancelled flight.

I know she knew that sometimes I was a procrastinator when it came to dealing with e-mail, but still. I should not have left that one, either. I reproach myself constantly for not answering those two e-mails, even though we exchanged e-mail in between these two occasions.

I feel guilty, too, that today I didn’t cry as much as yesterday. I daresay the tears spilt at tomorrow’s communion service at our church and at tomorrow evening’s viewing will make up for any shortage today. Yet that feeling of “am I grieving enough” crept into my brain. Do I dare to try to sleep tonight without a pill? And if I am able to sleep unaided, does that mean that I am slipping back into normalcy, and does normalcy mean I am shallow, heartless, that I do not love her enough?

I thought the same when I found that today my appetite had returned. If I have a “good appetite,” does that imply that I am “getting better”? If I was able to consume a large meal of tasty dishes at Da India Curry House tonight, how can I truly, truly be grief-stricken? The fact that B. and I talked about her, that she was ever on my mind (this was the place Wynn Anne and she had gone to instead of the other Da India nearby--where Maddy and I were waiting--when we were trying to meet for lunch days before her wedding)…none of this seems to drive away that feeling that if I can return to my regular pattern in any way at all that there is some defect in my grieving.

Some Random Thoughts

January 13^th 

Writing

How much we wrote to one another. Looking back at the number of e-mails, it’s astounding how much of an epistolary quality there was to our friendship. Not that we didn’t spend time together—how pleased I always was to see her coming up my front step, or heading out of her house or apartment building to get in my car—but the hundreds of e-mails that went back and forth between us showed us how natural writing was to us as a means of communication. If I had embraced texting more, we probably would have exchanged thousands of texts, too.

She talked about wanting to be a writer; she didn’t need to want that—she was a writer. Telling stories was as integral to who she was as baking or dancing or rushing to a window to see a thunderstorm or smiling or loving.

Games

She loved board games and she had the best attitude about them. She enjoyed the social element of playing games and the opportunity they afforded to meet a wide range of people. I think she was as interested in the inter-personal dynamics that went on at a games gathering as she was in the games themselves. She was never hyper-competitive; she wanted to have fun, to learn new games, to play old favourites. 

I particularly remember playing Diamant with her and her teaching me the “save the sheep from drowning” game. She whomped me at Quiddler the first time we played it and even managed to beat my skilled sister-in-law at Pounce (a card game) a couple of times. The last games night we were both at we played the Great Dalmuti and she threw herself into the spirit of trying to ascend the social scale from the status of lesser peasant to that of a Dalmuti. 

All throughout a games night evening we would hear her laughter, her uninhibited, delightful, exuberant laughter. And I don’t know how we sit down and play games again knowing we will never hear that laughter again.

What this blog is about

On January 9th, 2014, my dear friend K.B. suddenly had to go to the hospital for abdominal pain. At the hospital the medical staff could not determine what was wrong. They decided to do a CT scan. Tragically, it turned out that K.B. was one of those rare people with a fatal allergy to the contrast dye which is injected into patients about to undergo these scans. Within hours, K.B. had passed away, leaving those who loved her shattered by this sudden loss.

K.B. was a writer, blogger, and an artist in the kitchen. She had found the love of her life two years ago and had married him in May. She was a devoted mother to all four of the children in their blended family. Her huge heart meant that she had countless friends who all felt privileged to have had her in their lives.

This blog is based on a journal I have been keeping since her death. It does not record every aspect of my life in the 5 weeks since she passed away; it is focused on the experience of grieving the loss of such a treasured friend.

Why lemon curd? Because the last time I saw K.B. was when she dropped by our house just before Christmas, with a coat thrown over her pyjamas, bearing a jar of lemon curd she had made. The ever-kind K.B., who frequently distributed homemade delights to friends and neighbours, had made some lemon curd, remembered how much I love all things lemon, and then driven over on a cold night to share some of the bounty. The last text I got from her was a response to my question about the lifespan of lemon curd in the refrigerator (I was wondering if it could last until I got time to bake a cake). That last jar of lemon curd represents to me not only the natural sweetness of K.B., but also the sourness of losing her in such tragic circumstances.

She had long encouraged me to blog. It is only right that my first blog should be a tribute to her.