K.B. in Her Own Words: Instant Karma

This time of year when the roads of our fair city are covered with deep ruts of compacted ice and snow, drivers frequently find that their cars get stuck. Most folks passing by do the right thing and stop to help by giving a push. K.B. was famous for always giving a hand.

One day, however, she encountered a stuck driver who most definitely did NOT want her help. The story is best told in her own words, as she posted it on her own blog three years ago. I was the friend who appears in the story, and I can testify to its accuracy!

Instant Karma

"The title was suggested to me by a friend who was there for the whole of the story I’m about to tell you. I’m glad she was there for the weirdness. Why? Because sometimes I watch people shake their heads in disbelief as I answer truthfully when they ask something like “anything interesting happen today?”

When something that is odd for most people but seems par for the course for me happens it’s nice to have a witness. Or, as in this case, witnesses. I don’t think you can count the swearing person as a witness to her own craziness. And no doubt, in her mind she was the one encountering a crazy person. Certainly in this case that’s what the woman thought. So, on with the story!

The Girl and I were going to a tea with a friend on Saturday. The original plan was to meet there. En route to picking up The Girl, the friend that we were meeting called. She was stuck – or rather her car was – could we go to her place and help her get unstuck? Of course we could! Not only was she a friend, but this is Saskatchewan. There is an unwritten code here; you see someone stuck, you help get them unstuck. And not just because one day you too will be stuck in snow and require help. It’s just the done thing is all.

So I got The Girl and on we went. When we got to the alley behind my friend’s house, her car was just by her garage, well and truly stuck in the snow. The large expanses of snow-covered ice weren't helping the situation, but the main problem was definitely the snow bank the right front tire was buried in.

We tried pushing but it was clear that it needed shoveling and/or something to provide more traction on the ice. Stopping to decide what to do I noticed there was another car stuck further up the alley. So when our friend went to get a shovel, The Girl and I walked over and offered to help. And the woman who was stuck said “no thanks, ugly, I’ve got it covered”. And she stalked off. And I stood there trying to figure out what she’d said. Because it sure sounded like she’d just called us (or at least me) ugly. But that didn’t make sense. I don’t mean because I’m a beauty, I mean just as a reply to an offer of help it didn’t really make sense. Like someone asking you what you want for supper and saying “football game on the weekend”. The two just don’t go together. In the end, though, we just walked back to the car and she walked back to her house (she was stuck several houses away from her house).

She went into her house, slammed the door and in the clear cold air of winter we could hear her as she shouted “F***!!!!”. No mistaking THAT word, even muffled by being yelled inside a house. Now who knows what was behind that. Maybe she had a job interview that she was going to miss because she was stuck? But…why not get help, then? The Girl and I looked at each other, both a little puzzled. But with a shrug we just turned away.

Apparently, turning away was not the done thing, because the next second her back door slammed open and she screamed “Get a F******life!!”. And I do mean screamed, people. With the intensity of someone who has been harassed for weeks by people making her life a misery.

How odd, was my first thought. I mean, I have a life. There I was on a Saturday with my daughter and a friend, off for tea and some book shopping. Sounds like a life to me! I didn’t know what her day was like, though, so best to just leave her alone. (I have a co-worker whose mother was treated horribly for no apparent reason only to find out the next week- when the customer apologized - that the abuser’s wife had just died and he was getting donuts and such for everyone who had waited through the night with him at the hospital. He was beside himself with grief and hadn't meant to be so rude to her. So now I think twice or even three times when someone is rude to me for no apparent cause. Who knows what's going on in their life at that moment?)

Between shoveling snow away from one tire and putting kitty litter under the others my friend’s car did get unstuck. And despite the rudeness, I thought perhaps we should try one more time to help the swearing woman get unstuck. So The Girl and I walked towards her, and I said “kitty litter helped get this car out, maybe it would help with yours?” She did answer, and she didn’t swear which you would think was an improvement in relations. Not exactly; her reply was “you are MENTALLY ILL, go get some HELP”. Screamed at full volume. Naturally.

My first thought was that she was telling us that she was mentally ill. And didn’t want help. But she repeated herself, so her intentions were perfectly clear. The Girl and I, for offering to help get her car unstuck, were ill. Mentally ill. Clearly, only a madwoman offers to push a car out of a snow bank. Didn’t think I needed help, but I was willing to leave and at least get some tea. And maybe she would be able to get the car out some other way. Wait for spring, perhaps?

One other thing, the best bit of all, in a way: the title. Why instant Karma? It’s because when we told my friend about the first rebuff, she said that the woman only got stuck in the first place because she was taking great pains to NOT help my friend get unstuck and out of her way. She decided it would be better to go the long way around and not help. And that’s how she ended up stuck in the snow at the other end of the alley.

I was going to call the post “but I want to know the story” because that is what kills me about stuff like this. What was this woman’s problem? Why was she so angry? Why take it out on people trying to help? I hate not knowing the rest of the tale. But I’ll live with it. And hope that whatever was making her so unhappy got better. No one deserves to be that angry and unhappy all the time."

Her Wedding Jewelry

                                      

                                  Chris and K.B. on their wedding day, May 25, 2013

A year ago, K.B. was busy with wedding preparations. One of the decisions she had to make was what sort of jewelry to wear. The necklace was easy: she had purchased one with a large moonstone, her favourite stone, at a rock and gem store on Vancouver Island some years earlier, and she’d always been looking for the right opportunity to wear it.

K.B. had liked the hair vine that I had worn at my wedding a few years previously and wondered if she could borrow it to wear on her own special day. I was delighted to be able to loan it to her. It was made by a craftsperson in Maine who had a shop on Etsy called Shellscapes. The vine consisted of a brass wire on which were strung small dried starfish decorated with crystals and glitter, freshwater pearls, more crystals, and one aquamarine. 

Being from the East Coast and having a March birthday—aquamarine is the birthstone of March—the hair vine had seemed a natural fit for me. It worked for K.B., too, as she was such a water-oriented person and Chris, knowing that, had gotten her an aquamarine engagement ring.

By March of last year she had already picked out her wedding dress, an adorable retro-style baby blue lace dress with a cotton candy pink crinoline. K.B. thought the pink belt she was planning to wear would be enhanced with a piece of vintage jewelry, perhaps a rhinestone brooch. I was able to help her out with this, too, as I inherited all my grandmother’s and aunt’s sparkly brooches from the ‘50s and ‘60s. It was such fun picking through the collection with her to find the one that was just right.

But of course, no piece of jewelry could rival the tremendous smile on her face that day last May…or her bare feet!

                         The vintage brooch and the hair vine (the aquamarine is at the far right)

Birthday Abyss

March 18th

 

I have become familiar with the concept of grief triggers, those events, memories, objects, or sensory experiences which initiate an intensification of the grieving process. What I didn’t expect was that my own birthday would trigger the episode of most profound despair over the loss of K.B. since the period right after her death.

I still don’t know why this was so. K.B. and I had not had a particular way of marking each others’ birthdays. I would not have expected to have seen her on my birthday, which B. and I have celebrated since we got married by doing things like going out for dinner or seeing a play.

But my upcoming birthday seemed to trigger a flashback to the first birthday I celebrated after B. and I started seeing one another five years ago. Perhaps this is because this year B. was organizing a party of 20+ friends and family members to play laser tag with us, the biggest such gathering for my birthday since that one in 2009.

What was the connection with K.B.? In 2009, she made the cake for that party (chocolate with lemon filling and cream cheese frosting, all my favourite tastes). She and I also exchanged lengthy e-mails afterwards, analyzing how the party had gone and discussing B.’s gifts to me. It was quite early in the relationship, and I needed her perspective on these things!

This year, I couldn’t get that party of five years ago and K.B.’s presence at it out of my mind. Why didn’t I have photos of that night? Who might? Who was taking pictures? Might they be able to find ones with K.B., or her cake, in them? I know I have some pictures on my old cell phone of the cake she made the next month, for the party on Brian’s birthday. Why didn’t I take any of the one she made for me?

Again, guilt at my negligence began to seep into my skull. The awareness, too, that this year there would be a party for me which she would not be able to attend was unsettling. Chris would be there; her son would be there; her sister- and brother-in-law would be there. She would not be.

I began to feel despair tightening its grip on me. The day before my birthday I spent a lot of time reading her blog; I miss her writing voice (and her actual voice) so very much. I also made a cake but experienced some challenges with the recipe, and of course that brought back thoughts of the many times before I had phoned her for advice in the same kind of circumstance.

I slept poorly the night before my birthday; insomnia has been dogging me of late. On the morning of my birthday B. brought me his gift, the Hyperbole and a Half book. I was so pleased by it, as we have laughed over that blog so many times. The morning went downhill from there, though. The feeling of wretchedness dragged me down even further to the point that I spent most of the morning crying.

Even as I walked to a nearby restaurant to meet my friend Y. for lunch the tears were pouring down my face. By some act of will I was able to climb back up to a state of relative composure by the time Y. arrived. I didn’t bring up how I was feeling out of fear that I would break down utterly in public, and the conversation was sufficiently engaging that I was distracted from my state of sorrow for an hour or so.

But once I left the restaurant I started sinking back down into despair again. The tears returned. I haven’t cried so much since the dark days between K.B.’s death and her funeral. My yearning for her to be with me, my sense of desolation, and my fear that I will never recover from this loss coloured the day for me.

I was able, again, to force myself to get into “social mode” and participate in the laser tag games in the evening. I was even able to enjoy it when it was going on. I won the second game—but my first impulse was to call her to say, “Hey! You’ll never believe it! I beat your video game-playing son!” Oh…right.

The socializing afterward kept me busy as I circulated and chatted with everyone. I was so grateful that members of her family were there with mine and with our mutual friends. Once I got home, however, even though I was able to appreciate the fact that all these wonderful people had been there to offer me their good wishes, I still could not accept that there was one person who should have been there—who would have loved to have played laser tag with us—who was absent. It was too much to bear. Another night with very little sleep.

The sense of desolation was particularly intense for the next couple of days. Anxiety over my cat’s health worsened, sleep was elusive, and I began to worry that I was slipping over the precipice from grief into a more worrisome state. I read Wynn Anne’s blog post on the difference between grief and depression. However, I was unsure which category I fit into: I definitely was not wallowing in self-hatred or thinking about harming myself, but feelings of despair and hopelessness? Check and check.

However, on Monday morning, I woke up and something just seemed different, just imperceptibly a little bit…better. It was not that I had suddenly “gotten over” my grief. It was just that the ability to feel emotions other than extreme sorrow returned and the tears became less frequent. I felt less like I had fallen over the cliff into depression and more like I had landed on a ledge on the way down and had been able to scramble back up and over the edge of the cliff. And for now, that is enough.

Life and Death Decisions, Feline Edition

March 7^th 

During these last two months of grieving the loss of K.B. the spectre of another possible death has loomed in our household, that of my beloved cat, Hildy. She will be 14 (roughly) this year, and since last May she has been experiencing a major health problem (to put it bluntly, she has been experiencing long bouts of constipation—and this is on top of a long-lasting mysterious allergy which no vet has been able to pin down). 

We have altered her diet several times, tried a dizzying array of medications, packed her off to the vet numerous times, sought a second opinion from another vet, and still, the problem persists. Nothing has solved the problem, and it seems to be getting worse. Obviously, a cat that cannot perform this basic bodily function cannot be expected to have a terribly long lifespan.

And so we come to issues of life and death again. As the owner, I would be the one to make the call, in consultation with the vet, as to whether she ought to be put down. I can hardly bear that responsibility, although it is implicit every time you take a companion animal into your house and it becomes a member of the family. 

The idea of losing her at any time would be completely devastating, as she was the first cat I got on my own and we developed a strong bond, one which has survived despite all the times I catch her and administer pills or squirts of syrupy laxative. But to have to have her put down now, while I am still trying to absorb the reality of K.B.’s death, is too much. I think I would be entirely crushed by grief.

As a caring pet owner, though, I have to think of what is best for her, not for me. I think that I am being honest with myself (and with the vets) when I say that despite her condition, she still seems to have a good level of energy. She is as bossy as ever, she meows vigorously when she wants her tummy scratched, and she continues to enjoy being brushed and combed. Her appetite is reasonably good—it’s just that what she eats does not processed out the back end anywhere nearly as often as it should.

Is she suffering? With cats, it can be hard to tell. They keep their cards pretty close to their chests in these matters, as a friend said. Some-times she licks herself compulsively on the lower abdomen to the point that it is red and sore down there. But is that enough to say she has no quality of life? Another friend whose dog was recently put down said that there will be a sign, that somehow I will know when the time has come. I don’t feel that I have had that sign yet.

So I continue to wait and watch. I cancelled another trip that was to take us away for several weeks because I don’t feel that it would be fair to ask a house-sitter to take on this responsibility, and because I would be sick with worry about her the whole time. I pray that she makes it at least until spring, because I would like to take her lifeless body out to the farm for a burial directly after the procedure. But she has already defied the odds already; she may surprise us all by living even beyond that.

She complains bitterly when I administer her medicine, and she howls each time I cram her in her carrier to take her to the vet. Sometimes I say to her in exasperation, “I am trying to keep you alive. Would you rather be dead?” Would she prefer that to all the pills and syringes, to all the discomfort she is in, to the needles and other indignities she endures at the animal clinic? I can’t know; ultimately, I have to make some judgment call as to where she is on the continuum of suffering.

Love Abides

March 2^nd 

Today in church the epistle reading was the famous passage starting at 1 Corinthians 13: 1, “If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am a noisy gong or a clanging cymbal…”

Tears immediately welled up in my eyes. The passage is often read at weddings, but it would be a misreading of Paul’s words to view them as a description exclusively, or even primarily, of romantic love (the word used in the Latin version of the New Testament, caritas, expresses the Christian conception of the love of God and the love of one’s fellow humans). This passage speaks to me of the outpouring of God’s love for humanity, but also of the ability of the human heart to experience and express limitless love.

Why did the tears appear at this moment? Probably because so many of the verses made me think of K.B. and her open, generous heart. “Love is patient and kind; love is not jealous or boastful; it is not arrogant or rude; it is not arrogant or resentful; it does not rejoice at wrong but rejoices in the right.” K.B.’s life was a model of total commitment to a positive and life-affirming understanding of love. Many of us who were close to her feel that we were fortunate to have been blessed by the friendship of someone who focused on the best in us and loved us despite our flaws.

Then, “Love bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things. Love never ends…” If I hadn’t been in the choir when this was being read, I think I would have yielded to the impulse to cry at this point. The love we felt for each other never ends; it will continue to be a bond between us. It will help me go on, to bear the loss of such a dear friend, to endure the shock and the pain.

“For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face.” The mystery of what Heaven is like, what her new reality is something that is still challenging for me. The promise that eventually I will have that clarity, that there will be a reunion of some sort, does provide a degree of consolation.

“So faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.” Love abides. Love is the greatest of these three, and it abides. Perhaps this is the lesson I need to take away from this wound to the heart.

Love abides.

The Person to Blame for the Long Winter

                           Snow drifts outside our bedroom window, St. John's, Newfoundland, Christmastime

Feb. 26^th 

I seem to be the only person on the planet content to see winter carry on for a while longer, especially in my city where the bitterly cold temperatures set in in November and continue to plague us with no end in sight. This has nothing to do with finally reconciling myself to the realities of winter and accepting that ice, snow, and extreme cold will continue to be forces to be dealt with for at least half of every year of my life.

Nor does it have to do with embracing winter, as B. does. I still haven’t acted on my intentions to pick up snowshoeing or cross-country skiing or even daily walks, no matter how cold it is. I only begrudgingly acknowledge the beauties of winter, such as the snow-covered trees on a sunny day when there is an achingly blue, clear, sky. Learning to love winter will be a lifelong challenge for me.

Nor does it have to do with having been in the Bahamas and feeling refreshed by a holiday south. Much as it was lovely to have basked in the warmth and been able to walk around in summer clothes for a week, it does seem a distant memory now.

I think what it is is that as long as it is winter, it will seem that the time when K.B. was with us was not so far in the past. The last time I saw her, it was December, and it was cold. Once it is spring, it will be the first new season without her. And once it warms up, we will be closer to the painful anniversaries of May (her shower, her and Chris’ wedding) and her birthday in June. I feel like I need time to slow down, and if that means stretching winter out, so be it.

Vanilla Extract

Feb. 24 

So I have reached the point where there is only about a teaspoon or two of vanilla left in the bottle of vanilla extract K.B. made and gave to me over a year ago. Even though I have done some baking recently, it didn’t occur to me to use that vanilla. I went out and bought a small bottle of manufactured vanilla extract.

What has held me back from using the vanilla K.B. made and gave me? Is it a belief that in some way it is a remnant of her still in my life, and that if I were to finish the bottle I would be eliminating a trace of her, erasing a bit of her presence still with me? Or is it that I realize that I will never again be the recipient of one of her exquisite culinary creations, and that anything I might have left must be treasured until some special moment?

Or is it that the jar of vanilla extract contains the memories of lengthy conversations about vanilla and how best to make one’s own extract, about why my own attempt to make it with bourbon was far from satisfactory? (Ah, that poor unloved jar containing my own efforts, sitting right next to K.B.’s; once K.B. gave me hers, I didn’t bother using my own in baking, but didn’t want to throw it out as I thought I ought to use it up eventually.) Not only was she generous in her gifts of things she made in her own kitchen, but she was generous in sharing her knowledge of cooking and baking.

Now I feel rudderless. Who will I turn to the next time I have a question about what to use Italian 00 flour for, or what to do with date molasses? Who will give me the tips she did on matters like how to make the perfect ganache? Who will show me how to make butter? She had an old-fashioned jar with paddles for making butter, and we were always talking about her bringing it over for an afternoon and putting it through its paces.

Yes, I know there is the Internet, and there are books. But nothing was as valuable as being able, in the midst of a culinary meltdown, to phone her and say, “Help! The butter and sugar aren’t creaming properly!! Is that fatal to my cake?” She always knew the answer.

A Paper Trail

Feb. 20th

Today I was looking through a pile of papers which I had put aside for sorting a few months ago (paper management is not my strong point). I was hoping to find a particular document. I never did. Instead, I had to stop and think about every K.B.-related item in the stack. On the top was the program for her funeral with its various inserts; I had tucked into it the program from her and Chris’ wedding.

I had so treasured that beautiful silvery wedding program with the rose and the tree images that I had kept it on my night table since May 25^th and had been using it as a bookmark. After her funeral, I put both programs together and placed them on top of the other papers I needed to make decisions about.

So where should these texts, which represent indescribable joy and crushing heartbreak, go? How often will I want to look at them? Or perhaps I should separate them, hiding the funeral program somewhere I am unlikely to come across it very often but keeping the wedding program close to hand.

I kept looking through the pile, past Christmas cards we had received this year. Then I came across the thank-you card from K.B. and Chris for the wedding gift we had given them, a movie-style popcorn machine. She expressed not only thanks but also the hope that we would go over and watch movies with them while munching popcorn made in our gift. That hadn’t happened yet; another one of those things we thought we had plenty of time to do.

The envelope for the card was there, too, with the address of the house she and Chris had moved into in the summer, the old house she had loved so much. Along with the envelope was the memory of being so impressed by her efficiency in getting her thank-you cards out so quickly!

It was the first time I had seen something with her handwriting on it since January 10^th.

Just a little ways below that card and envelope was the thank-you card for what I given her at the shower and for hosting the shower. She thanked me for a wooden carving board. It’s odd; I had completely forgotten what I had given her on that occasion. My main memory of that May afternoon had been the laughter and smiles all around as we celebrated K.B.’s and Chris’ upcoming nuptials. Chris’ sister brought a vase full of roses from Chris for K.B. Each rose had a label tied to it describing something Chris loved about K.B.

So what did I decide to do with these materials? Nothing. I ascertained that the document I was looking for was not in the pile, put everything back down, and walked away. Decisions can wait.

Ending the News Fast

Feb. 19^th 

Today I made tentative steps towards finding out about world events again. MayB’s sister had posted links on Facebook to news items about events in Ukraine, so I read a small amount of information about that topic. And I followed the “trending on Facebook” link to a BBC news item about an attack on members of Pussy Riot. Events in Venezuela certainly seem to be worthy of attention, too.

Little steps, little steps…towards what? I felt like saying “normalcy,” but I don’t know what that will be now. This particular extreme reaction—of not being able to bear to see or hear or read any news is so highly abnormal for me that it is hard to see how it can endure for a very long time, or mark a permanent change.

It’s as if someone gave me a good shaking, saying “Wake up! WAKE UP!” And something clicked in my brain: “Wait a minute! Stop being so self-focused! Educate yourself about what’s happening around the world!”

This development may mean I am moving from one phase of grief (shock?) to another, but what this new phase might be remains to be seen.

Limblessness

Feb. 18^th 

To lose someone very close to you is like losing a limb. As your lives become more intertwined, you expect them ever to be in your life. The phone calls, the visits, the shared new experiences, the e-mails, the exchanges on social media—why would these ever stop? Your “normal” is that you proceed through life on the assumption that the loved person will always be available when you are in a crisis or in need of advice or just in the midst of a thought you know only they will appreciate. You become as dependent on their love and support as you would one of your own limbs.

So what happens when you lose that limb? As Chris says, you can’t go back to the old normal, that’s gone. You just have to proceed with a new normal.

So we are all amputees now. We go on, as actual amputees do. We must adapt, somehow. But we must expect, too, the phantom twinges, the messages to our brains telling us that despite all evidence, our missing limb is still there. Because the impact of its loss is too much for the brain to absorb.

The other day the phone rang and even though the phone number was quite different from K.B.’s I convinced myself it was her number, and that she was calling me. It was only a moment or two before I was able to process what the phone number really was and realize the falsity of that thought. But in that second or two I was in that happy place where a phone call from K.B. was a real possibility and I was able to feel whole again.

One Step Forward, Two Steps Back

Feb. 17^th 

Last week I had to go through a presentation and an interview related to a possible promotion at my place of work. These tasks were welcome in that the preparation for them was so absorbing that they served as welcome distractions from other thoughts.

The presentation went well, I thought. I was immensely relieved that I hadn’t humiliated myself. In fact, I experienced a sense of elation, more because of the seemingly positive reaction of the audience than because my sense of job satisfaction relies on getting this promotion. But when I got back to my office my first thought was: yes, but K.B. is still dead.

The next morning I drove to my workplace for the interview. I still can’t listen to the news or current affairs shows, so I turned the radio dial to CBC2 and heard Yo-Yo Ma playing Bach’s Cello Suite No. 1 in G Major. Yes, I thought, this is what I want to hear. This only, for a very long time. The deep, plaintive tones of the solo cello, uncluttered by any other instruments, had a sort of purity that touched some part of me. Here was music I could listen to. (I downloaded it when I got home.)

The interview was also more like a pleasant conversation than an interrogation. That sense of elation returned after it was over. I think it comes from the satisfaction of a job well done, whatever the outcome might be. But with that sense of delight immediately came a sense of guilt: oh, this feels rather like happiness, and how can I be experiencing this when K.B. is dead?

Then yesterday afternoon friend numbness returned. I can’t think of a specific trigger, but as the hours passed the deadened feeling, like fog moving up the streets of a Newfoundland town, crept up to and around me. By the time people were arriving for games—we were having a little board games get-together—I was barely capable of being either a hostess or a gamer. In fact, my energy level was so low I really couldn’t do both. I incompetently taught a game to two friends, barely participated in a game they brought, and, once they left, was merely an observer of a game B. played with the young people.

As an introvert, I always find that social occasions, especially ones I host, drain me of energy as they go on (even though I like to think I am a relatively high-functioning introvert). What I am learning about myself is that grieving reduces my stores of social energy even more. At least at this point, the possibility that grief-induced numbness might affect my ability to entertain people needs to be factored into any plans for future events like this.

Shower Flashback

Feb. 15^th 

Today K.B.’s mother-in-law (BR) and sister-in-law (JH) came over to tea with JH's baby. Also present were my friend Y. and her mother, who happens to be a neighbour of BR’s and JH’s.

I had so wanted to know how BR and JH and her husband were doing, partly because they are lovely people and I have come to genuinely like them, but partly, too, because I know K.B. would want us all to still be in contact. In the last two years, K.B. had made sure that her friends had gotten to know the members of her new family.

I wonder about MayB’s theory that on some very deep level K.B. understood that she didn’t have long on this earth and wanted to make sure that those whom she loved were taken care of. She was the initiator of the connections, that is clear: she gave her children a new family, and she wanted the new family to be surrounded by her circle of friends.

Just before everyone arrived today, though, I nearly had another meltdown. I thought back to when BR and JH had been to my house before (the first time I had met BR). It was K.B.’s shower, May 11^th, 2013. JH and I had collaborated, her organizing the games and providing beautiful floral arrangements in teacups, me inviting people and serving tea and baked treats. JH was just weeks away from giving birth to her son, who would be K.B.’s and Chris’ godson. I felt the tears spring up but I suppressed them. I could hardly be crying when my guests arrived!

I still cannot believe it. The shower was just last May. Last May! That is mere months ago (and yet, enough time for JH’s son to be born and grow into a big baby, strong, interested in everyone, and sporting a tooth). It still feels like the shower just happened.

Late night

Feb. 13^th 

As I was falling asleep, this image drifted through my brain: an image of a fragment of pottery, falling, spinning. The glaze is iridescent, blue. The image becomes clearer: it is a piece of a broken teapot.

A Month

Feb. 13^th 

On Monday evening we went over to Chris’. It was our monthiversery, our monthly commemoration of the 10^th, the day on which we got married. Normally we do something like go out for supper; this time B. suggested we go to a movie. I just couldn’t summon up the will, though, even though I am much more of a “movie person” than B. and would normally be delighted by such an offer. I couldn’t celebrate; all that was on my mind was the fact that it was a month since my dear friend died.

A month—not terribly long. There had been times in our friendship when I would be away for 3 weeks or so. So we had spent nearly that amount of time away from one another. I can imagine, then, that this is just a little bit longer of a separation than normal, that the next phone call or e-mail could come at any time. Yes, I can imagine that.

So I was in no frame of mind to celebrate 43 months of wedded bliss. I apologized to the ever-understanding B. and suggested we might visit Chris, which is what we ended up doing, board games in hand.

Chris told us he had been busy with the final arrangements with the funeral home. He had brought K.B.’s ashes back to their place. I was riveted by this information. K.B.’s ashes were here? My brain tried to figure out a way to think about that. A weird feeling of dread—there are human remains in this house!—was rapidly succeeded by a need to feel that this was consoling: K.B. was here.

And then the realization set in: the physical remains of K.B. being at the house no more meant she was present than it might have meant she was at the funeral home, when I saw her at the viewing. She was not in the coffin; she was with us in the love and support we were able to give one another. And the same was true on Monday when we were at Chris’.  She was with us when B. and I came together with Chris and his daughter and engaged in one of K.B.’s favourite activities: games.

I experienced another moment of hesitation when we entered the dining room to sit down to play. I was having a flashback to the only time previously B. and I had played board games at their house. It was Sept. 1^st. K.B. had made the most amazing chocolate chip cookies; I begged her for the recipe (sadly, I hadn’t gotten it from her before she died). We played the Great Dalmuti, Apples to Apples, and the Awkward Family Photos game. At one point I talked to K.B. in the kitchen about my cat’s health problems (“Am I talking way too much about how constipated my cat is?” I asked her. “No, I’d tell you if you were,” she replied.)

On Monday night I sat on the same side of the table. I could see some of her collection of ornamental teapots on the shelves of the wall unit across the room. On top of the wall unit was a book I had loaned her before her wedding, My Dress, a collection of women writers’ stories about their wedding dresses. And of course, all the games. Chris hardly needed to say most of them were hers. What a wonderful dowry to bring into a marriage—board games!

It was delightful to be with Chris and his daughter and to lose ourselves in efforts to learn a new game or in the enjoyment of playing an old familiar one. But it was still hard. I thought, “How can it be that she won’t be walking around the corner from the kitchen into the dining room with a plate of toothsome delights at any moment? How can it be?”

And Yet Another Dream

Feb. 12^th, 7:30 a.m.

I just woke up from another upsetting dream. This time, I dreamt I was in a kitchen, rather like the one in my friends T.’s and BB’s house. I was listening to the local news on the radio and heard that BB, another one of my close female friends, had been killed in a car accident on her way to work out of town.

The scene shifted and a group of us friends were in T.’s and BB’s living room. We were visiting and trying to be consoling—even though BB was there! She brought out a tray of sweets with almond cake and chocolate cupcakes made by various people present. There was no attempt by anyone present to explain how BB could be dead yet still with us and serving us.

A very vivid dream from which I awoke with a start.

The Wisdom of MayB

Feb. 11^th 

Yesterday it was a month ago that K.B. died, just after midnight.

Today I saw MayB for the first time since we returned from our trip. The effect of seeing her and talking with her was like being a mountain-climber high up on one of the 8000-metre mountains suddenly taking a breath of oxygen. To be able to share my thoughts with a friend who had been so close to K.B. for such a long time felt like I was getting the gift of something that will sustain me.  

I needed to know how MayB was doing and whether she thought I was losing my mind in grief. She lost her mother when she was in her 20s; I needed to ask her what my new reality is going to be like.

She said that her approach has been denial and she doesn’t care whether that’s “healthy” or not. I get that; I am much more content thinking that at any moment K.B. might show up on my front step. I asked her how firm the imprint of grief is—am I permanently altered? Will I really never watch the news again? She thinks I will; a defining characteristic of grief is that it makes enjoyment of things one had previously treasured more difficult. As this acute state of grieving slowly morphs into something else, I might find the news more bearable again.

She had an interesting take on what might come of K.B.’s death. She thinks that there will be good things that happen as a result of it which we can as yet not perceive, or only barely perceive, such as the intensification of the connections between K.B.’s family and friends. She mentioned the positive outcomes for various family members that resulted from MayB’s mother’s early death and which would have been unforeseeable at that time.

She also feels that perhaps on some very deep level that K.B. knew she didn’t have long on this earth and that by finding and marrying Chris she found a way to safely tuck her two children into a new, loving, supportive family while she could. MayB also suggested that God took her from us so that we would appreciate more what she meant to us (“But I appreciated her a lot when she was alive, so that really wasn’t necessary,” I replied through my tears.)

We spoke, too, of blogging and whether I should put this journal up on the Internet, even though it might strike some as dark. She pointed out that grief is about being in the darkness; it would not be an authentic exploration of the realities of grief if that truth were avoided.

The Medical Perspective

Feb. 9^th 

A month ago she went into the hospital. She got up that morning and went to work but soon realized all was not well. She was taken to the hospital but there was no sense, from what Chris says, that the pain was life-threatening. And then the doctors decided she needed a CT scan…

People have asked me about the medical details. What did the autopsy find? Have the medical staff been called to account? Was there really nothing else they could have done?

I don’t know the answers to any of these questions and I don’t want to trouble Chris with them. I’ve done some cursory searching for information on the Internet, but I’ve seen contradictory statements. Nothing satisfies, although the more reliable medical websites tend to say no, there was really no way of knowing she had this allergy.

One site said one in 75,000 people have an allergy of this intensity to the contrast dye. If that is true, that seems like more people than I would have thought. It means there is another person in this city with the same allergy, several within the wider region. I pray for them all that they never need a CT scan.

Why do the tests if the dye can kill anyone at all? I suppose someone has weighed the costs and the benefits—they save the lives of far, far more people than they kill. You are told the risks before you have the test; you sign a form. But who ever declines to sign? K.B. was in pain and thought the test would help the doctors figure out how to stop it. Why would you say no if you were in her place?

But I don’t dwell on any of these medical questions. I don’t think more details would help me now. There is no point, at least not for me, in asking myself why no doctor or nurse was able to stop the unthinkable from happening. It did happen. A month of denying that truth has gotten me nowhere.

Visual “Noise”

Feb. 8th

In my last post I mentioned my increased sensitivity to noise in the last few weeks. I’ve also noticed this effect with visual “noise.” Too much “stuff” to be looked at can also be over-stimulating, exhausting. Last night we went with friends to see a showing at the local cinema of the compilation of Cannes prize-winning ads. These used to be funny and short. Now, in the Internet age, the ads are tediously long and pretentious. The first one was a Lady Gaga S&M-themed perfumed ad. There was too much to watch, and what there was was just so irritating that I nearly walked out of the theatre.

Then, tonight, after going to see “The Hunger Games: Catching Fire”—a film I enjoyed and which was engrossing enough to be distracting—I had another episode of sensitivity to visual “clutter.” The friend I was with and I were driving away from the mall which housed the movie theatre and it occurred to me that my friend (who was driving) might turn up the street where K.B. lived in an apartment building for two years, up until she got married last May. I haven’t passed that building or the house she previously lived in since her death.

Panic joined us in the car and agitation seized me. Could I plead with my friend not to turn up that street? But she was engrossed in telling me about troubles of her own. Fortunately, she didn’t turn up that street, but instead headed north on the main drag. But, as if in reaction to a near-confrontation with a place so associated with K.B., I felt oppressed with everything I saw out the window, a seemingly endless string of businesses with their colourful signs and lights and electronic billboards. I wanted to crawl out of the car and get away.

When this impulse hit me, my companion was telling me about her own state of anxiety. I forced myself to focus on what she was saying, to offer words of empathy. She is a dear friend, too, and she deserved my attention. When she dropped me off at home, she brought up the fact that she is still praying for me and for K.B.’s family. Just even to talk about K.B. for a little while with someone else who knew her and appreciated her eased the sense of panic and provided a bit of comfort after that unsettling episode.

Noise

Feb. 8^th

I have always been rather sensitive to noise. When I was a child, it would drive me crazy if I was watching TV in the living room and my mother would turn on the radio in the kitchen. The noises competing with one another were like fingernails down the blackboard. The sound of music leaking from someone else’s headphones when I’m trying to listen to a movie on a plane is teeth-grindingly annoying to me. When I’m working, I can only listen to instrumental music, as music with lyrics is too distracting.

I find that since K.B.’s death that this sensitivity to my aural landscape has intensified. I’ve listened to music on my phone or on the computer maybe once or twice since the 10^th of January. When I drive, I listen to CBC FM for classical music when that’s on. Even if it’s classical music that I don’t particularly like, I appreciate its wordlessness. It’s as if it is demanding nothing of me; I can just be with it. When CBC FM is playing non-classical music, I switch to the French CBC FM. They don’t play a lot of classical music (at least, not at the times I normally tune in), but given that my comprehension of sung French is pretty terrible, I can listen to the songs without having any clear idea of what they’re about. And that’s fine with me right now.

And yet, my normal mode of being is, during quiet times, to be singing a song in my head. I can’t stop that tendency. What is playing in my brain now is the soundtrack from the Buffy the Vampire Slayer episode, “Once More with Feeling.” It was available for viewing on the plane trip back from the Bahamas, so I watched it. I always loved those songs, and they captured so well the emotional states of the characters in the aftermath of Buffy’s death and resurrection. Certain lines stay with me—“Where do we go from here?,” “…in Heaven/I think I was in Heaven,” “Let me rest in peace…”—probably because they resonate with my thoughts these days; they are allowed to stay in my brain. It’s any additional music with words that feels like a distraction.