Happy Heavenly Birthday, Dear Youngest Sister

February 20, 2024

Saturday

February 10, 2024

Few days have passed when I don’t think of my sister Jacquelin and wish we could speak again, drink coffee together, and walk in the ravine. I know full well she wasn’t a cold-weather person, but perhaps she’d agree to a snow shoe.

Had Jacquelin not died, she’d be living out her fifty-eighth year. She would have attended brother-in-law Owen’s Celebration of Life and our own father’s funeral. At the passing of Winnie and Zachary she would have called both times to comfort me.

She would know that I worry about Jack. He’s too thin. She would like where I’ve hung the artwork she left behind.

To her I would say, “Jacq, I’m so sorry you got swallowed in sadness.” I can imagine her response: “Don’t worry about it, Beverley. I’m okay now. I’m at peace and I want you to be too.”

Anger, Fear and Appetite

My night’s sleep had been erratic, which is why I didn’t feel compelled to go to church. Instead, Jack and I spent extra time drinking coffee before we made a dump run. The task not only cleared the land, it cleared the air. The day before had been emotionally taxing. On the bright side, the tension conjured up my determination to clean the mess left behind by the renovation crew. l shake my head at their ultimate disregard to finish a job. No wonder Jack was so irritated.

But the anger is doing him no good. His appetite wanes. His stomach bothers him and he’s too thin. (When I read this part to him, he said, “But I’ve been eating better, lately.” Then he verbalized what he’d consumed: a banana, a bacon and tomato sandwich, an Ensure… ”)

During the night when I snuggled into his side, I felt his boniness. I was reminded of my mother who hid her thinness under bulky clothes. At 3am I reached for my phone and read about the link between weight loss and cancer. In light of what I expected to find, I was somewhat comforted by a recent MRI result. Brain oncologist, Dr. Segal, reported positive news. “All clear, Jack. See you in three or four months.” He will keep an eye on Jack’s brain. That’s very good. Dr. Segal said, “If the cancer comes back, we want to catch it early.” Jack has an April appointment with his other oncologist Dr. Chang. Since COVID appointments have been virtual, but now I encourage Jack to push for a face-to-face follow-up. A Toronto trip together is not a bad thing.

 

When our water filters were in dire need of changing, I insisted we go into the basement and figure out things together. Jack said he didn’t feel well. My head spun… procrastination? lack of confidence? “You used to do this,” I said, attempting to boost assurance. At the same time, I regretted not watching the plumbers. Next time. Or, as one good friend is apt to say, “Bev, for goodness sake, hire someone!”

A Little Support from a Friend

I turned my energy to cleaning up the mess left by the renovation crew. That sled I bought a couple of years ago was put to good use. Meanwhile, and unbeknown to me, Jack called John K for help with the filters. That was wise. After the work was done John mentioned Jack’s wheezing to me and over coffee, the three of us talked about appetite. John asked a pointed question: “How many meals do you eat each day?” and then he encouraged Jack to eat more.

A Grief Wave

I am afloat. I am demotivated and not compelled to even go for a walk. Grief envelopes me. Fortunately, the warmth of the fireplace offers comfort and I embrace permission to be still.

Fearless in the Dark

Our dogs are no longer with us and I wonder how I will feel when I am alone in the cottage’s remote location. With the company of Winnie and Zachary, and other pets before them, I was emboldened to be alone. When my cats Raspie and Cleo filled the space, I felt fearless. In the shadows, my eyes followed the direction of their pointed ears to the possibility of soft footed critters on the outside. Zach and Winnie were just as alert, except noisier.

A Crisp Memory of Trust in the Kitchen

As an uninhibited cook, both dogs often scored an extra treat when a rogue vegetable hit the floor. In our kitchen, we hardly had to sweep. When I prepared meals, and especially during cleanup, I was heartened by Winnie’s one-eyed surveillance from the couch. Zachary, who preferred to be near, arranged himself in the middle of the kitchen and we hardly got in one another’s way. This conjures up a memory of my mother who once said to me, “You and I are good in the kitchen together.”

Gratitude

Their individual personalities were distinct, but their souls were equally generous. Winnie and Zachary brought copious amounts of joy. Thank you God, for the time we had with them. I’m sad it had to be too short. My heart is heavy. My throat is tight and my stomach churns. Grief is hard. Unrelenting. I can only lean into time for death’s rawness to be released.

Monday

February 12, 2024

Winnie left us sixty-four days ago, and Zachary has been gone over a week. Death and loss have set the stage for change. When I wake, there is near silence. Soundless, Jack lay beside me and I haven’t yet checked if he’s asleep. From my place on the pillow, I see treetops covered in fresh snow. I tell myself, beautiful and worth getting up for.

I miss the drum of sturdy tails and prancing paws. I yearn to retouch velvety heads with sparkling brown eyes that warmed my heart, as did wet snouts that poked under the duvet. “Good morning!” they said. Oh how I miss that exuberant start to my day.

Last evening we gathered with good friends to celebrate three things: Super Bowl, Chinese New Year and because it was only a few days away, Valentine’s Day. In their cottage, I appreciated the glow of the propane fireplace. The men gravitated to one side of the room and the women to the other. I can’t be sure what the men discussed, but whatever their topics, all three were engrossed. It was good to hear scoffs, chuckles and robust laughter.

On the coffee table was a spread of appetizers: Korean style ribs (delicious), a shrimp tray and baked nachos with an assortment of dips. To quench our thirsts, some of us drank Bloody Caesars, wine, and best-tasting well-water.

Us three women sat close to one another on a sink-worthy couch. It didn’t take long for small talk to be steeped in tenderness. No tears were shed, but moist eyes glistened in muted light. We were talking about losing someone loved deeply.

 At half time, we indulged in baked chili and homemade corn bread. Scrumptious, the man knows how to bring those chili spices to life! There was coleslaw too, but it got forgotten in the refrigerator. “That will be tomorrow’s lunch,” someone said.

While we conversed, images of the rich and famous flashed across the television screen––Taylor Swift, Lady Gaga, Alicia Keys. It was fun to share tidbits about what each of us had read about their lives.

It didn’t take long for table talk to circle back to death and loss and what it means to grieve. I talked about a Facebook message received from my cousin. His note was among many other consoling messages. Jamie wrote, “So sad to hear the news. Always such a difficult time because, he is not considered a pet, but a loved one. And only time can heal. One thing for sure, Zach should not have any trouble making the transition. You and Jack have already given Zach a life that was as close to dog Heaven, as one could get.

 

In the night of death, hope sees a start, and listening love can hear the rustle of a wing.

A Spirit Passes Through

Tonight is the four-year anniversary of my father’s death, February 13, 2020. Have I mentioned that February is an intense month? His time in palliative care had been peaceful and I felt especially close to my dad during this part of his journey. On one of my visits he told me that his father was in the room.

            “Can you see him?” he asked.

            “No. Is he here?”

             “Yes. Right there.” My dad was propped up on three pillows and pointed to the space beside me. “See him?”

            “No.” How I wanted to.

            “He’s been here before,” he said.

            “Really?”

            “Yes. Twice.”

I imagined those moments. Did my pragmatic and contemplative father have to pinch himself? From what I could tell, Dad held no doubt about what he was seeing.

It is not uncommon to hear about such visits. My dad’s brother, who died a short time earlier, described a similar visit that incited no fear. From what I understood, my grandfather’s spirit brought comfort.

What does it take to have an experience with a ghost or spirit? Why do some people get the opportunity and others not? I have a hunch. With no indication of my father’s propensity to believe in spirits or ghosts (unlike my mother who read tea leaves and was known to go to a psychic), I suspect he was open to mythical mysteries and that’s why he had the privilege of his father’s gentle company.

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