This

This is what dementia looks like.

This is a man who barely had a cold, who was active his whole life, who lived clean and never drank.

This is a man who lost his mother to dementia.

This is a father, a provider, a man with faith.

This is 64.

This is Me.

This is me trying.

This is me holding it all in and waiting for later to cry.

This is me telling my dad that I am Christina not Stephanie. 

This is a daughter who wants to run away.

This is 30.

*

This is us. 

This is our last picture together.

This is 2 months to go.

This is you, reaching for me.

This is me, so afraid.

This was 11 years ago.

This was beyond words. 

This got worse.

This taught me how strong I am.

This taught me how to watch someone you love take their last breath.

This taught me forgiveness.

Thank you. I love you.

17 years

Some years I have more words than tears 

Some years I almost make it to the day, before I break

Some years the week leading up to the day feels overwhelming 

Some years I yearn 

Some years I go through the motions

Most days I think of you

Most days I wonder what you would say to me now

Most days you are the tear in my heart that won’t heal

Most days I can still see your smile

Sometimes grief hits me in waves

Sometimes it slaps me across the face

Sometimes it quietly stabs me in the back

Sometimes the time between us is so long, it takes my breath away.
Sometimes I think I will grieve you for this lifetime 

Sometimes I wish that pain away 

The truth is you were my best friend

The truth is your death made me change my life

The truth is I am grateful for what I have, because of all you lost

The truth is I love you.

17 years. 

Dear John

Today my beautiful boy, you are 6 months and four days.

Even on this I’m a few days late of my goal.

Because you see, baby boy,  you are my second child. 

You often have to wait – hair needs to be brushed, dinner must be made, stories have to be heard.  Your sister is almost 6, and so full of life, she shines bright in our family.  And often you wait, a step behind.

You are so patient though, and glad just to be around her. She is the one who makes you laugh the most – those deep belly laughs that make me cry my heart is so full.

Right now, we are in the trenches. 
Day 4 of sleep training.  I’m just now getting 2 hour blocks of sleep – I refuse to let you cry it out, and this is our path.

It’s late summer, and hot as Hades. Most days I don’t even dress you. Truthfully I get looks and comments  now – from strangers even –  about your lack of cute wardrobe. But you are most happy in your diaper,  and I say let them talk.

Even that, I’ve given up cloth as we try this sleeping apart thing ( don’t even get me started about the eye rolls over cosleeping). I’m doing disposable because my brain is foggy, my eyes are filled with gritty sandpaper and my feet feel filled with led. It’s survival time.
Here’s the thing. Tonight  I fed you and cried.

Because you are just as much a miracle as the day I peed on that stick in the Trenton rest stop. As the day I pushed  (!) you out of my belly and felt like I had climbed mount everest. As the day you first smiled at me. 

I love you more than my heart can allow.

Your sister. You. Together you have shown me real peace. Real joy. 

Even when im knee deep in poop, and praying for ten minutes alone to shower, and coralling all of us into the van (daycare kids and all).

You are worth it. 

So don’t feel second, even though you wait.

Know in my heart, you are my first boy. 
One love, one life.

10

10 years have come and gone.

First house, engagement, walk down the aisle, first baby and now little John Allen.

You have missed them all. I have missed sharing them with you.

11 years ago, you were sick. You barely knew who I was most days. We didn’t know what was wrong or how to help you.

To be fair, I was so frozen in time, I barely knew how to help myself.

I was angry at you. For failing to protect me the way I thought you should have.

I was hurt. For choosing her when I felt the choice should have been obvious.

I was numb. From pushing the past down deep.

In the middle of losing you, I found a spark to find myself.

When you forgot my name, the one you had chosen for me, I  reminded you.

When you needed help walking, I held your hand.

When you didn’t want to eat, I fed you.

The roles had slowly switched, and somehow in caring for you, I found forgiveness.

And truly, not for you.

For us.

Because I knew in my heart what was coming. It all felt like a freight train barreling down the tracks, no brakes, whistle blowing.

Here’s what I know now – 1 marriage, 2 babies and 10 years later.

Yes, you hurt me. Yes, you were my parent. Yes, you should have made different choices.

I let all that go, and found you.

You did the best you could, with what you knew.

You didn’t give up – on me, on her, on us.

So I thank you. For loving me the best way you knew how. For guiding me when life wasn’t kind. For  standing tall when the winds blew so hard.

You loved me for your lifetime. I will love you for mine.

I miss you, Daddy.

At 6

At 6 i woke up, found myself and found fear

I found a parent who guided me there

At 6 i looked into your face
And knew you weren’t happy.

At 6 you told me of the outside world, of the men who could hurt me, take me away.

At 6, three feet tall, i felt so tiny.

At 6, i ran home from school, feet pounding, breathless.

It never felt fast enough to escape those lies nipping at my heels.

At 6 i bite my tongue so you don’t cry.

At 6 i saw my first glimpse of mental illness, without words to describe, without esteem enough to protect that girl.

…..

At  almost 6, her smile is so wide it can light up a room.

She dreams of rescuing others – police, firefighter, super hero – those are her forward plans

At almost 6 , she yells when she’s angry, cries when she’s frustration, forgives easily, apologizes quickly.

She is moving forward, pushing hard, holding tightly, so brave.

Thankfully this girl has taught her mama so much about healing, letting go and loving.

In my quest to protect, i will also let her fly.

At 6 she faces the world as her own girl.

Multiplied, not divided

Tonight i write this for you.
Because our time together, just you and me, is quickly drawing to a close.
This has, truly, been a time of such joy/awe/rawness for me – and i am sure for you too.
Little one, i realized something tonight.
Sitting in bed with your sister as she fell asleep. You were kicking in my belly. The house, and this night, settled around us.
My love will not be divided in two ( as i am sure most second time moms feel ). It will be multiplied by two.
And even though i couldn’t imagine loving anyone the way i love her – i am confident now in these final days – that i will hold you in my arms and wonder how i ever took a breath without you.
Often, we can choose to think about what has been taken away, what has been subtracted, from our lives.
One thing i have learned from your sister, and you now in the past 9 months, is that life will always throw you curves, will always test you, will always be changing.
How you choose to see those things is up to you.
I too have looked at my life in that way – let the pain own me, focused on what i had lost, what someone else had done to me. And when i did, those times were so filled with pain, and that pain lingered.
But when i embraced the change, the surprise, the twist in the road – i found love. And peace.
I never thought i would have another baby in my belly. That I would bring a new life, a new soul, into this world again.
Thank you for choosing me.
Thank you for this crazy ride.
Thank you for waiting 4.5 years, until I was ready and so unprepared at the same time.
Thank you for sharing this body with me, and each breath.
We love you.
When you are ready, let’s finally meet eye to eye.
I will be the one with tears in my eyes and love multiplied in my heart.

One love, one life

Do it for my Daddy

My father died almost 9 years ago – tomorrow in fact.

He was 64.

For all intents and purposes, before the last two years of his life, he was healthy.

the amount of times he had a cold or took time off of work for illness was less than a handful.

He walked kilometres at his job each day.

Although he had a small belly, his upper body was strong, legs powerful, mind taut.

He grew up a farm boy, worked from the moment he awoke to the moment he closed his eyes.

he did not smoke.

he did not drink.

he ate meat, potatoes and one vegetable for dinner each day, without fail.

he had one vice – one cup of coffee each day.

These lessons were implicit in my life – you worked hard, lived cleaned, played little and earned your place in this world.

But my father was a worrier.

He worried from the moment he woke up until he closed his eyes.

did we have enough money in the bank?

Was there enough water in the cistern?

was there enough wood for winter? would he be able to chop enough and stack it in time?

was there enough food planted in the garden? preserves for winter? canned goods and supplies for emergencies?

would there be enough? was he enough?

would car insurance go up? would our vehicles last? would his RRSP help us? What would happen if he died?

Would my mother be ok?

All these things, and many more unexplained fears, he internalized.

He pushed them down, there wasn’t enough time.

He shoved them away, there wasn’t enough space.

And in the end, I am convinced, this is what led to his early onset dementia.

He killed himself with fear.

He never faced his past, ran away from his present and worried about the future.

He was so strong for all of us, and so weak where it mattered – his own heart.

Over time, he slowly told me he loved me less. He hugged me less. we talked less.

Until the dementia hit, and then he told me – often, effusively, urgently.

Then he held my hand. Then time slowed down.

Then we kissed.

Then he put his arms around me.

Then it was enough.

Most fathers and daughters have a life long love affair. Not us. It was a long road back, we had gone 8 years without speaking. we met, somehow, in the middle of his dementia.

In that middle, i found the daddy i had missed, yearned for, wouldn’t admit i needed.

He met me there.

The dementia saved us, and saved me.

I learned i share the same heart murmur he had, the same broken heart, torn apart by fear.

This caused me to say goodbye to the race of a career, to search my inner wants and realize all i needed was love, family.

to turn inward.

to work on letting go of fear.

to stop running.

I will say, i still have fears, but they have lessened. i have learned to face them, head on, and do it anyway.

Lead from the head, with the heart.

so i urge you, i beg you…

Do it today. Don’t wait. Whatever it is. Now.

Live like you’re crazy. Hug. kiss.

Take those fears with you, do it anyway. Those are the moments that will take your breath away and break  your heart wide open.

Give it all up.

Talk more. Work less. Kiss more.

Do it for My Daddy.

Do it for yourself.

One love, One life.

a letter to myself on the eve of YTT

hey, just breathe.

no seriously, sit down for ten minutes and take it in.

Not because your life changes inexplicably tomorrow – because it won’t. and probably not a week from now.  but starting tomorrow, and every day after, you will be different.  you will grow.

now wait.

don’t worry, it will work out.

don’t think about how you’re almost 39 – who starts a new path at 39????

ignore that you’re five foot one – and that’s being generous.  whoever heard of a short yoga instructor.

don’t look at those wrinkles, your tummy shelf, how your legs are definitely not the same length.

try to ignore the fact that your hamstrings are so tight these days, i’m surprised they don’t pop when you bend over.

just stop.

because tonight you’re on the cusp of something new. something just for you.

somehow you will juggle a full time job, run a daycare, take care and love 4 kids who aren’t your own.  somehow you will find time to shower, to make soap, to have a bath.  you will spend time with the people who you love the most.  you will still find time for friends. time with Tegan and John won’t disappear.

the housework will be done – or it won’t. either way, it’s not a deal breaker. the car will fill up with gas. groceries will be bought. the fridge will be full.

life will happen with you, around you, for you.

so breath.

you’re about to begin a new journey, this time just for you. Remember what everyone said when you asked them what their training was like – that same soft smile and quick reply ‘it will change you in ways you can’t imagine. it will be hard, but it will be worth it’. Remember that’s what they said about motherhood – and they were right.

Hang on tight to,

One love, One life.

A Goodbye for a friend

almost 15 years ago now, i was asked to write a eulogy – my first, and to this day, only.

The day after you died, i stayed up until 3am – i couldn’t sleep, i didn’t want to sleep – somehow i kept imagining this was just a long, horrible dream and i would wake up from it.

that never happened.

at 5am, on two hours sleep, i wrote your eulogy Julie. Beginning to end, in one sitting, in less than 30 minutes.

the day i stood in front of our family, all our friends, the hundreds of people who came to say goodbye – it changed me.

and i have been grateful ever since.

then i tucked it away, and kept it only for myself.  i brought it out on days i needed to feel close to you, to remind myself that choices have consequences, that life can change in a heartbeat, that each day i had you really did happen – you weren’t just a sad story.

today i’m sharing it. I hope it helps others understand, heal, be brave, love you even more:

Last Saturday, February the fifth, Julie Anne Armour was taken from us. She was a
daughter, sister, cousin, niece, aunt, grandchild, friend, artist and finally, a mother.
She was born August 9th, 1977, Julie: meaning soft-haired and youthful; and Anne:
meaning full of grace. She will forever be those things.
I didn’t know how I would find the words, but somehow I had to find a way – and I
believe she is with me, even now, helping me be strong. We all knew Julie in different
ways, different capacities, and all our memories of her won’t be the same, but we’re all
here because she meant something to us, and we need to say goodbye.
In a family as large as ours, to be the 18th grandchild could only mean one thing
-and that was listening to the 17th. That person was me. For Julie, it meant almost
eating yellow snow when I convinced her it would taste good. She trustingly and
willingly scooped up a handful and brought it up to her mouth – and I knew in that moment
she loved me completely, trusted me without doubt – and I told her not to eat it and
knocked it from her hand. That day I became her protector.
When she fell down in the snow, walking from her house to our grandparents’ on
Fairbairn Street, I went back for her, where her water-logged snowpants had become too
much, and she’d given up and cried – it was me who picked her up.
When bullies at school in Norwood just wouldn’t leave her alone, we went together
to the playground where I beat them up and chased them away on their bikes – they never
bothered her again.
For a brief period of time when she was four or five, Julie believed she was a
horse. She would only neigh, not speak, and moved her ‘hoof’ once for yes, twice for no
– until a certain cousin, yes it was me, asked her why she was being so stupid, she
wasn’t a horse – and she stopped pretending.
She was Julie Anne Tin Can Copper Kettle Brass Pan, but she was so much more. She
was my best friend, my whole life, the little sister I always wanted, and for a time the
one I was lucky enough to have.
She loved horses, animals, her dog Tina. She was an artist – she showed me her
sketchbook, filled with love. Julie was shy and quiet – quiet only because as she used
to tease me by saying I spoke enough for the both of us.
Raised in the Catholic and Protestant faiths, Julie knew God and loved him. I
pray she’s with him now. She was stubborn, and loving.
She loved Nathan with her entire soul, every time we talked about him, which was
often, her eyes lit up. I truly believe he was, and still is, her soulmate. On
Christmas Day, Nathan asked her to marry him – and it was an excited voice, and the first
thing I heard from her lips that morning when we spoke.
The last day I saw her, we went for a walk. Just the two of us, the baby came
along too. She’d given up trying to fit into her overallS, said that she couldn’t do up
the last buttons on them anymore. We laughed, said she needed the exercise – she’d
gained another two pounds. I teased her how she waddled like a duck – and she laughed,
and then asked me to be with her when the baby came because she’d need someone to make
her laugh then.

I went with her to the doctor’s 3 weeks ago. And I cried when I heard
the heartbeat and Julie held my hand and we smiled and laughed. I’ve known her my whole
life, I’ve never seen her so happy, so calm, as she was in the past month.
I thought all along I was the strong one – but I was wrong. Her silent strength
only gave mine words.
I don’t know why she’s gone, if it was God’s plan or her time. I’ve been angry –
at God, at her, for leaving me. I’ve been powerless, out of control, fearful, and in
pain. In all of this, I love her.
What we need to do now is lean on each other, talk to each other about her to keep
her memory alive, live each day, love each day.
Pray for Aunt Susan, Uncle Dennis. Charlie and Chris. Pray for Nathan. Pray for us all.
Just before I cajoled Julie outside into the cold air for our walk, she made me
stop, listen to something, a song by Mariah Carey. She told me she’d been listening to
her album all morning. So I sat and l listened and then we walked and talked and I said
goodbye.

This is that song, I think now she’d want me to share it.
Butterfly by Mariah Carey
When you love someone so deeply
They become your life
It’s easy to succumb to overwhelming fears inside
Blindly I imagined I could
Keep you under glass
Now I understand to hold you
I must open my hands
and watch you rise
I have learned that beauty
has to flourish in the light
Wild horse run unbridled
or their spiri t dies
You have given me the courage
to be all that I can
And I truly feel your heart will
lead you back to me
when you’re ready to land
I can’t pretend these tears
Aren’t overflowing steadily
I can’t prevent this hurt from
Taking over me
But” I will stand and say goodbye
for you’ll never be mine
Until you know the way it feels to fly
Spread your wings and prepare to fly.

You became a butterfly.
Fly, My Butterfly.

One love, One life

15

15 years

i remember when the next 15 minutes felt like a landslide carrying me away, like a huge weight pressing down on my chest, an eternity.

10 years i had a baby, in 10 minutes yours was gone.

5 years my dad got sick, in 5 minutes i held yours while he sobbed at the funeral.

1 year i visited where you last felt cold air, saw the sky. in 1 minute a man reached for a toy and you paid the price.

i wish someone could tell me how to live a life without your best friend. i wish someone could tell me how to explain that 15 minutes feels like 15 seconds some days since i found out you had died.

I used to believe in the finality of our last goodbye, and i have learned since then that you have never really left me because i have never really let you go – though people tried to tell me i needed to do that.

here’s what i would like to do today:

come over, have a coffee. let’s talk. it doesn’t matter about what. lets laugh. lets say goodbye and know we have another chance to do it all over again.  let’s take each other for granted, and argue. then call each other and rush to apologize.  let’s make each other crazy with stories about when we were kids. let’s hug.

can i say this?

i haven’t stopped loving you.

There’s only a handful of people in my life now who knew you, who loved you the way i did. sadly, we don’t really talk anymore – i can’t explain how pain changes a relationship but i know it does. twists it into silence and makes you turn away.  you would have hated that. told me to suck it up. told me to ignore those hurtful words, to just keep going.

i did, Julie.

but i never took a step alone.

thanks for that.

your death gave me a courage i never knew i had. it dragged me to deep dark places i never want to see again.  it helped me get out of bed when  i didn’t think i could. it spurred me on.  it made me angry. it made me want to forgive. it broke me wide open, and healed me.

at 15, i am mommy, wife, friend, sister, daughter.

i am, and you will always be,

One love, one life.