Loss

Where was God?

/ edebock / 11 Comments

Sitting down to write a blog post seems almost frivolous in light of the horrific events that have unfolded in Texas and New Mexico over the past week and a bit. We’ve seen whole buildings washed downstream like bits of flotsam. We can’t look at the news or scroll through social media (something I admit to doing way too much of) without seeing the faces of adults and children who were swept away by a raging torrent. We read agonizing reports from those who sift through the debris searching first for survivors and now for bodies to bring some sense of closure to grieving families.

How can I, who loved going to summer camp year after year when I was growing up, wrap my head around Camp Mystic? As an adult, I’ve slept in dusty old camp cabins with groups of little girls under my care. Some of those same cabins were later swept away by a flood, but thankfully no one was in them at the time. As a parent, I’ve packed up my own children and sent them off to camp trusting that they’d come home with happy stories of their time away.

I can easily imagine the whispers and giggles of little girls settling into their bunks for the night, but then came the nightmare; the rushing waters that weren’t just a bad dream. How can we even begin to process that?

Where was God in this? Couldn’t He have stopped the flood? Couldn’t He have saved every one of those lives? Why did He let this happen? Those are hard questions. Questions that might shake a person’s faith. Questions that don’t have easy answers.

I’m not here to give pat answers, to try to explain the unexplainable. I will simply tell you what I know and that is that God is still present and He is still good. This tragedy is not a sign of His anger or His judgement. He was there in the chaos and He is there for those who were left behind to grieve. Yes, He could have stopped it from happening, but for reasons that are far beyond my understanding, He chose not to.

This is not a time for speculation as to causes or for blame. It is a time for grieving, for lament, for prayer, and for reflection. It is also a time when we are reminded of the brevity and the fragility of life. Perhaps it should be a time for reevaluation. A time to ask, what am I doing with the time I’ve been given? Will my life make a difference? Am I ready for eternity?

What not to say to grieving parents

/ edebock / 10 Comments

This has been a very tough week. Young friends of ours were involved in a tragic accident that took the life of one of their children. Two others are still in critical condition. Immediately after the accident occurred, we were called and asked to go to the hospital because, as parents who lost a child a long time ago, “you will know what to do.”

What do you do in a situation like that? What do you say? We went, but we said very little. There really are no words that are adequate at a time like that. A hug, a gentle touch, or even just your presence might be all that is needed.

Sometimes even the most well-intentioned words can be hurtful, so here are a few things not to say to a grieving parent.

  1.  “I know how you feel.” No, you don’t! Regardless of how close you are or even if you’ve lost a child yourself, you can’t know how another person feels.
  2. “She’s in a better place.” Even if you believe that to be true, it doesn’t address the parent’s tremendous sense of loss. A parent wants their child to be right here, right now.
  3. “God must have needed another angel.” First of all, that’s theologically unsound. People don’t become angels when they die and even if they did, according to Revelation 5:11 God has “thousands upon thousands” of angels. He doesn’t need another one. 
  4. “Everything happens for a reason.” What possible comfort could that be to a parent who has lost a child?
  5. “At least you have other children.” or “You can always have another child.” While these statements might be true, one child can never replace another. 
  6. “Be thankful for the time you had with him.” Unless the parent expresses this sentiment themselves, it’s not appropriate to tell them how they should feel. 
  7. “Call me if there’s anything I can do.” While this is a generous thought, asking for help is difficult at the best of times and a parent in the midst of profound grief might not even know what they need. Instead, look for something specific that you can to do, then offer or if it’s appropriate, simply go ahead and do it.
  8. Finally, try not to make suggestions about what you think they should or shouldn’t do. As Ernest Hemingway once said, “In our darkest moments, we don’t need advice.”

Do offer sincere condolences. It’s enough to simply say, “I’m so sorry for your loss.” Don’t be afraid to show emotion and as time goes by, don’t hesitate to mention the child by name and to share favourite memories of him. 

Lastly, remember that the old adage “time heals all wounds” is not true. While the intense pain of immediate loss does soften with time, a parent’s heart never truly heals. We don’t “get over” our loss, we simply learn to live with it.  

Farewell dear friend

/ edebock / 22 Comments

There’s a party going on in heaven today. I’m absolutely certain of it! Our dear friend, Mary, went to be with her Lord in the wee hours of this morning and our loss is definitely heaven’s gain.

Mary Cameron 1917 - 2015

Mary Cameron
1917 – 2015

Photo: Deborah Proctor

 

Life was not always kind to Mary, but she took it in stride and never lost her fiery spirit. She came to Canada from her beloved Ireland as a war bride, leaving behind a home equipped with all the conveniences of the day and finding herself on the lonely Canadian prairie without electricity or running water. She knew the heartbreak of losing a child and endured the break-up of her marriage, but oh how fiercely she loved and how vibrantly she laughed! At 98 years old, Mary still lived alone in her own house and took part in activities at the local seniors’ centre where she was an avid bridge player. She stopped coming to church regularly only when we all stopped speaking loud enough for her to hear us. Of course, it couldn’t possibly have been that her hearing was going!

Mary was tiny in body, but huge in character. For the past twenty years or more, she was known as my husband’s “other wife.” At the reception following the funeral of an elderly gentleman from our church, a lady from out of town met Mary and the two of them struck up a conversation. Later in the afternoon, before she left, the lady returned to Mary’s table to bid her good bye. At that point, Richard was sitting beside Mary and the woman, obviously without looking too closely, said “Oh, this must be your husband.” Mary immediately went off into peals of laughter and from that moment on, always referred to Richard, who was 33 years her junior, as her husband. She loved nothing better than to raise eyebrows by referring to him as such in public settings where she would then have to tell the story of how she became his “other wife.”

Richard was MC at Mary’s 98th birthday celebration just three weeks ago where she was as bright and vibrant as ever. Sadly, I wasn’t able to be there as I’d had a treatment earlier that week and was radioactive. I was looking forward to popping over and having tea with her as soon as I felt well enough (that’s a story for another day) but now I’ll have to wait until we meet again on the streets of gold.

Mary was especially close to our youngest son, Nate. During his teenage years, she hired him to do her yard work. When he finished, she’d always have a cold pop waiting for him and they would sit and visit. Since he’s been grown and gone from home, whenever Mary saw me, she’d ask how “her boy” was doing and when he was coming home again. When he did, even if if it was only for the day, he’d almost always drop in to see her.

Three years ago, when Richard and I were performing in a community theatre production, Nate came home to attend one of our dinner theatre performances and took Mary as his date! Like any good date would, he took flowers when he went to pick her up and when I stopped by their table after the performance, she was glowing!

IMG_9137

Mary was always one to speak her mind and you never knew for sure what she might say! The first time Nate brought Colleen home, he took her over to meet Mary who, after spending a few minutes getting to know his girl, expressed her approval by telling him that she was very happy that he hadn’t brought home a trollop! That’s a Maryism that won’t soon be forgotten! I’m sure it will long be part of our family lore.

While chatting with my daughter this afternoon, I asked her how I could possibly put our Mary into words and she gave me a great illustration. I’m not a Dr. Who fan like she is, but according to Melaina, Mary was like the TARDIS, Dr. Who’s time machine/spaceship, “small on the outside, but endless on the inside.” Yes, our lives will definitely be a little less colourful without Mary in them, but oh how blessed we are to have known her!

Losing my mother and finding her again

/ edebock / 25 Comments

One night last week, my 92 year old mother went to sleep and didn’t wake up.

When the phone call came the following morning, my initial reaction was shock. It wasn’t completely unexpected but when I’d talked to Dad a couple of days earlier, there were no warning signs; nothing to indicate that the end was so near.

I went through the motions that day, showing up for my treatment and shedding a few tears behind my radiation mask, but as I thought about it, I couldn’t help believing that it was for the best. Mom died in her own bed in the building next to Dad’s in the care complex where they’ve lived for the past few months. She didn’t linger in a hospital bed and we didn’t have to sit helplessly by and watch her suffer.

The timing bothered me because, in the middle of radiation treatments, I couldn’t simply drop everything and fly out to Vancouver. The family has been wonderful, however, agreeing to postpone gathering for a memorial service until my treatments are complete. Dad, ever the stoic, put my needs before his own, feeling it was important to ensure that everyone who wanted to attend would be able to.

And so we wait. I don’t know about the rest of the family, but in the past few days, I’ve begun to experience a sense of closure. In a way, my Mom has already been gone for a very long time. She started to sink into the depths of dementia a long time ago. In fact, I don’t remember the last time I had a real conversation with her, one where she was fully cognizant and engaged, one where she truly knew who I was. In recent years, she’s been trapped in a body that was blind, incontinent and confined to a wheelchair. More recently, she’d started to lose her ability to swallow and could only consume pureed food and thickened liquids. In spite of it all, she managed to retain her sweet spirit, but that’s no way to have to live.

Dad burned himself out trying to care for her before finally recognizing that he couldn’t do it any longer and worrying about the two of them was hugely stressful for the rest of us. Now it’s over. She is at peace and we have only Dad to worry about. As I work on writing her eulogy, I can begin to put aside the agony of watching her mind fade into the mist of confusion and her body fail. I can dig deeper and revive some of my earlier memories, the warm and funny memories of a mother and grandmother who loved her family above all else. It’s actually a pleasant way to mourn.

In preparation for the memorial service later this month, I’ve been digging through boxes of old family photographs that are stored at my place and flipping through my photo albums putting together a pictorial display of Mom’s life. In the process, I’ve been finding more than pictures; I’ve been finding memories. Stories that Mom told us about her early life have been coming back to me and I’ve been reliving births, graduations and weddings as well as the day to day events recorded in the pictures. I even found a photo that I don’t ever remember seeing before. Here we are, Mom and I, when I was under two!

Mom & I

In losing my mother, I think I’m beginning to find her again!

Christmas magic

/ edebock / 10 Comments

In one of her recent posts, LouAnn who writes On the Homefront, asked a pertinent question.

So what proof do you have of the magic of Christmas? What is your “kernel” of Christmas magic?  

My mind immediately went back to one of my most poignant Christmas memories. Ten years ago, it captured the imagination of Laura Eggertson, now a self-employed writer, editor and freelance journalist who was, at that time, writing for Homemaker’s magazine. Here’s the introduction to her December 2002 Special Feature entitle Christmas Kindness.

“The knock on the door came late on Christmas Eve, as Elaine and Richard DeBock were putting their children to bed. The family had just returned from a service at their church in Sedgewick, Alta., a small town southeast of Edmonton.

The DeBocks’ four-year-old daughter, Janina, was home from hospital after an eight-week stay. She was dying of leukemia. Though Elaine still had hope, she knew this would likely be Janina’s last Christmas. As she tried to make it a joyous occasion, she also battled her sorrow.

When she opened the door, the bearded figure on the front stoop was one the children were expecting – though a complete surprise to the DeBocks. There stood Santa Claus and, without a word, he nodded to the adults and strode in, gifts in hand for Janina and her two-year-old brother. Barely stopping to register the children’s wide-eyed delight, he waved a mitten-clad hand and was gone.

“To this day, 20 years later, we have no idea who the kind stranger was who helped make our little girl’s last Christmas a magical one,” says DeBock, a teacher who still lives in Sedgewick. “I believe in Santa Claus.”

The anonymous Santa gave the DeBocks a Christmas they will never forget. Though the circumstances were exceptional, the gesture was born of a more ordinary gift: simple kindness.”

We’re approaching our 30th Christmas since the one described above. Many people helped lighten our load during those dark days but none was quite as magical as the anonymous Santa. Such a simple act of kindness, yet we were blessed so profoundly.

I often thought that if I learned the identity of the unknown Santa, the magic might be lost but not so.  The mystery was solved just a few years ago when his mother, back in town to play in our annual ladies golf tournament, happened to mention the incident to me. He was just a young man with a big heart. Like the rest of our small community, he knew what we were going through and wanted to help.

Maybe that’s the magic of Christmas… reaching out in love to help someone in need. After all, isn’t that what the babe in the manger was all about?

“I have come that they may have life, and have it to the full.”  

John 10:10

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Alzheimer’s is robbing me of my mother

/ edebock / 16 Comments

I originally started this blog to chronicle our travels when we moved to Japan to teach English for a year. For the past several years, our family has also been on a journey of a very different kind as we’ve watched my mother gradually spiral downward and disappear into the depths of Alzheimer’s disease but I haven’t felt at liberty to blog about it until now. Until recently, my father, who is a very private person and also Mom’s primary caregiver, has been one of my most faithful readers. Out of respect for him, I didn’t share our journey publicly but now that his very old computer has died and he’s discontinued his internet service, I feel free to write about it.

I still remember the summer visit several years ago when I first had an inkling that something was wrong. I mentioned one of Mom’s grandchildren and she had no idea who I was talking about. Her question, “Who’s Jessica?” was for me one of those life changing moments when my entire world seemed to shift on its axis. I lay awake at night wondering what the future would hold and experiencing for the first time a deep sense of anxiety that has become more and more familiar to me.

Over the ensuing years, the mother that I grew up with has disappeared and parent has gradually become child. It has been a fairly slow decline. Many times, Mom would seem to slip very noticeably and then plateau for a time giving us a chance to get used to the changes before more drastic ones surfaced. Unfortunately, Dad seemed to be in denial for the longest time making it impossible for us to discuss the situation with him or to be of much help. It’s only in the last year that Mom’s condition has been clearly identified as Alzheimer’s disease and that we’ve been able to talk about it openly. The situation is made worse by the fact that my sister, my younger brother and I live in Alberta while Mom and Dad are here in Vancouver. Only our older brother, mentally handicapped and himself living in care, and our oldest son Matthew are here at the coast. We really can’t saddle Matthew, in his second year of a law career, renovating a house and parenting two very young children with the responsibility of watching out for his elderly grandparents. He and Robin visit as often as they can and do their best to keep us informed of any changes or problems that they notice.

The blessing in all of this, if there is such a thing, is the fact that Mom’s decline didn’t begin until she was over 80. Dad retired at 59 and they spent the next two decades following their dreams and travelling the world. They visited over 60 countries spending more than a year in Europe and 9 months in Australia. (I come by my gypsy blood honestly!) They took their last big trip 8 years ago when they flew to the Dominican Republic to celebrate their 55th wedding anniversary.

For the past few years, it’s been a chore to get Mom to leave their apartment. Now, at 89 years old, she is incontinent, legally blind and confined to a wheelchair. Though these infirmities are fairly recent developments, in Mom’s mind she’s suffered from them for most of her life and she’s constantly coming up with fanciful explanations that are in no way grounded in reality. Last night she told us that people are trying to poison her with peanut butter which has always been a favourite of hers! Sometimes all we can do is laugh. It’s either that or cry. She’s clearly in the sixth of the seven clinical stages of Alzheimer’s and needs constant care and supervision.

After 63 years of marriage, Dad refuses to allow them to be separated and insists on caring for her himself. He’s clearly wearing out and we don’t know how much longer he’ll be able to keep this up but he’s of sound mind and has the right to live life the way he chooses. There are those who suggest that we, as a family, should try to force him to put Mom into care but we are firm believers in the fifth commandment and we know of no other way to honour our parents than to allow them to live out their final years the way they want to while being as supportive as we can given our own circumstances.

This, of course, means more frequent visits. This is our third trip to Vancouver this year and each of my siblings has also been here. When we’re here, we thoroughly clean the apartment, a job that Dad has a hard time keeping up with these days, and try to provide opportunities for him to get out and have a break. This week, he even went on a forest adventure with great grandson, Sam!

Having Matt, Robin, Sam and little Nate here in Vancouver is indeed a blessing at this time in our lives. Visits to Vancouver would be much more difficult if we didn’t have them to stay with some of the time and, of course, grandchildren provide such wonderful stress relief!

Mom with her youngest great grandchild, Nate, in March 2011

What can I say?

/ edebock / 8 Comments

My heart is heavy today.

In July of 1982, our four-year-old daughter was diagnosed with leukemia. Initially, she responded well to the treatments and the disease was soon in remission. It didn’t last. On Oct. 5, my 30th birthday, we were told that she had relapsed. That led to an eight week stay in the children’s cancer ward at the University Hospital in Edmonton. Shortly after we arrived, I met another young couple from Sedgewick in the hospital corridor. Robie was a former student of mine and I knew her husband, Perry, vaguely. They were carrying their infant son, Brett, who was covered in bruises, a common symptom of leukemia. I still remember the horrible feeling in the pit of my stomach when I realized that another child from our tiny town was suffering from the same terrible disease.

The next year was a long and difficult one for both our families. Early in June, Robie and Perry lost their beloved Brett just short of his second birthday. Our Janina followed three months later. Richard and I had three-year-old, Matthew, and our brand new daughter, Melaina, to keep us from completely falling to pieces but Robie and Perry’s arms were empty.

The following year joy revisited both families. On July 10, the day that would have been Janina’s sixth birthday, Robie gave birth to Brendyn Brett and exactly two weeks later, we were blessed by the birth of our adopted son, Nathan. Our boys were dedicated to the Lord in the same Sunday morning service with our pastor and Robie’s father, a retired United Church minister, both participating in the ceremony. Over the next few years, two more sons were added to Robie and Perry’s family. As time went by, our paths went in different directions and we didn’t maintain a close relationship but the bond of common loss remained.

Late the night before last, less than three weeks after the birth of his first child, Greyson Brett, 27-year-old Brendyn died in a tragic accident.

What can I say?

Losing a child is every parent’s worse nightmare. Losing a second one, unimaginable. As a child, our Matthew was severely asthmatic and medications weren’t what they are today. In the early days after his sister’s death, he was often very sick. I remember standing at his sister’s graveside railing at God and pleading that I would not have to put another of my children in the ground. I cannot begin to imagine the anguish that Robie and Perry are experiencing today.

What can I say? 

Today my Facebook status says “I can’t explain why God lets bad things happen but when hearts are hurting and life doesn’t make any sense, I still believe that there’s no road too difficult when we walk by His side.”

What more can I possibly say?