When widow meets widow
From time to time I meet someone who, like me, has had a spouse die at an early age. Although everyone’s story is different, there is a common thread that weaves through each experience. The undeniable sense of Before and After. It’s as divisive as the B.C. and A.D. that separates our world’s time. That slash in our personal history where things went from normal to abnormal, from real to surreal, from happy to sad.
At my husband’s funeral, an older woman came up to me and said, “You have a long road ahead of you.” She should know. Her husband died when their children were small. She knew what it was like to raise a family on her own. You may think it wasn’t the most encouraging thing she could’ve said, and maybe that’s true. But what she said was also true. As she stood before me, she was feeling her own grief from decades past and remembering Before, when life was easier and what it was like After, when life was so very much harder.
A few weeks after my husband died, I met with another young widow. I wanted to know that life does indeed go on After. For her it did. Before her husband died, she became pregnant. Now, a couple of years later, she was getting married again. Her son would have a father, even if it wasn’t the one she expected to raise her child with.
One of the things I did After to make my life a little easier was to hire an accountant to do my income tax return. On our first meeting about a year After my husband had died, he told me that his wife had died too early and left him with three children to raise by himself. He assured me that life could be okay After.
Family friends, who are in the whole raising young kids stage in their lives, lost a friend in the same stage. They came to me to find some understanding for After. They knew the Before. They were part of the Before. They knew how good the Before was. Now they were struggling to find out how to help her live in the After.
A few years ago I met a woman who was just weeks into her After. She married later in life and didn’t have any children, but to her the tear in the fabric of Before and After was still fresh. Ragged. Bleeding. Not yet healing. We let the tears stream down our faces as we sat over tea. As she shared her experience, I remembered my own pain from a decade past. I told her there was an After. But first she had to get through the Now. I told her that she would. And she has.
More recently, I met a fellow widowed one whose children were about the same age as my son when his wife died suddenly and unexpectedly. Our stories are similar. Sudden death. Watched our children grow up without the person we thought we’d grow old with. We’ve been in our Afters for about the same length of time. As we compared notes, I made a comment about how life is so much about just surviving in the After. He totally got that.
I’m now entering a new After. An After Post Script, if you will. I’m no longer defined by my loss. There is less merely surviving and more room for living. What will I find in this After PS? Will it be easier than the After? Can it be better than the Before? And what will I share with the next widow I meet?
Adoption story sample
Here’s the first part of a story I did for a three-year-old boy about his adoption. It is based on a one-hour interview with the adoptive mother.
Michael is a curious boy. Michael wants to know things. He wants to know what makes trains go so fast, where the water goes when the toilet is flushed, and why Max eats everything left on the counter.
One day Michael asked his mom and dad, “What does adopted mean?” Michaelʼs mom and dad stopped what they were doing. Michaelʼs mom pulled Michael onto her lap. Michaelʼs dad sat down beside them.
“We have the best story ever to tell you,” she said. “Mommy and Daddy decided that it was time to have a baby, but knew that we would have to find a baby instead of making one ourselves.”
Michaelʼs dad said, “We wanted a baby who needed a mommy and daddy as much as we needed a baby.”
“And that baby is me!” Michael said, clapping his hands.
“Yes,” said Michaelʼs mom, “but letʼs start the story at the beginning.”
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One day a man who really wanted to be a daddy and a woman who really wanted to be a mommy decided it was time to have a baby.
“There must be many ways to get a baby,” said the man to the woman. “We could go to the store and buy one,” he suggested. The woman burst out laughing.
“You canʼt buy a baby at the store!” said the woman.
“Of course you can,” said the man, not thinking this was funny at all, “you go to the baby section. All the big stores have a baby section.”
“You can buy things for the baby in the baby section, like clothes and cribs and cute boots, but you cannot buy a baby,” the woman said.
“Well,” the man wanted to know, “where do you get a baby?”
The woman thought for a minute. “You know a lot about computers. Maybe you could design some software that would tell us where to get a baby.”
The man laughed. “I can do many things with a computer, but thatʼs not one of them!”
So the man and the woman thought. And thought. And thought. Then they decided to ask someone for help. Someone who could tell them how to get a baby.
The lady in the office sat behind a big desk. She listened as the man and the woman told her they wanted to have a baby, but didnʼt know how to find one. When they were all done, she smiled and said, “I can help you.” Then the woman gave the man and the woman a huge stack of papers.
“Just answer all of these questions and we will do our best to find you a baby.” The man and the woman took the huge stack of papers home and worked very hard to answer every single question. When they were done answering the questions, the man and the woman took the huge stack of papers back to the lady with the big desk.
“Finished!” The man and the woman said, “Can we have our baby now, please?” “Oh no,” said the lady with the big desk. “Now you must wait.” So the woman and the man waited. And waited. And waited.
Then one Tuesday morning while the woman was at the dog park with Max, the womanʼs phone rang. “Youʼve been chosen. The birth mother is having the baby right now!” said the lady with the big desk.
The woman who was about to become a mommy was so excited her hands were shaking. She phoned the man who was about to become a daddy and told him the baby was coming right now! The man wondered if it was true. Could something this wonderful really be happening? Were they really going to get a baby?
The man and the woman went to the store. “We are adopting a baby,” the man said to the store clerk, “and we are going to buy everything a baby needs.” So they bought baby clothes and diapers and formula and blankets and burp cloths and a car seat. The man and the woman were happy to have a baby to buy for.
And on it goes. 
The story you love to celebrate could be written in any style you wish. Let’s talk.
Paul’s dream
The Edge, an indoor skatepark in Winnipeg, MB, run by Youth For Christ, will be celebrating 20 years of operation in 2012. A young man, who is making a documentary to celebrate two decades of boarding, contacted me this week to see if I would participate by providing pictures, video and stories featuring Paul and his passion. Since I was planning on writing how Paul got to be the director of The Edge for my son (to show him how who we are can fit in perfectly with what we do to make a living), I figured this was a good impetus.
“You know what I’d like to do? Mix skateboarding with youth ministry. Open a skatepark drop-in kind of thing.”
Paul and I were driving on the highway from Leduc to Edmonton on a dreary November day when he said that. We had recently left a difficult ministry situation and were now living in Paul’s parents’ basement, unemployed. It was a time of survival, not dreaming. My response reflected my perspective on our current state: I snorted.
“Who in their right mind is going to support that?” I muttered.
“Somebody will. I’m going to start talking to people on Monday,” was his optimistic response. And he did. The next few months he called people and kept running into roadblocks and yet that didn’t dampen his desire even a little bit. It did, however, dampen his spirit a bit. We had watched an episode of one our favourite TV shows in which a man had spontaneously combusted from depression. Paul worried that same fate might be his. How did I comfort him? I snorted.
Then one day something changed for him and when Paul woke up that morning he said to me, “It’s going to be okay.” His optimism was back. That afternoon he was shovelling the driveway when my friend drove up, rolled down her window and handed Paul a small piece of paper. On it said, “Wanted, director for indoor skatepark. Gift of evangelism required.” Unbelievable. This tiny bit of newsprint contained his enormous dream.
So Paul made one more call. He called the number in the ad. He didn’t go so far as to tell them that their search was over, but he did feel confident that this was his job. The person on the other end of the phone informed Paul they weren’t hiring anyone from outside of Manitoba because they weren’t willing to pay moving expenses. Undaunted, Paul figured he had nothing to lose and decided then to ask as many questions as to how the skatepark ran so he could start one in Edmonton. This approach earned Paul an interview.
The interviewer was going to be in Alberta and he asked Paul to meet him at a roadside diner in the middle of nowhere in central Alberta. Although I wasn’t to be a part of the conversation, I went along for the ride and sat at a table far enough away so I couldn’t hear what was going on. Two hours later, Paul and the man stood up and shook hands and we got back into the car to head home. Paul talked the entire time about the skatepark and what was working and what wasn’t and how what they needed (a full-time director with a vision) perfectly fit in with how he saw his dream become a reality.
“Even if they don’t hire me,” Paul said, “I want to go see how they’re running the park to get some ideas to start one here.” This time I didn’t snort. I loved seeing how animated Paul was and how, instead of seeing the obstacles, he saw the potential in just knowing that there was something out there so much in tune with what he wanted to do.
A week later the man called and told Paul that the job was his. Once he raised the financial support necessary to pay his salary, of course. Two days later we were on our way to Winnipeg to check it out and finalize the paperwork.
At that time skatepark was in an old city transit bus garage. Small bus garage. There was room for one decent-sized halfpipe, a couple of moveable grinding features and a small parts store. It was cramped, it was grungy, it was inadequate and it was absolutely beautiful to Paul. He could hardly wait to get his hands on it. We found out then that the man who hired him and who would be his supervisor had skipped a few protocols and hadn’t received approval to hire Paul. I snorted. I knew this was just too good to be true, I knew it! Paul? He wasn’t intimidated at all. He said, “Well, you did hire me and I’m here and I’m willing to get my support in place, so we’re good to go, right?” How do you argue with that?
Paul enthusiastically raised his support and in June, 1994, Paul officially started as the Director of The Edge Skatepark.
Love Story
As per Shelly’s request to tell the story of how Paul and I met and fell in love, here goes.
The short answer? We met in college. We fell in love.
The not-so-short answer? We met in college. He was a year ahead of me. That first year we didn’t really know each other as I hung out mostly with fellow freshmen. And yet he was this guy who every time he saw me across the tiny campus would holler in a countrified voice, “Hey, Laurel!” And I would holler back, “Hey, Paul!”
Then near the end of the school year, the entire college was going on a hay ride (I told you it was a tiny campus). My friend, who had the biggest crush on Paul, had sprained her knee and couldn’t go so she asked if I would stay behind with her. We decided that we would go to Chi Chi’s for dinner. As we were waiting for our table, Paul walked out of the lounge and Ruth noticed him. We teased him about being in the lounge drinking (we were at a dry college), but he was just playing PacMan. Pretty much a metaphor for his life!
He ended up joining us for dinner and I spent the entire evening laughing at him. First of all, who goes to a restaurant by themselves? He then entertained us with crazy stories of stuff he liked to do alone. (Keep it clean, Shells!) I thought he was a bit strange. At one point he said to me, “You just wait, Laurel. I’m going to take you on a real date and then you’ll see what a nice guy I am.”
Fast forward to the fall. It was the returning students barbecue in Hawrelak Park. I was sitting on the grass with Paul and his roommate and I reminded him that he was going to take me out on a date. I’m not usually that forward, but the boy I thought I was going to have a relationship with once school started had broke my heart a few days earlier and I was needing a bit of a boost. A couple of days later Paul came to my dorm and asked if I wanted to join him and his roommate, Thane, for dinner. At Chi Chi’s. That evening was the hardest I have ever laughed in my life. Paul and his roommate were feeding off of each other and just getting funnier and funnier. The evening’s hilarity culminated with the staff singing happy anniversary (Flintstones’ version) to Thane and me instead of happy birthday to Thane.
I didn’t really count that as a date, but you know, you take what you can get. After that we started spending time together. A couple of weeks later we thought we might as well become a couple. I remember the first time we held hands. Because his hand was so much bigger than mine, my pinky wouldn’t stretch far enough so I had to tuck it in. And that’s how we held hands from then on.
A walk in the park
Diago patiently posing for a photo
Yesterday my friend and I decided to have a “walking meeting.” It seemed wrong to sit in front of a computer when it’s so nice outside, so we agreed to meet at a nearby (for me) dog park.
I don’t go to this dog park much because, well, because I’m lazy. I have a small dog for a reason! And the park is located next to the river and I’m concerned that my little and not so bright shitzu would follow a bigger dog into the river and only the big dog would make it out again. If that happened, I’m sure my son would disown me in his grief and I’d lose both of my boys in one day!
Thankfully, we stuck to the path. And we yakked. Mostly about our dogs and how much joy they bring into our lives with their funny personalities and wagging tails. Somehow we missed the “short cut” back to the parking lot and ended up taking the long route. Not a problem, except that dark clouds were on the not-so-distant horizon. Lately our area has been having unusual weather. Sunny during the day and then in the late afternoon it pours. Not just a little spattering of rain, but the kind you get soaking wet from if you’re caught by it. It was one of those situations where you’d be tempted to take shelter under the trees. Not so smart in an electrical storm.
“Uh, those clouds concern me, should we head back?” I asked Paula.
“Nah,” she said in her typically comical and confident way, “we’ll make it.” So bravely and taking after my dog (not so brightly), we carried on.
And we continued to yak. Then the wind picked up and the sky got dark. Uh oh.
And then it started to rain. Just a bit. A spattering here and there. We couldn’t see the parking lot yet.
“You can run ahead if you want to,” I sacrificially offered (I don’t run for anything. Well, maybe for chocolate ice cream. However, there wasn’t any chocolate ice cream in my car so I wasn’t prepared to run).
“I’m not leaving you alone out here. Are you crazy?” It was kind of her, but I think she really, really wanted to run at this point.
We came around a corner and there in the clearing was the parking lot. And it started to rain a bit harder. We could see a mass exodus of dogs with their humans hurrying to the cars. Except for me and my companions, of course. We laughed, started walking a bit faster and I told her again she could run now if she was so inclined. She took me up on it, except then her dog didn’t want to heel and she had to chase her to pick her up. Then she made the dash to her car. As she passed me, we had a 10 second business conversation and came to an understanding about an upcoming project we’re working on together.
Though not thoroughly soaked, I was certainly wet by the time I got into my car. No biggie. The dog was happy and tired, I got some sunshine and chat time with a friend, and that, in my opinion, is a good way to have a meeting!
What would you take?
Even though I like a clutter-free life, I know that I have too much stuff. I often walk through my house picking out which things I could get rid of and not have my quality of life affected. The TV and the microwave definitely stay, as do many of the books I have acquired over the years, but there is still a lot of other stuff I could live without.
If I had to pack my life into two suitcases, each under 50 lbs., what would I take, knowing that the rest of the stuff would be lost to me forever? What if you had to do the same? What would you take with you?
This is the reality of many people who come to Canada and the U.S. looking for a better life. The New York Times has a story about that. It’s called Belongings, by Sam Dolnick. I love how this story is told through pictures and words. Ah, the freedom of having unlimited space in an internet newspaper!
For me, I’m grateful for the technology that allows me to scan the photo albums of my son’s first few years. I’d scan a lot of things that I wanted to keep, and my favourite books are probably available in an electronic format, so those are two heavy things I could carry on my iPad. But what physical item would I have to take with me above all others?
What item would you take?
A story from The Mustard Seed
Firefighters at The Mustard Seed
My good friend, Cindy, knows how to throw a party. She works at The Mustard Seed, an inner city organization that addresses poverty in creative ways. One of the fun ways that Cindy celebrates the people in the neighbourhood is to have an event. Last Saturday was what was called the Kids’ Petting Zoo, but it was so much more. Beyond the nibbling goats, the turkey who made an appearance in the movie Fubar 2, a wallaby and a miniature pony was a bouncy castle, a drum making station and a sugar bar in the forms of cotton candy, ice cream cones and sno cones. And two fire trucks complete with fire fighters from a nearby firehall.
The most eye-popping part of the day were the twelve brand new bicycles to give away. Brand new. For every age, from kids to adults. The entrants drew pictures or wrote why they would like a bike. The pictures were adorable and some of the stories from the adults were as heartbreaking as they were hopeful.
I had a hoot being the event photographer. Naturally, I hung out with the firefighters as much as possible. A five-year-old boy, while checking out the cab of a fire truck said to one of the firefighters, “I know your address. 911.” These strong, brave guys laughed with the kids, blew bubbles, and were gracious to all.
The people making the candy cotton, ice cream cones and sno cones worked non-stop and every time I looked over, they were smiling and handing over the goods. The volunteers from the Rabbit Hill Ski Club manned the bicycle entry table and helped children make drums out of coffee tins with real rawhide skins.
At the end, the kids had dirty faces as evidence of the treats they had consumed, a craft to take home, a memory of a good day and smiles all around. Is it any wonder that Cindy says she has the best job ever?
A dream becomes a reality
In a couple of weeks it will be my 48th birthday. Even though I’m not one to freak out about a chronological number that has never reflected my level of maturity, I find myself reflective on the past twelve months on this rainy Friday afternoon.
A year ago I returned to work too early from major surgery. I was exhausted, stressed and on the edge. Though I loved where I worked and the contribution we made, I was realizing that wasn’t enough to keep me there. A difficult and painful realization. I’m the first to give someone grief for putting a shiny spin on my cloudy days, but I have to admit that it was a good thing to go through that tough time. Because out of it came Story Ink and the decision to work for myself.
I had been playing with the dream for almost a decade. I wanted to tell people’s stories. I have always thought that the best stories are not those of famous people, but the ones that come from the person sitting across from me. Like my friend Greg. The guy is such a fun storyteller. One of my favourite stories of his is the one he tells about his grandfather. This old guy was a piece of work. One early, early morning he was stopped by the police because he was dragging a loading dock down a major road to move it to a new warehouse. Dragging. The dock wasn’t sitting on a trailer bed, being moved. Nope, it was chained to the back of the truck and being dragged down the road, sparks flying from metal meeting concrete. I can’t imagine how noisy it must have been! But that’s what he was doing, and had the chutzpah to tell the police he didn’t notice that the loading dock was even attached to his truck!
[I asked Greg for his permission to use these stories and he corrected my version: For the record, the cop came up behind all the commotion and couldn't get around. He had to duck down a side road and speed around the scene where he blocked my Grandfather's path. My Grandfather told the cop that the loading dock must have fallen off the back of the truck - to which the cop replied "SIR - there is NO WAY that loading dock was on the back of THIS TRUCK, you and I both know that"...And the sparks were rooster tails generated from the three metal skids that the loading dock was built on.]
Greg is a force to be reckoned with as well. A couple of weeks ago he was walking down the street in a sketchy part of Windsor, Ontario, when a decidedly streetwise individual on a bicycle sidled up to Greg and his friend and kept pace with them. Greg isn’t easily intimidated and decided to take control of the situation. After introducing himself and shaking the guy’s hand, Greg started a conversation about one of his favourite topics.
“Did you vote in the last election?” Greg asked the young man.
“Man, I don’t vote!” he said.
“You don’t vote? Why not?” Greg asked, incredulous.
“None of my friends vote. No one I know votes.”
“Oh, so you know a lot of people. Then you’re a person of influence. You should get people to vote,” encouraged Greg. And so the conversation went. Greg also asked the guy about his beliefs and if he went to church, encouraging him to return to the faith of his childhood. That’s Greg. These are the stories I love to tell.
So at 47 years old, a single mom one paycheque from being homeless (as they say), and a few other obstacles in my way, I decide that it’s now or never. Now or never, such a cliché. (Please God, don’t let me write that badly for a client!) Maybe it wasn’t quite that dramatic, but it certainly was the time to try. And so I did. And it’s been an amazing year.
I joined the Association of Personal Historians (personalhistorians.org), signed up for their annual conference and decided to take a pre-conference course on starting and running a personal history business. I made an exit plan for my current employment and I was able to get small business training for free while on EI (Employment Insurance, pogey, unemployment benefits through the government). After six months of working on it full-time, my business is on the cusp of coming together and I may be soon actually making some money! (This will really make my friend, Greg, laugh. He runs his own software company and probably has a more realistic view on just what I’m on the cusp of).
So as I head with the trajectory of a speeding bullet towards my 48th birthday, I am thankful for the past year. I have tried something incredibly scary, I have believed in myself enough to pursue a dream and I have found joy and peace even when working at 10pm on a Saturday night. Life is good. And it’s just gonna get better!
What I learned from the royal wedding
Taking time to celebrate the events in our lives makes the stories of our lives.
Last Friday morning I made myself a cup of Buckingham Palace blend tea and settled in to watch the much anticipated wedding of Prince William and Kate Middleton. I critiqued the outfits of the guests, I marvelled at the many people who camped out for days on the streets of London, and I sat virtually unmoving, but very moved, during the ceremony. I breathed a sigh of relief when they made it to the palace’s balcony and finally kissed. No harm had come to the newly wedded couple or their families. It was time to celebrate. They partied, I headed for bed.
Friends posted their royal wedding parties on Facebook. Others shared with laughter about the outrageous outfits they wore. Many had scones and tea. They had made an event out of an event. And as silly as I thought it all was, I realize now that they were the smart ones. By making it an event, they will remember fondly the day Diana’s Wills got married.
Far too often, the days and weeks just rush by us in a blur. We’re so consumed with the busy-ness of life that our days don’t really stand out in our memories. Pretty soon a month, then a couple of months, then a year is gone and what do we really remember about it? I remember birthdays and vacations the most. Times when I took the time to make a special day, well, special.
So, I have realized that I need to make my life more eventful. Seize upon opportunities to celebrate being alive and healthy and living in a great country and having all the good things in my life that I do. Because that is where the stories of our lives really come from.