Saturday, December 28, 2019

Survive...Revive...Thrive...

Getting past the one-year of widowhood anniversary was a giant leap for me. Well, calling it a leap is a bit of a stretch. I don't know that I really have the words to explain it. For a year I sort of felt like a freight train lumbering along, but with its brakes on - still moving forward but creaking and groaning and grinding along.

I was resisting arriving at the anniversary and what I perceived it symbolized. Not that I had any control over it arriving, it was coming in 365 days whether I was ready or not.

But I do feel like this lumbering freight train is emerging from a long dark tunnel. Like I've been released from merely surviving into a season of reviving. And I am hopeful to once again thrive. And I have no doubt I will.

I have so much to be grateful for. My husband took very good care of me for 37 years and he ensured that will continue.  I have so many fantastic memories - both the good and the bad, and the legacy of our children sustains me daily. I know Jesus walks with me, carrying me when necessary, and even giving me the occasional perverbial slap upside the head. I have some really great friends and I have things in my life that give me purpose.  Onward and upward, I say.

I've been a bit lax in blogging but figured since it is once again the 28th I should just sit down and do it.

And being the 28th of December, it is my birthday.  Freedom 55 they say. Fricking old I say.  It really struck me yesterday when I was filling out some sort of online form. I had to check off my age. I was so excited that (for the last time) I could check off 45-54 as my category. Today I entered the 55+ group. Yikes! It's not even 55-64. Nope. Just 55+.  I'm now in the same age group as the 80 year-olds.

Oi. How am I supposed to thrive under these conditions.


Thursday, November 28, 2019

Every Day is the Threshold of the Rest of Your Life.

Threshold: (n) any place or point of entering or beginning.

Birthdays that have someone turning 30, 40, 50, 60 etc are often accompanied by a party. Not so much because the person is excited about being launched into a new decade. Often the party is to soften the blow of these threshold birthdays. 

For the past couple of months I had been viewing November 28, 2019, the anniversary of Albert's passing, sort of as a threshold day. One which would launch me into a new phase. And I didn't want to go. 

I have sort of felt some security in being a "recent" widow. Perhaps even justified in living a bit selfishly as I stumble along this path of grief and mourning. 

I didn't plan a party as such, to soften the blow of the day but I did plan to share a meal with Jed and JimE. A meal which would have had Albert declaring at some point, "Mighty fine vitals, woman."  I heard that often during dinner. Followed by him patting his belly with both hands at the end of the meal and singing, "I'm a fat little bugger and I don't know why - my wife don't feed me no pumpkin pie. I don't know, but I'm feeling fine. Must be all that steak and wine." (I honestly don't know if this is something he made up or if it started out as someone else's song or ditty. My life with A was filled with ditties. And this one made regular appearances.) 

I have been eating a keto diet for over six months, but I planned Nov 28th to be an intentional carb day as I meal planned: steak with blue cheese topping, baked potatoes, bacon wrapped scallops, roasted beets, salad and garlic toast. All topped off with tiramisu - an Olive Garden favourite that Alb and I shared many times over the years. 

And while I was grocery shopping I decided since I was having a carb day, I would buy an apple to enjoy on the day. I have nothing but good things to say about the keto life, however, I really miss apples.  

I lingered over the bins of various apples, fondling many of them, trying to find the perfect apple. I compared colours, size, firmness and checked for blemishes and bruises. I basically was salivating in the produce department as I envisioned slicing up my perfect apple, dusting it lightly with salt and eating it alongside a few slices of extra old cheese.

Much like a birthday, I awoke in the morning feeling really no different than I had the day before, despite the numbers having changed. The day that I had feared and dreaded really didn't change anything. I'm simply one day further along in my journey. 






And in mid afternoon, I cut into my perfect apple. 

And I cried. I literally cried. 








What appeared on the outside to be perfect, was a complete disappointment. 

And my day that presented as fearful, turned out to be a really lovely, meaningful time as Jed and JimE and I reminisced, listened to songs and sound bites, laughed and even cried.  








Friday, November 8, 2019

Well, that was a big hairy deal.



Allow me to explain to you how my day went. 

I started off my day with a 10 o'clock appointment for a hair trim with my stylist whom I've followed for twelve years to various salons and a few stints of working out of her home. I've lost her and found her a few different times when she has changed locations and phone numbers over the years. 

I've had a couple of trims since my last colour job so there really wasn't much colour left in my hair. And by 'not much colour' I mean not much colour of any kind, as my natural hair also has not much colour left to it. 


Recent photo showing that yes, it needed cut and yes, it has no colour left. 


I told her this trim would probably remove the last of the colour but I was going to try to go au naturale and see how I liked it. And added I'd probably last about two weeks before I was back for a colour appointment.

Without actually saying that my natural grey hair is just sort of a blah colour, not lovely lustrous silver, she instead offered that maybe adding a few strands of black would help make my grey "pop."

"Black??!" I looked doubtful into her eyes. Even though I have always completely trusted her colour judgement, often just sitting in her chair and saying, "Do something dramatic."

"Not chunks of black or anything. Just a few really subtle strands. Here I'll show a couple of photos."

And she reached for her phone so show me some pictures similar to this: 



I was still a bit doubtful but threw myself at her mercy.

I caught  glimpse of myself in the mirror as she was removing the foils at the sink.

"It's awfully dark. I'm kinda freaking out here."

"Oh no. It's gonna be good," she replies, easing my fears a bit. 

I remained calm while she put toner in and did an initial cut and 'texturized' it with her thinning shears. 

"What do you think?" she asked. 

Oh.My.Freak!! 

What do I think? I'm freaking out inside but I continue to remain calm. 

The sides and back of my head were my natural grey, but there was no natural hair colour at all left on the top. It was patches of black, and I mean black-black, and blonde-y silver colour that was arranged in stripes akin to a zebra.  

As I casually as I possibly can, I point out that there is a large 3-inch chunk of black right in the front on the left side of my bangs that was a bit too much for me and the sides were really 'stripey.' 

"Ok, I'll reduce this front patch," she says as she swoops in with the thinning shears that are still in her hand, and just starts attacking that one patch until it's half gone.  

Realizing that I am going to have a bald spot in about two more snips if she doesn't stop, I say, "I'm really freaking out here!" 

"OK, I think I'll tone it down for you a bit." And she heads off to mix up more colour.  

I should have taken a photo at that point but I really just sat in disbelief that this woman whom I've trusted so much over the years had just messed up this colour so bad and then attacked a random spot in my hair. It was so bizarre. 

I'm not a great judge of these things, but I'm fairly certain she was not drunk or stoned out of her mind. But I was pretty baffled. 

Anyway, I sat through another round of colour and foils and toner. In the end, the silver had disappeared and turned a brassy-blonde colour and the black was reduced to more of a dark chocolate. And my 20-30 minute quick trim I'd gone in for turned into a 2 1/2 hour trauma and I was late for my lunch date with a friend.  

She assured me as I left that it had a lot to do with the fluorescent lighting in the salon and if I used my purple shampoo the first time I wash it the brassy colour would be gone and the silver would brighten right up. 

And I bravely sat in public and enjoyed a lovely lunch with my striped hair looking sort of like a brindle coloured dog. 

And as soon as I got home I jumped in the shower. Lathered up with a ridiculous amount of Bust Your Brass shampoo. And left it in my hair for about 20 minutes while I just stood in a stream of hot water and cried.

I don't think I cried for my hair. It's only hair. And mine grows really fast. But I was just spent. It's been a rough couple of weeks with Albert's birthday, the anniversary of his death coming up, I attended a funeral on Monday, have another one on Saturday, I hate the time change back to standard time and the dark evenings, the coming of winter always depresses me, and I haven't been sleeping well again lately.

I managed to get my hair rinsed and get out of the shower before I ran out of hot water.

Alas, the purple shampoo did not produce a miracle.  





I couldn't adequately capture the striped sides while taking a selfie. But the top speaks for itself. 

All the kids were over for supper and within moments of them leaving I was off to the drugstore for a 6-dollar box of hair bleach and a 6-dollar box of Loreal "medium golden blonde."

The hair bleach instructions said to apply to hair 3 cm from scalp and leave on for 30 minutes before adding more to the roots, but avoiding getting on scalp, and leave on for another 30 minutes. 

Leave 3cm from scalp? What are you supposed to do if your hair is only 3 cm long?? And I since I didn't have any 'roots' because the colour was only 6 hours old, I envisioned created even more stripe affects by not stripping all the colour out. 

I applied it all over.

By 20 minutes in, my scalp was burning. This was, after all, the third application of chemicals in just a few hours.  

I checked in the mirror at 30 minutes and the blond parts were looking almost transparent white, and I  started to panic and decided not to leave it on for the second 30 minutes that were recommended. 

And I jumped into the shower once again.





The lighter areas definitely lightened up but the dark was still pretty dark. So the stripes were even more noticeable now.

Thank God I hadn't actually thrown out the 2nd half of the bottle of hair bleach.

I slathered my hair once again and waited for another 30 minutes before jumping into the shower yet again.





By the end of the second session my scalp was on fire. 

Finally got the darkness removed. 

After the second session with the bleach, the colour was actually ok enough that I could have left it as is. It had some nice variety of tones to it without looking like stripes anymore. 

Yes, I could have left it... had I actually paid attention to how I applied the bleach.   Since the sides and back of my hair were still my natural grey I didn't put the bleach to it. And it was very evident that I paid no attention to getting it even.  

So I bust out the box of medium golden blonde and lather up with chemicals for the fifth time. This time making sure even my grey is covered. 

By the time the 25-minute dye session is over my scalp is akin to what I imagine it would be like to have someone squeeze jalapeƱo juice into your eye. 

And I jump in for my fifth shower of the day.  




And by the time all is said and done it's past midnight. But I can't resist the urge to blog while it's fresh in my mind.

I look like a 4-year-old who has snipped off their own bangs and my hair feels like straw.

I'm heading to bed hoping I don't wake to find all my hair laying in a neat pile on my pillow entangled in my CPAP straps.




Thursday, November 7, 2019

Is This My Actual Life?

Sometimes it's just too early to go to bed so you invent distractions to get you through to the end of the day.

As I am closing in on the one-year anniversary of my Albert transforming into the presence of Jesus, I've sort of been hypersensitive to it. So in my "distract yourself until you can justifiably go to bed for the night" mission, I decided to peruse his Facebook timeline to see what his last official post was about this time last year.

While he did have a few posts from other people that he shared in November, my heart was blessed by these final few posts.

One year ago today, on November 7th,  he shared this post of Beatrice.



And on October 27, 2018 Albert officially made his last Facebook post on his own timeline:




Oh my how Daphne, his little Schmoey-Girl loves that book. He probably read it to her 40 times in his final weeks. And she loved it every.single.time. Here's my video version of it:


Oh, to hear him bust out in spontaneous song just one more time. 



On October 25, his final birthday, he made this post:






I neither "liked" nor commented on this post. I don't actually remember ever seeing it.  However I wrote a book about it.  That kinda blessed my heart to see.  And now I can peacefully call it a night and go to bed.   





Sometimes I think, "Is this my life...it's so shitty." Other times I'm overwhelmed with thoughts of, "Is this my actual life...I am so blessed."

(Feel free to contact me if you haven't yet gotten your own personally signed copy of Bluebird's Song, my tribute to Albert. A children's book with a message and illustrations for anyone of any age.) 





Monday, October 28, 2019

Crawling Out of Bed to Blog at the Eleventh Hour.

Damn. It's the 28th again already.

Not that I've made it a rule, but I have been trying to blog each month on the 28th. But to be honest,  I really didn't want to today.

In an attempt to avoid it, I crawled into bed before 8:30 and watched two episodes of The Voice and last week's episode of This is Us.

This is Us. I love that show. But I want to hate it. I've watched it from the first day - although always in delayed fashion thanks to the life-changing invention of the PVR.

Sometimes I'd be watching a recorded episode and Albert would come into the room and I'd shut it off so we could watch something together. Or nothing at all.  And he'd say, "Go ahead and keep watching it."  But I never would. It's not a show you can walk in and just pick up on. There's so much jumping around from present, past and future it would really be impossible to keep up if you didn't watch it all.

In this episode the "past" scenes dealt with the first year of coming to grips with Jack's (the husband and father, for those who don't watch) death and adjusting to life without him. Well shit. So here I am crawling out of bed at 11:30pm to blog.

I'm avoiding blogging on October 28th because this day marks eleven months without Albert. Which means the one-year anniversary is coming next. And I don't want it to arrive. As if somehow not blogging will make it go away.

I don't even know how to explain this. The feeling of simultaneously wanting the pain to ease while wanting to hang on to it as if it proves your love or something. Wanting time to pass, yet wanting it to stand still.

I'll be frank. I don't want the one-year anniversary to arrive.

Not that I have expectations of myself. And I really don't give a shit if others have expectations. But I somehow feel 'safe' in standing under the umbrella of being "a recent widow." Like I'm still covered by Albert's provision - which he was really effing good at.

But in some obscure way I feel like when I step over November 28th I will be entering new territory. Territory I know nothing about. Being independent. And quite frankly, it's a bit scary.   I've been standing under this umbrella of Albert's protection for 39 of my 54 years.


****

On another note...

I recently listened to a podcast by Dr Caroline Leaf, a noted communication pathologist and cognitive neuroscientist with a Masters and PhD in communication Pathology and a BSc Logopaedics, specializing in cognitive and metacognitive neuropsychology, titled "Why Swearing May Be Good For You"  (Click the link to listen to this life freeing podcast) I also recommend (even though I am not financially compensated to do so) that you read her books. (I confess the books are really intellectually advanced and they are way easier to listen to in audio version than actually reading if you are prone to falling asleep with a book in your hand.) She's also a Jesus lover.

Seriously. IF YOU FIND SWEARING LIBERATING... click HERE... even if you are a Jesus lover.








Friday, October 25, 2019

Happy No-longer-a-significant-day to you Albert!

Albert never really liked 'special' days. Especially if he was on the receiving end of the attention.

He hated the commercialism that accompanies most holidays and resented the calendar telling him when he should express his love, admiration or appreciation to his wife, his kids or anyone else. And for the most part, he did a pretty good job of encouraging and loving on people in random yet consistent ways, without relying on calendar dates.

Today is October 25. Here on earth Albert would be turning 59 years old.

He's probably doin' an extra jig around the throne of God because there is no counting of time and days there, and he doesn't have to open presents or blow out candles while everyone stares at him and takes his photo.

But truthfully, he was looking forward to this birthday. For his sights were going to be firmly planted on retirement day which would have come sometime next June. Officially, retirement wouldn't happen until a year from now when he turned 60. (Okay. As side note, this number sort of hits me upside the head in a moment of disbelief.) But with holidays, banked time and other assorted accumulations, he would have been finished work sometime in June. And he was counting shifts.

Actually, he began counting shifts about 15 months ago when he returned to work after a couple months off with a broken hand.

Every time he would work a shift, or put in for days off, he'd say, "Only 233 shifts to go." Or "knocked my shifts back to 218 remaining."  Yeah... he worked approximately 123 nights a year. And he actually enjoyed his job. And he loved the guys.  And he was grateful to Canfor for nearly 40 years of employment. And it's my expectation that they are grateful for his loyalty and service as well. I don't think he called in sick more than 10 days in those 4 decades. Mind you, he did refuse to work overtime, insisting they needed to have more employees to cover time off etc.

Once again, I digress...

Much to his chagrin, we always celebrated Albert on his birthday in one form or another, some years more extravagant than others.

The year 2000, his 40th, was one of my favourites. The kids and I bought 40 gifts for him, varying from a pack of Thrills gum (The only kind he would chew, even though it tasted like soap.) to six months of guitar lessons with Phil Harlow, and everything in between. (Forty is a freaking LOT of gifts to come up with!)

Everything was wrapped and numbered. And the numbers were all entered into a bowl, and starting 40 days before his birthday (I'm too lazy to do the date calculations right now)  each day he had to draw a number and that was his gift of the day.

This was more fun for me and the kids than him - digging through the pile to find the corresponding numbered gift.

But without a doubt his most memorable birthday was his 35th... 1995.  A month or so before his birthday I asked him for his 'wish list.'  I'm not sure why I ever bothered to ask, as he never had one.

But that year, he actually had an answer.

"Whatever money you would spend on me, buy something for the kids."

And there launched our plan.

Together, that month we planned and shopped and wrapped a somewhat extravagant gift for each of the kids.

On the gifts we attached labels "To Pa, Love Ken" "Happy Birthday Daddy, Love Jed" "To Uncle from Tyler" and "I love you Dad, From Brandi" so we would know who each package was intended for.

We had a lovely family dinner and birthday cake. When it came time to bust out the presents, clever Daddy suggested that he didn't really like opening presents (not news to anyone) and asked if the kids would help him open them. We set the gift marked 'from' them, but intended 'to' them, on the table in front of each of the kids. And Daddy did a countdown "3-2-1" so they would all open at the same time.

Oh.My.Goodness. This truly is one of my favourite parenting memories.  We had even set up our newly purchased video camera (that was the size of a modern-day electric smart car) to capture the moment on VHS.  I'm sure I still have the video tape in the basement somewhere with no means to ever watch it again.

And Albert was so very blessed to give, in this moment where he was entitled to receive.

And by osmosis, all those around him were blessed beyond measure.

And that was just his way.

And though that birthday of Albert's was 24 years ago, I think of it often. And oddly enough, I think of it more at Christmas than I do on his birthday.

Christmas. When we celebrate the birth of Jesus. And often I wonder how the gift-giving amongst us earthlings, that often seems so materialistic and self-serving, can possibly be honouring to the One whose birthday we are celebrating. And then I remember 1995. The day a father selflessly gave up his birthday honour to witness and participate in the joy and surprise of his children.

It was honestly a life changing moment for me.

Happy no-longer-a-significant-day to you, Albert! I am so very grateful for all the life lessons I have experienced with you.




























Wednesday, October 16, 2019

The Day the C-Bomb Dropped

I vividly remember October 16, 2018.

It's the day the C-bomb dropped.

Albert had worked what turned out to be his final nightshift with Canfor after nearly 40 years. We went together to his 2:15pm CT scan results appointment. My fervent prayer was to receive a diagnosis of a defective gall bladder that needed removed. His symptoms sort of lined up with that. I refused to entertain other possibilities at that point.

I've never had tons of love and confidence for our family doctor. But I truly felt empathic towards him as he delivered the diagnosis. What a difficult position to be in. To deliver this sort of news to someone and their spouse: things are far worse than we imagined, and I, as your doctor, am completely unable to do a thing for you. All while his eyes searched both Albert's and mine for our reactions while simultaneously preparing himself to respond to whatever our reactions might be. (I imagine as a doctor he has experienced all manner of responses from one end of the spectrum to the other.)

And just like that the bomb dropped.

Cancer.

And I could hear it ticking.

And then began the myriad of phone calls. Canfor- I won't be in to work tonight. Or possibly ever.

The kids. Oh the pain of making those calls to the kids.

And JimE. And MomZie. And the others...

Tick

Tick

Tick...

For 42 days that bomb ticked.

42 days.









Saturday, September 28, 2019

Grateful For My Ridiculous Life

As of today, September 28, 2019 I am 19,997 days old. I lived 13,887 of them with Albert. It's been 10 months, or 304 days since I began learning to live without him. The learning curve has been huge. I had never adulted without him, being that I was 15 years old when we started dating.

Essentially, we grew up together. And oh my goodness we made so many stupid decisions in those nearly fourteen thousand days. We wasted so much time. So many dollars. So many opportunities. We neglected loved ones, our responsibilities and each other. But we forged on.

One can always look back with regret, but I refuse to. (For the most part.) I challenge myself daily to look forward with gratitude. Gratitude for the memories. Gratitude for the occasional smart decisions we made. For the good times. And even gratitude for the ability to laugh at some of the ridiculous stuff.

We had a lot of ridiculous stuff.

We used to laugh at my Dad insisting my curfew was 11pm because "Girls get pregnant after 11."  Apparently that can happen before 11.

There was that time we laid in bed and smoked a fat Cuban cigar. Oh my word! That was the stupidest thing. The house stunk for weeks. I had to wash all the bedding and all of the towels in the ensuite linen closet. As well as most of the clothes in the closet.

And the time we left baby B with Grandma and Grandpa so we could go out for the evening. And we just never came home. Seriously. I just know I would be (and have been) completely judgmental of anyone else ever doing this.

That time when I left baby B with Daddy and went away for the weekend while we lived in what was essentially a tiny home - I think it was 20x15, and came home to find Albert had bought a pool table and put it in the main room. You had to stand on the couch to take your shot.

Baby Brandi had to play ON the pool table because there was no room on the floor. 



We lived in an apartment for the first 9 months of marriage (before moving into the tiny house which, for the record, had no indoor bathroom) Around month 5 when B was a couple of weeks old (Yeah, you can do the math) Albert lost his driver's licence for 3 months due to an excessive amount of points, entirely due to speeding tickets. I'm not even sure if they still do points on licenses - I've never been stopped. (Not for lack of trying.) Anyway, here I am dragging my newborn infant out of bed to drive him to work at 6am (or pick him up if he was on 12-hr nightshift.) She didn't actually have a carseat so I found it convenient to hold her, attached to the boob, while I drove. If I didn't actually experience this with my own life, I would honestly find some of these details hard to believe.

Then, within a few weeks, my older brother also lost his driver's licence, due to irresponsible driving habits, so we decided what the hell, he might as well move into the apartment with us because that would make it more convenient for him to ride his bike to work. (The more I think about it, the more I realize what a FRIGGING AMAZING 17-year-old wife I was. Or a fool. You decide.)

Anyway, Albert decided he felt bad making me drag the baby out to drive him to work so he also bought a 2nd hand bike to ride to work. But he didn't like the colour. So he spray painted it. IN THE LIVING ROOM of the apartment. He did put down a few sheets of newspaper but when all was said and done you could clearly see an outline of royal blue paint on the brown carpet.

I was so fricking glad not to have to get up and drive him to work I laughed it off.

When we gave our notice on the apartment a couple of months later we needed to get rid of the paint pattern on the carpet. So we washed it with paint thinners. And then vacuumed it up with the new $1300 Electrolux vacuum cleaner we had been sucked into buying a couple of months prior - which is another story altogether. Uh yeah. This resulted in a dead, D.E.D dead, vacuum cleaner. And I still loved that man. Truly, I deserve a medal.

To conserve energy on his bike rides to work, he would 'hitch' a ride with co-workers. When he met up with someone on the pulp mill road he would grab onto their mirror or window ledge so they could 'tow' him the last few kilometres into the mill. I truly hope and trust that the guardian angels assigned to Albert Ziemer have received their full reward in heaven.

Honestly, my 'stupid' stories are endless. But our love was endless. And it still is.

And I am so grateful for my ridiculous life.










Wednesday, September 25, 2019

Childishly Immature? Or Agedly Senile?

Nancy. Her name is Nancy. Cuz she's so fancy.

I've had a few inquiries as to what I have named my new trailer. She's not exactly a vehicle but I've been expected to give her a name none-the-less.

I tossed around a few names but nothing seemed to fit. I sort of wanted a name that I could shorten to Freddie, like Winifred or Frederica, so I could have Freddie and Frankie (which I call Francesca, my car, whenever I pull out to pass someone ... "C'mon Frankie, we can do this.") But somehow those names just didn't fit.

But "Fancy" is a word I've heard from just about everyone who has visited her so far, and Fancy and Nancy just go together.

My next top pick was Pa'u Hana. (Pronounced Pow Hauna) This is a Hawaiian word literally meaning "work is done" but often used as a term meaning "Happy Hour."  Fitting for sure. But it just didn't have the right flow to it.  So Nancy it is.

However, let me introduce you to Pa'u Hana:


Pa'u Hana. 22-inch beagle who doesn't eat or poop. Won't grow or shed.  Doesn't bark or scratch & chew furniture. 


Introducing the dog to the cats, Oreo and Esmeralda. They get along famously. 

I'm not sure if I'm being childishly immature, or agedly senile. But I love my little stuffy zoo who keep me company at the lake. I've managed to spend 4 of the last 7 nights out there. And most nights I have the lake to myself. With my pretend pets, of course.

I will try to squeeze one more night in before winterizing on the weekend. Because I love the sound of rain on the roof :D





Wednesday, September 11, 2019

A-camping I Will Go, A-camping I Will Go...

Crrrrreeaaaak! That's the sound of a stretching budget.

So I posted two days ago about looking for a new-to-me travel trailer to park on my newly leased lake lot.  It was less that 24 hours later and I found my new seasonal home. I fell in love with her the moment I saw the photos.

And I bought her without even seeing her. How crazy is that hey.

And then I had to scramble around trying to find a ride home for her... from Shuswap Lake!

I've been looking around for a few weeks, but not terribly seriously because at that point I hadn't actually secured a lot. I was just gathering info and learning what kind of pricing to expect and checking out different layouts.

And to be sure, in my research I changed my mind on a few things that I thought I wanted and started wanting other things that I didn't realize I would want. It was a fun little exercise. And September is a great time of year to be looking.

After posting 2 days ago, I had a number of people share links and offer various deals. Thanks everyone!

I went and looked at a number of trailers and had a few strong contenders, but it was nice that I didn't feel pressure to find something right away - not before April really.

Then yesterday morning I came across this 2014 beauty for sale. And within the hour (maybe two) I had bought her, sight unseen. I hope I don't regret it, but I'm feeling pretty comfortable it was the right thing to do.

And she checked everything on the list with the exception of an outdoor kitchen. And that was listed as a bonus item. And to be honest, I don't know for sure she doesn't have one, but I don't think so. I'll forgive her.

I actually have a real sense of Albert's blessing. (And I didn't always even look for that when spending money when he was right here beside me. haha) And with the way everything seems to be coming together with coincidental timing and all that, I suspect Jesus is standing beside him cheering me on and opening doors and gates. I'm quite excited. Can ya tell?

She not only maxed the budget, she maxed in length at 32 feet. 

Wipe clean furniture! Good thing cuz it's plenty white. 

How's that for a camping kitchen. And that TV... it rotates 180 degrees so you can watch from outside. Not that TV is big in my life, but a cool feature none-the-less. Albert would have loved it as a 42" music book.

I really like the dining table rather than fold-down bench seating.  Can't wait to put flowers on the table. 

Maybe I will just sell my house.  :D  

So excited. And feeling very very blessed. 



Monday, September 9, 2019

Widow, yes. Cougar, no.

I'm actually quite afraid of water, and I don't know how to swim. So I don't like to actually get wet, however, I love the water. Staring out over a lake, in any weather conditions, has the power to affect me to my very soul. And the ocean. Well, she takes it to another level yet. Yes, I love a good water view.

Albert and I were very much on the same page in this regard, although he did know how to swim. We loved our little spot at Vivian Lake and spent many many hours sitting by the fire watching the water.

It was my intention to keep the cabin lease for at least another year so I had some time for closure and  to just see how it went. But the owners of the property decided to take things in a different direction and all of the seasonal residents were given our notice to have our things cleared out by the end of May.

And yes, I was sad. I don't think I was angry. And I wasn't surprised.

But as they say, all things work together for the good...

Because honestly, I don't think that I could have spent much time out there without him. And once I got everything cleared out, I don't actually think I would take the cabin back even if it were offered to me.

But I miss the water. And our rainy summer doesn't count - even though I do in fact love the rain.

Anyway, in August I put my name on a waiting list to get a site at Bednesti Lake Resort. I was the 16th name on the list. So I just left it in the hands of God and decided I would be chill whatever happened. (Meanwhile, I kept one eye and one ear open for other waterfront possibilities... cuz y'know, that's how we usually trust God.)

But the fact is, I had never actually even been to Bednesti Resort before, so I decided to take a little drive and scope things out so that the next time I spoke with Bernie, the owner, I'd at least have a vague idea of what he was talking about. It's a few kilometres farther (in the opposite direction) than Vivian Lake, but it's all highway driving so is in fact quicker to get to from my home.

When I drove through the gate (I had an insider let me in... thank you, Brenda.) Bernie was there working on some equipment. Brenda informs me this is the first time this year she has actually seen him onsite, so it was 'good timing.'

"You know," he says, "I just had a site come up. It has a bit of water view, but it's not fantastic, but if you want it, it's yours. But I actually have another site in mind for you as I know you said a water view was important to you. But if you want to take this one and get your foot in the door, I will quite likely have a more ideal spot for you before April."

I whipped out my phone and made an e-transfer. He gave me the code to the gate. And I'm in! Sorry to all the other 15 on the waiting list. I guess it's all in the timing. And Who you know.

But alas, I gave away my trailer and most of my camping stuff in May.

Which, finally, brings me around to the point of this post.  I am looking for a new home away from home to park on my newly acquired lake lot. And I figure September is a better time to buy than April.

So, if you have any leads for a travel trailer, here's my ideal check list:

-25-29 feet long (but I will entertain the thought of up to 32ft)
-At least one slide out
-Air conditioning
-Prefer a bumper pull, but will consider a 5th wheel if it checks all the other boxes, since I have to beg, borrow or steal someone to tow it out there either way.
-Electric awning
-Preferably newer than 2010
-Outdoor kitchen would be a bonus
-Ideally a unit with a large window in the back and bedroom with walk around bed in front.
-My budget is around $15,000. Less would be lovely. However, I don't actually have anyone to keep my budget in check. Except maybe Jimmy, but I'm pretty good at silencing him.
-It cannot be "Cougar" brand. They do make lovely, lovely quality trailers, but seriously, I just can't entertain the thought of being a 54-year-old widow with the giant word "Cougar" written across the front of her sleeping quarters. Nope. Just can't do it.  (Would be kinda funny though.)


I'm not desperate enough for this yet.



















Friday, August 30, 2019

Today was a Cry Day.

It's been a while since I've had a "Cry Day."  There were many in the beginning.

There were even many during the ending.

And to be sure, I have cried on many days since.

But it's been a while since I've had a day filled with cry episodes. If I wasn't post-menopausal (thanks to cancer and surgery, for surely I am not THAT old šŸ˜€)  I'd probably blame it on pms.

I  awoke at 5:45 this morning, which is more regular than not, but I decided I would make a coffee and take it back to bed. On the way back I glanced and noticed Albert's phone sitting on the charging station. I grabbed it and decided I'd peruse through his photos and videos. A job that's been on my to-do list for 9 months so that I can save, back-up and do whatever else is necessary so I can cancel his iCloud account and maybe sell his phone.

So yeah, my cry day started shortly thereafter.

Some tears were tears of grief. Some were tears of joy. Some were just tears. Like memories and love leaking out of my eyes and flowing down my cheeks.

It was fun to see photos from his perspective of events that I also have photos and memories of. And I  cry.

It was fun to see his memories of events I didn't record, some I didn't even witness. And I cry.

Holy Jesus, he was a character, wasn't he?? And I cry.

I am so overcome with gratitude and amazement that this incredible human chose me to be his partner in life that it makes it hard for me to be angry that his life was cut so short. And I cry.

Me! He picked me.

And I cry.

And I smile.

My Albert was such a blessing. Truly he was.  And he intentionally made it so.

This is his phone:




He loved his phone and the connection it gave him to so many people, many of whom he rarely, if ever, had met in person.

He had a little handwritten note on the back of his phone to remind himself to always give a positive word when using his phone. This is actually quite impressive, coming from possibly one of the most sarcastic people on the face of the planet.

Anyway, I just want to share a few things I encountered on his phone today that blessed me, made me cry, made me laugh and made me grateful...

Hugging Mommy goodbye one last time. <3 nbsp="" td="">



Our last kayak paddle.  In Sept 2018 explored the "island" at Vivian lake for the only time in our 10 years at the lake. 

Quality time with his Little Buddy Xander walking to Goat Island in October



We stayed close to home and did our own pumpkin patch with the kidlets. Haha - Bea's version of "bunny ears."    

Maeve entertains with the violin. The kidlets were his greatest joy. <3 nbsp="" td="">

Bea and Daffers build a snowman and name it "Papa."

My sick sense of humour saw the irony in watching the Papa snowman waste away.  

Rocky Harbour Newfoundland. Iconic. 



He read that book dozens of times to Daphne. It was always Xander's favourite book too. 


Typical. Wanting to occupy the back seat but even so is the leader. 


 
His phone fell facedown so there is no video. But this is his last session in the music room. 




Wednesday, August 28, 2019

Rattling and Prattling Nine Months In...

I can't say that it's daily, but certainly more often than once a week, people hug me or message me or communicate in some other form that they appreciate me blogging my way through this journey of grief that I am on. And to be sure, I am blessed that others are blessed by my putting to words the process I am experiencing. But puking out these words is truly therapeutic for me.  And I am grateful for the encouragement to carry on.

It's quite likely there are equally as many people who roll their eyes and quietly judge me for my exhibitionism. They (you??) are welcome and encouraged to unfollow, unfriend, or refuse to click the links to my public therapy sessions if you don't find them helpful, enlightening, encouraging or entertaining in some way.

******

I know the fall is a favourite time of year for many people. While I do find aspects of it beautiful, I actually find it depressing. It signifies the coming of winter. And winter and I aren't really the best of buddies.

When people start posting about "fall being in the air" or "pumpkin spice... anything" I generally want to throat punch them.

But this year, I am trying to make a pointed intention of being grateful each day - I find it's truly difficult to be grateful and angry at the same time. Or grateful and sad. Or grateful and depressed... you get the picture.

I know that fall is the season of nature dying off in preparation for it's hibernation before starting its cycle all over again, but often September feels more like "New Year's" to me than January does. The lazy days of summer are over and school and all the programs and routines seem to kick back into gear.

Kind of a new start if you will.

Today, August 28th, I am nine months into life on my own.

I was struck today how this sort of correlates a bit to nine months of pregnancy for me.

I reach my nine month marker, and summer is winding down. My last few months of whirlwind travel that has seen 13,000 km on my new car and another nearly 10,000 km to Maui, but for now, I have no plans to leave home until a wee trip to Kamloops in November.

I feel like September might indeed be a kick-off to a new season. Sort of like my new real life starts now.
I've had nine months of growing pains and discomfort, excuses, or rather, reasons for just 'checking out' and not feeling the need to feel guilty about doing whatever the hell I figured I needed to do.

But the travelling is done for now. The guests have quit cycling through my door. My book has been published. My pension is in place. It's probably just time to settle in.

Oh to be sure as I move forward, the scars of the pain - physical and emotional, even spiritual,  I've had to make in the past nine months will be with me forever.

Do I long for the days from just one year ago when neither Albert nor I had any clue whatsoever what lay in store? You bet yer ass I do.

Do I have a gaping hole in my heart? You bet yer ass I do.

Do I hate functioning my whole life with only half of my being? You bet yer ass I do.

Do I acknowledge I had the most amazing thirty-eight years with a very incredible human? You bet yer ass I do.

Do I acknowledge that even in my pain, even in my sorrow, I have so very much to be grateful for? You bet yer ass I do.

So here I am, nine months in, completely spent. Exhausted. Crying. Sad. Still in love. Grateful. Hopeful. Determined. And moving forward. One teeny tiny step at a time...


*****

Once again my keyboard just takes off running with a mind of its own when I start to blog.

Facebook statuses are a shallow replacement, but I find them somewhat helpful. While blogs are more therapeutic, they literally take me one to three hours to formulate, hence they are less frequent.

I sat down to explain how I experience grief differently when I am at home and when I am travelling (which I've had the privilege to do quite a bit in the past nine months) ...


I've got nearly 13,000km on Francesca, my shiny black Rogue that I've had for about six months. I averaged about 9500 per year in the Granny Mobile, the black Kia Soul I previously owned for nine years.

It probably seems natural to think that traveling is a form of 'escape' or a chance to just get away from the grief or to occupy ones mind with other things. But in fact, my experience has been kind of the opposite.

When I am at home, just living my day-to-day life, there is a sense of the ordinary. Being that Albert worked many years of straight nightshifts, sleeping alone is not a giant adjustment for me. And in the spirit of daily finding things to be grateful for, this training of sleeping alone is something I truly am thankful for.

However, when travelling I find it more apparent that he is gone.

Of course there is the aspect that more often than not, he travelled with me and he always did 100% of the driving. But more noticeably to me is the fact that he is not there for me to call or text at the end of the day to share my experiences of the day with.

I find when I travel or do something beyond normal day-to-day, I'm more apt to think, "I've gotta text Albert about..." And then am dashed when reality reminds me I can't.

I know this will lessen as time goes on, as I experienced this same sort of phenomenom, and even occasionally still do, after losing Mama six years ago.

But here's the odd thing. I don't actually want to experience this less and less.  The pain of grief is intense. On one hand you want it to go away. On the other hand there is pleasure and solace in the ache. Somehow there is comfort in knowing you were loved and capable of loving to degrees you can't quite explain.

The loss of it unbearable. The gratitude for it having been, immense.











Tuesday, August 13, 2019

Another Carried Away Status Update Turns into a Rambling Blog.


Many of my blogs start out as Facebook status updates that just get carried away with their word count...

Home. There is nothing quite like it, no matter how fancy or chaotic or dysfunctional or humble it is. And tonight I am home. Ahhh.

It's been a month of guests in my house, laying my beloved's remains to rest, travelling, family reunions, hotels, touristing, grandkidlets, parties and fun. And 5000km on my car. I've loved pretty much every moment of it, but I exhale a breath of release as I walk alone into my silent home tonight.

And I find peace. And I am grateful.

Ultimately, I am grateful to Jesus for my blessings. But more tangibly I am grateful to my Albert. I miss him horribly. But even in missing him, I have to acknowledge my gratitude for all that he has provided me - physically, emotionally and otherwise. Truly all that I am is due much to all that he injected into my life.

Fuck.

(Sorry Mama, sometimes an f-bomb is all that I have.)

Life in the midst of grief often feels like such a juxtaposition. How do you reconcile your sadness and anger with your joy and gratitude?

*****

I arrived home tonight after 5000 km to find a shipment of 200 copies of my newly published children's book, "Bluebird's Song," sitting on my steps. I am a published author. This ticks a bucket list and other life boxes for me.

My inspiration for the story is 100% Albert and his wisdom.

And I am grateful.

And I am angry.

Angry that he's not here to share the moment. Angry that checking my bucket list item of authoring a bonafide book is a result of losing a very substantial part of my being.

Angry.

Angry.

Angry.

I am angry. But I am grateful. I don't know how to reconcile this within me.

Fuck.

******

But now, back to reality...

Here is my original Facebook status update, that got carried away with wordage, and resulted in this little expulsion of words (and I offer no apology nor explanation as to how my emotions and/or a glass or two of wine carried me off):

Driving home on the final 100 or so kms of my emotionally packed month I was travelling through Quesnel.

I got to the right-hand turn onto Front Street (hwy 97) in Q-town and had to stop because there was an obviously apparent drunk woman stumbling into the crosswalk blocking my driving lane.

She stopped in the middle of the lane with her back to me and other oncoming traffic, with her arms flailing towards the walking bridge across the Fraser River as she yelled obscenities and instructions to unbeknownst persons.

After a few seconds of standstill in the middle of the street, I honked a short beep of my horn.

And my ever-eager Jed also reached over and honk-honk-honked the horn.

Which of course, startled the apparently intoxicated women, who turned around  and started yelling obscenities at me and leaning over the hood of my car throwing two hands of middle fingers at me while she started kicking the front of poor Francesca, my car.

I regretted not being quick enough to have Jed take photos or a video of the incident on the fly, but on getting home an hour later I don't see any damage to the car. I'll double check in the morning.




11,111km on 6-month old Francesca as i left Kamloops this morning. At this rate she'll only last me about as long as her 4-year warranty and maintenance package. 

Wednesday, August 7, 2019

Bluebird's Song

Bucket List? Dream? Hope? Reality?  

Seeing my name on the cover of a published book checks all of the above. 

As of today, I am a published author.  Bluebird's Song is available now for purchase on Amazon.com and will be available on Amazon.ca in the next few days. The Kindle version will be released on August 30th. 

While it is all very exciting to be able to search my name on Amazon and see my book come up on the screen, my preference is that you buy the books directly from me. (Is that a bit presumptuous of me to assume you actually want to buy a copy?) I should have stacks of these little babies arrive on my doorstep next week.

It all comes down to money, really. If you order from Amazon you will pay $15 each in US funds. If you buy direct from me, you will pay $15 in Canadian funds, and I won't have to pay royalties to Amazon.  Kindle will be $2.99 CAD. 

If you'd like a copy and you aren't located near me I will ship via Canada Post for a nominal fee. Ok, nothing from Canada Post is nominal. Shipping within Canada will be $4 for one book, $6 for two books and $7 for three. And if you'd like dozens for all your grandchildren, we'll work something out.  :)  






That right there is MY name. On the cover of a published book. 

Sunday, July 28, 2019

He Will Always be There, Just Like He Always Was.

Today is July 28, 2019

Eight months. Time flies. Time drags. But it never stops.

I am eight months a widow. Honestly, I hate the actual word "widow" although I use it more often that I'd like to admit. Putting aside the definition, and all it entails, the word itself sounds old. It sounds 'incapable' or something. And visually it just looks like a misspelling of the word "window" to me. However, widow I am.

About two months ago, I bought a plot at the cemetery and ordered a headstone for my beloved.  The headstone arrived this week, coinciding with a weekend all of our children were in town, so we had a little intimate 'ceremony' graveside as we laid Papa's remains to rest, and celebrated everything that was, that which is, and things to come.

While the event was "planned" in that we knew it was upcoming, we didn't really make a plan. And it was perfect. It was raining but warm. It was sad, but joyous. It was unscripted but unfolded beautifully. And Papa was honoured, this much I know.

The grand kidlets danced in the rain, sprinkled sand, laid flowers and scattered flower petals. Jed played fitting music on his phone. Some made speeches, some recalled stories, most cried, all laughed. There was wine. There were photos. There were memories - both recalled and made.  And truly I was blessed. I AM blessed.

While we kept this event private and contained to our wee circle of family, indeed I know that Albert was truly included in many circles of love. I sort of see him as an olympic rings symbol. Many rings of various colours, all inter-looping yet individual, all a part of, yet not completely defining.

It's quite likely that every grieving spouse has these thoughts and feelings, but it doesn't diminish my reality: My Albert was very special. And I am so grateful that I shared the very core of his being with Jesus. It's an honour I cherish. But I also realize there are many other 'rings' in his life where others share my gratitude to have been a part of.

And so, I share the details of where his weary earthly body was laid to rest and invite you to drop by to visit the site to honour him, to talk to him, to swear at him, to question God, to sing, to dance, to cheers him with a drink, to contemplate life, to remember his wisdom, to cherish his sarcasm, to just be. And he will be there. Just like he ALWAYS was.


His marker includes his all-time favourite bible verse - which so aptly defines his life. 






Dancing in the rain for Papa. 

So unscripted. So Perfect. 

I'm so blessed by all the kids participation. 

Daphne, Papa's little Schmoey-girl, aptly kept the direction and flow of the day moving. 




If you are wanting to visit his resting place, go through the cemetery gate, turn to the left and go all the way to the farthest path. It's at the end of a row next to the fence. (Sort of across from the stop sign at the end of Williams Cres) 

Happy Swim-a-versary to Me!

These two selfies were taken exactly 75 minutes apart.  On January 8, 2023.  The first, as I was proudly about to walk into my very first sw...