Goodbye, Farewell, Amen

Another Mountie has taken his life, because of  post traumatic stress, and the R.C.M.P's inability to care for its members who are terribly damaged by the work they have sworn to do, to serve and to protect.

This is very hard to hear. 

There is a brotherhood and sisterhood with mounties, whether or not we ever met each other, we share the training, intense, exhausting, intimate...we share the risks, we share the courage, the insecurities, the fear, the laughter/dark humor that often only we can appreciate, the bad days the good days. 

The first officer suicide that hit me was my troopmate, Manon Chamberlain, less than a year out of training, she shot herself with her service revolver, a young woman I lived with and shared meals with and classes with and drill with for 6 agonizing months. 

Traditionally in a troop, back then anyway, the french girls didn't really like the english girls, but Manon and I bonded over bringing up the rear in most five mile runs! I miss her even though I probably would not have seen her again after depot. 

The lives of front line personnel are not easy. They/we have seen things only soldiers in combat can imagine. You don't go home and walk it off. It stays with you as a permanent blemish on your heart and mind, a lump in your throat you try to swallow away but it comes back, over and over, the more you see, the more justice lets you down. 

We only hear of the police officers who die in the line of fire, never much who die from the fire in their souls, from failing at fixing things that just cannot be fixed, failing to serve and protect the way we intended. I have seen horrific things. My family does not know about it nor will they ever know. I am happy my career in the RCMP was not a long one because I think I was spared far more pain and trauma than many of my colleagues who take that with them into retirement, hopefully to a natural old aged death. The next time you criticize a cop for being rude or arrogant or unfair or unfriendly or make donut shop jokes or call them pigs or worse......think about my brother Ken Barker, and all the men and women on the front lines, from 911 operators to paramedics to firemen and women to emergency room staff, and then decide if you can walk perfectly in their shoes. Or if you even would want to.
Godspeed Ken....I honor you.


Sian Thomson, #37559

I'll be seeing you

I recently made peace with my adult child¹s estrangement from me. 

After hearing the false accusations, lies, delusions, blame, rumors, and heart
shattering silence on too many mothers days, birthdays, christmases, I left.

I left my hope.

I took it out of my heart and discarded it.

I know that I was being poisoned by each day that I hoped she would come
back to me. 

So with a heavy heart, I left my grief of three years, knowing that I had
already put it off too long.

For the first few weeks, my body seemed to reject this. For three years I
had thought about what if¹s, waited for the phone to ring on special
occasions, cried when something reminded me of her or my grandchildren,
prayed for reconciliation. I didn¹t know who I was without my daughter and
grandchildren. Despite the kindness of friends and even strangers. I could
not help feeling utterly alone. Even though I have other children who are in
my life, it felt like I had a broken set. 

But it was this sense of aloneness that set me free. 

Somewhere along the way, I let go. I released all of the
optimism, that she would come back to me, and the pessimism that she
would not.  

The shards of her buried deep in my brain.

I stopped wondering if the things she had made me think about myself were
true. 

I began to see how extraordinary, breathtakingly beautiful life is. 

I meditated, drank too much coffee, went to therapy, laughed, and found
joy again. 

My children who have stayed by my side were reborn in my eyes, a
new, smaller set, richer, more precious, cherished, admired deeply.

Once I discovered that my happiness depends only on myself, nothing could
hurt me anymore. I have found and continue to find peace. Each day I am
closer to it than I was yesterday. I am a work in progress but I am full to
the brim with gratitude and joy. 

And so, since I have opened a new chapter in my life, I want to peacefully part with the contents of the last chapter.

The end of my maternal bond with her was the catalyst for a wealth of
positive changes in my life. It was a symbol, but most importantly, it was an
act of self-love. It was a realization that I deserved to be happy and I
could choose to be. I am moving forward with strength and grace and deep,
lasting peace. I am going to be who I was meant to be, and take those on the
journey who were meant to take that adventure with me.

I gave her life, and she has flown away, I no longer have to look to the sky to
wonder what could have been because  what is happening now has grounded me
on an exciting path to my destiny.

Maybe she will join me on my path someday, but I know now I can make the journey without her.

Namaste

My Cousin, My Friend.

                                (ONE DAY A PHOTO OF US TOGETHER WILL BE INSERTED HERE)



I grew up as an only child, not knowing that I actually had cousins, a lot of them, and half siblings, and grandparents, and it wasn't a terrible childhood, in fact it was the best one I could imagine.

I was born in 1960, a time when unwed pregnancies were not talked about and single mothers were rare; adoption was the trend in those days.

I was the child of an unwed mother, and was adopted by my grandparents. That loving, selfless act of generosity and love opened up many doors for me in terms of opportunities, being raised well, but being raised without a big family; my parents' parents were long dead, they had survived their siblings so there were no aunts, uncles, cousins for the most part; one aunt who I adored (married to my dad's brother who passed when I was 10) and one cousin who was a decade older.

I wouldn't trade my childhood for anything, not even for more family at the time I was growing up.

My parents died when I was young, the hazard of being adopted by your mom when she is 51 and your dad when he is 50. You are not going to get them much past 25 and that's what happened to me.

Verna Age 13
A time came in my late 20's when I really wanted to explore the family I didn't know. This would be on my paternal father's side. I had grown up with my two  half sisters living up the street. We were fairly close in age, me being older by a couple of years, but they moved after their (our) father was killed in an accident, and we lost touch.Through research which I happen to be good at,  I found them, wrote a letter, and they embraced me without reserve or judgement, But it was awkward. Hard. We might have shared DNA but we did not share a lot of memories, and they could not share too many of their memories of (our) father because they were under 5 when  he passed.

Sian age 13

We tried to stay in touch, it was harder with my younger sister because we were too far apart in age as children, I always saw her as my friend's kid sister.  It just has not clicked, and that's ok.

But something strange happened with this odd reunion.

It was two cousins that stood out, who blended in with my life like an old comfortable glove envelopes your hand, year after year, bringing comfort, warmth, it's reliable, you can't really replace them. Anything else wouldn't feel right. You're invested.

One of these cousins is the son of my father's sister.

But this blog is not about him, (his time will come lol)

The other is the daughter of my father's brother.

We are very close in age, in fact, three weeks apart...she is OLDER....lol.

We went to the same schools growing up, and I think we were in the same class once or twice.

Verna graduation

Funny thing is, we never connected as friends.

I don't mean we disliked each other, we just didn't stop when our paths crossed.

Fair enough, we did not know we were related.

I wish we had stopped in each other's path because I believe, today, we would have a lot of memories to talk about.

I really feel we missed out.

Me at grad (cannot find a full length one, just as well!)

I have not seen her in person for probably 45 years.

I have her image in school photos, and if anyone had mentioned her name to me while I was growing up I would have recognized it, recognized her as my friends' cousin.....my friends' who were my half sisters, at the time unknown to any of us.

It is odd to me that we lived in the same community, went to the same schools to a point, I think she moved on to a different school half way through elementary school, we were back passing each other in the halls at junior high, and then embarked on separate roads after that, but we shared things we did not realize.

A family tree for one thing!

Grandparents!

Probably hair color, skin tone (we are both dark like our fathers), who knows,maybe the same freckles, laugh, or lazy eye....(I have yet to find out about that!)

Most cousins meet at their grandparents house. 

We met, really met, over facebook.

It sounds so shallow, so "social media-esque", but I have to tell you, in my cousin Verna, I found my second self.

Are we alike? Probably a little. Maybe she is like her dad and I am like mine. I don't know  because I never met my uncle and I only have vague, little girl memories of my father pushing me around in a wheelbarrow, taking is on rides when I was at his house playing with his girls/my half sisters.

I remember he had dark curly hair and really nice teeth.

So do i.

Are we kindred spirits?

I think so.

I envision she would have been the Hardy to my Laurel, the Robin to my Batman, the Ethel to my Lucy, or  maybe the other way around. ( I am aging myself, I know!)

The Midge to my Barbie...the Mindy to my Mork....you get the point!!

Sometimes you just click with a person you are comfortable with and you don't have to pretend to be normal.

You fit.

Many times over the last couple of years I have been pretty vocal on facebook about various trials and tribulations in my life, a life she has not shared with me, about my children she has never met,  and over private messaging mostly, she has been the one there doing it when everyone else says is there anything I can do.

Comforting me. Understanding me. Not judging, just being with me. Words are powerful, especially when they are heartfelt.

I do not mean to disparage the many people in my life who support me and truly care. This is not about them.

This is about my cousin. Her words have helped me when the road has been rough and long.

Distance and time seem to have no power here, in this relationship.

 I think our fathers are in Heaven looking down on their girls and making magic happen. I really do. 

There is no other way to explain the bond I feel with a woman I have not seen in many years, a woman who was not ever really my "friend" in childhood, just a face and a name passing by on life's journey, reaching a mutual destination when we are both in our 50's.

Destination: Different, beautiful flowers in the same garden. (She can be what she wants, I am the tiger lily.....ok?)

So never underestimate the power of a cousin.  In this case, the power of two men who fathered two daughters who met, really for the first time, after half a century.

I hope one day I can be there for her as she has been for me.

Verna Coulson-Tallosi.  Happy Birthday!!! I swear we shall meet in person before you qualify for your senior's discount!!

I am right behind you cuz!

___________________________________X0_________________________________________

Verna and her lovely mum

Me and my lovely (birth) mum.

Somewhere out there......

I used to joke about her name, and nicknamed her "Lizzy Borden". I recited the infamous poem to her several times "Lizzy Borden took an axe and gave her father forty whacks, when she saw what she had done she gave her mother forty one."

While she never chopped me up with an axe, she did kill me in other ways.

She killed me with laughter when she uttered so many "Lizzy-isms" that I really wish I had kept a journal of all of them.

She killed me with disbelief at some of her odd antics; shaving her legs for the first time  in a roadside hotel when we were stranded, cold, frightened and slightly broke in another country after our van had broken down on the interstate. She bled everywhere. That one always stands out, like her 12 year old leg hairs apparently.

She killed me cherry eating at Fusilli Grill.

She killed me with worry at her choice of some of her boyfriends.

She killed me by singing and dancing for our neighbours, by waking up after so many surgeries and telling me she was glad I was there, with Sex Bombs and I think I love you's and YMCA's and It's not unusual (da-da-da-da-dum) and of course, Variety Club guy.

She killed me with pride for all her talents, always trying to suggest it was because of me, or because of my help, but it was her, it was all her.

She killed me with experiences in elevators, movie theatres, $17,000 shopping sprees, toilet photos at the top of the empire state building, saying yes to the dress, thigh dances, broken chairs and incontinence, ski-vas and favas, and giant dogs.

She killed me with her kindness, her vivaciousness, and delivering my cherished Carys after we both already new she was there waiting to be born as we sat in Dr. Hudson's office so many times together.

But

She also killed me with stories she told about me to other people that were not right.

She killed me by blaming me for things that were not me, by forgiving nothing, by turning others against me, by choosing new family over old, by pulling the rug out from under me so hard that it left me in the valley of the shadow of death for quite some time.

And through it all, I loved her. I still do. I always will. 

I forgive her all of it, I only wish she could do the same for me.

What I remember about her when I take some quiet time to reflect, brings a smile to my face in spite of all the horror of the last few years. It is funny what the brain fills itself with, as if it knows you are going to need these memories one day.

Really REALLY need them.

I remember the look of wonder on her face the first time she played with the faucet on the kitchen sink, took her first steps, saw presents under the tree on her first Christmas morning, held her newborn brother, stepped into the ocean surf, got big girl panties, realized she could run around sprinklers, rode her bike without training wheels, strutted her stuff in fashion shows and teacher crushes, and film making, especially the grad video and the Dr. Elder tribute.  But it all goes back to the look of wonder on her tiny face when I held her in the hospital nursery and she looked me in the eyes, the first time and saw the intense, never ending love I had for her. I know we had a moment, Our moment. That one thing that will be with you for life and carry you through when your legs are just not beneath you anymore.  She slid her little starfish hand up  onto my chest as I rocked her and rocked her long past the point she needed to be rocked. We really met for the  first time two days after her birth in that nursery, first time mother, new born child, and In those moments I promised her I would try not to screw things up, that we were both new at this, she as my baby, me as her mother, and I promised her I would be there always, we were in this for life now.

Little did we know where life would take us. What would be taken. What could never be replaced. What could not be taken away.

Her starfish hands now dwarf mine completely. Mine show the years on them now, old lady hands I used to call them when I didn't have any! They have been busy hands, They have baked birthday cakes and written letters to school, they have rubbed shoulders and smacked bottoms and tickled ribs and tied hair back, changed diapers, wiped bottoms, , handed over car keys, handed over hot dog money and bigger bucks than that, they have dried tears, too often my own, and they have held my grandchildren, sadly, for not long enough.

There are empty seats at my dinner table now, ones that may not be filled again, but I still feel her grace surrounding me.  I have risen above  the piercing arrow of loss and realize just how small my life would have been without her. I have tried not to let the joy she gave me when she was nearby diminish because she has left me, and however long that may be, it will always have been too long with too many moments lost in time.

We were a family, a mother and daughter and we are still a family, we are all one in this world, each carrying our own losses and heartaches.  Her journey with me will never end. There is an empty chair but also a beautiful spirit left in her wake.

I often go over and over in my head the last time I saw her and spoke to her and what I could have done to alter the outcome. It has taken time, meditation, therapy and prayer to get where I am today, knowing that guilt is defined as intent to harm and no mother has the intent to harm her child. To leave was her choice, to give her life was mine, I was the instrument in her journey here. My grandchildren may not know me but their heart beats because of me. The reality is this is not about me wanting her to stay but honoring her choice to decide to leave and her choice to not give her children a part of me. She is their mother. I am not.

I have learned from these challenges, disturbing and painful, these losses that never occurred even in my wildest dreams. The dark hollow in my chest has healed. My pain is no longer a prison cell surrounding me so tightly that it literally made it hard to breathe.  While I was trying to make sense of it all and wondering if I could go on, something was happening. 

The bond I had with her strengthened in its own right.

Some of my children, who I always forgave, accepted, and loved them for their flaws, in the end could not accept mine.

And for some reason I do not understand and also do not give much thought to anymore, two of the three have left little to nothing in my heart and memory.

But standing sentry by my side is her spirit, the one she left behind in my memory.  Her spirit surrounds me with a powerful grace. connecting us as if she is still in the womb, as if she is still curled into me as I rock, and rock, and rock her, and make promises I meant with all my heart.

Thirty years ago she came into my life, fast, like a bullet.

Three years ago she left my life, just as quickly, more silently, more painful than any labour.

But forever, back on the day she was born and through to the day I die, I will always be her  mother in increasingly profound ways.

Even if eternity never sends her home to me.

``24``

Twenty four years ago on May 19 I had my last baby. While she left the nest about six years ago, it is only now that I will accept she has her wings and probably won`t be flying back here anytime soon!

I consider the 24th birthdays of my children to be THE birthday, the one
when they become adults. Up to then they can still pull on my apron strings, cling onto my leg crying mommy mommy don't leave me, ask me for money, call me at 1 am crying about a broken romance, and I can still say "because I said so".

Who am I kidding, I am 54 and still call my mother asking for money.

At least at 24, they should have the experience, a lot of the bad and some of the good, and at least have a direction of travel.

They should have their book smarts and be ready to revel in what is most important to get them through, street smarts.

They should be starting on the road of their journey now, not hitchhiking with a guitar strung over their back, not hitting me up for bus money, not traveling in a commune of like-minded fatty smokers dressed like a bohemian and heading for a beach party somewhere, but with an itinerary at least that promises some very rewarding stops on the way.

And some fun ones too.

The world is their oyster, they have to decide what they make with the grains of sand at their feet.

It doesn't mean they cannot decide to change direction but at 24 they
should have the internal compass aka common sense to know how to learn from their mistakes and avoid that direction again.

They should have found out who they are, at least for the next decade.

They should have seen the opposite sex naked, vice versa, or maybe not even the opposite sex, I don't care, but they should have some experience in that department, I am not one of those wait until your wedding night type of mothers. After all, when I got married, and I was 24 by the way, I had our first child seven months later. On her due date.

They should have learned to laugh at themselves. 

 Enter Emelia, biologically my last baby I gave birth to, or should I say had cut out of me. I like to remind her of that, for some reason it gives me great pleasure to blame her instead of pringles, soda pop, cookies and menopause.  She is the reason for my bouncy flop and the end to my string bikini days.

Before the flop it still wouldn't have been a great fashion statement but that is not the point.

Emelia was born May 19,1990 a month early, the c section done by a doctor of very short stature, so short that when he stood up from sitting at his desk he didn't get any taller. So short he had to stand on a stool to examine me. This was very hard to be on an exam table in "the" position when your husband, who laughs at his own jokes, is standing behind the doctor in your field of vision making dwarf signs. (The doctor thought I was shaking because I was nervous!)

I had my first and last c-section with Emelia, who came out weighing exactly the same as her older sister, 7.11 and the exact height 21 inches.

That is about all they have had in common ever since.

I did not get to hear her first cry or see her take her first breath when she came out from under my heart, from being tucked away, just the two of us,  I saw her about two hours later. I saw my first two babies born before my eyes, so I know what the emergency circumstances of her birth cost me. That one memory of that one raw miracle moment that is absorbed into your memory permanently.

But I got a different memory. It took me about two days to fully wake up and be conscious from the c-section because I got very sick very fast and had to have a lot of blood transfusions.

Day three I was just wanting to sleep, I had never felt post op pain like I had been experiencing, I was just plain miserable and not feeling very maternal at all. My attempts to slumber were being disturbed by the crying of a newborn down in the nursery about four rooms up. I kept waiting for it to  stop, wondering where the nurses were and why they were not doing something, take the kid to his mother, stick a soother in his mouth, find a breast!! (Like I said I was in a bad mood.)

Finally I couldn`t take it anymore and although I was supposed to be on bed rest I got out of bed, held my gut, like it was about to explode open, in one hand, the i.v. pole in another and marched out of my room and down the hallway bent over like the hump back of notre dame. I felt like I was marching, `cause I was irate, but really I was hobbling. The halls were empty, no nurses around anywhere. I supposed if my guts blew open I would have to find some paper towel myself and take care of it.

I approached the nursery and there was only one baby in there, the rest, I supposed, were with their adoring mothers, rooming in. The infant was yelling, there is no other word for it. Not fussing, not weeping, not even crying, it was yelling. Eyes wide open looking around and as soon as I appeared her eyes were set on me. The little pink card on the layette said Èmelia Coryn. 

If I knew then what I knew now I would not have been shocked at all. At 72 hours old she was inquisitive, mouthy, and stubborn and she will always let you have her way. Not much has changed. I was faced with a choice. I knew I had to let go of either the iv pole or my incision because this kid was coming back to my room. I knew instinctively it was the only way she was going to be quiet and I could go back to sleep. I was also aware I would be in trouble from the gestapo in white if they saw me out of bed. So I tentatively released my hand from my incision, risking a gory event I was sure of it, and pushed the isolette down the hallway whispering to Emelia to shut up or I was going to be in trouble. `Shut up`yes I admit it, I told you, I was not feeling warm and fuzzy thoughts. She didn`t take her eyes off me, clearly sizing me up as if this was an interview for the job as Emelia`s mother.

 I pushed the isolette up as close to my bed as possible, lay back down, closed my eyes, and she started yelling again. Here is the moment that made up for the one I  lost when she was born. I reached over to her, put my hand on her hand, she wrapped her fingers around  one of mine, and went to sleep. At that moment she didn`t need to be held or rocked or nursed, she just wanted to know I was close by. Our relationship has been like that ever since. 

Five years later I adopted three more babies moving her from the baby to the middle child. She now had two older brothers and an older sister, and two younger brothers and a younger sister.

But Emelia is not one to get lost in the middle. It`s not just her good looks, intelligence, or almost six feet of height that makes her stand out, it`s her strength of character, integrity, and genuineness. I am so happy I passed on those traits to her!

Our 24 years together almost mimics marriage vows. It has been almost a quarter of a century of having and holding from that day forward, for better or worse, for richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish. I tried to slip in the obey part but she would have none of it.

As I officially release my baby girl into adulthood, I remember, symbolically, these 24 things, the moments absorbed into my mind,that make me melancholy, or make me laugh, or make me happy, or make me wish the time had not gone by in an instant. And I am not referring to her baby book for any of the information, Unless I remember it on my own, it doesn`t count.

In no particular order:

1) The time she went after two older boys who were bullying her older brother and told them to leave her ``bwutha`` alone or she would smash them in the face. (She was three).

2) The times her father smacked her on the arm or hand when she was doing something he disapproved of and she would look him dead in the eye, wipe off the ``smack``  and tell him it didn`t hurt.

3) The time she wanted to ``do her eyebrows`` unknowingly using her brothers electric razor and had to live with one less eyebrow for about a month until it grew back in.

4) She would never eat her food unless it wasn`t touching. Right down to the last grain of rice, she hand separated it, in spite of her father`s warnings that she was not going to have any supper unless she started eating NOW. She completely ignored him and continued on excavating her plate, and I suspect she slowed her pace down, on purpose. She was two.

5) The time she wanted me to sneak up on her older sister who she told me through giggles was in her underwear, and take a photograph. The same day we were videotaping her older sister practicing her `modeling` moves and Emelia was in the background making fun of her, and quickly became the focus of the video.

6) The time I rented a limousine for her and her friends on her 10th birthday and how excited she was.

7) The day her dad and I surprised her with two eight week old Siamese kittens. We had intended to only get one, but there were two left. Anyone who knows me knows THAT wasn`t going to happen.

8) The time I got a phone call from the horse ranch to tell me she had been thrown from her horse and was at the hospital. The horse had stepped on  her arm and her head when she was down, cracking her helmut. When we got here we found her arm was broken, her head was not. The drive to the hospital was the longest 10 minutes of my life.

9) The time her first boyfriend accidentally saw me naked. 

10) The phone call I got from her telling me she had just found Harry dead (one of the two Siamese cats) and the long hug we had in the driveway when I got home.

11) Giving her dog Jesse away, not realizing how close she really was to him. Always been sorry for that.

12) Max, Zack, Thomas, Kohlea, Devon,Jens, Clay, Alex, David; acknowledging these are only the ones I know about. And it took ALOT for me even to type the name `Thomas`....%?$/*")*

13) Her first crush, Skeeder Barrie.

14) The big fight we had in the driveway.

15) The horrific surgery she had to have on her feet and the metal poles had to  have through the top of her toes for six weeks. (She got her feet from  her father).

16) The only arguments with the kids her father ever lost were with her. Her ``M.O.`` was to frustrate him to the point of exhaustion.

17) How beautiful she was on her high school graduation day and how proud I was of her.

18) The day she thought Lucy was actually going to be a bike for her 21st birthday, and the look on her face when I took the one pound puppy out of the bag and handed it to her. Their`s has been a love story ever since.

19) The day she called her little brothers and sister telling them we had to go out and forgot herself for a moment and said ``out and go pee`` - a common statement in our multi-dog household. And I have to say I have never seen her giggle so hard and for so long. I think she may have snorted.

20) Toilet training her using....not candy, not promises of wonderful toys, not praise of how clever she was...all that would work was a three inch giant dill pickle she would hang out of her mouth like a stogie whilst doing her business.

21) The dozens of hand written notes she would leave under my pillow telling me how much she loved me, I have most of them to this day. I wish I had appreciated them at the time as much as I do now.

22) Cannoli, self help books in the mail, ``a phone call, a letter or a visit`` to Mr. Rennie and Say Yes to the Dress.

23) The disastrous weekend we spent in Victoria thanks to food poisoning. One day we ARE GOING to have a do-over!!

24) The chance finding of her foot sticking out from her covers revealing a lie that backfired and her first official hang over the next day. (She can fill you in on what her mean mother made her do the next day!!!!!!)

I have not been a perfect mother but I have to say, in all honesty, I think she has been the perfect daughter. I mean that. Her imperfections were perfect for me. They made me laugh just when I needed to, they made me look at myself in the mirror and try to be better. They humbled her father and put him in his place when that is where he needed to be.

From the beginning of her life she is the one who made me get out of bed when I wanted to just hide under the covers, and I mean that literally and metaphorically.

Emelia, as you explore the big world  of possibilities, be optimistic, be kind always, love freely, take care of every creature, listen to your heart, listen to your little voice, remember you are always loved and give thanks for all your blessings as I give thanks for you being mine.

Your mum......forever and ever.

                                 X0