MY Girl.

September 4, 2014 is a day I almost lost my oldest daughter. She was the victim on a (sudden) domestic assault. "Sudden" because he had never physically attacked her before. It was bad. It took a long time for him to beat her as she ran for hiding places in their apartment, FInally she made it almost out the door but fell, and he slammed the door on her legs repeatedly as she grasped onto her dog Lucy and tried to crawl out. It was then she thought to call for help. But the neighbours has already called 911. He was arrested and taken into custody. Because the apartment was in his name as he was the main wage earner (as a police officer) she was given 4 hours to move out of the apartment. FOUR HOURS to relocate her life, her belongings, with no where to go. Thanks to the kindness of friends,and my brother and sister-in-law re arranging their day to help her pack what she could in the time allotted (before he got out of jail) Emelia made it out with basically the clothes on her back and her cat and dog. She was unable to retrieve her furniture, her bed which was a good one, and he subsequently sold it all. She was battered, bruised, traumatized, frightened, and lost. She loved this man and thought he was the one, and as she said 90 percent of the time they had a wonderful time together, laughing, sharing interests, he was her best friend. So she lost her best friend that day in a way you never want to end things with someone you love.
There had been "signs" that all was not right with him. Arguments would be initiated over trivial things. He couldn't let things go. He was controlling. He often tried to make her feel inadequate. Leading up to the beating (which you can imagine was well done as he was a trained police officer) there had been an escalation in his fighting mood, and I had to intervene a few times in the 48 hours preceding the event to calm him down and talk him out of his hysterics. My last words to Emelia the night before the attack, when I had spent two hours on the phone with them on speaker, mediating this argument, with him saying Emelia's attempts to settle things were nothing more than sarcasm on her part (bizarre), my last words were "Milly you have to leave him ,you have to get out of there this weekend." The next morning it happened. It started over her rubbing his arm as a way of saying good morning. He took offence and just started beating her. He smashed her lap top, broke her phone, ripped the closet door off and destroyed her clothes, he hit her everywhere but the face, bruised ribs, scratched up arms, bruised thighs, calves, severely sprained wrist when he bent it back as she tried to defend herself, and a couple of good punches in the stomach. Emelia had never been in a physical altercation before. She fled and ended up in the street below, calling me, barely audible between the sobs. she was in medical shock. The Vancouver Police Department treated her with dignity and care. After it was all over, the medical checks done, the photographs taken, the statements given. they took her to her friends house where she would couch surf until she figured out what to do, where to go, where to live and how to get furniture, even just a bed., to give her some dignity in her recovery to start over. He had sold her car, much of her furniture while they were together, replacing it with "new" stuff, he preferred things that way. A police officer even brought her some food at the end of it all after realizing she had not eaten all day, and they continued to check up on her from time to time, as did Crown Counsel. It was gold star treatment for a domestic assault victim and I owe the VPD a debt of gratitude to this day for treating my baby girl with kindness and grace. He lost his job with the police force. They don't put up with bullshit like that. He was charged with assault, mischief and uttering threats. He was put on a one year peace bond. That ends next month. My daughter, on her own, found more work in order to be self sufficient and to start over, working two jobs, working to exhaustion some 18 hour days, managed to get her own apartment in a nice area of town, furnish it over time off Craigslist, make new friends now that he was no longer in control and isolatiog her, and she benefited from the one year of counselling the Victim Services offered to her and lucked out with a wonderful therapist who really knew how to communicate with Emelia at her level. Her level of mistrust, victimization, sadness, sarcasm, and high intellect. Emelia is the Gold Standard for women in domestic violence situations. she never let it happen a second time. She did not go back even though it would have been the easiest thing to do because he had the money, the home, all she had to do was tow the line and hope that something she said didn't brew and boil over in his paranoid, narcisstic mind. All she had to do was walk on eggshells. She chose the hard road. And it was hard. There were many phone calls home crying, sobbing, scared for the future, was it worth it? Was she doing the right thing? Her body was aching, exhausted. She missed him. she missed the man in the times he wasn't emotionally abusive and controlling, But she could not erase the memory of trying to escape and the beating getting worse as she tried to get out the door. She remembered her terror at leaving her cat in the apartment and worrying what he would do to him to get to her. She used her common sense, and she continued on a difficult, often isolated journey away from him and towards herself.
It has been a year. She is a new person. She is physically healthier, mentally healing, has a new job with lots of potential for income and growth, an apartment that is hers, and hers only, with furniture that is hers, and hers only. She will be buying a car this week to commute to her new job. She is on her way.Many women who were beaten a year ago by their boyfriends or husbands remain in that living situation. Some left and went back. Others made excuses, thought they could change him, thought if they only acted differently themselves he would stop getting mad
and using their body to take it out on. My daughter said once is too much, and fought her emotional instincts to go back. She followed her head not her heart. She will fall back in love one day, when she is ready. She still doesn't trust totally. She still carries hurt from that day. But she is laughing again. She likes what she sees when she looks in the mirror. She has made new friends, not friends he approves of. She has rekindled friendships he did not allow. Emelia has defined herself at 25. She is a courageous, smart, kind, giving person, who wants to be loved, one day, by a man who will never put his hands on her except in affection. She is a self made woman, who came back from the brink of darkness and horror, and did it all by herself. As all women of abuse must. People can help you do it, but you have to make the decision to reach out and take what they are offering. Too many turn their backs and return to the darkness because it is easier.
Emelia Coryn is a warrior princess. She is not one to mess with. She is the true definition of an independent woman in 2015, and she is going to make a difference in the world. She is an artist, a writer, a cat and dog mom, an athlete, a tough mudder, an evolving gardener, a loyal friend, who has overcome disappointments in her life with grace and a lot of humour. 

That's MY girl.

Dear Aylan

Dear Aylan

Man should never have to make tiny coffins and babies should not die in the sea. When I first saw you, you were wearing a red t-shirt, blue shorts, and cute little leather soled shoes with the Velcro undone. You looked like you had fallen asleep at the beach, on your tummy, bum up, waiting for your mama to come and get you.But you were not sleeping, you were dead.You became the world’s little boy, and the world is crying for all the years you will miss being alive, sharing your gifts, loving and being loved, especially by your papa who misses you to the moon and back. So many mommies and daddies are holding their little boys a little tighter today.I wonder about you Aylan. Were your eyes the color of the ocean that sent you to heaven? Did you put your own shoes on, like a big boy on the night of your doomed journey? Did you feel your papa holding you desperately trying to keep your head above the waves. Have you found your mama and your brother Galip in Heaven?Were you light and love, mischief and pranks? Or did you live your short life in terror and sadness, hunger and squalor?I am so sorry that you didn’t make it to Canada. It is a lovely place, where people care about each other, where little boys can go to school, ride bikes, and play games, where they have choices and friends and play dates and their very own dog and don’t see horrible things little boys should never see.They don’t have to risk their lives getting onto inflatable boats in the deep ocean to find freedom and safety.Your auntie said you never had a toy to play with. In Canada you would have had Little Tykes, and Hot Wheels and LeapFrog and Megablocks. You would have been lost in the imaginary world of the Lion King and the Muppets, sung songs from Frozen, played in the snow and made sandcastles at the beach. But the photo of you on the beach puts you into a club no child should be in. You join Phan Jim Phuc, the little Vietnamese girl running away from a napalm attack, and the unnamed Sudanese baby being preyed upon by a vulture. Maybe your photo is the one that will open people’s hearts to the endless possibilities found when we don’t look away, when we stop pointing fingers towards politicans, terrorists, nations, policies, bureaucrats, traffickers, and overloaded boats carrying children and mothers to their graves. When we say we are sad but what can we do?You are everyone’s little boy Aylan, and we are all to blame for the horror you went through, and the horror too many children of the world, behind borders that don’t matter, are living every hour of every day until they, too, pass through hell on earth to get to Heaven, too early, too tragically. All of us, in the whole world, can honor you by loving each other and taking care of each other and speaking up, speaking out, and not stopping.Maybe this time, maybe this time.You are free now and I am sorry it took the unforgiving unrelenting waves of the Aegean Sea to give you what you should have had in life on earth.Freedom. Love. Peace.Even now you are sleeping in eternity I can only believe that you were planted on Earth to bloom in heaven. Take flight, my boy. Soar.

Caitlyn Jenner's Courage

                                                             

 WHAT IS COURAGE?

 I cannot remain silent anymore amidst the ongoing mocking, insulting, demoralizing and bullying of Caitlyn Jenner, and the outrage that exists over her "Courage" award. It is being said that there were athletes more deserving of the award, athletes who have or had physical ailments but achieved success, war heroes, and family members of athletes facing off with struggles of their own. They all have courage. Every one of them. As do people who are not famous, who suffer silently and beat the odds or achieve their goals in life. I also think it takes courage in today's era to be tolerant. Because those who are tolerant get bashed and ridiculed by those who are intolerant of people who are doing NO HARM, who are trying to live their lives and their truth under their God, and in doing so are helping other "different" people in the process, inspiring them, making them feel less isolated, giving them hope. I think it takes the most courage to do something unpopular, publicly, that you know will attract the haters, that you know could put you are risk physically, and in Caitlyn's case, knowing that the harassment will result in cheap shots and scorn right down to her private parts - taunts, put downs, indignities, all over social media. It is the haters who are cowards, because they cannot find the courage to accept something in others that they don't understand or relate to, something that perhaps isn't in line with their God, or their morals, but Caitlyn Jenner is not hurting anybody. Who cares what her DNA is? Who cares what body parts she has or doesn't have? Who cares what she is wearing? Who cares that she has a lot of money, mainly because she is going to use it to do good. She is saving an entire group of people, mostly young people, from killing themselves because of hatred and intolerance. She put a target on her back.

Ironically, the award given to Caitlyn Jenner has Arthur Ashe's name on it. Arthur Ashe said, "You learn about equality in history and civics, but you find out life is not really like that." Nothing BAD comes from kindness. Courage comes from being kind when in a room full of antagonists.

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.