Social Network 2020

As we near the end of 2020, I find myself increasingly reflecting on what kind of year its been. 

Oh, and what a year it HAS been!

For me, 2020 was meant to follow an uncertain 2019; a year of pain, loss, change and SO much healing. Although I may not have reflected on 2019 in the same way at the time, it was a year of tremendous personal growth and a true testament to my strength, courage and resiliency. 

2020 was supposed to be different.  It was to be the year that I would be able to apply that courage and strength to even more personal and professional growth.  I knew, with absolute certainty, that it would be a year of change and I welcomed the thought of that with open arms and an open heart.  Still, nothing could have prepared me for what was to come. 

Nothing.

Professionally, it started off with a number of challenges.  Even before COVID reared its ugly head locally, we were busy preparing for (while actively trying to prevent) a massive labour disruption.  This not only meant an increased workload and extra hours, but also a vacation freeze that meant you could not schedule a single day off, even if you wanted to. Even if you needed to.  For me, that feeling of being “trapped” without possibility of an escape, is one of the feelings I struggle with most.  By January, I already felt like I needed a vacation.  By February, I was already tired as we added the additional layer of preparation for a worldwide pandemic.  By March, I was already feeling the strain.

Personally, there were some concerns in the background that also weighed heavily on my mind. Working in disaster response, I knew firsthand what a pandemic of this magnitude could signal, if we were not able to contain it. I knew what a potential lock-down could look like and I knew the impact it could have on so many, including those closest to me.  With my aging parents, both with underlying medical issues, I feared for their safety.  With my 3 children in school, I feared what this would mean if they weren’t able to access it.  With my own level of stress coming into it, I feared the impact this would have on my immune system.  With, with, with, with, the list of concerns grew with every day of uncertainty and confusion. 

In March, as I was getting ready to leave work and go home, I received a call asking me to go open a relief site at a community centre.  Within 30 mins, I was onsite, preparing to open our doors for clients in 4 hours.  As the redeployed staff came on shift, I realized that we would be operating with a team that had no experience working with our complex client population and in our unpredictable environments. I was the only one in that room who had any idea of what we could expect. 

But where that moment would lead me, is not something even I could have expected.  That decision to say yes and go open those doors that afternoon in March, changed the entire trajectory of my 2020 and my entire life as I knew it. 

The next few months reached a level of stress that I have yet to find words for.  For now, I will sum up that time simply with the following:

Work was long and hectic.  

With limited staffing, I was working 12-16 hour days. 

I wasn’t sleeping well.

I wasn’t eating well.

I wasn’t able to find energy to exercise.

Because of my work hours, I was barely able to see my children physically.

Seeing my parents was a no-no.

The house was empty.

I had to balance the anxieties of my loved ones with managing my own limited self care.

Time stood still.

I was so fucking exhausted from all of it.

In March, I was scheduled to have a tubal ligation.  At 39, I had long ago decided that 3 children were plenty for me.  With two previous miscarriages in my younger days and a more recent surprise pregnancy that ended with a very difficult decision to terminate it, I was very much looking forward to having the surgery completed.  4 days before the surgery, I received a call from my OB/GYN to say that they had cancelled elective surgeries, and mine was on the chopping block.  They were currently rescheduling for June, uncertain of the direction COVID would take.  I resigned myself to 3 more months and hoped for a June date. 

In June, and at the height of a lot of chaos, my period did not come as expected. I told my partner that I would take a pregnancy test just to see, fully expecting it to come back negative. He offered to come with me to purchase the test and to be there when I took it, but I wasn’t entirely sure how I would react if that test come out positive.  I offered to drive him to work instead and stopped at the pharmacy on the way back home. 

When the two little pink lines appeared, I realized what that meant:

I was pregnant.

Pregnant at 39, due to give birth at 40.

Pregnant for the 7^th time in my life.

Pregnant in a relationship that was wonderful, but still new.

Pregnant during one of the most stressful periods of my life.

Pregnant during a deadly and seemingly never-ending worldwide pandemic.

Pregnant after knowing I didn’t want to and taking actions towards never wanting to be pregnant again.

As I processed all those things slowly, and then all at once, I felt a calm wash over me.  A reassurance that this was not something to fear. An understanding of how every moment of this year, led me to this exact place in time.  A realization that the universe had bigger plans that I was not aware of.  An acceptance of the strength, courage and resiliency I carried with me always and how this would require all of those things.

I surprised myself by embracing everything that came with those two lines; the good, the bad, and all things in between.  This wasn’t something that I had planned but neither were most of the best things in my life. By the end of the day, I was having another baby and I was OK with it. 

This acceptance did not come with the absence of fear, I was scared shitless!  

Whatever was left of my days after work and responsibilities, was spent running through logistics. I made list upon list upon list of all the things I had to do, be, and prepare. This wasn’t going to be easy but I was determined to make it work. 

This pregnancy meant there would have to be immediate changes at work, changes with our current living arrangement, changes in a fairly new relationship that maybe neither of us was entirely prepared for. This unplanned pregnancy pressed the fast-forward button on our lives, at a time when everything felt like it was paused. Everything seemed to be speeding forward against a frozen backdrop. It was a lot.  At times, it was too much. 

It was too much.

My parents, unhappy with the pregnancy, chose to stop speaking to me.  My oldest son, though mostly accepting, was having difficultly navigating a whole flood of his own emotions.  While COVID worked to make things difficult, this pregnancy was making things feel impossible. It was high risk. I felt very sick for the entire duration of it. It was lonely at times. I wanted to fall apart; I was so tired of having to be strong for everyone else.

But I had bigger things to worry about now.

The pregnancy took a toll on me, from the beginning to the horrific end. At the start of my second trimester, and after finally announcing it publicly, I suffered a life-threatening miscarriage.  COVID meant that I was to experience it alone in the hospital, from the first visit to the ER, to every visit that followed.  I was alone.

It would take a full month for my body to clear the pregnancy; it would take much longer for me to feel whole again.  

After birthing 3 amazing boys, I found out that this baby was a girl. I called her “Anya”. Naming her, even if it was just for me, helped me to process everything that was to follow. Anya is a name that means different things in different languages; it means grace, inexhaustible, resurrection.  All the things I knew I would need to move forward.

The next few months reached a level of stress that I have yet to find words for.  For now, I will sum up that time simply with the following:

Days were long and hectic.  

I wasn’t sleeping well.

I wasn’t eating.

I wasn’t able to find energy to exercise.

I was barely able to see my children physically.

The house was empty.

I had to balance the anxieties of my loved ones with managing my own limited self care.

Time stood still.

I was so fucking exhausted from all of it.

There was so much to heal in the time that followed.  So much to reflect on. So much to process. So so so so much of everything. In the weeks that followed, I felt like I lost so much of the Sandra I knew. I couldn’t open my mouth to speak without crying. I wanted to be alone and I didn’t want to be alone. I was in so much fucking pain, I didn’t even know what to do with it.

I took a month off work to focus on recovery and made appointments for counselling.  I slept when I wanted to sleep, I cried when I wanted to cry, I made space to feel whatever the hell I wanted to feel when I had to feel it.  It was all so hard and it almost broke me. 

But then time started to pass, like the pause button had finally been lifted.  As it passed, I began to see more and more flickers of me in the daily moments.  I began to laugh more and cry a bit less. I started to remember who I was before 2020 knocked me on my ass; who I wanted to return to being.  For me, for my kids, for my family, for my friends; I NEEDED to return to that woman I knew and loved. So, with one foot in front of the other, I celebrated every step with the true victory I knew it to be.   

Fast forward to December.

After a confirmed exposure to someone who tested positive for COVID, I was put on mandatory isolation at home for 2 weeks.  My partner had been at my place for the days leading up to my getting the call from Public Health.  The day I found out I was going to be staying home, I reached out to my chosen family to cancel plans and my phone rang immediately.

My partner looked at me as my phone was ringing and joked “Here comes your social network” and we both laughed as the offers of love came pouring in…

“Are you ok, what can I do for you?”

“I’ll make you some soup and drop it off…”

“Don’t worry about the kids, they will stay here with me…”

I had initially thought my “social network” was a really funny way to refer to my friends and family but as the days passed, I reflected more and more on that. This really WAS my social network; a phenomenal network of love that I built around myself.

Looking back at 2020, you would think the feelings of loneliness meant that I was alone, but I wasn’t.

Through it all, every single wonderful and shitty moment, there was always one common constant; my social network. My tribe. My people. My heart.

And maybe, just maybe, that is what 2020 was meant to be about all along:

Stripping away all the distractions and noise we surround ourselves with.

Eliminating the material aspect and luxuries of life.

Having and holding space for difficult conversations to enhance your growth – in yourself, in your relationships, in your work.

Finding and working through the discomfort of the silence.

To discover, strengthen and build your own social networks.

It is in years like 2020 that lessons are learned, questions are answered, and real gratitude is felt. It is in those moments when you are bare, broken, and ugly crying, with nothing to offer in return, that you are reminded of the simplicity of human connection.

As we near the end of 2020, I find myself increasingly reflecting on what kind of year its been. 

And wow, am I ever blessed.

I don’t know what kind of surprises 2021 will hold for me but what I do know, is that my social network will be there by my side.

Just as I will be there for them.

Unplanned

Pregnancy is one of those strange medical mysteries where any symptom can just as easily be normal, as it can be concerning. 

Cramps? Could be your expanding uterus, but also might not be. 

Spotting? Many women experience it and nothing happens; many women experience it and something does happen. 

You can google just about anything and hear both sides to every possible symptom.

This was the first pregnancy where I have ever had any spotting and it started shortly after I found out I was pregnant.  The doctor said not to worry, so I tried my best.  I know very well that what is meant to happen, will happen, and that worrying doesn’t help anyone in the moment.  I know this and I generally live by this.  But for those of us who have lost children in pregnancy, not worrying is not an option.  In fact, you worry more than you normally worry about anything.  You just sometimes pretend like you’re not worried, so that those around you don’t catch on and start to worry enough that you now have to worry about them too.  Being a mama bear is hard work and balancing your fears with everyone else’s fears becomes a full time job in pregnancy. 

I was worried. 

Every minute of every day. 

I was worried.

If you know, you know, and none of this has to be explained. 

The morning ritual of preparing yourself mentally as you wake up to see if there is any blood in your bed. 

The fear of having to urinate because you know you will have to wipe yourself and of what you may find on that tissue or in the toilet bowl. 

Wanting to be excited about every passing day because it gets you closer to that 3-month mark, a moment of temporary relief, while being too afraid to feel excited about anything.

Wondering how connected you should allow yourself to feel to this growing baby, while preparing yourself to mourn yet another loss.

Navigating the feeling of all the excitement around you, while inside, you’re terrified of letting everyone down.   

This was my 7^th pregnancy. 

I am blessed with 3 beautiful boys.

One pregnancy ended with an abortion; one of the most difficult decisions I’ve ever had to make. 

The other 2 pregnancies, now 3, have ended in miscarriage. 

This pain is not one that is foreign to me but nothing could have prepared me for what was to come.    

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If you are familiar with me and my writing, you know that I do not sugar coat life.  For this, I am adding an additional “trigger warning” because what happens next is raw and real and painful as fuck.  If you choose not to continue reading, this will be a good time to shut it down.  I won’t be offended. 

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Up until this point of my pregnancy, any spotting had been related to sexual intercourse.  Yes, I worried, but THAT really is normal.  Anything that causes an irritation to your cervix during pregnancy can lead to spotting; all of it was fairly light and easily explained.  At 8 weeks, I got to see my baby on an ultrasound and hear its perfectly perfect heartbeat.  Everything was progressing as it should, despite the fears and despite the spotting.  The risk of miscarriage goes down significantly when you see a viable pregnancy with a heartbeat in an ultrasound at 8 weeks and because of this, I allowed myself extra moments of excitement, in between the fear. 

It was really real now.

I hadn’t planned on getting pregnant.  In fact, I was doing just about everything to make sure it never happened again.  4 days before my scheduled tubal ligation, the surgery was cancelled due to COVID-19.  By the time that 8 week ultrasound rolled around, I finally admitted to myself just how much I really wanted this baby. 

Every day was crossed off my mental calendar as we inched closer and closer to the 12 week “safety” mark.  My clothes no longer fit, and I embraced the purchase of some maternity clothes to get me through the next few months.  I took pictures of my growing belly.  I told my children that we would be welcoming another child into the home.  As everyone celebrated their excitement, even I allowed myself to join in at times. 

Cautiously. 

I found myself saying “if everything goes well” less and saying “when the baby is here” more.  Things were changing, a little every day.

Then, it happened. 

I woke up one morning with blood on the bed.  Not a lot of blood, but an unprovoked spotting.  I had waited 12 weeks for this moment and I began whatever mental preparation I knew I needed in order to process what I expected to follow.  But, like every other time, the blood just stopped. No one seemed to be worried, but I knew something was wrong. 

There was a bigger scare after that, but I’ll spare everyone the details of that one.  What I will say, is that my boyfriend’s face showed a terror that I had never seen in him.  I knew in that moment that the fear was shared, and I immediately switched to wanting to protect him from all I already felt.  He is one of the strongest and most optimistic people I have ever met.  When we both processed what had happened and went into separate washrooms to get ready, I was absolutely certain that he was in the shower, praying harder than he had ever prayed.    

I messaged the doctor to let her know what was happening and she called me the next day.  Again, no one was worried, but I knew something was wrong.  She booked me in for a PAP the next morning.  That morning, I woke up with cramps.  Mild cramps that could just as easily been caused by my expanding uterus as it could be caused by something worse.  Everything is normal or not, nothing in between.  During my PAP, the doctor said there was a little spotting but it wasn’t anything out of the ordinary.  She wasn’t wrong, but I know my body.  I asked for an ultrasound and she gave me the requisition.  I was able to go home in between and I drove to my boyfriend’s house to pick him up.  On the way there, I cried whatever tears I had in me, so that I would be ok when I saw him.  We came home and waited until it was time to go.  As we were heading out the door for the appointment, I kissed him and told him for the first time that I wasn’t going into the appointment for good news.  Forever the optimist, he smiled and repeated for the millionth time that “we will be fine”.  I know he meant that he and I would be fine no matter what happened, but I also know that he really thought the “we” would be the 3 of us.  It was in that moment, as we walked out the door, that I knew his heart was about to break and that there was nothing I could do about it. 

You try to smile through it but there is a heaviness that comes from that feeling; one that none of my words could ever do justice.  I won’t bother trying to explain it; if you know, you know.      

We laughed and joked all the way to the appointment and while we waited in the clinic to be called in.  I’ve had many ultrasounds in my life, and when the technician doesn’t allow you to see the screen at all, it’s not a good sign.  At this point, I was having full on contractions.  3 months in and I felt like I was in labour.  There was no good news at the end of this. 

My boyfriend was scheduled to work a 15 hour shift that night and I offered to drive him in.  I knew from previous miscarriages, what the next stages may look like and I equal parts wanted to be alone and wanted him to be distracted by work so that he didn’t have to experience it.  The pain was getting bad so I took whatever breaths I had to take in order to mask it.  I told him I might go to the hospital later, if it continued to get worse, but I dropped him off and told him I was going home to monitor and see what happens.  He left with the direction to call him immediately if I was going to go to the hospital.  I didn’t want him to leave but I didn’t want him to stay; I didn’t know what I wanted.  The second he walked out of that car, I broke down.  Months of tears finally being released because I knew now that this baby wasn’t going to make it. 

I drove home and curled up in a ball on my couch.  The contractions were getting stronger and more frequent and it was getting harder and harder to breathe through them.  My head started to hurt, I was dizzy from not eating or drinking and nauseous from trying to.  There was no more blood and I knew something was very wrong.  I called an Uber and went to the nearest emergency room. At triage, they asked me why I was there and I said “I’m having a miscarriage”.  I listed off my symptoms and they gave me the usual “could be something, could be nothing” speech.  Eventually, I was registered and sat in the packed waiting room waiting to be called in.  Less than 10 minutes after I sat down, I felt a tiny pop in my body.  At first, nothing.  I tried to get up to go to the washroom and within seconds, I had a massive hemorrhage. I didn’t initially know what was coming out of me, it was both solid and liquid.  I looked at the woman in front of me and saw the horror in her face before I finally looked down.  There was blood everywhere.   

Everywhere.

I looked around the room and saw everyone looking over with the same look of horror as the woman, and I immediately broke into tears.  All I kept thinking was that I had just passed the baby and that I was sitting on it and I couldn’t move.  The woman ran to the nurses station to get help and I could hear them asking her what was wrong with me.  She was telling them that she didn’t know me but that I needed help.  Another women heard all their casual questions and she ran over and told them to help me NOW.  That’s when they saw the blood and rushed over.  They helped me walk to a room down the hall and the blood just kept oozing out of me with every step.  My entire trail was marked with my blood and I just kept thinking about the faces in that waiting room. 

In seconds, I had lost a huge amount of blood and it became a life threatening emergency.  They had to undress me in front of the wide open doors; anyone who walked by got to witness what most typically only see on television.  When they pulled my pants off, everything fell to the floor and exploded.  I couldn’t help but look, the blood was all over the room now.  There was no baby in all of that, I had a massive hemorrhage with equally massive blood clots.  By now, I was in serious pain but they needed to take some blood and urine before administering the morphine.  I lay there while they violently dug into my arm in search of barely there, severely dehydrated veins.  They asked me to walk to the washroom to get some urine and I told them I didn’t want to go alone so the nurse brought a wheelchair and helped me into it.  I knew something bad was going to happen but I didn’t even have enough energy to speak.  She wheeled me into the hallway and walked away for a second to grab something.  I don’t remember what happened after that but I had collapsed.  As I started to come to, I realized I was on the floor and I could hear voices around me talking about how I just had a seizure. 

I knew I had fainted. 

I knew this because when I faint, it always looks like a seizure.  My body convulses, my eyes roll to the back of my head and I sometimes foam at the mouth.  There is no one in my life that has witnessed it that can talk about it without getting emotional.  To see it, is extremely traumatizing – or so I am told.  The doctor and 4 nurses were around me and I looked down the hall and saw the same woman who watched me hemorrhage standing there in equal horror.  I wanted to apologize to her but she was too far away.  The doctor said he didn’t think I had a seizure but the nurses were convinced.  I tried to speak and they met me on the ground, “it wasn’t a seizure, it always looks like that when I faint”.  The nurses were scared, and suddenly, I knew I was completely alone, without any rock. 

COVID-19 comes with strict restrictions.  This means you can’t have anyone with you at the hospital.  I was on my own, in pools of blood, in a room covered in blood splatter for almost 24 hours. 

By the time they got me up and back in bed, they decided to wait on the urine sample and give me morphine.  It didn’t do much for the pain, but it took enough of the edge off for me to be able to give slightly sugar coated updates to those that knew what was happening.  My boyfriend was sitting in the ER entrance when all of that happened; it was as close as they would let him get to me.  They told him “we are taking the best care of your wife” and asked that he “wait patiently until you are called upon.”  This was heartbreaking to hear as I could only imagine how hard it was for him to be so close and yet, so far.  Still, there was a relief for me in that he didn’t have to see any of this.  He eventually went home to wait there instead, at least home has Netflix. 

They prepared for a possible blood transfusion as the blood wasn’t stopping and hooked me up to an IV drip.  Liquid and solids continued to flow out of me; blood everywhere.  Because they needed to monitor me often, they removed the privacy screen from my room and everyone who walked by could see me. 

(Thank you COVID masks and long hair for providing a little more privacy than I would have had in pre-COVID times.)

They were determined to get that urine sample from me but didn’t want a repeat of what happened last time so they brought me a commode.  I still knew I wasn’t ok but at least now I was staying in my room.  This time, I was equally worried about what kind of tissue would fall out of my underwear as it would be caught in the bedpan where I could see it.  Again, it fell to the ground and splattered everywhere.  No fetal tissue, thank God!  I sat on the toilet with blood clots pouring out of me.  I don’t remember what happened after that but I had collapsed.  As I started to come to, I could hear the nurse screaming for help and I could feel her holding me up.  As my eyes opened, she told me I did it again.  This time, I could feel that I had bitten my tongue; it was swollen and I could taste blood.  I knew now that I wasn’t going home anytime soon.    

I was very nauseous and not able to hold down any water.  The IV was helping with the dehydration, but I hadn’t eaten since my boyfriend forced me to eat a piece of peanut butter toast in the morning.  My body was weak, my blood pressure continued to drop, the blood wasn’t stopping and I was so exhausted from everything.  I found myself staring at the ceiling because it was the only place that I could look and not see blood.  I sent text messages and more sugar coated updates and cried in between.  I went from feeling nothing to everything and back and forth, sometimes by the minute.  I thought about reading a book but I didn’t want anything to be associated with this memory, so I opted for doing nothing instead.  By the time they gave me gravol, I could feel it burning through my veins.  I could feel everything and nothing.  They also started me on medication to stop the bleeding.  The medication cocktail was enough to help me sleep, and I was in and out of consciousness for the next few hours. 

Somewhere around 4:30 in the morning, they wheeled me into the ultrasound department.  They gave me an hour to lay there and drink a massive cup of water.  It hurt to sit up but there was no one there to help me so I rolled over just enough to get the straw into my mouth.  I was nauseous with every sip and the quiet, empty room, was proving not to be good for my mind.  I instead used the time to try to perfectly calculate how much water I would need to drink every 5 minutes so that I would be finished in exactly an hour.  The calculations made for a good enough distraction but about 30 mins in, I knew I would vomit if I had even one more sip of water.  It was about that time that I felt a very large clot pass and I decided that would be a good time to go numb for a bit.  I don’t remember what happened between that and when they wheeled me into the ultrasound room.  During the ultrasound, she asked me if I had a previous ultrasound and I said yes.  She asked me if there was a baby and I said yes.  This time, there was no baby.  She said I had to go to the washroom and empty my bladder so that they could do the vaginal ultrasound.  I immediately thought about the mass I had passed about 30 mins prior and realized what it was.  I started crying and telling her that I didn’t want to go to the washroom but she said I had to.  I didn’t have any nurses here and I knew that I had no choice.  She offered me a bed pan but I couldn’t do it.  I didn’t want to see it like that.  I begged her not to let me go alone but she had a job to do and it had to be done.  She took me as far as the door but when it closed, it was just me and the toilet.  I leaned back as far over the toilet as I could and prayed that this time, nothing fell on the floor.  The baby fell into the water and I told myself not to look but I looked.  There was so much blood and I was suddenly grateful for the blur it created.  I sat there and cried as I emptied my bladder and as I stood up to say goodbye, the automatic flush washed away everything that was left. 

I didn’t speak to the ultrasound technician again after that, I couldn’t.  I was numb. 

I remember going through the motions of the vaginal ultrasound and no longer giving a fuck about anything.  I didn’t take anything she offered to clean myself with because it didn’t even matter now.  I put on a new pad and lay down and waited until the porter came to take me back.  How long that process took, I have no idea.  I just remember being mad at the stupid painted sky and clouds in the room, as if that was supposed to bring anyone any kind of joy. 

I had no more tears.

The bleeding wasn’t stopping so they gave me more medication and more pain killers.  I was numb to the pain now but it put me back to sleep. 

When I woke up, they told me that I hadn’t passed the placenta and they were worried.  They decided to prepare me for surgery.  The bleeding wasn’t stopping despite the medication and now I was additionally concerned about the possibility of having to remove my reproductive organs.   It’s one thing to lose a baby, it’s a whole other to lose the choice of ever having one again. 

The tears came back, hard. 

After a few hours, the specialist came to see me.  The medication had slowed down the bleeding enough to save me from surgery and I had passed the bulk of what remained inside me but my levels weren’t stabilized enough for me to leave. 

What I would have given to not be alone during all of it. 

The thing about silence is that it is both a blessing and a curse.  Sometimes, I search for it.  Sometimes, I need it.  This was not a good time for silence.  After all that time trying not to have anything to associate with that pain, I am left with silence.  When the lights go off and everything goes quiet, I am alone again.  Even if I’m not. 

When everything finally stabilized and I was told that I could go home, I messaged my boyfriend to bring me my dark blue Michigan sweat suit. He got to the emergency entrance and the nurse went to pick up the bag of my clothes from him.  He messaged me to tell me that the nurse had my clothes and he asked that I put on his “Champion” hoodie that he packed for me because “I was his champion.”

I wanted to tell him that I didn’t feel like a champion.  Far from one.

But, I knew what it meant to him and that he needed it. 

As alone as I was, he was equally alone.

He was just as much my champion; even though he didn’t know it.

I put on the sweatshirt and walked out of the hospital and into his arms.   

This was my 7^th pregnancy. 

Unplanned.

I didn’t know how much I wanted this baby, until it was gone.

In those moments of quiet, when I find myself alone again, I will forever remind myself that I got the privilege of holding this baby every single day of its life.  It chose me, even if only for a moment and that, I’m eternally grateful for.

What is 15 years?

15 years.
5478 days.
131,472 hours.

I miss you every day.

Sometimes, it feels like forever. Sometimes, it feels like you’re still here. So long. So short. You’re gone and you’re never coming back.

15 years without you in this world is too long to comprehend.

I still hear your voice on the other line. Laughing. I’ve replayed that last conversation thousands of times. All the things I would have said if I knew what I would be waking up to the next morning.

I want a do-over.

I want to say goodbye the way I should have said goodbye.

I want to tell you I love you and how amazing I always thought you were.

How truly blessed I felt to be in your presence.

I sat with you today, like I do every year. My voice still trembles. My tears still flow.

I left because I had to save myself.

Some things you never forgive yourself for.

15 years.
5478 days.
131,472 hours.

Rest in paradise brother.

Reality is raw.

Yesterday I wrote a blog about a very real experience. It was undeniably raw.  It was supposed to be. 

I was bleeding truth. 

Many of you sent messages of concern.  Some came directly to me. Others went to people close to me.  

The message that I was not ok spread quickly through every part of my life.  

Those who know me well understood the honesty in my story.  They read what I wrote.  REALLY read what I wrote.  They felt the pain, but understood the beauty I found in the moment. They allowed themselves to focus on each word until the very end.  They knew I was in a good place. 

Those who don’t know me well saw only the pain in my story.  They couldn’t see past the hurt long enough to process my actual words. They had convinced themselves that I must have been in a bad place. 

I don’t know where you fall on that spectrum.  I’m not sure if even you know.  While I appreciate the concern, I assure you, there is no need to worry. 

I am very honest about my process. 

I am quite comfortable with my truth.

I am incredibly pleased with the individual I’ve grown to become. 

I’m very much in love with my life. 

I. 

AM. 

OKAY. 

I believe that story needed to be written.  So, I wrote it.  It was raw. It was real. It was beautiful.  

It’s a truth we are no longer used to. 

I saw a quote the other day that made me think:

“There is no such thing as a bad picture, sometimes that’s just how your face looks.”

It stayed with me. 

We live in a world where we control how others see our reality.  We create profiles in order to collect “friends”, “followers” and “likes”.   We post happy faces. Filtered faces. Good times. We leave out all the rest as if it never existed.

I remember when I was a teenager. When taking pictures involved having to get film developed and printed.  You would be excited to pick up the pictures at the store.  You’d sit around with your family or friends and scroll through them, one by one.  You’d laugh at the horrible ones.  Those awful pictures made some of the best memories. 

Now, they are deleted instantly.  Retaken until we finally get it right.  We deny ourselves these memories because we don’t want evidence of anything shy of perfection.  

Reality is no longer real and we have just accepted THAT as our new reality. 

My story was raw. 

It had to be written. 

I wrote it because I want people to see that real still exists, regardless of the images of perfection we are bombarded with daily. 

We don’t always look perfect.  We don’t always smile. Not every moment is a good one. 

We breathe.

We hurt. 

We cry.  

We love. 

We lose.  

But our lives don’t always need filters. 

Emotion is not something to fear. Pain is not always something to be concerned about. We all experience it.  We’ve just become so used to feeling it alone. In silence. In private. Far away from the reality we feed the rest of the world.  And because of that, we forget that others feel it too. When smiling pictures turn to tears, we panic.  When life gets real, we worry.  

Yesterday I wrote a blog about a very real experience. It was undeniably raw.  It was supposed to be. 

I was bleeding truth. 

 

 

Darkness in my dreams (spoken word)

I often get asked about the things I see in my work, both at home and internationally. I don’t usually say much. I probably still won’t. Here is a tiny glimpse into the darkness in my dreams….

Have you ever heard 

The sound of a mother crying

Holding her only son in her arms 

As she watches him dying 

The piercing screams 

Send a chill running through your veins

The only sound that could describe

That kind of pain

 

A woman hearing the news 

That her sister passed

The virus spread through her body

So fucking fast

She goes silent for a second

A moment of peace

Before she screams out loud

And falls to her knees 

 

A father calling out for help

After walking several miles

Carrying his sick child 

for more than 7 hours 

The relief in his voice 

When he finally sees the help arrive 

He collapses to the floor

And prays his daughter will survive 

 

Hallways lined with children

Screaming out in pain 

The night terrors of a man

Who survived the deadly rains

He tried to save his family 

During those hours of hell

Now he lives with the guilt 

Wishing he was dead as well 

 

Screeching tires on the pavement

Before the final crash

Homes burned to the ground

Reduced to smoke and ash

Invisible scars on the women

Who had their innocence taken away 

Children forced to fight

forced to kill

and forced to stay

Cries of an adult man

Recounting the torture of a civil war

Amputees line the streets

What the fuck is all this fighting for 

 

Giving birth to a baby

Just to watch his last breath

As she welcomes him to life

He introduces her to death 

 

A mother pleading for you

To take her child away 

The only way he has a chance 

to see another day

 

Another child living alone

After losing everything

The silent tears from his eyes

Are just as fucking deafening 

 

A ten year old telling me

about the bodies floating in the water

Another father forced to sell

His only surviving daughter

 

Children laughing as they play

Cause they still don’t know

Their parents died

An older man parades around

With his new pre-pubescent bride 

 

An older woman 

Refuses to leave her collapsing home

So many years of memories

Of the only life she’s ever known

Damaged photos soaked in water 

From the deadly storm

She lines them up to dry

Trying to stay safe and warm 

 

Poverty and corruption

Forcing everyone to live like slaves 

People dying rapidly

Buried in mass unmarked graves 

 

The sirens wailing down the street

As you hold your breath

You pray to god 

You can’t take even one more death. 

 

These are the sounds in my head

What I see when I close my eyes

While we laugh and carry on

Our neighbours struggle to survive 

 

We wage a war on ourselves

And take the life of others 

The world turns away 

While so many others suffer

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

She cries.

She’s a mother

She’s a child

A sister and a friend

Tattered sheets and cardboard boxes

where her days start and end 

She knew how it felt to love 

she built a house into a home

Now every sunset a reminder of 

another cold night spent alone

Trying to forget the things 

that she used to be

Holding on to what is left

of few precious memories

How quickly life has ended

Before it has begun

A crystal tear falls from her eyes

To the photo of her son. 

 

(Written about a former client.  Everyone has a story that deserves to be written. Spoken. Heard.  There are faces behind mental health and addiction.)