The Compass. Global Destruction. Rogue Gnomes. Or, the consequences of my boss asking me what she could possibly use her Christmas Cracker compass for.
As you may have inferred from the title, I had an interesting time at my staff Christmas party. There were nine of us sitting around two long tables we'd pushed together. As we were eating, we started popping open our Christmas Crackers. Mine was a weird, plastic clip thing that broke seconds after it erupted from its tube. My boss, the actual title-holding "Librarian" at our library, got a small compass. She made a silly, passing comment about what she could possibly use the compass for. … She did it to herself, really.
The conversation was thus:
Me: “If you were lost in the woods, in the middle of nowhere, how else would you find your way out?”
Librarian: “Well, generally I would look at where the sun is in the sky.”
Me: “There is no sun, the sun is gone.”
Librarian: “Oh? Well, don’t you use moss then? It grows on the north side of the tree.”
Me: “All the moss has been burned away. There is no moss. The sun has exploded, the sky is all red, and the Earth is on fire. There’s no more moss.”
Librarian: “Well, if that was the case, I think I’d have more pressing matters than finding north on a compass.”
Me: “Ah, but there’s a special building that was built just for this purpose, and it’s 50 miles north of where you are in the forest. The few people who survived the Earth being destroyed are there, and you have to get to them.”
Co-Worker: “Well, but what if she gets there, and they don’t let her in?”
Me: “Ah, but she has something that they need! She has a key, the only key that will start the generator inside the building to make it work.”
Co-Worker: “What kind of key?”
Me: “A diamond key.”
Librarian: “So, if I have the key, then why was I in the forest in the first place?”
Me: “’Cause you had to go get something. The Gnome Princess! You have to get her and bring her back to the building, and she’s going to repopulate the Earth.”
Co-Worker: “Hang on, there’s gnomes? That isn’t Earth!”
Me: “There’s gnomes on Earth!”
Co-Worker: “Really? Where are they?”
Me: “My old neighbor has a bunch in her garden. They all came to life. It was rogue gnomes who destroyed the Sun and the Earth in the first place. The other gnomes are good. So, in one hand, she has the key, and in the other, she has the Gnome Princess - tucked right under her arm, ‘cause she’s tiny.”
Co-Worker # 2: “Gnomes? What are you talking about?”
Me: “The fantasy world in which she would need to use her compass.”
Co-Worker # 2: “And that led to … that’s quite the imagination you’ve got there, girl.”
Me: “You have no idea.”
Co-Worker: “Yeah, but I’m pretty sure that cheap, Dollar Store compass wouldn’t last her very long.”
Me: “Ahh, but they thought of that. They knew that she would need the compass, and that the Rogue Gnomes would destroy it if they found it, so they put it in with a bunch of cheap ones to disguise it.”
Co-Worker: “Oh, god.”
Me: (snicker).
Co-Worker: “You should totally write this down.”
Monday, December 12, 2011
Thursday, November 24, 2011
Worried, Happy, Nervous
Worried Leads to Happy Leads to Nervous … Or my experience with the Hunger Games.
I’ve been working at the Sylvan Lake library for a few months now. I’ve seen and read several new books that I really liked, hogged the ones that I loved, and complained about the ones that were terrible (sorry, Gerch, but I just can’t take your book seriously. At all.).
Since getting nominated for one of my fan fictions (which I won 1st place for, woot!), I’ve been trying to spend more time writing. I’ve been neglecting my writing since school started, and I started working part-time, and all this bullshit with my adopted brother hit the fan. I have always loved writing, but lately it’s been seeming like a chore - so much easier to just plop in a movie and fall asleep. (I know, I suck.)
Anyways, for some time now, I’ve been hearing about this book trilogy called “The Hunger Games”. My workmates have been talking it up like there’s no tomorrow. I hadn’t decided if I was going to read it, though, until I saw a preview for the upcoming movie. The preview looked awesome enough for me to want to watch the movie. Since I’m the kind of person who hates when books get made into movies - ‘cause they ALWAYS leave too much out/change too much - I decided I’d at least have to read the series first.
Ooh boy … I have not gotten much sleep in the last few days.
I took the first book home from the library on Friday, and started reading it Sunday. I finished it after work Monday, and just about screamed at the cliffhanger ending. What the FRACK???? How could you do this to me, Suzanne Collins? I did not have the second and third books! How cruel!!!
After I settled down, and my dog stopped staring at me like I was crazy, I told myself that I would just grab the second and third book from the library, knowing that we had both of them in our collection. Good idea in theory, but of course BOTH of the books were signed out. Grr …
Enter my awesome workmate. I had requested the books, and the third one came in on the van run (explanation: one a week we send books to and receive from other libraries), but not the second! I would have to restrain myself from reading the third book until the second came in, which could be up to two weeks! Restraint is not my middle name. I can’t imagine a time I’ve ever successfully used restraint (with the possible exception of hunting down my adopted brother’s biological mother and bludgeoning her to death … I’m not AT ALL bitter). Luckily, I did not have to test my non-existent restraint. My workmate went home for her break, and came back with the second book. Love. Complete and utter love. I may have to bake her cookies, or something.
Anywhoo, that was yesterday. I finished the second book at one o’clock in the morning. I loved it. But I was also feeling a bit worried.
So many parts of the Hunger Games (the woman warrior, the girl protecting her younger sibling, the father that died when she was young, the primitive weapons, the barbaric fighting, the love triangle, the three-novel series - to name a few things) ARE SO MUCH LIKE MY NOVEL! Obviously there are some major differences, but I couldn’t help seeing the parallels. I started overanalyzing, like I always do: “I thought my novel was so original, but then there’s this. And it came first! Who would want to read my novel, when they have this?” Worry, worry, worry.
But then I stopped. “Hang on … this novel has done really well. Everyone loves it. It ends with three. My novel isn’t EXACTLY like The Hunger Games, but it shares a lot of aspects that people like. Maybe this isn’t so bad … maybe this means people will LOVE my novel!” And so, my worry turned sharply to happy. I started thinking about finishing up the editing in my novel, and trying to publish it.
And then the happy turned to nervous. “Oh, jeeze … published. Actually putting my work out there. For people to actually … read.” Sure, I’ve just won an award for one of my fan fictions, but that’s just that: “fan fiction”. Me playing with someone else’s work. It was the first time I’d ever received outside praise for my work, other than people reviewing my stories. The workmate that leant me the book was the first person to read my fan fictions, and then comment on them to my face. She said she loved it, but I nearly died when she told me.
How am I going to cope if I actually get published? I might just have to curl up in a cold, dark corner and die.
But, at some point, I’m going to have to stop hypothesizing about what might happen when I get published. My novel has been finished for a year. I’ve been writing since I was six years old, it has always been my biggest dream. I’m making enough money now that I could consider self-publishing … Oh boy. Even typing those words is making me nervous. At some point, I’m going to have to take that leap. Put my work out there, see what people think. It’s terrifying. It’s enough to make me want to close my laptop, and never type a single word again.
But, I can’t. I’m addicted. Writing it my drug. Reviews are my heroin. Worried. Happy. Nervous. Bouncing between the emotions like a ping pong ball.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll pull out my novel, finish the editing, and send it to my friend to do illustrations. Tomorrow I’ll decide between self publishing, and traditional. Tomorrow I’ll get off my ass, and stop being an “aspiring” writer. Tomorrow.
Today, I have the third Hunger Games novel to finish. And it had better be good.
I’ve been working at the Sylvan Lake library for a few months now. I’ve seen and read several new books that I really liked, hogged the ones that I loved, and complained about the ones that were terrible (sorry, Gerch, but I just can’t take your book seriously. At all.).
Since getting nominated for one of my fan fictions (which I won 1st place for, woot!), I’ve been trying to spend more time writing. I’ve been neglecting my writing since school started, and I started working part-time, and all this bullshit with my adopted brother hit the fan. I have always loved writing, but lately it’s been seeming like a chore - so much easier to just plop in a movie and fall asleep. (I know, I suck.)
Anyways, for some time now, I’ve been hearing about this book trilogy called “The Hunger Games”. My workmates have been talking it up like there’s no tomorrow. I hadn’t decided if I was going to read it, though, until I saw a preview for the upcoming movie. The preview looked awesome enough for me to want to watch the movie. Since I’m the kind of person who hates when books get made into movies - ‘cause they ALWAYS leave too much out/change too much - I decided I’d at least have to read the series first.
Ooh boy … I have not gotten much sleep in the last few days.
I took the first book home from the library on Friday, and started reading it Sunday. I finished it after work Monday, and just about screamed at the cliffhanger ending. What the FRACK???? How could you do this to me, Suzanne Collins? I did not have the second and third books! How cruel!!!
After I settled down, and my dog stopped staring at me like I was crazy, I told myself that I would just grab the second and third book from the library, knowing that we had both of them in our collection. Good idea in theory, but of course BOTH of the books were signed out. Grr …
Enter my awesome workmate. I had requested the books, and the third one came in on the van run (explanation: one a week we send books to and receive from other libraries), but not the second! I would have to restrain myself from reading the third book until the second came in, which could be up to two weeks! Restraint is not my middle name. I can’t imagine a time I’ve ever successfully used restraint (with the possible exception of hunting down my adopted brother’s biological mother and bludgeoning her to death … I’m not AT ALL bitter). Luckily, I did not have to test my non-existent restraint. My workmate went home for her break, and came back with the second book. Love. Complete and utter love. I may have to bake her cookies, or something.
Anywhoo, that was yesterday. I finished the second book at one o’clock in the morning. I loved it. But I was also feeling a bit worried.
So many parts of the Hunger Games (the woman warrior, the girl protecting her younger sibling, the father that died when she was young, the primitive weapons, the barbaric fighting, the love triangle, the three-novel series - to name a few things) ARE SO MUCH LIKE MY NOVEL! Obviously there are some major differences, but I couldn’t help seeing the parallels. I started overanalyzing, like I always do: “I thought my novel was so original, but then there’s this. And it came first! Who would want to read my novel, when they have this?” Worry, worry, worry.
But then I stopped. “Hang on … this novel has done really well. Everyone loves it. It ends with three. My novel isn’t EXACTLY like The Hunger Games, but it shares a lot of aspects that people like. Maybe this isn’t so bad … maybe this means people will LOVE my novel!” And so, my worry turned sharply to happy. I started thinking about finishing up the editing in my novel, and trying to publish it.
And then the happy turned to nervous. “Oh, jeeze … published. Actually putting my work out there. For people to actually … read.” Sure, I’ve just won an award for one of my fan fictions, but that’s just that: “fan fiction”. Me playing with someone else’s work. It was the first time I’d ever received outside praise for my work, other than people reviewing my stories. The workmate that leant me the book was the first person to read my fan fictions, and then comment on them to my face. She said she loved it, but I nearly died when she told me.
How am I going to cope if I actually get published? I might just have to curl up in a cold, dark corner and die.
But, at some point, I’m going to have to stop hypothesizing about what might happen when I get published. My novel has been finished for a year. I’ve been writing since I was six years old, it has always been my biggest dream. I’m making enough money now that I could consider self-publishing … Oh boy. Even typing those words is making me nervous. At some point, I’m going to have to take that leap. Put my work out there, see what people think. It’s terrifying. It’s enough to make me want to close my laptop, and never type a single word again.
But, I can’t. I’m addicted. Writing it my drug. Reviews are my heroin. Worried. Happy. Nervous. Bouncing between the emotions like a ping pong ball.
Tomorrow. Tomorrow I’ll pull out my novel, finish the editing, and send it to my friend to do illustrations. Tomorrow I’ll decide between self publishing, and traditional. Tomorrow I’ll get off my ass, and stop being an “aspiring” writer. Tomorrow.
Today, I have the third Hunger Games novel to finish. And it had better be good.
Sunday, November 20, 2011
Progress Report for the Post-Secondary Education of Corrie Brown
This was an assignment for my COMM class that I decided to post as a blog. Hopefully I don't come off as too bitter ...
Three short years ago, I enrolled in my first semester of college; four on-campus classes, and one practicum. I was two years out of high school, and the options were simple: get a job, or go to school. I chose the lesser of two evils.
While initially preferring to take Psychology, I was told that I did not have the pre-requisites to enter the degree program. After following shoddy advice from a home economics teacher (lesson learned), I chose to switch out of Pure Math and into Applied Math, since I would only require Math 20 - of any kind - to graduate. I completed Applied Math 20, and graduated high school on schedule. Two years later, I was informed that to get a degree in Psychology, I would need Pure Math 30 on my transcripts; there being a statistics course in the degree program, after all. That was awesome …
Giving up my dream - temporarily - of Psychology, I decided to switch to Early Learning and Child Care. It was only a two-year program, and in that time I could upgrade my math. Sounds like a plan, right?
I applied for my funding, nervous about the cost of tuition and books, and was pleasantly surprised when I was approved for $3000.00 per semester. After being forced to quit my lovely cashier’s job at Walmart for having excessive Strep Throat, Candida, and an overall lack of desire to be there, 3000 bucks for three months of school sounded pretty awesome. Paying off student loans? I’d just deal with that later.
First day of class came and went, leaving me feeling a little less nervous after discovering that my teacher was an old classmate’s mom. I made a few friends, won a gift certificate door prize, and went home with a cheery “First Day of College” poster. I wasn’t crazy about my actual classes, but college seemed fun so far.
My classes seemed relatively easy, but I was concerned about my practicum. Two days a week with some twenty-odd kids I’d never met? A tad nerve-wracking. Having to have an activity ready to go, for my very first day? Terrifying. I chose to defer my practicum, wanting to get a little knowledge under my belt before confronting the mass of snotty noses and “why” questions. Yet another decision I ended up regretting, but we’ll get to that later.
I dropped one class by the add-drop date, though I should have dropped two. Unfortunately, with it being my first semester of college, I wasn’t acquainted with the “proper channels”, so to speak. We had recently moved out to Sylvan Lake, and even though we’d filled out our Change of Address forms, some of our mail was still going to our old address. I lost two tax credit checks, as well as my official High School Transcripts. I was told by the registrars that I only needed to take COMM 150 if I didn’t have a mark above 60 in English 30. Once they got my transcripts, I would be taken out of the class. … Their exact words: “I would be taken out of the class”. To a first-year college student, that meant they would sort it all out once they got my transcripts. I didn’t attend a single COMM 150 class, because I knew my English 30-1 grade was well above 60. It was over a year later that I discovered I was never taken out of COMM 150, and as a result, had an F on my college transcripts. I was less than pleased, but that was only the beginning.
After completing my first year of Early Learning and Child Care - and discovering that my first practicum was certainly nothing to fear - I was genuinely excited about the turn my life was taking. It turned out I was actually kind of awesome at taking care of/playing with children. It’s a lot easier hearing things like “is there a baby in your belly?” and “do you have chicken pox?” from children, than it is from your peers. I loved that children had no censor button; I loved their limitless curiosity about the world around them.
I knew that I would have to complete a couple first year courses before I could receive my certificate - my second practicum, as well as Guiding Behavior (ELCC 217). At our year-end pizza party, I made time to speak to the Chair of my program about doing some spring courses. That was when I got the bombshell about my COMM course. “There seems to be a problem with your transcripts, Corrie,” she told me. “You don’t have a COMM course completed.” My response was simply, “I don’t need to take COMM 150, I had well over 60 in English 30.” She stared at me like I was an alien. “Yes, but you still need to have a COMM course to complete your first year. It’s part of the program.” My reaction was not, shall we say, admirable. Quite frankly, I blew a gasket. I yelled and screamed, and all-but tore my hair out. “Are you sh--ing me? Why the hell can’t anyone at this college give me a straight f---ing answer? Everyone has two different sets of information, how the hell am I expected to know which way is up!” I went on and on. I was told that I could take a COMM course in the spring, and be ready to start my second year in the fall. I was annoyed - to say the least - but I agreed.
I decided to take COMM 250 - I didn’t need to learn basic grammar and sentence structure, I’d done that in primary school. COMM 250 was a nice break from the rest of my studies. It seemed as though I was one of the few students in the class who knew the difference between “you’re” and “your”. Our teacher took us to online postings and dating sites, where we mocked the poster’s horrible spelling and grammar. I was in heaven. I completed my second practicum in the spring, and got the required COMM course on my transcripts. Everything seemed to be on schedule.
Is anything ever that easy?
Once our second year started up, I had to have a discussion with the new Chair. Yes, I’d completed my second practicum, and yes, I’d completed my COMM course, but I still had Guiding Behavior 217 to complete. It was against protocol to be enrolled in any second-year courses when the first-year courses weren’t completed. I managed to restrain my temper tantrum this time, but just barely. After some fist-and-jaw clenching, I worked it out with the Chairperson that I would defer my practicum and drop one second-year class, while still maintaining my three-course requirement for a full-time student loan. I was informed that I would be on something akin to academic probation, where the Chairperson and my teachers would be keeping an eye on my progress in their classes, and once the withdrawal date came close, they would decide if my grades were such that I could continue regularly, or if I would need to withdraw from my classes. This seemed to be reasonable, until I found out a student in a similar situation as me was allowed to take her practicum, as well as all of her second-year courses.
I completed all of my courses for the semester - successfully - and was ready to complete my last course and practicum in the Fall 2011 semester. I discovered that I could take my last class online, was assured that I would get a practicum in Sylvan Lake, and was finally enrolled in psychology. (Insert next rant here: I also discovered when registering for my third-year classes, that I didn’t actually need Pure Math 30 at the start of my psychology courses, after all. I could upgrade as I went. Two years later, I get this information. Isn’t that awesome?) Anyway, I was registered and ready to go for the semester, when I heard back from my local library. I had applied for a job there, and they wanted to interview me. I was ecstatic - first because it was one of my childhood dream jobs, and also because I hadn’t had a real job since Walmart - and eagerly attended the interview. I got the job a few days later. All that was left was to work out my schedule. They were willing to work around my school schedule, I just hoped that my practicum was as well.
Enter the next hurdle in my career as a student. In order to be in my final practicum, I would need to commit to Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, from 8:00 am to 4:00 pm. As understanding as the library was, they weren’t willing to be that flexible with my schedule. Three years down the road, and I was faced with the same decision once again: get a job, or go to school. This time, though, I wanted both.
In the end, it was more important for me to be working, than it was to complete my last practicum. I dropped the practicum and registered for COMM 150 - ready to wipe that ridiculous F off my transcripts - so that I could keep my three-course requirement for a full-time loan. Now it’s November, and the semester is just about over.
I’ve come a long way since my first semester at Red Deer College. I’ve learned not to trust anything unless I’ve heard it from at least three different “professionals”, I’ve learned that I have a fierce love for children, and that part-time schooling is definitely the way to go. Most of all, I’ve found my once-lost love for education. Will my built-up loans be worth it in the end? I don’t know. Right now, I’m loving it, and that’s all that matters.
Three short years ago, I enrolled in my first semester of college; four on-campus classes, and one practicum. I was two years out of high school, and the options were simple: get a job, or go to school. I chose the lesser of two evils.
While initially preferring to take Psychology, I was told that I did not have the pre-requisites to enter the degree program. After following shoddy advice from a home economics teacher (lesson learned), I chose to switch out of Pure Math and into Applied Math, since I would only require Math 20 - of any kind - to graduate. I completed Applied Math 20, and graduated high school on schedule. Two years later, I was informed that to get a degree in Psychology, I would need Pure Math 30 on my transcripts; there being a statistics course in the degree program, after all. That was awesome …
Giving up my dream - temporarily - of Psychology, I decided to switch to Early Learning and Child Care. It was only a two-year program, and in that time I could upgrade my math. Sounds like a plan, right?
I applied for my funding, nervous about the cost of tuition and books, and was pleasantly surprised when I was approved for $3000.00 per semester. After being forced to quit my lovely cashier’s job at Walmart for having excessive Strep Throat, Candida, and an overall lack of desire to be there, 3000 bucks for three months of school sounded pretty awesome. Paying off student loans? I’d just deal with that later.
First day of class came and went, leaving me feeling a little less nervous after discovering that my teacher was an old classmate’s mom. I made a few friends, won a gift certificate door prize, and went home with a cheery “First Day of College” poster. I wasn’t crazy about my actual classes, but college seemed fun so far.
My classes seemed relatively easy, but I was concerned about my practicum. Two days a week with some twenty-odd kids I’d never met? A tad nerve-wracking. Having to have an activity ready to go, for my very first day? Terrifying. I chose to defer my practicum, wanting to get a little knowledge under my belt before confronting the mass of snotty noses and “why” questions. Yet another decision I ended up regretting, but we’ll get to that later.
I dropped one class by the add-drop date, though I should have dropped two. Unfortunately, with it being my first semester of college, I wasn’t acquainted with the “proper channels”, so to speak. We had recently moved out to Sylvan Lake, and even though we’d filled out our Change of Address forms, some of our mail was still going to our old address. I lost two tax credit checks, as well as my official High School Transcripts. I was told by the registrars that I only needed to take COMM 150 if I didn’t have a mark above 60 in English 30. Once they got my transcripts, I would be taken out of the class. … Their exact words: “I would be taken out of the class”. To a first-year college student, that meant they would sort it all out once they got my transcripts. I didn’t attend a single COMM 150 class, because I knew my English 30-1 grade was well above 60. It was over a year later that I discovered I was never taken out of COMM 150, and as a result, had an F on my college transcripts. I was less than pleased, but that was only the beginning.
After completing my first year of Early Learning and Child Care - and discovering that my first practicum was certainly nothing to fear - I was genuinely excited about the turn my life was taking. It turned out I was actually kind of awesome at taking care of/playing with children. It’s a lot easier hearing things like “is there a baby in your belly?” and “do you have chicken pox?” from children, than it is from your peers. I loved that children had no censor button; I loved their limitless curiosity about the world around them.
I knew that I would have to complete a couple first year courses before I could receive my certificate - my second practicum, as well as Guiding Behavior (ELCC 217). At our year-end pizza party, I made time to speak to the Chair of my program about doing some spring courses. That was when I got the bombshell about my COMM course. “There seems to be a problem with your transcripts, Corrie,” she told me. “You don’t have a COMM course completed.” My response was simply, “I don’t need to take COMM 150, I had well over 60 in English 30.” She stared at me like I was an alien. “Yes, but you still need to have a COMM course to complete your first year. It’s part of the program.” My reaction was not, shall we say, admirable. Quite frankly, I blew a gasket. I yelled and screamed, and all-but tore my hair out. “Are you sh--ing me? Why the hell can’t anyone at this college give me a straight f---ing answer? Everyone has two different sets of information, how the hell am I expected to know which way is up!” I went on and on. I was told that I could take a COMM course in the spring, and be ready to start my second year in the fall. I was annoyed - to say the least - but I agreed.
I decided to take COMM 250 - I didn’t need to learn basic grammar and sentence structure, I’d done that in primary school. COMM 250 was a nice break from the rest of my studies. It seemed as though I was one of the few students in the class who knew the difference between “you’re” and “your”. Our teacher took us to online postings and dating sites, where we mocked the poster’s horrible spelling and grammar. I was in heaven. I completed my second practicum in the spring, and got the required COMM course on my transcripts. Everything seemed to be on schedule.
Is anything ever that easy?
Once our second year started up, I had to have a discussion with the new Chair. Yes, I’d completed my second practicum, and yes, I’d completed my COMM course, but I still had Guiding Behavior 217 to complete. It was against protocol to be enrolled in any second-year courses when the first-year courses weren’t completed. I managed to restrain my temper tantrum this time, but just barely. After some fist-and-jaw clenching, I worked it out with the Chairperson that I would defer my practicum and drop one second-year class, while still maintaining my three-course requirement for a full-time student loan. I was informed that I would be on something akin to academic probation, where the Chairperson and my teachers would be keeping an eye on my progress in their classes, and once the withdrawal date came close, they would decide if my grades were such that I could continue regularly, or if I would need to withdraw from my classes. This seemed to be reasonable, until I found out a student in a similar situation as me was allowed to take her practicum, as well as all of her second-year courses.
I completed all of my courses for the semester - successfully - and was ready to complete my last course and practicum in the Fall 2011 semester. I discovered that I could take my last class online, was assured that I would get a practicum in Sylvan Lake, and was finally enrolled in psychology. (Insert next rant here: I also discovered when registering for my third-year classes, that I didn’t actually need Pure Math 30 at the start of my psychology courses, after all. I could upgrade as I went. Two years later, I get this information. Isn’t that awesome?) Anyway, I was registered and ready to go for the semester, when I heard back from my local library. I had applied for a job there, and they wanted to interview me. I was ecstatic - first because it was one of my childhood dream jobs, and also because I hadn’t had a real job since Walmart - and eagerly attended the interview. I got the job a few days later. All that was left was to work out my schedule. They were willing to work around my school schedule, I just hoped that my practicum was as well.
Enter the next hurdle in my career as a student. In order to be in my final practicum, I would need to commit to Monday, Wednesday, and Friday, from 8:00 am to 4:00 pm. As understanding as the library was, they weren’t willing to be that flexible with my schedule. Three years down the road, and I was faced with the same decision once again: get a job, or go to school. This time, though, I wanted both.
In the end, it was more important for me to be working, than it was to complete my last practicum. I dropped the practicum and registered for COMM 150 - ready to wipe that ridiculous F off my transcripts - so that I could keep my three-course requirement for a full-time loan. Now it’s November, and the semester is just about over.
I’ve come a long way since my first semester at Red Deer College. I’ve learned not to trust anything unless I’ve heard it from at least three different “professionals”, I’ve learned that I have a fierce love for children, and that part-time schooling is definitely the way to go. Most of all, I’ve found my once-lost love for education. Will my built-up loans be worth it in the end? I don’t know. Right now, I’m loving it, and that’s all that matters.
Thursday, October 13, 2011
The Waiting Game
I am not a patient person. I am sure that some brilliant scientist could look at scans of my brain and say, “See this this area right here? This is where your patience button should be. You don’t have one.” I am a busy person. While this may not be reflected in my body mass index, I am constantly doing something. Writing, talking, doing online things, watching a movie, working, reading, researching, ranting, etc, etc, etc. I’m not even still when I’m sleeping. As many a scattered teddy bear could tell you, I run marathons in my sleep. Have I accurately described how patient I am not? I hope so.
Today my mother went to court. She had a custody hearing to determine the fate of my adopted brother - a boy who was tragically and irreparably damaged by his birth mother; a boy who has been diagnosed with sociopath tendencies; a boy who is violent and aggressive towards everyone that he meets; a boy who has done everything in his power to destroy my mother. Today my mother went to court to tell her side of the story. She went to tell them that she did not, in fact, abuse my brother. She had case notes, she had reports from aids and one-to-one workers, she had personal references and statements attesting to her credibility as a foster parent. She went into court ready to fight for not only her reputation as a mother, but also to fight for the well-being of her adopted son.
I had a Psych class early this morning, and then work at 11:00 am. I wished my mother luck for the hearing, and told her to text me when she knew what the outcome was. I knew that it would be at least 6 hours until she knew anything. And so, I waited. Work kept me busy. I called in overdue books, I made cards for a grade 3 class coming in for a field trip, I mended books, made new spine labels, sleeved and shelved movies and CDs, sent books and movies into transit, and somewhere in there found the time to run home and grab a movie for a co-worker.
At the end of my shift, I checked my text messages. The judged approved the custody order in favor of my mom, but held it over until March. My brother’s lawyer has completely bought into his lies about my mother, and is convinced that she is a danger to him. She wants a permanent guardianship order, and wants to deny my mother access to him indefinitely. She didn’t get what she wanted today, and that makes me smile. Today, my damaged, deceitful, sociopathic brother did not get his way. But, this is just the beginning.
My mother still has to go to court to prove that she did not abuse the other foster boy - the other foster boy who has waited for my mother to visit him for a year; the foster boy who wasn’t told that it wasn’t her decision to stop coming to see him; the foster boy who loved my mother to pieces, and couldn’t deal with the disappointment of finally finding out that she was never coming back for him; the foster boy who made up a story about my mother whipping him, because he was mad at her. My mother still has to go to court and prove that two boys - who were damaged by their birth mothers, and have a history of violence, aggression, and false accusations - are lying about her. Unrepresented.
And there’s nothing I can do about it. For now.
This is all I can do. I can rant on my blog about the injustice of the world. I can write letters that attest to my mother’s stellar record as a foster parent, and the abuse she’s suffered at the hands of these boys. I am a writer. This is how I vent.
Four more days I have to wait. In four days, my mother will attempt to restore her reputation, and get back her foster care license.
In the meantime, I’ve been writing a book. I’ve been writing a book detailing my mother’s hardships, triumphs, failures, and successes as a parent/foster parent. I have been writing a book that, in four days time, I will decide if I am going to publish.
My mother has been used and abused by Children’s Services, and if they drive this final nail into her coffin, I will publish this book, and I will hold nothing back. People need to know the risks of becoming a foster parent. People need to know the risks of putting their faith in a system that does not have their back in the long run. People need to hear my mother’s story, and know the damage that false accusations can cause; the damage that a thirteen-year old boy with no morals can cause.
Four more days. Doesn’t seem like that long, does it? Unless of course you’re in this position, and the future of someone you love will be decided in that short time.
How did it all come to this? What would you do? If this was your mother, and you knew these boys were lying, and you knew the case workers involved were leaving your mother out to dry, and knew that everything hinged on this one hearing … what would you do?
I am not a drinker, for several reasons. Alcohol heats me up, and I have a high enough body temperature as it is; I do not like the taste of alcohol, with the possible exception of vodka, but once again, it heats me up too much; I can get natural highs - I am generally a very excited, giddy, fun-loving person. I have never needed alcohol to have a good time. Also, alcohol is a depressant, so logically speaking, it can’t make you happy. Even with all of these facts, I could really use a drink. I would love to just slumber my way through these next four days, and not be so anxious and neurotic the whole time. Even as I’m sitting here writing this blog, my feet are bobbing on the bed, and my hands are tapping the keyboard impatiently.
Patience is not my virtue. Nor is it a virtue of my mother’s. I don’t know how she’s keeping it together, but somehow she is. If it were me, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from screaming at these lawyers and case workers. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from wringing their necks at their sheer stupidity. This is why I’m not the foster parent …
It’s times like these, I really wish I believed in a higher power. I wish that I could believe that someone was watching out for us. That good people are rewarded for their hard work and sacrifices, and bad people never prosper from their evil actions. I haven’t prayed since I was eleven years old, but I wish that I could pray to someone. I wish that I could do something as simple as get down on my knees, do a dozen Hail Mary’s, wish upon a star, blow out a candle, and have everything work out perfectly.
Why can’t life be like that? Why do good people always have to suffer? Why the hell can’t time magically move forward, and save me from this insufferable waiting game? Why, why, why, why, WHY?
Today my mother went to court. She had a custody hearing to determine the fate of my adopted brother - a boy who was tragically and irreparably damaged by his birth mother; a boy who has been diagnosed with sociopath tendencies; a boy who is violent and aggressive towards everyone that he meets; a boy who has done everything in his power to destroy my mother. Today my mother went to court to tell her side of the story. She went to tell them that she did not, in fact, abuse my brother. She had case notes, she had reports from aids and one-to-one workers, she had personal references and statements attesting to her credibility as a foster parent. She went into court ready to fight for not only her reputation as a mother, but also to fight for the well-being of her adopted son.
I had a Psych class early this morning, and then work at 11:00 am. I wished my mother luck for the hearing, and told her to text me when she knew what the outcome was. I knew that it would be at least 6 hours until she knew anything. And so, I waited. Work kept me busy. I called in overdue books, I made cards for a grade 3 class coming in for a field trip, I mended books, made new spine labels, sleeved and shelved movies and CDs, sent books and movies into transit, and somewhere in there found the time to run home and grab a movie for a co-worker.
At the end of my shift, I checked my text messages. The judged approved the custody order in favor of my mom, but held it over until March. My brother’s lawyer has completely bought into his lies about my mother, and is convinced that she is a danger to him. She wants a permanent guardianship order, and wants to deny my mother access to him indefinitely. She didn’t get what she wanted today, and that makes me smile. Today, my damaged, deceitful, sociopathic brother did not get his way. But, this is just the beginning.
My mother still has to go to court to prove that she did not abuse the other foster boy - the other foster boy who has waited for my mother to visit him for a year; the foster boy who wasn’t told that it wasn’t her decision to stop coming to see him; the foster boy who loved my mother to pieces, and couldn’t deal with the disappointment of finally finding out that she was never coming back for him; the foster boy who made up a story about my mother whipping him, because he was mad at her. My mother still has to go to court and prove that two boys - who were damaged by their birth mothers, and have a history of violence, aggression, and false accusations - are lying about her. Unrepresented.
And there’s nothing I can do about it. For now.
This is all I can do. I can rant on my blog about the injustice of the world. I can write letters that attest to my mother’s stellar record as a foster parent, and the abuse she’s suffered at the hands of these boys. I am a writer. This is how I vent.
Four more days I have to wait. In four days, my mother will attempt to restore her reputation, and get back her foster care license.
In the meantime, I’ve been writing a book. I’ve been writing a book detailing my mother’s hardships, triumphs, failures, and successes as a parent/foster parent. I have been writing a book that, in four days time, I will decide if I am going to publish.
My mother has been used and abused by Children’s Services, and if they drive this final nail into her coffin, I will publish this book, and I will hold nothing back. People need to know the risks of becoming a foster parent. People need to know the risks of putting their faith in a system that does not have their back in the long run. People need to hear my mother’s story, and know the damage that false accusations can cause; the damage that a thirteen-year old boy with no morals can cause.
Four more days. Doesn’t seem like that long, does it? Unless of course you’re in this position, and the future of someone you love will be decided in that short time.
How did it all come to this? What would you do? If this was your mother, and you knew these boys were lying, and you knew the case workers involved were leaving your mother out to dry, and knew that everything hinged on this one hearing … what would you do?
I am not a drinker, for several reasons. Alcohol heats me up, and I have a high enough body temperature as it is; I do not like the taste of alcohol, with the possible exception of vodka, but once again, it heats me up too much; I can get natural highs - I am generally a very excited, giddy, fun-loving person. I have never needed alcohol to have a good time. Also, alcohol is a depressant, so logically speaking, it can’t make you happy. Even with all of these facts, I could really use a drink. I would love to just slumber my way through these next four days, and not be so anxious and neurotic the whole time. Even as I’m sitting here writing this blog, my feet are bobbing on the bed, and my hands are tapping the keyboard impatiently.
Patience is not my virtue. Nor is it a virtue of my mother’s. I don’t know how she’s keeping it together, but somehow she is. If it were me, I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from screaming at these lawyers and case workers. I wouldn’t be able to stop myself from wringing their necks at their sheer stupidity. This is why I’m not the foster parent …
It’s times like these, I really wish I believed in a higher power. I wish that I could believe that someone was watching out for us. That good people are rewarded for their hard work and sacrifices, and bad people never prosper from their evil actions. I haven’t prayed since I was eleven years old, but I wish that I could pray to someone. I wish that I could do something as simple as get down on my knees, do a dozen Hail Mary’s, wish upon a star, blow out a candle, and have everything work out perfectly.
Why can’t life be like that? Why do good people always have to suffer? Why the hell can’t time magically move forward, and save me from this insufferable waiting game? Why, why, why, why, WHY?
Sunday, September 25, 2011
On Growing Up: Make It Stop
I am going to be 22 in 3 months. To a senior citizen, that might seem blissfully young. To a pre-teen, that might seem tragically old. To me, it's just ... twenty-two. Another year gone by.
In the last nine months, I have finished my second year of college, sent our adorable foster twins to a wonderful new family, finished my first novel, watched my adopted brother get shifted from one home to another, gained about twenty pounds, helped my sister out with her day home, welcomed two new foster kids into our home, gone camping with my family, made it through the tenth anniversary of my best friend's death, supported my mother through her dear friend's passing, got a job at my local library, and watched as two boys who we opened our home and hearts to destroyed my mother's life.
A month ago, my mother was a well-respected, awe-inspiring foster mother; a life that I was thrilled to be a part of. Now they're telling her she's not fit to be a foster parent, because they took the word of a sad boy and a sociopath over hers.
Twenty-two years old, in just three short months.
You know what I thought would be going on in my life when I turned twenty-two? I thought I would graduate from RDC with a diploma in Early Learning and Child Care, be living in a cheap apartment or townhouse that allowed pets, and be working in a day care or preschool, while volunteering at the women's shelter. I thought I would be dancing around my home to blaring music, making appointments for getting tattoos while watching the latest romantic comedy on TV. I thought I would be spending all of my downtime on my computer, writing fanfic and dreaming of publishing my first novel.
You know what I'll probably be doing when I turn twenty-two? The same thing I'm doing right now: trying to get myself and my mother through the next day.
Tonight (or technically last night, since it's after 12:00 am) was my day off of work, and since I got paid yesterday, I decided that me and mum would go do some shopping, go see a movie ... keep our mind off of things. I found some good work shirts, bought some movies and books and a really nice bookshelf at Value Village, and then went to Carnival. The first movie we watched was Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2.
When the first Harry Potter book came out, I was six years old. My mother read me each chapter as she recovered from our car accident, making me fall in love with each character, desperate for more. She fostered my love of reading and writing.
When I was six years old, I had absolutely no interest in growing up. I didn't care much for an adult's perspective of life. To me, hard work was sitting still in my desk and not mouthing off my teachers. When I was six, I thought five dollars made me rich, and I couldn't wait to spend it all at the convenience store down the street. I couldn't comprehend the hardships that my mother had to endure, raising myself and my brother by herself.
I was not a pleasant child. Sure, I had my good moods. I had fun, I smiled, I made other people laugh. But, I could also pull a Jekyll/Hyde swap faster than you could blink. I don't know how my mother managed to raise us and not lose her sanity, but somehow she managed.
In August of 2001, when I was eleven years old, my dog became very sick. He had cancer. He was in a lot of pain. I didn't really comprehend what cancer was back then, even thought my Aunt had died of lung cancer. All I knew of cancer back then was that my Auntie Marion smoked cigarettes, and then she died. When the vet told us George had cancer, I blamed my mum. I don't believe I ever told her that ... instead, I secretly hated her for it, because she smoked. 1 + 1 = 2 back then, so obviously she must have been to blame, right? George was in a lot of pain, but I wasn't ready to let him go. So, what did my mum do? She told me that she was going to make an appointment for him with the vet. She said they would be back. She had my coach and mentor stay with me, who encouraged me to say goodbye to my dog. I didn't understand, so I didn't say goodbye. I thought I would see him again. When my mum came home without George, I hated her for it. I didn't see that she had saved me the trauma of watching my dog be "put to sleep". She held me while I cried, and gave me my space when I needed it. She gave my Baby George the relief that he needed when I couldn't, and I never thanked her for it.
When I was eleven years old, the Winter before my twelfth birthday, we had to leave my hometown for my mom's work. There was nothing left for her in Brooks, but she had a job down in Red Deer. I was not happy about it. I told her that I hated her, that she was ruining my life. I thought the world would end if I couldn't see my friends every day, if I had to leave the house I'd lived in nearly my whole life. I blamed her for everything back then, because I was a child and I was mad. I dug my heels in. How did my mother respond? She worked it out so that I could stay on my Ringette team, and come back for games on the weekend. A three-hour drive almost every weekend. I don't know how much money that she spent on gas so that I could spend a couple hours a week with friends that I had grown up with. And when my school in Innisfail went on strike for three weeks, she worked it out so that I could go back to Brooks and take my old classes for a little while. I was thrilled to be back with my friends. I don't know that I ever sincerely said thank you. I didn't care about the sacrifices she was making for me, all I cared about was that I was getting what I wanted.
Hard work for me back then was keeping in shape for ringette. Hard work back then was getting Cs in school and not picking fights on the bus - I didn't succeed in either very often. Growing up, then? What a stupid notion.
When I was seventeen years old, I graduated from high school. My mother rented a red, mustang convertible for me. I secretly pouted that it wasn't silver, but loved it all the same. I had a wonderful grad, laughed with my friends, and used my absentee father's grad ticket to get a friend of mine into the grad dinner with us. My favorite aunt and uncle got to see me graduate, my mother and sister smiled and cried, and I didn't even trip walking down the aisle. It was a wonderful evening. I danced with the boy who would, a mere four years later, destroy my mother's life, and didn't even get a picture with my mother to commemorate the evening. She never complained.
When I was nineteen, we had to find another place to live. Our landlord wasn't going to renew our lease, and nowhere in Red Deer that we could afford would allow pets. It was our second move in two years. My mother had lost her own dog and favorite companion in that house. Though it probably broke her heart to say it, she suggested that we send my dog, Copper, to live with someone else for a while, until we could get back on our feet and find a place that would allow pets. I refused. I screamed. I told her that if Copper went, I went. I told her that I would move in with my brother, and never speak to her again. What did she do? She agreed to look outside of Red Deer, and let me pick a house in Sylvan that allowed pets. I never thanked her.
When I was twenty-years old, our 9-year old foster boy was taken out of our home. He was violently aggressive, would constantly abuse my mother, threaten other children in our home and in our lives, would break his and our property, and scream bloody murder if you so much as looked at him the wrong way. My mother put her heart and soul into making him feel loved and secure, and "they" deemed that our home was not safe for him. We had one day's notice that they were taking him. We were allowed to visit him for a couple months before they cut off all contact with him.
The hardest thing about my life back then? Re-alphabetizing my movies, working out time to go see movies with my friends, and figuring out a schedule to balance out all my favorite TV shows.
Seven months ago, my adopted brother was sent to a residential treatment home that was supposed to work a program around his behavior. He is a boy diagnosed with ADHD, ODD, undiagnosed FASD and Shaken Baby Syndrome. He is a sociopath. He destroys everything in his life that he touches.
Two months ago, hard work for me was watching our two and three-year old foster girls while my mother drove back and forth from Calgary and Sylvan to visit my brother, and try to assist in his treatment.
There was no treatment going on. He was shuffled from house to house, never getting proper supervision, never mind treatment. He was constantly going awol, verbally and physically abusing other youth and staff in the programs, running around downtown Calgary in the middle of the night, coming back boasting about drinking alcohol, with hickeys on his neck. A thirteen-year old, sociopathic boy, at-risk to be a sexual offender is wandering around Calgary in the middle of the night, and coming back with hickeys. The staff at the program had little to say for their lack of action, and my mother was growing evermore frustrated with the situation. But, what could she do? It wasn't safe for him to come home, and he was getting worse where he was. Rock, hard place, etc, etc.
Life sucked, but it was about to get a hell of a lot worse.
A little less than three weeks ago, the foster boy made an allegation against my mother. The boy who kicked and punched and bit and spat on and screamed at my mother told his social worker that my mother whipped him with a belt. The social worker believed it. She went to my adopted brother, who had always threatened that he was going to destroy my mother. He's told her for years that he's going to tell people that she's beating him up so that he can go back to his biological mother - the same woman who drank and did drugs while she was pregnant with him; the same woman who shook him when he was a baby; the same woman who couldn't be bothered to get out of bed to feed, dress, and care for her children; the same woman who faked a brain injury when it suited her; the same woman who nearly slept through her son trying to burn down their house with her in it; the same woman who let her son run back into a burning building to save his cat. My adopted brother told the social worker that my mother indeed whipped him with a belt.
My mother got paid $1.08 an hour to be a foster parent. She received little-to-no support from Children's Services, went through hell and back to adopt and care for my brother, did everything in her power to see that he got the help that he needed, even when her family members told her that it was time to give up - something she doesn't know how to do.
Children's Services has to take every single allegation seriously. I understand that. They took our two foster girls when they started their investigation two weeks ago. They said they'd be gone for a few days. My mother stopped getting paid as a foster parent, and they cut off her Child Tax Credit. None of the people in a position to help her at Children's Services were allowed to talk to her. My sister reached out to people who would know what to do, and told her to get a lawyer. Could you afford a lawyer on $1.08/hour? She got in touch with Legal Aid, who told her that she doesn't qualify, because she makes too much money. She made too much money because she could pay all of her bills. She paid all of her bills because I loaned her $440.00. She explained this to them, and still they told her they couldn't help her. My mother had to face this allegation with no legal representation, and no help from anyone in a position of authority within Children's Services.
Last month, my biggest priority was spending my student loan money, and not missing the season finale of True Blood. Since then, I've gotten a job at my local library, dropped my practicum so that I could keep that job, and spent every free moment trying to stave off my mother's depression.
On Friday, they finished their investigation.
Let me make one thing perfectly clear: My mother is not perfect. No one is. You show me a perfect person, and I'll show you an amazing con artist. While she is not perfect, my mother is not violent. She has never, and would never whip a child. We were confident that they would give her a slap on the wrist for a few spanking incidents, and everything would be fine. How could they take the word of two violently aggressive boys over hers?
We were wrong. The boy who promised to destroy my mother, so that he could go back to his birth mother who broke him, did exactly as he promised. They've decided she can no longer be a foster parent. My mother gave up her entire life to care for my brother, and other children like him. My mother, who has supported herself, myself, and every child in her house on a measly $1.08/hour, has been told that she can no longer be a foster parent.
I've never really had to grow up. Sure, I've been mature for my age for a long time, but mature for my age isn't exactly "mature". I don't drink, I don't do drugs, I don't sleep around, I don't go out partying. I make good grades, I stay out of trouble, and I don't waste my time on people who would only bring me down in the long run. I met a woman recently who couldn't believe that I was only 21, because I seemed so much more mature and "together" than that.
I don't want to be mature. I don't want to be a grown up. I want to yell and scream and break things. I want to storm up to Children's Services and bitch-slap them until they come to their senses. I want to walk up to my adopted brother's biological mother and rip her heart out of her chest for the pain she's caused my family.
Unfortunately, I can't do that. Every waking minute that isn't spent at school or work is being spent on keeping my mother from spiraling into depression.
I love my brother with all of my heart. I want him to get better. I want to wrap my arms around him and squeeze all of the hate and sickness out of him. I love him, but if I knew seven years ago that he was going to do this to my mother, I would have told her to let someone else take him in. Let someone else suffer at his hands ... she's my mother, and she doesn't deserve this.
When we walked into the movie theatre tonight, my mother looked at the Harry Potter poster and said, "Can you believe it's been that long? We read the first book when you were six years old."
Six years old, and my biggest troubles were learning how to skate, and earning enough allowance to buy 1-cent candies at the corner store.
How did we get here? More importantly, how do I make it stop?
In the last nine months, I have finished my second year of college, sent our adorable foster twins to a wonderful new family, finished my first novel, watched my adopted brother get shifted from one home to another, gained about twenty pounds, helped my sister out with her day home, welcomed two new foster kids into our home, gone camping with my family, made it through the tenth anniversary of my best friend's death, supported my mother through her dear friend's passing, got a job at my local library, and watched as two boys who we opened our home and hearts to destroyed my mother's life.
A month ago, my mother was a well-respected, awe-inspiring foster mother; a life that I was thrilled to be a part of. Now they're telling her she's not fit to be a foster parent, because they took the word of a sad boy and a sociopath over hers.
Twenty-two years old, in just three short months.
You know what I thought would be going on in my life when I turned twenty-two? I thought I would graduate from RDC with a diploma in Early Learning and Child Care, be living in a cheap apartment or townhouse that allowed pets, and be working in a day care or preschool, while volunteering at the women's shelter. I thought I would be dancing around my home to blaring music, making appointments for getting tattoos while watching the latest romantic comedy on TV. I thought I would be spending all of my downtime on my computer, writing fanfic and dreaming of publishing my first novel.
You know what I'll probably be doing when I turn twenty-two? The same thing I'm doing right now: trying to get myself and my mother through the next day.
Tonight (or technically last night, since it's after 12:00 am) was my day off of work, and since I got paid yesterday, I decided that me and mum would go do some shopping, go see a movie ... keep our mind off of things. I found some good work shirts, bought some movies and books and a really nice bookshelf at Value Village, and then went to Carnival. The first movie we watched was Harry Potter and the Deathly Hallows, Part 2.
When the first Harry Potter book came out, I was six years old. My mother read me each chapter as she recovered from our car accident, making me fall in love with each character, desperate for more. She fostered my love of reading and writing.
When I was six years old, I had absolutely no interest in growing up. I didn't care much for an adult's perspective of life. To me, hard work was sitting still in my desk and not mouthing off my teachers. When I was six, I thought five dollars made me rich, and I couldn't wait to spend it all at the convenience store down the street. I couldn't comprehend the hardships that my mother had to endure, raising myself and my brother by herself.
I was not a pleasant child. Sure, I had my good moods. I had fun, I smiled, I made other people laugh. But, I could also pull a Jekyll/Hyde swap faster than you could blink. I don't know how my mother managed to raise us and not lose her sanity, but somehow she managed.
In August of 2001, when I was eleven years old, my dog became very sick. He had cancer. He was in a lot of pain. I didn't really comprehend what cancer was back then, even thought my Aunt had died of lung cancer. All I knew of cancer back then was that my Auntie Marion smoked cigarettes, and then she died. When the vet told us George had cancer, I blamed my mum. I don't believe I ever told her that ... instead, I secretly hated her for it, because she smoked. 1 + 1 = 2 back then, so obviously she must have been to blame, right? George was in a lot of pain, but I wasn't ready to let him go. So, what did my mum do? She told me that she was going to make an appointment for him with the vet. She said they would be back. She had my coach and mentor stay with me, who encouraged me to say goodbye to my dog. I didn't understand, so I didn't say goodbye. I thought I would see him again. When my mum came home without George, I hated her for it. I didn't see that she had saved me the trauma of watching my dog be "put to sleep". She held me while I cried, and gave me my space when I needed it. She gave my Baby George the relief that he needed when I couldn't, and I never thanked her for it.
When I was eleven years old, the Winter before my twelfth birthday, we had to leave my hometown for my mom's work. There was nothing left for her in Brooks, but she had a job down in Red Deer. I was not happy about it. I told her that I hated her, that she was ruining my life. I thought the world would end if I couldn't see my friends every day, if I had to leave the house I'd lived in nearly my whole life. I blamed her for everything back then, because I was a child and I was mad. I dug my heels in. How did my mother respond? She worked it out so that I could stay on my Ringette team, and come back for games on the weekend. A three-hour drive almost every weekend. I don't know how much money that she spent on gas so that I could spend a couple hours a week with friends that I had grown up with. And when my school in Innisfail went on strike for three weeks, she worked it out so that I could go back to Brooks and take my old classes for a little while. I was thrilled to be back with my friends. I don't know that I ever sincerely said thank you. I didn't care about the sacrifices she was making for me, all I cared about was that I was getting what I wanted.
Hard work for me back then was keeping in shape for ringette. Hard work back then was getting Cs in school and not picking fights on the bus - I didn't succeed in either very often. Growing up, then? What a stupid notion.
When I was seventeen years old, I graduated from high school. My mother rented a red, mustang convertible for me. I secretly pouted that it wasn't silver, but loved it all the same. I had a wonderful grad, laughed with my friends, and used my absentee father's grad ticket to get a friend of mine into the grad dinner with us. My favorite aunt and uncle got to see me graduate, my mother and sister smiled and cried, and I didn't even trip walking down the aisle. It was a wonderful evening. I danced with the boy who would, a mere four years later, destroy my mother's life, and didn't even get a picture with my mother to commemorate the evening. She never complained.
When I was nineteen, we had to find another place to live. Our landlord wasn't going to renew our lease, and nowhere in Red Deer that we could afford would allow pets. It was our second move in two years. My mother had lost her own dog and favorite companion in that house. Though it probably broke her heart to say it, she suggested that we send my dog, Copper, to live with someone else for a while, until we could get back on our feet and find a place that would allow pets. I refused. I screamed. I told her that if Copper went, I went. I told her that I would move in with my brother, and never speak to her again. What did she do? She agreed to look outside of Red Deer, and let me pick a house in Sylvan that allowed pets. I never thanked her.
When I was twenty-years old, our 9-year old foster boy was taken out of our home. He was violently aggressive, would constantly abuse my mother, threaten other children in our home and in our lives, would break his and our property, and scream bloody murder if you so much as looked at him the wrong way. My mother put her heart and soul into making him feel loved and secure, and "they" deemed that our home was not safe for him. We had one day's notice that they were taking him. We were allowed to visit him for a couple months before they cut off all contact with him.
The hardest thing about my life back then? Re-alphabetizing my movies, working out time to go see movies with my friends, and figuring out a schedule to balance out all my favorite TV shows.
Seven months ago, my adopted brother was sent to a residential treatment home that was supposed to work a program around his behavior. He is a boy diagnosed with ADHD, ODD, undiagnosed FASD and Shaken Baby Syndrome. He is a sociopath. He destroys everything in his life that he touches.
Two months ago, hard work for me was watching our two and three-year old foster girls while my mother drove back and forth from Calgary and Sylvan to visit my brother, and try to assist in his treatment.
There was no treatment going on. He was shuffled from house to house, never getting proper supervision, never mind treatment. He was constantly going awol, verbally and physically abusing other youth and staff in the programs, running around downtown Calgary in the middle of the night, coming back boasting about drinking alcohol, with hickeys on his neck. A thirteen-year old, sociopathic boy, at-risk to be a sexual offender is wandering around Calgary in the middle of the night, and coming back with hickeys. The staff at the program had little to say for their lack of action, and my mother was growing evermore frustrated with the situation. But, what could she do? It wasn't safe for him to come home, and he was getting worse where he was. Rock, hard place, etc, etc.
Life sucked, but it was about to get a hell of a lot worse.
A little less than three weeks ago, the foster boy made an allegation against my mother. The boy who kicked and punched and bit and spat on and screamed at my mother told his social worker that my mother whipped him with a belt. The social worker believed it. She went to my adopted brother, who had always threatened that he was going to destroy my mother. He's told her for years that he's going to tell people that she's beating him up so that he can go back to his biological mother - the same woman who drank and did drugs while she was pregnant with him; the same woman who shook him when he was a baby; the same woman who couldn't be bothered to get out of bed to feed, dress, and care for her children; the same woman who faked a brain injury when it suited her; the same woman who nearly slept through her son trying to burn down their house with her in it; the same woman who let her son run back into a burning building to save his cat. My adopted brother told the social worker that my mother indeed whipped him with a belt.
My mother got paid $1.08 an hour to be a foster parent. She received little-to-no support from Children's Services, went through hell and back to adopt and care for my brother, did everything in her power to see that he got the help that he needed, even when her family members told her that it was time to give up - something she doesn't know how to do.
Children's Services has to take every single allegation seriously. I understand that. They took our two foster girls when they started their investigation two weeks ago. They said they'd be gone for a few days. My mother stopped getting paid as a foster parent, and they cut off her Child Tax Credit. None of the people in a position to help her at Children's Services were allowed to talk to her. My sister reached out to people who would know what to do, and told her to get a lawyer. Could you afford a lawyer on $1.08/hour? She got in touch with Legal Aid, who told her that she doesn't qualify, because she makes too much money. She made too much money because she could pay all of her bills. She paid all of her bills because I loaned her $440.00. She explained this to them, and still they told her they couldn't help her. My mother had to face this allegation with no legal representation, and no help from anyone in a position of authority within Children's Services.
Last month, my biggest priority was spending my student loan money, and not missing the season finale of True Blood. Since then, I've gotten a job at my local library, dropped my practicum so that I could keep that job, and spent every free moment trying to stave off my mother's depression.
On Friday, they finished their investigation.
Let me make one thing perfectly clear: My mother is not perfect. No one is. You show me a perfect person, and I'll show you an amazing con artist. While she is not perfect, my mother is not violent. She has never, and would never whip a child. We were confident that they would give her a slap on the wrist for a few spanking incidents, and everything would be fine. How could they take the word of two violently aggressive boys over hers?
We were wrong. The boy who promised to destroy my mother, so that he could go back to his birth mother who broke him, did exactly as he promised. They've decided she can no longer be a foster parent. My mother gave up her entire life to care for my brother, and other children like him. My mother, who has supported herself, myself, and every child in her house on a measly $1.08/hour, has been told that she can no longer be a foster parent.
I've never really had to grow up. Sure, I've been mature for my age for a long time, but mature for my age isn't exactly "mature". I don't drink, I don't do drugs, I don't sleep around, I don't go out partying. I make good grades, I stay out of trouble, and I don't waste my time on people who would only bring me down in the long run. I met a woman recently who couldn't believe that I was only 21, because I seemed so much more mature and "together" than that.
I don't want to be mature. I don't want to be a grown up. I want to yell and scream and break things. I want to storm up to Children's Services and bitch-slap them until they come to their senses. I want to walk up to my adopted brother's biological mother and rip her heart out of her chest for the pain she's caused my family.
Unfortunately, I can't do that. Every waking minute that isn't spent at school or work is being spent on keeping my mother from spiraling into depression.
I love my brother with all of my heart. I want him to get better. I want to wrap my arms around him and squeeze all of the hate and sickness out of him. I love him, but if I knew seven years ago that he was going to do this to my mother, I would have told her to let someone else take him in. Let someone else suffer at his hands ... she's my mother, and she doesn't deserve this.
When we walked into the movie theatre tonight, my mother looked at the Harry Potter poster and said, "Can you believe it's been that long? We read the first book when you were six years old."
Six years old, and my biggest troubles were learning how to skate, and earning enough allowance to buy 1-cent candies at the corner store.
How did we get here? More importantly, how do I make it stop?
Monday, August 29, 2011
Stop the Cycle of Violence
I've been seeing a lot of anti-bullying posts on Facebook lately. Normally what I would do is edit for spelling, and then post it on my own status, but it doesn't seem like that's enough. Sure, it's easy to copy and paste - we all do it. But, does the message really sink in?
The following is the post I'm talking about:
"The girl you just called fat? She is overdosing on diet pills. The girl you just called ugly? She spends hours putting makeup on, hoping people will like her. The boy you just tripped? He is abused enough at home. See that man with the ugly scars? He fought for our country. That guy you just made fun of for crying? His mother is dying. Put this on your status for an hour, if you are against bullying. You never know what it's like until you walk a mile in their shoes."
It would be impossible to describe all of the people who are bullied all across the world. The stereotypical ones are listed above, but they are not the only ones. The fact is, it's easy to bully the fat kid, the ugly kid, the emotional kid, the quiet kid who always keeps to him/herself. Kids like that present easy targets for bullies, but they aren't the only ones who have to deal with physical, verbal, and emotional abuse.
No one feels sorry for the cheerleader who get knocked down a peg or two by a mob of "outcasts". No one feels sorry for the football champion who pushes just a little too hard, and finally gets his "comeuppance". People don't think that the "pretty people" have to deal with the same problems ... those people are wrong.
Bullying happens everywhere, and it can happen to anyone.
Would it surprise you to know that it's more common for a girl to be a bully, than it is for a boy? I'm sure it would, and there's a simple reason for that: girls often bully those closest to them, girls who they would outwardly consider friends. Girls are sneaky, manipulate, and monumentally more cruel than boys. When a boy bullies, it's usually with straight up, physical violence.
The following is from the March 30, 2010 news report following the death of Phoebe Prince, a victim of bullying:
"Nine teenagers have been charged over the death of a 15-year-old Irish migrant who killed herself after months of merciless and sometimes violent bullying by fellow students at a Massachusetts school.
Phoebe Prince took her life in January in desperation at harassment led by female students who resented her dating an older American football player.
Six of the teenagers, four females and two males, face charges ranging from criminal harassment, stalking and breach of civil rights over the bullying which included text messages and abuse on Facebook.
The male students are also charged with statutory rape, apparently over relationships they had with Prince. Three younger girls, aged under 16, face delinquency charges. One has also been charged with assault with a dangerous weapon, listed as a bottle or can. Prince hanged herself at home at the end of a day at South Hadley high school in which she was bullied repeatedly by three students, including one she had a brief relationship with.
District attorney Elizabeth Scheibel said that on the day Prince killed herself she was verbally abused as she studied in the school library and pursued in the corridors. The teenagers then followed her as she walked home.
"From information known to investigators thus far, it appears that Phoebe's death on January 14th followed a tortuous day for her, in which she was subjected to verbal harassment and threatened physical abuse," said Scheibel. "Their [the students'] conduct far exceeded the limits of normal teenage relationship-related quarrels."
The district attorney said at least one school official observed the bullying but failed to report it.
Three of the students have since been expelled from the school.
The Massachusetts legislature has passed tough new anti-bullying laws in response to Prince's death and that of 11-year-old Carl Joseph Walker-Hoover, who also took his own life. The legislation would oblige schools to take action when they are informed about bullying.
Prince's death is one of several in recent months that have been attributed to bullying. The police in New York are investigating whether cyberbullying played a role in the decision of 17-year-old Alexis Pilkington to take her own life a fortnight ago. The attacks on her continued after her death on an internet page set up in tribute to Pilkington.
In Missouri, 13-year-old Megan Meier took her own life in 2006 after taunts from a fellow student's mother."
How many Phoebe Prince's are out there? Bullying is such a small word to describe a catastrophic epidemic that sweeps the entire world. How many young men and women are harassed by their peers for having something that they don't? How many young men and women are ostracized from their peers, verbally and physically abused on a daily basis? How much of this do we even see?
It's easy to punish the popular kid who picks on the smaller, "dorky-looking" kid, but how many people ask the bully "why did you do that?", AND sincerely want to know? The fact is, almost every bully that exists was bullied by someone else. Whether it be a parent, sibling, friend, or other peer.
Bullies are not always the tough-looking jock who everybody either respects or fears. Bullies are not always the pretty Homecoming Queen who always gets her way. These are the stereotypes that have been seared into our minds by teen soaps and bad movies. Bullies are everywhere, and almost every "bully" is a victim of some form of abuse, as well.
I'm not going to make a status post about how bad people should feel for bullying others. I'm not going to make a status post about how only misunderstood outcasts get bullied, and everyone else is just evil. I'm not going to go on a crusade to rescue the "little guy", and put the "bad guy" on display for the world to see. Instead, I'm going to say this: We live in a world where picking on other kids, and making them feel worse than we do is far too common of an occurrence. It needs to stop. All of it. Parents need to stop abusing their children, kids need to stop hurting their peers, and victims need to stop hurting themselves. Stop the cycle of violence - bully and bullied alike.
The following is the post I'm talking about:
"The girl you just called fat? She is overdosing on diet pills. The girl you just called ugly? She spends hours putting makeup on, hoping people will like her. The boy you just tripped? He is abused enough at home. See that man with the ugly scars? He fought for our country. That guy you just made fun of for crying? His mother is dying. Put this on your status for an hour, if you are against bullying. You never know what it's like until you walk a mile in their shoes."
It would be impossible to describe all of the people who are bullied all across the world. The stereotypical ones are listed above, but they are not the only ones. The fact is, it's easy to bully the fat kid, the ugly kid, the emotional kid, the quiet kid who always keeps to him/herself. Kids like that present easy targets for bullies, but they aren't the only ones who have to deal with physical, verbal, and emotional abuse.
No one feels sorry for the cheerleader who get knocked down a peg or two by a mob of "outcasts". No one feels sorry for the football champion who pushes just a little too hard, and finally gets his "comeuppance". People don't think that the "pretty people" have to deal with the same problems ... those people are wrong.
Bullying happens everywhere, and it can happen to anyone.
Would it surprise you to know that it's more common for a girl to be a bully, than it is for a boy? I'm sure it would, and there's a simple reason for that: girls often bully those closest to them, girls who they would outwardly consider friends. Girls are sneaky, manipulate, and monumentally more cruel than boys. When a boy bullies, it's usually with straight up, physical violence.
The following is from the March 30, 2010 news report following the death of Phoebe Prince, a victim of bullying:
"Nine teenagers have been charged over the death of a 15-year-old Irish migrant who killed herself after months of merciless and sometimes violent bullying by fellow students at a Massachusetts school.
Phoebe Prince took her life in January in desperation at harassment led by female students who resented her dating an older American football player.
Six of the teenagers, four females and two males, face charges ranging from criminal harassment, stalking and breach of civil rights over the bullying which included text messages and abuse on Facebook.
The male students are also charged with statutory rape, apparently over relationships they had with Prince. Three younger girls, aged under 16, face delinquency charges. One has also been charged with assault with a dangerous weapon, listed as a bottle or can. Prince hanged herself at home at the end of a day at South Hadley high school in which she was bullied repeatedly by three students, including one she had a brief relationship with.
District attorney Elizabeth Scheibel said that on the day Prince killed herself she was verbally abused as she studied in the school library and pursued in the corridors. The teenagers then followed her as she walked home.
"From information known to investigators thus far, it appears that Phoebe's death on January 14th followed a tortuous day for her, in which she was subjected to verbal harassment and threatened physical abuse," said Scheibel. "Their [the students'] conduct far exceeded the limits of normal teenage relationship-related quarrels."
The district attorney said at least one school official observed the bullying but failed to report it.
Three of the students have since been expelled from the school.
The Massachusetts legislature has passed tough new anti-bullying laws in response to Prince's death and that of 11-year-old Carl Joseph Walker-Hoover, who also took his own life. The legislation would oblige schools to take action when they are informed about bullying.
Prince's death is one of several in recent months that have been attributed to bullying. The police in New York are investigating whether cyberbullying played a role in the decision of 17-year-old Alexis Pilkington to take her own life a fortnight ago. The attacks on her continued after her death on an internet page set up in tribute to Pilkington.
In Missouri, 13-year-old Megan Meier took her own life in 2006 after taunts from a fellow student's mother."
How many Phoebe Prince's are out there? Bullying is such a small word to describe a catastrophic epidemic that sweeps the entire world. How many young men and women are harassed by their peers for having something that they don't? How many young men and women are ostracized from their peers, verbally and physically abused on a daily basis? How much of this do we even see?
It's easy to punish the popular kid who picks on the smaller, "dorky-looking" kid, but how many people ask the bully "why did you do that?", AND sincerely want to know? The fact is, almost every bully that exists was bullied by someone else. Whether it be a parent, sibling, friend, or other peer.
Bullies are not always the tough-looking jock who everybody either respects or fears. Bullies are not always the pretty Homecoming Queen who always gets her way. These are the stereotypes that have been seared into our minds by teen soaps and bad movies. Bullies are everywhere, and almost every "bully" is a victim of some form of abuse, as well.
I'm not going to make a status post about how bad people should feel for bullying others. I'm not going to make a status post about how only misunderstood outcasts get bullied, and everyone else is just evil. I'm not going to go on a crusade to rescue the "little guy", and put the "bad guy" on display for the world to see. Instead, I'm going to say this: We live in a world where picking on other kids, and making them feel worse than we do is far too common of an occurrence. It needs to stop. All of it. Parents need to stop abusing their children, kids need to stop hurting their peers, and victims need to stop hurting themselves. Stop the cycle of violence - bully and bullied alike.
Tuesday, August 23, 2011
My Heart Hurts
Today, a very special woman died. I didn't know her very well, but she was very important to my sister, to my mother, and to many other people whose lives she touched. My sister knew her as "Auntie Joan". She was her favorite babysitter, and a woman she respected and loved. My mother knew her as "Mom". My mother's parents died when she was very young, so Joan became a surrogate mother to her.
I only met Joan a handful of times. She used to sell fruit on the side of the highway, and mom would take us on visits to see her. They would play crib, which was a favorite pastime of theirs. My mom never smiled as much as when she was with Joan.
Recently, Joan went into palliative care - she had bone cancer, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to beat it. She knew that it was her time, but she was never sad or depressed about it.
Mom got to visit her a few times before she died. It was hard for her, but she managed it. She never let herself cry in front of Joan, because she didn't want to make her feel bad; her tears were always saved for the hallway.
Joan had many visitors before she died. She was very well-loved. We went up to see her once more just before we went camping. She fed our foster kids Cheesies, chatted with mom, reminisced about good times, and took us on a tour of the hospital. Though she lacked the physical strength to stand, her mental and emotional strength was radiant. She gave the kids - whom she'd just met - lots of hugs, and let them ride on her lap in her wheelchair. She laughed and joked, even when she was in pain. Mom promised to come back and play crib with her.
We got back from our camping trip Sunday night, and mom spent most of Monday unpacking and cleaning. I'm sure a trip to Edmonton wasn't too far away, so she could see her 'Mom' again, and let her know how much she loved her.
Today, Tuesday morning, she got a call from Joan's husband. Joan died.
My mother almost never cries. In the last two years, I've seen her break down in tears only three times: When her Great Aunt, our "Grandma Lucy" died, when our cousin Jeff died, and now, when Auntie Joan died. I hate seeing her cry.
It's so easy to think of her as a strong, hardened woman. She hides her emotions very well, to the point where you can usually only see two: happy, and angry. I am very well-practiced at making her angry. Happy Mom I embrace. Angry Mom I can deal with. Sad Mom hurts my heart, because I can't fix her.
Why is the heart such a hard muscle to deal with? Why can't we heat it up, stretch it out, and rest it from time to time to take away the pain?
I had to take my books back to the library today, and I asked Mom if there was anything I could get her before I left. This was her response: "650 bottles of Whiskey. The secrets of the universe. Why good people have to die before their time is up."
Well, I don't drink, so the Whiskey was out. If I knew the secrets of the universe, I would gladly give them to her. As for the last bit, this is the only answer I have: "Life sucks." Sure, it can be wonderful, exciting, incredible, and fulfilling at times. But, when the people that you love die, life just sucks. It sucks because you can't join them. It sucks because all you have left is your memories of them, and memories are never enough.
August is a hard month. Yesterday was the 10th anniversary of the death of my first dog and best friend, George. After he died, my friend and mentor, Katie, told me that he'd never be gone, 'cause he would always be inside my heart. I would never be without him, as long as I never forgot him. People tell that to kids all the time to make them feel better. What I didn't say to her was this: "I'll never, ever forget him, but I'll never have him back, either. It's not the same - memories aren't the same. Memories are hollow, ghostly imitations of the real thing. You can‘t talk to a memory. You can‘t hug a memory. You can‘t rest your head on a memory‘s shoulder and cry until you feel better." My heart broke that day, and it's never really healed. It never will.
The thing about hearts, is that they get a little bit harder with every loss that we face. George, Sylvia, Jack, Auntie Marion, Uncle Frank, Grandma Lucy, Jeff, Ashlynn, Auntie Joan ... every time I lose someone, a little piece of my breaks, and eventually, that break has to be sealed over and hardened - if it weren't, I'd never be able to cope.
I can't begin to imagine how hard my mom's heart is. She had two parents who loved her, and they both died too young. I've told her once before that I would gladly let my dad trade places with hers, if she could have him back. I have no love left for my father, so getting my Grandpa Leiman back would seem like a pretty good trade. Sadly, the world doesn't work like that. We can wish and hope and pray (for those of you who believe in praying) that those we love will come back to us, or never leave in the first place.
I lost my faith when I was eleven years old. When George died, I couldn't bring myself to believe in a god that would let that happen. Over the years, I've rationalized that if there was a god, it wouldn't be his place to save or kill my dog. I don't blame "god" for my dog dying. But in these past ten years, I haven't seen anything to restore my faith, either. When Sylvia was sick, I didn't pray to "god" to keep her alive. When she died, I sent a plea up to my Baby George to take care of her, wherever they were. When Jack died, I sent a plea to the both of them to welcome him back and take care of him.
Today, when I came up the stairs, and Mom grabbed me and started crying, my first thought was, "Not Auntie Glad. Please don't let it be Auntie Glad." It wasn't, and I was relieved, but I was also sad. Sad for my mom. Sad for Joan's family. Sad for every person whose life she touched, who will have to go on without her now. Sad for all the hearts that just broke a little bit more.
I don't believe in god, but I do believe in Heaven. I do believe that when we die, we go to a better place. I hope that Joan is in that better place now. I hope that her pain is gone. I hope that George, Sylvia, Jack, Auntie Marion, Uncle Frank, Grandma Lucy, Jeff, and Ashlynn are taking very good care of her.
Someday it will get better. Someday, my mom's broken heart will seal over, and she'll be able to smile again. I hope that day will come soon, because I don't like it when she's sad. When she's sad, my heart hurts for her, and I need to be strong for her.
Rest in peace, Joan Murray - you are loved, and you will always be remembered.
I only met Joan a handful of times. She used to sell fruit on the side of the highway, and mom would take us on visits to see her. They would play crib, which was a favorite pastime of theirs. My mom never smiled as much as when she was with Joan.
Recently, Joan went into palliative care - she had bone cancer, and she knew that she wouldn't be able to beat it. She knew that it was her time, but she was never sad or depressed about it.
Mom got to visit her a few times before she died. It was hard for her, but she managed it. She never let herself cry in front of Joan, because she didn't want to make her feel bad; her tears were always saved for the hallway.
Joan had many visitors before she died. She was very well-loved. We went up to see her once more just before we went camping. She fed our foster kids Cheesies, chatted with mom, reminisced about good times, and took us on a tour of the hospital. Though she lacked the physical strength to stand, her mental and emotional strength was radiant. She gave the kids - whom she'd just met - lots of hugs, and let them ride on her lap in her wheelchair. She laughed and joked, even when she was in pain. Mom promised to come back and play crib with her.
We got back from our camping trip Sunday night, and mom spent most of Monday unpacking and cleaning. I'm sure a trip to Edmonton wasn't too far away, so she could see her 'Mom' again, and let her know how much she loved her.
Today, Tuesday morning, she got a call from Joan's husband. Joan died.
My mother almost never cries. In the last two years, I've seen her break down in tears only three times: When her Great Aunt, our "Grandma Lucy" died, when our cousin Jeff died, and now, when Auntie Joan died. I hate seeing her cry.
It's so easy to think of her as a strong, hardened woman. She hides her emotions very well, to the point where you can usually only see two: happy, and angry. I am very well-practiced at making her angry. Happy Mom I embrace. Angry Mom I can deal with. Sad Mom hurts my heart, because I can't fix her.
Why is the heart such a hard muscle to deal with? Why can't we heat it up, stretch it out, and rest it from time to time to take away the pain?
I had to take my books back to the library today, and I asked Mom if there was anything I could get her before I left. This was her response: "650 bottles of Whiskey. The secrets of the universe. Why good people have to die before their time is up."
Well, I don't drink, so the Whiskey was out. If I knew the secrets of the universe, I would gladly give them to her. As for the last bit, this is the only answer I have: "Life sucks." Sure, it can be wonderful, exciting, incredible, and fulfilling at times. But, when the people that you love die, life just sucks. It sucks because you can't join them. It sucks because all you have left is your memories of them, and memories are never enough.
August is a hard month. Yesterday was the 10th anniversary of the death of my first dog and best friend, George. After he died, my friend and mentor, Katie, told me that he'd never be gone, 'cause he would always be inside my heart. I would never be without him, as long as I never forgot him. People tell that to kids all the time to make them feel better. What I didn't say to her was this: "I'll never, ever forget him, but I'll never have him back, either. It's not the same - memories aren't the same. Memories are hollow, ghostly imitations of the real thing. You can‘t talk to a memory. You can‘t hug a memory. You can‘t rest your head on a memory‘s shoulder and cry until you feel better." My heart broke that day, and it's never really healed. It never will.
The thing about hearts, is that they get a little bit harder with every loss that we face. George, Sylvia, Jack, Auntie Marion, Uncle Frank, Grandma Lucy, Jeff, Ashlynn, Auntie Joan ... every time I lose someone, a little piece of my breaks, and eventually, that break has to be sealed over and hardened - if it weren't, I'd never be able to cope.
I can't begin to imagine how hard my mom's heart is. She had two parents who loved her, and they both died too young. I've told her once before that I would gladly let my dad trade places with hers, if she could have him back. I have no love left for my father, so getting my Grandpa Leiman back would seem like a pretty good trade. Sadly, the world doesn't work like that. We can wish and hope and pray (for those of you who believe in praying) that those we love will come back to us, or never leave in the first place.
I lost my faith when I was eleven years old. When George died, I couldn't bring myself to believe in a god that would let that happen. Over the years, I've rationalized that if there was a god, it wouldn't be his place to save or kill my dog. I don't blame "god" for my dog dying. But in these past ten years, I haven't seen anything to restore my faith, either. When Sylvia was sick, I didn't pray to "god" to keep her alive. When she died, I sent a plea up to my Baby George to take care of her, wherever they were. When Jack died, I sent a plea to the both of them to welcome him back and take care of him.
Today, when I came up the stairs, and Mom grabbed me and started crying, my first thought was, "Not Auntie Glad. Please don't let it be Auntie Glad." It wasn't, and I was relieved, but I was also sad. Sad for my mom. Sad for Joan's family. Sad for every person whose life she touched, who will have to go on without her now. Sad for all the hearts that just broke a little bit more.
I don't believe in god, but I do believe in Heaven. I do believe that when we die, we go to a better place. I hope that Joan is in that better place now. I hope that her pain is gone. I hope that George, Sylvia, Jack, Auntie Marion, Uncle Frank, Grandma Lucy, Jeff, and Ashlynn are taking very good care of her.
Someday it will get better. Someday, my mom's broken heart will seal over, and she'll be able to smile again. I hope that day will come soon, because I don't like it when she's sad. When she's sad, my heart hurts for her, and I need to be strong for her.
Rest in peace, Joan Murray - you are loved, and you will always be remembered.
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