Tag: grief

writing life

The Door

Sue

Long before I knew I was a writer, before I learned how to even write full sentences, I thought everyone made up stories and characters in their minds. As a small child, when I was told to do something boring like make my bed, I’d stop in the middle of the task once I heard somebody call my name. Since it was never a voice I recognized, I knew it wasn’t anyone in my family calling for me.

Right after my name was called the daydream would begin to take shape. Then I’d lose chunks of time while watching a story unfold in my mind like movie scenes on TV. I gave that voice an unusual name: Kikose. Understandably, the strange name kind of creeped out my parents. They called Kikose my imaginary friend. My grandma said those wayward thoughts happened because my imagination was playing tricks on me. I come from a long line of creative types, so having a good imagination wasn’t unusual, but nobody was a writer so they had no idea that the voice talking to me was my muse. To their credit, they never made me feel like I was fibbing or telling tall tales. As long as chores got done, the adults rarely nagged about how long it took for me to complete them. One of the many benefits of being the baby in the family.

Once I did learn how to write sentences, my mother encouraged me to document what she called my visions. I think she probably got impatient listening to the longwinded versions and figured it might be faster to skip through to the good parts by reading them herself. I used to follow her around the house reciting my story pages while she cleaned or made meals. Mom and I shared a special bond over words. When I was two years old, she suffered a debilitating stroke that was caused by an aneurysm in her head. Fortunately she survived, but with temporary limb paralysis and the inability to speak clearly. I have no memory of it. I’ve been told that while I was learning to talk in full sentences, she was learning how to form understandable words again. She told me once that I was the only one who understood her then, and when she’d get frustrated I’d often speak on her behalf to the rest of the family. It became a habit that continued long after she got better.

Luckily, I was fortunate to know many wonderful people who encouraged me to write my stories. Early grade school teachers who asked me to read them to the class, and then a school librarian who would take the little storybooks I wrote and illustrated and laminate them so other kids could borrow them from the shelves right along with the published books. I used to write short stories for my childhood friends in exchange for candy. They became the star of their own adventures and it pleased me when they took on the persona of the main character I invented for them. In between the many growing pains of the early teen years, I’d slip a notebook page into friends’ school books with a happier ending written for a real incident that had caused them emotional pain and suffering. People around me eventually stopped making comments like “I wonder what he’s thinking” because I’d create an entire backstory and a running commentary on the person’s imagined thoughts. I was a born storyteller. It was as much a part of me as my unruly thick hair and green eyes. I didn’t know any different, so it never made me feel different. Sometimes it felt like a party trick I was capable of pulling off to entertain the people I loved.

In senior high school I had creative writing teachers who gave me permission to write whatever I wanted, fiction or non-fiction. One of them often battled the powers-that-be on my behalf over articles I wrote for the school newspaper that were considered inflammatory back then. Information about where to seek help about abuse, addiction and suicide helplines, peer bullying and animal cruelty prevention, just to name a few. I developed a first-name relationship with the school’s police officer liaison because I’d often get home from classes, drop my books on the kitchen table, grab a snack, and then call him up to double check legal facts before my articles went to print. Thankfully I never met with him in the counsellor’s office because that would’ve meant I’d gotten into some deep trouble. Most of the trouble I caused was with my typewriter.

The writing confidence I’d developed over the years took a spiralling nosedive when I was eighteen and started college. I discovered there were a lot of talented writers in my writing class and I lacked creative discipline. For the first time I didn’t have the freedom to write what I wanted. I had to stick to the program and join in critique groups in order to maintain a decent grade. Let me tell you, there is nothing more confidence-crushing then having your words inexpertly dissected by a large group like the poor mangled frog in a high school biology class. I’ve never found much creative growth in writing groups because in my experience there often seems to be underlying hints of jealousy disguised as constructive criticism. I’d much rather have someone close to me, whom I trust to have my best interest at heart, tell me what they think before I begin to edit and rewrite my work. There’s already no bigger critic of my writing than me.

The only positive was that the instructor of my first college writing class was an actual working published author of both poetry and prose, and she was brilliant. One day the instructor, we’ll call her Carole because she looked a little like singer-songwriter Carole King, told us we’d be skipping the regular critique session and, instead, she was going to guide us through meditation. Say, what? It sounded weird and I giggled nervously along with everyone else. Then Carole explained how it was going to work and I considered excusing myself from the class because it sounded a lot like an interactive hypnosis performance I’d seen once as a child. One that had scared me so badly I’d gone running in a panic from the school gymnasium during the finale. I had a vision of myself clucking like a chicken, flapping my elbows and pecking bwock bwock bwock up and down the aisles the way some fellow classmates had done and never lived down.

Fortunately this did not happen. Once Carole talked us through it in the kindest, most soothing voice imaginable, I found myself drifting off in a pleasant daydream that wasn’t all that different from the early days when Kikose would start things off by calling my name. We began the meditation with deep breaths and then Carole told us to imagine a door. For some reason the colour of my imagined door was red. I recognized it and the surroundings as the front door of my early childhood home, which had actually been a boring white. I wasn’t normally allowed to use the front door to prevent tracking in dirt. The basement door, also a boring white, was the point of entry for everyone except the important visitors who got to use the front door. Nevertheless I went along with it and slowly opened the red door inwards, exactly the way Carole instructed. This was where it got hazy and I lost a chunk of time. Later, once we were guided back to awareness, I found myself still at the desk, thankfully, with elbows on the table and my hands covering my face. A quick glance around the room told me most classmates looked self-conscious and sleepy, which was exactly how I felt. They were looking back at me with the same curiosity, although a fair bit more alarmed.

Time had flown. The class was over and I started to gather my things when Carole approached and asked if I was able to stay behind to talk to her. Once we were alone, she sat on top of the desk next to mine and asked me how I was feeling. I told her fine, just tired. I was starting to think I’d done something wrong, like maybe fallen asleep and snored so loudly that I’d disrupted the exercise for everyone. Carole suggested I take a moment right then to write down the experiences of what I’d discovered on the other side of the door while they were still fresh in my mind. I told her I couldn’t remember anything about them. She encouraged me to try because I’d cried out during the meditation and she suspected it was an important memory I’d buried long ago and needed to work through. I was hesitant until she assured me this was not the sort of story she expected me to share with her or the class, but to personally explore for myself. Once she’d gone and I’d gotten past the mortification of realizing everyone had heard me cry out things I didn’t remember, I opened my notebook in the now vacant classroom and was surprised when the words began to flow fast and effortlessly.

After going in through the red door, I headed up a short flight of stairs to the main level of my childhood home. The kitchen doorway was straight ahead, the living room was to the left and a hallway to the bedrooms was on the right. Five of my six older siblings were scattered around the living room. My sisters were on the couch crying in each other’s arms, one brother was pacing furiously, and two brothers were sitting cross-legged on the floor hunched over like they had stomach aches. I could hear my grandma in the kitchen talking on the phone. Nobody even looked my way. Confused, I took a right and hurried down the hallway to my parents bedroom, just as my dad was coming out of their room. I saw my mom’s feet resting on their bed before he closed the door behind him and indicated we should go across the hall into the bedroom I shared with my sisters.

We sat down together on a bed and Dad held my little hands between his large ones when he told me one of my brothers had gone away, that he’d gotten very sick and died and now he wasn’t in pain anymore. I asked if he was in heaven with God and if he was allowed to come back to visit me sometimes. I also asked if heaven was like Disneyland. I hadn’t been there yet, but in my imagination it was the best place anyone could be if they couldn’t be home. It was the first time I’d seen my big, strong Dad cry and it startled me. He hugged me tightly and assured me that my brother would always be able to visit me in my memories.

It seemed like kind of an unfair deal to the observant college student I was while writing down those thoughts. I didn’t have many memories of my brother. How could I? I was only five years old when he died. No matter how hard I’d tried over the years following his death, I couldn’t remember much of anything about him. Somehow my child’s mind had interpreted that as it being my fault my brother couldn’t come back to visit me because I didn’t have the same memories as everyone else. They were their stories, not mine. No wonder he never came back! It all made perfect sense now. I’d buried the guilt of not remembering him like a time capsule that I was now finally able to dig up and crack open.

As it often goes, once the door of one memory is unlocked others soon wander inside. I listed in my notebook even the smallest details that had come to me during the meditation. His dark hair. His easy laugh. The many times he stayed home from school sick and sometimes let me read with him in his bottom bunk. How he built me the best blanket forts. How good he’d looked in his white baseball uniform. Somewhere a photo exists of teenaged him holding me as a baby while wearing his uniform, taken only seconds before, I was told, he raced off to a ball game at the park down the street.

How I’d race down our street to meet my brothers when they came home from high school. How it was always him who scooped me up to put me on his shoulders. How I’d giggle hysterically while he bounced me on his shoulders for the rest of the walk home, calling me the Queen of the Castle because our mother’s pet name for me was Queenie.

Then there was that Stones song from the sixties–a song about depression following the death of a loved one. I think subconsciously I associate the lyrics with the day he died because someone in the house must’ve played it on repeat in the days following, perhaps to work through the anger and heartbreak of losing him.

 “I see a line of cars
And they’re all painted black
With flowers and my love
Both never to come back

I’ve seen people turn their heads
And quickly look away
Like a newborn baby
It just happens everyday

I look inside myself
And see my heart is black
I see my red door
I must have it painted black

Maybe then, I’ll fade away
And not have to face the facts
It’s not easy facing up
When your whole world is black.”

I remembered more. My parents had left me on the summer day he died in hospital with the neighbours who lived right across the street. They must have decided it was too much for a small child to handle and I don’t blame them for it. Clearly I would’ve been a distraction they didn’t need in the middle of so much pain. The sun was shining. I was sitting on the neighbours’ front steps in shorts and sneakers with my little friend and her mother. Together we watched as my family came home from somewhere, saw them park cars in our driveway and then go inside with their heads down one by one through the front door. Nobody glanced our way. Nobody came looking for me. Did they forget about me? Eventually my friend’s mother held my hand as she walked me across the street to our front door and then let me go inside on my own.

“I see a red door and I want it painted black.“

My brother was nineteen when he died. I was eighteen when I rediscovered him. I closed my notebook with the page of new and also old memories and left the classroom, once again grateful to be born a writer.

Paint It, Black – The Rolling Stones

music

Background Music VI: Given to Fly

Sue

“I think music is the greatest art form that exists, and I think people listen to music for different reasons, and it serves different purposes. Some of it is background music, and some of it is things that might affect a person’s day, if not their life, or change an attitude. The best songs are the ones that make you feel something.” ~ Eddie Vedder

Two years ago in the middle of everything going on in the world, my writing muse decided to talk to me again after many years of complete radio silence. It wasn’t the right time. There were a lot of scary things happening. I was fearful for the well-being of my family and my business that I’d worked hard at for fourteen years. Everyone was going through similar fears and some faced worse tragedies. It was a lot to wrap the mind around and I didn’t need extra voices in my head feeding me dialogue for stories I didn’t want to write. One day I’ll share why I think that happened, and where the voices of my characters keep leading me. Right now I want to tell another story that relates to Eddie Vedder’s quote at the top of this page, one I happened to stumble upon while doing music research for the plot of the novel I couldn’t not start writing.

I stopped writing after my mom died in the late nineties. Truthfully, I stopped doing a lot of creative things. The very essence of creativity is feeling. I couldn’t even read a book beyond the first page. I had only enough energy in me to keep moving forward because, like it or not, life went on and people expected you to show up for it. While still grieving for Mom, we learned that Dad’s cancer was back and this time it was horribly aggressive. As devastating as it was to lose a parent suddenly, seeing another battle terrible pain over a long period of time was emotionally brutal. It was a lot to deal with. The first thing I did was quit my job. It was a part-time job working in a bookstore. It was something I did mostly for myself and for the great discount on books, and I loved every minute of it. But I wasn’t sleeping properly and it meant a long drive to work. I wasn’t in the right emotional head space for it. I still tended to burst into tears without warning. So it was just one more enjoyable thing I let go because I was mentally exhausted.

Closer to Christmas, one of the managers at the bookstore called to ask me if I’d come back to help out over the holidays. I was honest and told her I could barely face myself most days, so how was I supposed to face customers? She told me this new temporary position only required me to work weekdays, early in the morning from seven to eleven, shelving books and creating holiday displays. Since the doors didn’t open for customers until eleven, I wouldn’t have to see anyone except a couple of other co-workers. I was tempted. The hours fit perfectly around my husband’s work schedule. He was able to get our kids ready for school each day and I’d be home in plenty of time to pick them up. I thought hard about it and realized I wanted to do it, if only for the distraction from grief. The manager had no idea what she did for me with that call. Or maybe she did because I ended up staying on for years afterwards, even moving to a new store location closer to my home and into full-time hours. That job eventually handed me back motivation and my confidence.

I had to leave the house by six-fifteen to get to work on time. Every morning I left with a big travel mug of coffee and the hope I’d get through the day without crying in public. I couldn’t listen to music during the drive in the predawn darkness. I’d move the dial from one radio station to the next, but every song made me feel something I didn’t want to feel. I tried different CDs I had on hand. It was the same thing. So I drove in silence until my thoughts got to be too much and I’d start all over switching stations again. One morning I settled on a hard rock station. A song came on and I found myself smiling at a memory from back at the start of the nineties.

One time while my mom was staying with me, we decided to take along my toddler and baby to go visit my sister and her family. This sister lived close to me, but I didn’t see her much then because she worked long hours and was busy with teenaged sons, and I was busy adapting to new motherhood. When we got there, I heard music blasting from one of my nephew’s bedrooms in the basement and I was intrigued by what I was hearing. I wandered downstairs by myself and knocked on his door. It took several attempts to get his attention because the music was so loud. Finally he pulled the door open with a sullen expression that instantly softened when he saw it was me trying to invade his space. He hugged me and invited me into his messy room. I’m thirteen years older than him and I’d spent a lot of time babysitting him and his brother when I was around the same age he was then. I was still the cool adult, I guess, and perhaps considered young enough to remember what it was like to want to hear angsty rock music at the highest volume possible. I asked him what he was listening to and he tossed me the CD of his new favourite rock band Pearl Jam. The album was called Ten. I read the song titles. Interesting, I thought. I’d never heard of them. I’d heard of Nirvana and knew about the Seattle grunge music scene, which I’d decided wasn’t all that different from the hard rock and punk rock I’d liked when I was about his age. It just wasn’t where I was in my life musically anymore. My playlist at the time was softer, calmer. Less frenzied.

“You gotta hear this one,” my nephew told me as he started a song over. I sat on the edge of his bed to listen. The song was “Alive”. The emotion and the raw intensity of how the lyrics were sung burrowed into my chest to grip my twenty-eight year old heart. I asked him to play it again, at a lower volume this time. Then I asked him, “Do you think it’s a true story?” It had to be true. There was no way it couldn’t be. It was just too intense. My nephew shrugged. He was focused on the driving beat, while the writer in me heard lasting pain in the songwriter’s words. I’ve since learned that it is indeed a true story about when Eddie Vedder was a teenager and his mother told him the man who’d raised him wasn’t his real father, and that his birth father had recently died. Even if he’d wanted to, it was already too late for him to come to grips with it. There’s other trauma in the song too. I don’t know if that part is real, only the songwriter does. We listened to some more of the album before I went back upstairs to my kids.

A fun nineties photo – New York Times

I remember thinking I would’ve loved this band if I was my nephew’s age. Their music was emotional and honest and electrifying. I thought they were closer to his age than mine. I made that assumption based on the fact he related to them so well. I had no idea then that band members are my age and what I heard that day was many of the same rock band influences. The Stones. The Who. Pink Floyd. My beloved Led Zeppelin. More than anything, it had just felt good to be allowed into someone else’s personal space to hear what was currently most important to them. It reminded me of the times my brothers had let me sit quietly with them to listen to their rock albums. Or when they gave me a new cassette of older music because they thought my teenaged taste could use some fine tuning. It’s the feeling of belonging in a moment, just as you are.

“Alive” came on the radio that morning while I was driving to work, just before dawn lit up the sky for another day without my mom. I smiled tentatively and upped the volume to sing along. Who answers? Yeah. That is the question. It was the first time I’d heard a song in a long time that didn’t graze the edges of my grief and make me want to weep. I was only sad when it ended. I wanted that alive feeling back again, no matter how briefly it lasted. After my shift at the bookstore, I went and bought all the Pearl Jam CDs I could find. I stashed them under the driver’s seat and played them every time I was alone in the car. Alive brought me back to their music, but it was “Given to Fly” that reached my heart this time around.

“He could’ve tuned in, tuned in
But he tuned out
A bad time, nothing could save him
Alone in a corridor, waiting, locked out
He got up outta there, ran for hundreds of miles
He made it to the ocean, had a smoke in a tree
The wind rose up, set him down on his knee

A wave came crashing like a fist to the jaw
Delivered him wings, “Hey, look at me now”
Arms wide open with the sea as his floor
Oh, power, oh

He’s flying
Whole
High, wide, oh…”

There’s many interpretations of what the song is about. Eddie Vedder has only ever said it’s a children’s fable. Recently I learned it might’ve been loosely inspired by my most loved Zeppelin song “Going to California”, which explains a lot. For me it’ll always be about accepting emotional pain and then not allowing it to overcome me. “And he still gives his love, he just gives it away. The love he receives is the love that is saved.” Hearing those words makes me feel stronger and reminds me how fortunate I am to have always been well-loved and supported throughout my life. For that alone I’d say it’s my favourite. Pearl Jam’s music helped me to get back to myself during a very hard time and I’ve never forgotten it. This is my thank you letter to them.

Flying! Photo credit to New York Times, Wrigley Field

I first saw Eddie Vedder sing “Black” live a long time ago in the MTV Unplugged series. He didn’t just sing it, he lived it. For me it’s the most deeply personal song about heartbreak ever written and performed. I can’t begin to count how many times I’ve rewatched that performance, and all the others in the set, since rediscovering Pearl Jam yet again in 2020. Coincidentally right at a time when I needed another emotional lifeline tossed my way. In 2020 I started on the path of making some crucial personal decisions. I was looking for signs that I was doing the right things at a confusing time. Those timeless MTV Unplugged sessions led me to more of their concert performances on Youtube, recorded at different times throughout their thirtysomething years together. I needed to hear these guys again and there they were. They’ve aged, of course, just like me. They’ve grown softer around the edges, less defiant. More mellow. Well, same here. They still have important stories to tell, and so do I.

They’re one of the few rock bands whose founding members have managed to stay alive (pun not intended) and together, with the exception of drummers until Matt Cameron came along, and the addition of Hawaiian-born keyboardist Boom Gaspar. They live in the Pacific Northwest and Eddie has a second home in Hawaii. I think their vibe might be warmly familiar to me because of that. Jeff Ament is the great bassist and Stone Gossard is a guitarist and co-lyricist. In my opinion Mike McCready is one of the best and most underrated guitarists of his time. Lead singer and songwriter Eddie Vedder has the soul of a poet and vocals that can be melancholy and exhilarating at the same time. Many of his lyrics are infused with references to the ocean (he’s a longtime surfer) and nature, and the need to be alone sometimes, yet always fully present in the lives of loved ones. All the things that feed my soul too.

Photo Pearl Jam

Seeing them perform live in real time has been at the top of my bucket list for as long as I’ve had such a list. I don’t care that they’re well into their fifties now because so am I. For sure I wouldn’t have appreciated it quite as much had I seen them perform onstage at the very start. Can you imagine me getting knocked around in a wild mosh pit? Not likely. I always need the elbow room to dance. Rediscovering their music has once again pulled me out of my head, reminding me that things will eventually be okay and sometimes change is out of my control and sometimes it’s controlled only by me.

It was finding Eddie’s background music quote that first got me thinking about the singer-songwriters I loved the most during my youth and still love today. It’s what prompted me to journal those memories and then a little shyly share them in this blog series. All the music throughout my life that has made me want to get up and dance, to sing along, to celebrate, mourn, and weep. Lyrics that have healed my broken heart, filled my soul, and gave me confidence to stand up for myself, to take a sudden turn, and to bravely let go of things that no longer matter.

I could never pick just one of Pearl Jam’s albums as my favourite. I could never pick a most loved book either. For me it’s not just about one story, it’s all the stories I’ve ever read, the entire library of words and thoughts combined. I can tell you which of their songs have helped to ease more recent worries: Given to Fly, The Fixer, Sirens and I Am Mine. You should listen to them. Better yet, watch them because Pearl Jam always delivers a comfortable feeling onstage of living fully in the moment. I hope they make you feel stronger too.

Below, in no particular year order, are Youtube links to favourite performances, along with my thoughts and some interesting song facts I’ve uncovered. I’ve already shared my feelings about “Long Road” in my previous post titled Love and Loss in the 90s. That song belongs to my mother’s memory. These belong to me. The performances are best watched on a laptop or tablet, and, take it from me, their music most thoroughly enjoyed with headphones on. There’s strong emotions in the details.

It’s a wrap for this Background Music blog series. Thanks for joining me on the ride. Perhaps Pearl Jam says it best, “I know I was born and I know that I’ll die, the in between is mine.” ~ I Am Mine.

Given to Fly – One of my favourite performances of this song. Love the energy of the massive crowd in London’s Hyde Park. It’s one of Michael J. Fox’s favourite Pearl Jam songs too. They dedicated it to him and his struggle with Parkinson’s while they performed it during their induction into the Rock and Roll Hall of Fame.

The Fixer – A good reminder that if something’s old “put a bit of shine on it”.

Sirens – With all the turmoil in the world, hearing this one never fails to calm me.

I Am Mine – “The sorrow grows bigger when the sorrow’s denied”.

Daughter/It’s OK – This 2018 performance is in their hometown of Seattle, with some changes in lyrics to reflect turbulent times in American politics. I always believe Eddie when he tells me things will be okay. “Daughter” is about a parent’s mishandling/abuse of their child’s learning disability and the lasting effects that can have.

Black – In my opinion, still the most profoundly poetic song about heartbreak ever written and performed.

Release – “Oh, dear dad. Can you see me now? I am myself. Like you somehow.” xo

Alive – The song that made me first sit up and notice them. This early nineties performance was filmed in a British studio that probably took days to recover from all the angst and long hair flying around.

Better Man – A song about settling, not loving honestly. Fun fact: Bradley Cooper modelled his rock star character in the re-make of “A Star is Born” on Eddie Vedder. I knew it when I saw the movie. You’ll see it when you watch this amazing performance in Madison Square Garden.

Oceans – Eddie has said he wrote this love song to his surfboard. It gets me dreaming about walking the beaches in Hawaii again.

Wishlist – The image in my mind created by “I wish I was the full moon shining off a Camaro’s hood” delights me every time because of long ago summer nights spent cruising around with a friend in her brother’s borrowed Camaro.

Elderly Woman Behind the Counter in a Small Town – Melancholy story about a woman who never left a small town and an old flame who did leave many years ago and by chance comes into her store one day. “Memories like fingerprints are slowly raising.”

Even Flow – A great rock anthem! This video performance of it is absolutely bonkers. Confirmation I wouldn’t have been able to handle their nineties concerts. Band members have said they’ve often feared for Eddie’s life during shows. If you’re interested here’s a video montage of some of his stage climbs and jumps that were captured over the years. Recently I read a funny comment saying that while many musicians were doing heroin, Eddie Vedder must’ve been doing CrossFit training.

Yellow Ledbetter – The lyrics are intentionally incomprehensible to reflect the confusing loss of a brother during the Gulf War and it’s almost impossible to sing along with. In this early version in Mexico the lyrics “I don’t know whether I’m the boxer or the bag” were changed to “I don’t know if my brother is coming home in a box or a bag”. Mike’s guitar solo at the end of the song is always riveting. I love how they all step aside to rest and let him get on with it.

Guaranteed – Oh, this one speaks to me about the need to be on my own sometimes.

Love Boat Captain – “It’s an art to live with pain. Mix the light into grey. Lost nine friends we’ll never know.” Lyrics that include the nine people who were killed when the crowd surged during Pearl Jam’s set in 2000 at the Roskilde Festival in Denmark. Devastated, Pearl Jam quit after that and Eddie Vedder’s idol Pete Townshend of the Who reached out to him after the tragedy because of similar circumstances that happened to his band in 1979. According to Pete Townshend, “When Roskilde happened, I just sent Eddie a two-word message: ‘Don’t leave.’ And they did stay. And I think it was very important that they did.”

Come Back – Sharing the studio version in order to hear the beautiful lyrics more clearly. I can’t get through it without getting choked up.

The Waiting – I’m including this duet with Tom Petty and The Heartbreakers because I’m a longtime fan and it makes me very happy. Eddie’s “Long Way” from his new solo album Earthling is a tribute to Tom Petty’s style of songwriting. I sensed that the first time I heard it, so I wasn’t surprised when he confirmed the inspiration behind the song and many others on the fabulous album during a recently filmed conversation with Bruce Springsteen.

life

Background Music V

Sue

Love and Loss in the 90s

“I’ve got a good mother. And her voice is what keeps me here. Feet on ground, heart in hand. Facing forward, be yourself.” ~ Jann Arden, Good Mother

This is a story about sudden loss and grief. Please bookmark and come back another time if you happen to be feeling a little fragile today. It’s been an emotional piece for me to write and at first I shied away from doing so. Only in my personal journals have I written about the death of my mother. It would be remiss of me not to include this chapter of my life because it so profoundly shaped the person I am today, and I know she’d be happy that I’m telling stories again.

By the early nineties we’d outgrown our first two-bedroom home, so my husband and I sold it and bought a newer house in the suburbs that was more suitable for a family of four and a dog. I loved that house and it still owns my heart, even though we sold it years ago to buy the acreage we currently live on. When moving day arrived I walked through the house alone one last time to say a tearful goodbye to the empty rooms. I still dream about it sometimes. In those dreams one or both of my parents are often there too.

If those walls could talk they’d say that the background music was Disney movie soundtracks in the beginning with boy/girl pop bands following close behind. My own nineties mixtape featured REM, U2, Celine Dion, Blue Rodeo, Pearl Jam, Jann Arden and Dwight Yoakam. Yes, always and forever an eclectic mix for me. Just recently my daughter said that because of me hearing Celine sing reminds her of housecleaning. For more tedious tasks like oven cleaning, I’ve tended to lean a little more heavily on Aerosmith to keep me dreaming on.

That second house holds some of the best memories of my life. It was there that we watched our two children grow from toddlers to teenagers. It was the place our families and friends gathered for frequent visits and big holiday parties. In the backyard was a large dogwood tree that was truly exquisite when it bloomed during warmer months. The first time my mother saw that tree in bloom she told me it was her favourite because in the language of flowers dogwoods represent strength. I researched that recently and it’s true. Quote “the gentle, whimsical dogwood blooms may look delicate, but they’re connected to durability and the ability to withstand various challenges in life.” I’m not sure who decides these things about flowers, but it seemed important to my mom so I’ve hung onto the memory since then.

When our kids were in their beginning years of school, my retired parents lived about an eight hour drive away in a small town where one of my sisters lived with her grown family. A couple of times a year Mom would hop on a Greyhound bus headed for the coast to come stay with me and my young family for awhile. She’d insist on cooking and cleaning and baking for us, no matter how many times I told her to just relax and enjoy the visit. “Got to earn my keep,” she’d joke. Mom was a caretaker and caring for family was her greatest joy. Meddling in the lives of her six children was by far her favourite pastime. It was irritating at times, but in large families at least one head of state needed to reign in the chaos with steely control. Mom was barely 5’4″, and much like her own mother had been, she was a tiny force of nature when it came to the well-being of her kids and by extension her grandkids.

Despite my nineties playlist, the radio in my car was always tuned to a station that still played eighties hits. My comfort music, I guess. A brief moment when the weight of adult responsibilities could be packed inside the trunk for a little drive time with Billy Joel. One summer day I drove my mom and kids somewhere, probably to and from the mall. I’m still not much of a shopper, but if you gave my mom a buggy to lean on she was off bargain hunting for hours like it was her job. My siblings and I used to practically draw straws to decide who had to take Mom to the mall because she didn’t drive. I guess I’d pulled the shortest one that day. My sweet little ones were happily distracted in the backseat with new toys their grandma had just bought for them. We were all tired and headed home when Mom said to me from the passenger seat something along the lines of this, “When I die promise me you’ll play “Wind Beneath My Wings” at my funeral. It has to be Bette Midler singing and not some knock-off version like the one I heard at a funeral recently. It just wasn’t the same at all.”

I was gobsmacked. Death was a subject we normally swerved to avoid. The loss of her second eldest child at only nineteen had, quite frankly, nearly destroyed our mother. Funerals were a hard fact of life that had to be faced, honoured, and then no longer discussed. The fact that she was suddenly preplanning the music for hers surprised me so much that I didn’t know what to say except to tell her I’d do my best, but she was probably going to outlive us all anyway. She replied that she wasn’t, of course, and that she was okay with it because she wouldn’t want to outlive any of us, ever again. What she wasn’t okay with was anyone but Bette singing at her funeral. I dug a little deeper to figure out if maybe this was her strange way of telling me she was dying. I think I got some melodramatic response about how people her age were all living on borrowed time. She was only in her late sixties, and I thought she was being ridiculous, so I let the matter drop, kept it to myself, and filed it in the back of my mind under “awkward things I wish I hadn’t heard Mom say”. Don’t we all have a thick folder like that?

Just a few years later, her death happened suddenly one rainy autumn Friday. That day started normally. I’d returned home from dropping the kids at school and was rushing around the house, cleaning up breakfast dishes while also getting ready to leave for a dental appointment. The phone rang just as I was heading to my car in the garage. I let the machine answer the call until I heard my mother’s voice pleading for me to pick up. I sensed by her tone that something was very wrong, so I took the call and she told me she was about to have a procedure done at the hospital. She said she had a bad feeling about it and didn’t want to do it. It was a test she’d had done many times before due to a longtime battle with Celiac Disease. She sounded a little panicked about it, so I asked her to put my sister who’d driven her to the hospital on the phone.

My sister explained that it needed to be done because Mom’s symptoms were worsening and there could be some internal bleeding in her stomach. She was going to be given anesthesia and yes, of course the medical team knew about her pacemaker. Not for the first time, I felt the frustration of my parents choosing to live so far away and how very little control or input I had because of it. I made my sister promise to call me the minute our mom was in the recovery room. Mom came back to the phone sounding tired and maybe a little resigned? I’m not sure if that’s the right word. All I know is that I told her not to worry and reassured her everything was going to be fine. The last thing she said to me was I love you, Susan.

Much later that day, I received a call to tell me that my mom had gone into cardiac arrest during the procedure and when nothing could be done to save her, my dad had collapsed and was now admitted to the hospital himself to undergo tests on his heart. His shattered heart, I was certain, because I knew exactly how that felt. It was too much to comprehend. I refused to believe it, at first. Then slowly I sank to my knees, still gripping the phone, as understanding began to dawn. I curled myself into the fetal position on the floor and somehow contained the urge to scream because of my children in the next room. From then on the only thing I heard was me telling myself I should’ve stopped it from happening. Mom knew it was a bad idea and nobody had listened. It wasn’t unusual for her to get strong feelings ahead of something happening, good or bad feelings that were always very real to her. Most people called her superstitious. I think she was more intuitive than most people.

Guilt. It can eat you alive, if you let it. I kept myself too busy to let it. In the horrible days that followed, I told myself I could get through every single thing that needed to be done because my mom had withstood the unimaginable loss of a son. She’d once told me that after his funeral well-meaning people kept reminding her she still had other children to live for, as if us six combined could ever fill the shoes of one. For a long time she lived in fear that one of us could just as easily be taken from her. It never occurred to me that the same could happen to her.

The first days were the hardest, of course. Nothing can prepare you for the reality of death. It quite literally took my legs out from under me and I couldn’t call the one person I knew who was capable of setting me right again, the way she’d done my entire life. The morning after Mom died, I left with two of my brothers and one sister for the eight hour drive to reach our parents’ place. I don’t think any of us had slept the night before. I know I hadn’t. I kept reliving every call I’d made to change someone else’s life that day. The denial. The questions. The silence. The sobs. I was bruised by everyone’s pain. Sometime during that long night I’d made up my mind to leave the kids at home with my husband. I hated leaving them, but I knew I couldn’t bring them with me. It was the first time since they were born that I felt incapable of taking care of them and myself at the same time. More guilt.

We drove all that way because we knew we’d need an extra vehicle once we got there and we didn’t know for how long that was going to be. None of us wanted to travel alone. It was the only time I ever remember being in a car with my siblings and not debating which music we should listen to. Once in my teen years while on a similar road trip with my eldest brother to go visit the same sister, he got so fed up with The Cars cassette I kept replaying that he actually yanked it out of the tape deck and tossed it over his shoulder. Oh, the irony of “Good Times Roll” rolling around the backseat. He soon got fed up with my silent treatment too. At the next town he stopped at one of those General Stores you sometimes find in the middle of nowhere, and then came out with a package of strawberry Twizzlers and a Boston cassette as a kind of peace offering. Even now when I hear “More Than A Feeling” I remember how mad I was at him, and how quickly I got over it to crank up the volume on my new favourite song. On this road trip, however, we travelled mostly in silence, lost in our anguished thoughts and then trying not to think at all. My brothers took turns driving. My sister sat with me in the backseat and I think we huddled together most of the way there. We were all in shock. How could she be here one day and gone the next? We asked that question of each other over and over because there was never an answer that made sense.

My eldest sister who lived by my parents kept us updated about Dad’s condition at every phone stop we made to her along the way. By the time we got there, Dad was out of the hospital and recovering at home, but was clearly in no shape to help us with any of the arrangements for Mom. Another brother had a very long trip ahead of him to reach us, as did some of my mom’s siblings, so we put off the funeral until later the following week. Mom died on the Friday before the Thanksgiving long weekend and it was almost impossible to get anything done because of the holiday. Caring for my dad became my number one priority. I spent most of the time sitting on the edge of his bed while he tried to rest, holding his hand as he stared at the far wall in silence. He was completely broken. I kept worrying that his heart would suddenly stop and we’d lose him too. Sometimes I wanted to tell him in frustration to get up and be the parent we all needed, and then I’d immediately feel guilty about it. There is no right or wrong way to grieve. I didn’t know that then. I just kept trying to put a tight lid on mine to stop it from pouring out. Five years later, on the day before my fortieth birthday, I held his hand in much the same way when he left this world too.

At one point I broke out in an itchy stress rash that covered my face and neck. It got so bad I had to go to the ER about it. Unfortunately, being a small town, the doctor on duty was also my mom’s physician, who wanted to prescribe a sedative for my nerves and advised me to get some rest. I completely lost my mind in that moment. I began yelling at her that I wanted ointment not drugs to numb what I was feeling because didn’t she understand that this kind of pain had to be felt right now, not weeks from now? When I got to the part about it being her fault my mother was dead, both my sisters stepped behind the exam room curtain and tearfully ushered me out of the hospital. I ran away from them in the parking lot and walked up and down the streets of the town until it got dark and I finally ran out of fight. That, of course, was the anger part of grief rearing its thorny head. It was terrible. I felt terrible for saying what I did. But at least I felt alive again.

When I returned on foot to Dad’s place, I avoided everyone and went straight to a guest bedroom to drop down exhausted onto the bed. My sisters soon came in to check on me. Without a word, they each stretched out on either side of me and hugged me between them, like they used to when they were teenagers and I was a child and we shared a bedroom. For some reason one of them began to hum “Summer Nights” from the movie Grease, and then the other one began to sing along. Before long, they were both singing John Travolta’s part in the song and so I naturally became Olivia Newton-John. A brother came barging in to tell us to stop it because we were being disrespectful and one sister flipped him the bird. It was the first time I’d laughed in days. How many times had our mom done just that, poked her head in to tell us to cut it out and go to sleep? Sometimes she would join in on the chorus of a song she liked before telling us lights out. We knew without a doubt that Mom would’ve approved of us singing that silly song, loud and strong, because we were doing it to comfort each other.

I was thirty-five years old and for the first time ever I felt like the entire weight of the family was sitting squarely on my shoulders. I was the youngest, and yet I was making most of the hardest decisions. In the days that followed, while people around me seemed to retreat further into grief, I struggled to organize a funeral I still couldn’t believe was happening. I remember sitting between a couple of my siblings in the back offices of the funeral home. If you’ve ever done that then you know the difficult questions that are asked. All I knew was that Mom wanted Bette Midler to sing. I also chose the very old Jimmy Durante version of “In the Garden” because she used to get a kick out of the whimsical way he sang the hymn. The music part came easy.

I figured she’d want to be cremated to have her ashes laid to rest in our brother’s gravesite. Did she ever tell me that was what she wanted? I don’t know, but my heart knew it was the right thing to do. She’d lived without him for so long that it was only right they be together now. In the large showroom where all the coffins and urns were on display, I spotted a small square box to hold her ashes in with dogwood flowers etched into the solid wood. Another sign, I thought, and a reminder that I had it in me to withstand this challenge because I’d learned by her example how to be strong, when it mattered the most.

This is my truth. Some might disagree, but I know most of the decisions were made by me in that funeral home, while others paced and wrung their hands, wondering how I could be so calm about it. I wasn’t calm. I was silently falling apart piece by piece and nobody seemed to be noticing. Before we left with a list of things to do, I went looking for a restroom and a minute to collect myself. It was then that I heard soft music coming from behind the closed door of one of the admin offices. On the radio was Bonnie Tyler’s “It’s a Heartache”, another song my mom used to play on repeat. While leaning against the doorframe to listen, I realized she was still speaking to me and I was hearing her.

I know it sounds strange to say that it was my mother who got me through the first days following her death. Clearly she was not there. I know she wasn’t because I found myself looking for her everywhere. The woman ahead of me in line at the grocery store, who had the same hairstyle as her. The woman crossing the street with a similar coat and walk. It’s normal after a loved one passes suddenly to imagine seeing them in random places. I think unless you see something so profound happen before your eyes, it can’t possibly be real. Or maybe not having them in this world all of a sudden is just too much to process at once. We learn from an early age that imagination is not reality. We learn reality means facing facts. The fact of the matter was, my best friend wasn’t coming back and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it. Her voice hadn’t left me, though. I had only to listen very closely to hear it.

My husband showed up earlier than expected before the day of the funeral. He’d made the difficult decision to leave our kids in the care of his parents and come sooner, even though it almost cost him his job. I remember throwing myself into his arms when he appeared out of the blue because he’s always given me the best, most bracing hugs. He helped me to gather my things and then checked us into a nearby hotel, away from everyone. I was not the family’s new head of state. I was in as much pain as everyone else. I needed time and the space to be sad for myself. All of this he figured out just by looking at me.

He’d brought with him ointment for my rash, prescribed by our family doctor back home, and we sat together in that locked hotel room for an entire day and night. He gave me food and tissues and hugs, while I talked and cried and then slept for hours at a time. That’s love, my friends. We all need someone who won’t hesitate to ruffle feathers to pluck us out of the chaos during the worst moments of our lives.

Honestly, I barely remember the funeral. I do remember Bette singing and feeling glad about it. I sat between my husband and my dad, holding on tight to both of their hands because ready or not it was officially time to say our final goodbyes. The brother who had the longest journey to get there was the one who officiated the entire service. Somehow he found the strength to do it and to do it so remarkably well. I asked him once how he’d gotten through it and he gave me one word Faith. He’d asked each of us to write down favourite memories for him to read aloud because none of us felt strong enough to speak. We were surprised, and yet not surprised, to discover one particular childhood memory was shared by all of us. On stormy nights our mother would often call us outside onto the covered back porch, where we’d sit with her wrapped in bathrobes or blankets she’d crocheted, sleepy and safe, while rain drummed a melody of love on the aluminum roof above our heads.

In 1995, not long before my mother died, a longtime favourite rock band of mine, Pearl Jam, released an EP called Merkin Ball that was a companion to Neil Young’s album Mirror Ball. On it is a song Eddie Vedder wrote following the death of a beloved mentor. For over twenty years “Long Road” has been the song I listen to on the days I miss my mom the most or when I feel like she’s missing something important in my life. It’s heartfelt and melancholy, and also optimistic.

Below is the Youtube link to a best-loved classic performance of Long Road (at a later 9/11 tribute, I believe) featuring Eddie Vedder and Mike McCready of Pearl Jam, along with Neil Young sublimely playing the organ like he’s the Phantom of the Opera. Eddie’s soft hitch of breath at the end of the song speaks volumes.

Long Road “I have wished for so long. How I wish for you today.”

Thank you for taking the time to read this and any of my previous Background Music stories. I have one more music-related story that will be coming soon. It talks about the spark of inspiration that first prompted me to write this blog series after I began researching a novel I’m writing.

Below are the Youtube links to the music and artists in the order mentioned or thought about during the writing of this blog post. If you only have time for a couple, then make them Long Road and Good Mother because they most clearly reflect my feelings about my mom. Best listened to with headphones on to hear the words.

Good Mother – Jann Arden Every word of this song feels written for me.

Everybody Hurts – REM “Hold on.”

With or Without You – U2

Where Does My Heart Beat Now – Celine Dion

Bad Timing – Blue Rodeo Still my favourite Canadian band.

The Heart That You Own – Dwight Yoakam Such a memorable live performer. My husband and I went with friends to see him in 1993 at the Pacific Coliseum in Vancouver. We had floor seats, but everyone stayed on their feet all night, dancing like we were in a honky tonk.

Dream On – Aerosmith For sure in my all-time top ten. I always need to hear it loud.

Lullabye (Goodnight, My Angel) – Billy Joel My big brother took teenage me to see Billy Joel’s concert in Vancouver in 1978 in place of his girlfriend. I can’t remember if it was because they’d just broken up. Regardless, her loss was my gain because I’ve never forgotten that special night with the Piano Man.

Wind Beneath My Wings – Bette Midler Only the real deal for you Mom xo

Good Times Roll – The Cars

More Than A Feeling – Boston

Summer Nights – John Travolta and Olivia Newton-John

In The Garden – Jimmy Durante’s funny little version of the classic hymn.

It’s a Heartache – Bonnie Tyler