A little mid-day mush

I first came across this sonnet by Pablo Neruda in Patch Adams when it was read by Robin Williams’ character and I fell in love with its simplicity, especially the third stanza.

Every so often over the past two years, The Brit has left those three lines on a note and hid it somewhere for me to find – my backpack, in my lunch or under my pillow. It not only reminds me how sappy thoughtful he is, but how truly applicable those particular words are to our relationship. I feel like the luckiest – and maybe cheesiest – girl in the world when I say I’m living a real life fairy tale. 

Anyway, I stumbled across the sonnet again today and am feeling a bit nostalgic so I’m sharing it below, for the hopeless romantic in all of us. Happy reading!

Sonnet XVII

I do not love you as if you were salt-rose, or topaz,
or the arrow of carnations the fire shoots off.
I love you as certain dark things are to be loved,
in secret, between the shadow and the soul.

I love you as the plant that never blooms
but carries in itself the light of hidden flowers;
thanks to your love a certain solid fragrance,
risen from the earth, lives darkly in my body.

I love you without knowing how, or when, or from where.
I love you straightforwardly, without complexities or pride;
so I love you because I know no other way

than this: where I does not exist, nor you,
so close that your hand on my chest is my hand,
so close that your eyes close as I fall asleep.

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A gift to Dad on his birthday

Today is my Dad’s birthday. He would have been 55 years young.

I say “is” because December 6 will always be my Dad’s birthday; I say “would have been” because he’s not been here to celebrate his birthday with us in five years.

The first birthday he was gone was five months after his car accident. I feared the day almost as badly as I feared the dreaded one-year anniversary.

I took the day off work, I went out with friends to do mindless Christmas shopping, and we took my Dad’s dad out for dinner at the Mandarin, my Dad’s favourite place to binge on Chinese food. We purposely left an empty chair at our table as a painful reminder of his absence.

I remember crying so hard on the way home from the restaurant that I became hysterical and had to pull over. As I was choking and gasping for air through my full-body sobs, I couldn’t stop thinking that it just wasn’t fair.

I felt so sorry for my grandfather, who was out marking his son’s birthday yet his boy wasn’t there to share it with him. I’ll never forget the sadness in his eyes or the hopeless tone of his voice. His only son was gone and he was never coming back – to him, it was a fate worse than death.

Fast forward four years and here I sit at 7 a.m. eating leftover Chinese food and thinking about my Dad. Not much has changed – he’s still gone, but the tears are under control and the cuisine is still inspired by him (although perhaps a poor choice for breakfast).

While each passing year has become more “normal”, I still miss calling him, meeting him for all-you-can-binge Chinese food and having him act surprised and grateful when my three siblings and I would pay for his dinner.

Three years ago, I started writing a book about my Dad’s passing and my subsequent journey. Yesterday, I found the query letter I sent to an agent about it – he asked for an exclusive when the manuscript was finished. I was thrilled someone was interested and started writing every day. I was convinced I would have a draft in 12 weeks.

Today, the manuscript sits at a mere 25,000 words; Dad’s death and my subsequent journey remain largely untold.

I have the support to get it done; Patti Hall is a memoir coach who has been mentoring me and subtly kicking my ass every now and then by way of “why aren’t you writing?” and “use me, I’m here!” messages.

I don’t have an answer as to why it’s not done, other than the fact that it seems daunting to do. A whole book? What if no one cares about my story? What if it never gets published?

Meeting with Patti again this week while she was in town has made me realize the biggest and scariest “what if” is “what if I just didn’t write it at all?”.

No one would know, really, except myself and a handful of others who knew I was writing. But I would know. And I know I would be so disappointed in myself if I didn’t give it a valiant effort.

So, today, on my Dad’s 55th birthday, I’m giving him the promise of a book proposal this year. I will write his story and his choices and our relationship and my journey in the hopes people will be inspired to make the same decisions and different decisions. I will submit it to agents. I will not be disappointed if it doesn’t get picked up.

OK, scratch that last bit – I’ll be disappointed, but even if it doesn’t, I did all that I could. In the meantime, I’m going to finish my chow mien and deep fried shrimp (which, by the way, are not-so-great the next morning) and put together a plan to make this happen.

Happy birthday, Daddy. You’re desperately loved and missed every year.

 

Letter To Dad

Dear Dad,
Today marks our third Father’s Day without you. Three isn’t a big number, but it’s the days in between those years that have been long.
For the past few weeks, I’ve been bombarded with ads for the perfect gift: a tool set from a hardware store, a particular golf club to help you improve your swing, a pair of pants to improve your style. (For the record, you were always the nicest dressed man I knew.)
The painful absence of your loss has made me realize there’s only one gift that matters and it’s something you can’t buy at a hardware store – the gift of more time.
While you’ve given the gift of time to three other men through your donation, it doesn’t change the fact that I’d give up a lot of things just to have you back for a few moments.  
That being said, I’ve made it a priority to not be regretful for the time we didn’t have, but be appreciative for what we did. In the 24 years I had you in my life, I remember you saying countless times “not every little kid/teen/girl has what you do.”
The older I get and the more people I meet, I realize how true this statement is. Not everyone was able to participate in a sport each year that cost the equivalent of a new vehicle. Not everyone had the opportunity to go on family vacations, sometimes more than once a year. Not everyone was fortunate to have a relationship with their Dad like I had with you.
Just because your accident took you away from us doesn’t mean that our memories are gone, too.
I still remember you coming home from work and opening your arms for a famous bear hug. No matter how bad your day was, you always made us feel like we were the most important part. When I think about it hard enough, I can still smell your cologne and feel your arms around me.
As a child, I learned from you – how to sing AC/DC before I could recite the alphabet, how to give cheeky replies, and how to get exactly what I wanted with a simple “pretty please”. (You never could say no…)
As an adult, I learned to appreciate you both as a father and as a friend. Through your mistakes, you taught me the importance of accountability and forgiveness. 
I credit you entirely for my addiction to chocolate, teaching me to speak my mind even when sometimes I shouldn’t, my love of classic rock, and my inappropriate off-colour sense of humour.
You taught me not to settle and to always strive for what I deserved – in love, in work, in school, in life. Your untimely passing reminds me every day about how short life can be and I’m trying not to take anything for granted.
I hope you know how much you meant to me – to all of us – and that you’re desperately missed every moment of every day. While I’m slightly envious of all of the girls and women who get to spend time with their dads today, I know that there are people who are just envious of me and the incredible memories I have.  
I hope you’re as proud of us as we are of you. The four of us continue to keep your legacy alive, while diligently – albeit slowly – building our own. How great will ours be? Well, you never can tell with bees.
Happy Father’s Day, Daddy.

An Enviable Legacy – My Dad’s Story of Donation

“Your father will never wake up.”
On a hot July afternoon in a cramped family meeting room at Sunnybrook Health Sciences Centre, those six words changed my life forever.
Only five days before my Dad, Malcolm Higgins, had been in a single-vehicle car accident. He sustained a critical brain injury and was in a coma. At first, my siblings and I were hopeful. Over the course of the next few days, we quickly became familiar with diffuse axonal brain injuries, EEGs, and how the Glasgow Coma Scale worked.
When the doctor delivered the grave prognosis, I didn’t believe him. Surely, my Dad would recover. He was strong, he was healthy – he was just 49 years old.
By day, he was a paralegal and professor at Everest College. He was well-respected, passionate and intelligent.
By night he was a rock star, singing in one of the best AC/DC tribute bands in the country. He was incredibly talented musically and tried as hard as he could to pass it onto my three younger siblings and I.
As youngsters, instead of reading bedtime stories, he sang to us. The four of us knew the words to AC/DC, Steve Miller Band and Guns and Roses before we could recite the alphabet.
He was full of life, energy, and ambition and would never have wanted to live hooked up to machines indefinitely, completely incapacitated. We made the decision to withdraw life support, but I never imagined at 24 years old, I would be the one signing the papers to do it.
Shortly after we received the news, my siblings, my dad’s father, sister and I were approached by an organ and tissue donation coordinator who talked about the possibility of donating Dad’s organs.
The choice to donate Dad’s organs was an easy one – he had always discussed it with us and had registered to become an organ donor should the opportunity present itself.
For us, it wasn’t a difficult decision to make, just a decision made during a difficult time.
The night we let my Dad go, three of his four kids were by his bedside, along with his older sister. We brought in our iPod, played AC/DC and waited. In order for him to be eligible for donation, he had to pass away within two hours of being removed from the ventilator.
The wait was agonizing and as my Dad slowly slipped away before my eyes, I thought about the irony of the situation: he was in one of the best hospitals in the country and the very people who we had hoped would save him were standing around waiting for him to die. It just didn’t make sense.
Thirty-three minutes after we began the process, my Dad passed away. His final heartbeat was perfectly in tune to the last note of Thunderstruck, which was always the finale at his shows.
On July 14, 2010, seven days after his initial accident, I made the most difficult phone call of my life and told my grandfather his only son had taken his last breath. It gave me a small bit of comfort knowing that simultaneously, three other families were receiving the best news of theirs.
I knew donating his organs was the right decision and it meant we were honouring his wishes. I knew lives were going to be saved because of him. What I didn’t appreciate was the profound the impact his donation was going to have on my own.
A few weeks after my Dad passed, I read an article in the Toronto Star about organ donation. I was amazed the impact this gift had on the recipient that I reached out to the reporter to thank her for the piece.
Two months later, she emailed and asked if my family would like to be featured to talk about the donor side. I couldn’t let the opportunity pass.
Together with my sister, we told my Dad’s story: how he told us his wishes in advance; that he carried around a blank donor card in case he met someone who wanted to consent on the spot; and about the young child with leukemia he helped save by donating bone marrow so many years prior.
Five months to the day Dad passed away – December 14 – I received the most incredible Christmas present: letters from Dad’s double lung recipient and two of his family members. Trillium Gift of Life Network facilitates anonymous contact between recipients and donor families. Neither side is obligated to write a letter or reply to anything they’ve received but it gives an opportunity to reach out if you wish.
Here was his letter to us:
Dear Donor Family,
As I begin to write this letter of thankfulness, I have mixed emotions. I am so very sorry for the loss of your loved one who has so generously donated their lungs for transplantation.
I am so grateful to be the recipient of your loved ones generous donation. My quality of life has improved dramatically, as has my wife’s – my caregiver.
Prior to my operation, I had been on oxygen since 2003. Almost immediately after my operation, I did not require oxygen for life support.
I am so grateful to you, the Donor Family, for donating this precious Gift of Life to me.
Now I will be able to continue my life in good health with my wife, family and friends.
From a Grateful Recipient 
For a long time, I was angry my Dad had been taken from me. I was frustrated because I felt he had so much life left in him. I was angry at him, at the accident, at fate, at everything surrounding his death.
Getting these letters really touched me and proved to me what I knew all along: my Dad did have a lot of life left in him. His lungs give every single breath to a man, allowing him to hug his wife, kiss his daughters and walk up the stairs without gasping for breath. His kidneys saved two other men from the rigorous routine of dialysis and his eyes have given sight to two others.
After receiving the letters, I knew I had to become involved and continue telling his story.
I began volunteering with Trillium Gift of Life Network. The first year he was gone, his story was featured in several newspapers, placed second at a film festival in California, and was shared at more than 10 different speaking presentations. 
We also finally gathered the courage to write back to his double-lung recipient and within two weeks had another set of letters from him. This time, he shared he was visiting his family for the first time in Alberta in 10 years and that he was finally able to sing like he used to. He and my Dad had more in common than we realized.
A year-and-a-half after my father’s death, I was invited by a fellow volunteer, who was a recipient, to Toronto General’s annual lung transplant party. Merv thought it would be appropriate for me to learn about another piece of the donation puzzle – the wait list.
There were about 100 people at the party – recipients, family members, those waiting along with staff and physicians. Merv was walking my sister and I around the room, introducing us to nearly everyone. Just when I thought we were finished, he introduced us to a man named Richard. He was a short, older gentleman and looked to be about 70 years old.
He indicated he was a recipient – his transplant was July 2010 – and had written to his donor family. My sister and I were touched and thanked him immensely. After all, the reason I became involved was because the recipient had the courage to reach out to us a year before.  
“Do you know much about your recipient, because I know a lot about my donor”, he said to us. “I know he was a former police officer, he had four kids and he sang in an AC/DC band.”
For a moment, I thought I might pass out. My sister started crying as Richard slowly connected the dots. His chin began to quiver and his eyes filled with tears.
I managed to find my voice and said, “you have my Dad’s lungs.”
My sister and I with Richard.
Tears running down his face, he grabbed mine and my sister’s hands and pulled us through the crowded room to where his wife was standing.
“Joan, meet our donor daughters,” he said. She, too, couldn’t believe it.
Through our tears and hugs, we quoted the letters back and forth to make sure Richard really was my Dad’s recipient. After a couple of minutes, there wasn’t a doubt in our minds it was him. As it turns out, he and his wife live 20 minutes from my house.  We’ve stayed in close contact and even had the opportunity to meet his two daughters, who are my father’s age.
Since meeting Richard in December 2011, I’ve continued with my volunteer work. I wrote an article for the United Kingdom’s Live Life Then Give Life organization, who featured my Dad, a Scotland native, on their website. I started a group called the York Region Gift of Life Association to help raise the low registration rates in our community. In less than a year, we’ve attended or participated in more than 50 events and presentations and recruited a force of 30 amazing volunteers. We also spearheaded the largest organized registration drive in Ontario’s history, supported from all three levels of government. I’m humbled to be a very small part of what this inspirational group accomplishes – they truly are incredible.
Dad always said his four kids would be easily able to surpass his achievements in life and that we would amount to greater things than he ever could. I beg to differ.
There is no greater gift you can give someone than life itself, and he’s done that three-fold.
The man whose selfless decision saved three lives and gave sight to two others; the man whose selfless decision has been featured in three countries and dozens of articles; and he man whose selfless decision motivated his four children and countless others was my father and for that, I couldn’t be more proud.
April 22 to 26 National Organ and Tissue Donation Awareness Week. Right now, there are nearly 1,500 people waiting for a life-saving transplant in Ontario. Please, please register your consent at beadonor.caand speak to your family about your wishes.

Perspective: Time

The past few days have been a bit overwhelming.
Mike and I are moving tomorrow, our house closes in just over a week and I’m heading out to Victoria, BC for my second and final three-week residency as part of getting my BA in Professional Communication on April 27.
I also hit the ice for the first time in ages and surprised the hell out of myself by making an adult skating team earlier this week. However, all of these things combined don’t take up half the space in my mind as my Dad has the last little while.
Perhaps it’s because Sunday was the anniversary of my sister and I finally laying him to rest in Scotland, where his ashes were scattered with his Dad’s and Mum’s. Whatever it is, he seems to constantly be on my mind, more so than usual.
When I think about my Dad, I usually think about time.
In the initial days and months after he died, I remember trying to bargain with whatever greater power was listening to just have five more minutes with him. In my naivety as a 24-year-old broken-hearted, grieving daughter, I decided at one point it would be worth giving up the next 40 years of my life – yes, 40 years – if it meant I could talk to him just one more time.
In the moment, I meant it with every morsel of my being. Now, hindsight and a little perspective have allowed me to see how ridiculous I was for wishing my life away.
Some days, I feel like the last time I spoke to him was 100 years ago. These are usually the same days I torture myself by thinking about how I’m slowly forgetting him.
Other days, it’s almost as if I’m right at his bedside at Sunnybrook. His room – if you could call it that – was dark and gloomy. The unit had patient beds lining the windows and a “pod” of beds in the middle separated by curtains and concrete bricks painted a light colour. I remember how much it really bothered me that he didn’t have a window. The only light that ever touched his face was the glow of the monitors beside his bed that beeped every few seconds.
I can feel the cool air of the unit, the smell of plastic and hand sanitizer, and the sound of other families praying, crying and whispering at their loved one’s bedside. One night before we let him go, I crawled onto his hospital bed and lay beside him. I remembered him cuddling with me as a little girl many times, usually in an attempt to comfort me after a nightmare. It was my turn to comfort him.
When I think about it hard enough, I can still feel the crispy hospital blankets on my arms and his stiff pillow under my head. I grabbed my iPod, put an ear bud in each of our ears and played Joe Cocker’s ‘You Are So Beautiful’. I can still feel my Dad’s warm hand in mine as I held it tight, desperately wishing he would squeeze it back.
Right up until his accident, he’d tell me how this was “our” song. Once in a while, I’d even get a voicemail about it. His voice shaking from trying to hold back tears, he’d tell me that it came on the radio and it reminded him of rocking me as a baby. He always ended by telling me how proud he was to be my Dad.  
These days, it’s like no time has passed at all.  But I know otherwise.
He’s been officially “home” for a year; this July he’ll have been gone three years; in 21 years, he’ll have been gone from my life longer than he was a part of it. I know it sounds like a long time, but the past three years have flown by and it seems time picks up speed the older I get.
I’d be lying if I said that during the past 978 days since he took his last breath that I hadn’t wished for him to come back at least once.  I know it’ll never happen regardless of how many years of my own life I’d trade. (Thankfully, I’ve grown out of this bargaining phase….)
This time without him has allowed me to see that life continues to move forward, even if I insist on standing still. Since that fateful day in July, I found strength I didn’t know I had and I finally feel like 
I’m keeping pace with my life instead of watching it go by – it’s almost, dare I say it, empowering. I’m in control once again and for a control freak someone like me, that’s a big deal.
My siblings and I talk often about all of the things he’s going to miss – weddings, birthdays, Christmases, grandkids, and graduations. But just because he’s going to miss those things doesn’t mean we have to, too. 
Although I’d give almost anything to have my Dad back, I can’t spend the rest of my life wishing time away and looking backwards. Aging is a gift that you only get through living and I know too many people who have been denied this privilege.
If I learned one thing from my Dad, it’s to enjoy every second and live every moment just like he did. For him, it came in the form of spontaneous road trips, random trips to the Bulk Barn, meeting after work for appetizers and cheap beer, singing with his band, and loving his kids.
For me, it means following in his footsteps and doing what makes me happy. Today, it comes in the form of playing AC/DC in my office and remembering the last time I saw him sing. Tomorrow, maybe it’ll mean finally getting back to writing that memoir I started six months ago… Or maybe not.
One day at a time.

National Siblings Day

If you had asked me 15 years ago on this date whether I appreciated my younger brothers and sister, my snarky, pre-teen, know-it-all reply would have been something like “only when they do (insert chore here) for me”, or “my parents should have stopped after me. Why mess with perfection?” 
Fast forward to present day; thankfully I’ve gained some perspective. When I think back to some of my best childhood memories, they all have at least one of my three siblings in them: road tripping to Florida and separating seats in the van with Heather’s blankies; taking turns shouting lines from the Muppet movie while we were each in our bedrooms supposed to be sleeping; coordinating Halloween costumes; terrorizing babysitters; random chocolate; and ‘they’re clean!’ (Sorry, PBP).
We’ve been through a hell of a lot in a short period of time – more than most  given our ages – but the glue that’s bound us together has continued to hold strong. 
I don’t think I’ve ever fought, laughed, cried, or shared as much with anyone as I have with these three and I wouldn’t change it for the world. They pick me up when I don’t have the strength to do it myself. They love me unconditionally even though at times I may not love myself. They support me as I continue to pursue my dreams. They give me perspective. They have shaped the woman I am today.
Happy National Siblings Day Heather, Kenny & Paul. 
I love you all to the ends of the earth and look forward to watching you soar. 
“To the outside world we all grow old. But not to brothers and sisters. We know each other as we always were. We know each other’s hearts. We share private family jokes. We remember the feuds and secrets, family grief, and joys. We live outside the touch of time.” 
– Clara Ortega