Being Beloved

Finding My People

I want to find my people. I know they’re out there because I’ve found a few of them already. And I know that there are more. Enough to build a community.

I’ve always visualized community as a tapestry; unique strands and individual stitches combining to create amazing patterns and harmony of composition. The common thread that runs through all human beings is that we can’t do it alone. We need a network of friends.

With deep friendship, we risk possible dishonesty, betrayal, or manipulation, so it’s a bit scary…and yet we can’t function properly without it. Friendship – the powerful connection that runs between us - is the lifeblood of human relations. It’s an interesting concept. Unrelated people choose each other through some mysterious mix of alchemy and circumstance. On the surface, the reason for our choice seems obvious; they share our interests, they make us laugh... But is there more to it than that? Lately, I’ve been asking myself why *this* person and not another is helping me weave my tapestry – becoming one of my people? 

So what do I mean by my people?

“Find Your Tribe. You know, the ones that make you feel the most YOU. The ones that lift you up and help you remember who you really are. The ones that remind you that a blip in the road is just that, a blip, and not to mistake it for an earthquake, and even it were to be an earthquake, they’d be there with the Earthquake Emergency Supply Kit. They are the ones that, when you walk out of a room, they make you feel like a better person than when you walked in. They are the ones that, even if you don’t see them face-to-face as often as you’d like, you see them heart to heart. You know, that kind of tribe?”

~ Jennifer Pastiloff 

That’s what I mean.

For the last two decades, I’ve focused the bulk of my time on being the best mother I can be, the best wife I can be (well, I tried), and the best daughter I can be. Any time I had left over went into paid work, household management, and random urgencies. Now things are settling down. My son is an independent man, marriage isn't even an issue anymore, my mom is focused on walking the new leg of her life journey, and frankly, I’ve decided that perfect house-hold management is unachievable. 

In this stage of my life, I want more. I want to be part of a naturally-created network of mature, marvellous people; an informal social group of like-minded souls who want inspiration for growth, and encouragement in taking their next self-directed step in life.  A community of positive, warm, fun-loving individuals on a journey to explore, grow, and celebrate life…now that’s something I’d love to invest my time in. I’ve been waiting for a community to develop organically, but it occurs to me that I should just build one...

So I am…

• discerning who the people are that I fit with best and who would want to fit with me
• investing myself in getting to know a small number of people a lot better
• reaching out - I’m a serious introvert, and this part is really challenging for me - wish me luck.

And that's it. No more tiptoe-ing around my need to find a group of people among whom I can be unconditionally loved and accepted, while still staying in alignment with my true nature. I’m choosing unique strands of friendship and initiating individual stitches to create a fabulous life pattern of harmonious composition.

Slowly, but surely, I am going to build the community I’ve always dreamed of being a part of.

I’m finding my people.

Here I Am

Here I am

a woman in mid-life

with thick thighs and a rounded belly.

The mirror declares my years with strands of silver 

and nicely lined eyes. This can't be true.

I thought I'd be a famous writer when I looked like this.

Youthful expectations.

I had time. So much time. And suddenly...

I am matured. When did this happen to me? 

It was only a few months ago that I was

a native princess, placing one foot in front 

of the other, quietly making a trail through the woods.

Watching a stick boat float across the lane way

on it’s journey into my brother’s side of the yard.

Stacking books into the treehouse 

my father made in the willow tree 

and lying back on piles of pillows 

to read and read and read.

Mere weeks since I pressed my lips

against those of a sweet, shy boy

with big brown eyes for the very first time.

I loved him with all my heart. But it wasn’t enough

to save me from the devil.

And when my life became a dark passageway

my heart shut down. 

But a few days ago, Africa. Oh Africa. It’s true what they say.

Africa gets in your blood. And makes it sing.

It was just yesterday that my heart awoke, grew legs,

and began to run around outside my body.

I named it Michael and it beats and pumps

as he lives each day of his life. 

I didn’t know how much he would mean to me

until he was part of me. 

Just moments ago I thought perhaps if I married a man

who is everything I’m not...

that together we would fit. Even with jagged edges.

But the light flooding through the holes

illuminated separate journeys. 

Reality can be sad.

Years have simply passed. While my life unfolded.

So here I am. A middle-aged woman

with a past of untrodden paths

who is finding her way through the dark. 

Time passes. Pain eases. Life moves ahead.

I never knew that this is who I wanted to be

until I got here. And right now I know. 

Here I am. 

At last. 

I call BULLSHIT!

Growing through my 50s hasn’t perturbed me one little bit. This half of my life is an abundant field of dreams, rich with opportunity. I can do anything, be myself, and build the life I want. It’s time for me to become the person I was created to be.

Buuuu-uuutttt…

Not everyone seems to agree with my vision for how this segment of my life should look. There’s this insane social belief that women over 50 are less attractive, less useful, less able to understand technology, less likely to be invested in at work, and no longer “f**kable” (hat tip to Amy Schumer)…and therefore aren’t worth much.

We’re “told” a lot of things about life after 50…

We’re not supposed to “look our age”.  Because that would be a fate worse than death.  It’s bad enough to be over 50 – but to look over 50??? God forbid! It’s important to hide aging, doncha know… What a crock of shit! To replace the airbrushed tween models (that appear in every facet of current media advertising to mature, intelligent women) we need more examples of all-ages, all sizes, all types women who look comfortable looking like themselves. When we get them, it'll be much clearer that what matters about being a woman isn't about what we look like, and that our experience of the way we look shouldn't revolve around trying to look younger (or different in any way) than we are. It’s not just about aging women…young women need that message too. We are immersed in a culture of get-skinny-quick fads, cosmetic surgery, and completely unrealistic (and deeply unhealthy) beauty standards. Let’s get real.

Makeup will save us. First of all, look what we're doing to ourselves with this crap. If we're gonna use makeup, we need to be demanding (with our dollars!) non-toxic varieties. I admit, it’s fun to use makeup as a way to express yourself and highlight certain interesting facets of your looks. That’s all good in my opinion. Same thing goes for hair – there’s a big difference between expressing who you are and hiding who you are or what age you are. When I see articles directed at aging women that read “use primer to hide wrinkles”, I want to vomit.  Are they crazy?? Hide my wrinkles? My wrinkles are my stripes! I’m wearing them loud and proud, baby. And primer? What am I? An old car??? I have never and will never use primer, foundation, powder, or anything other than moisturizer on my face. If you don’t like it, don’t look at me.

There are fashion rules. No stilettos, no leggings, no skinny jeans, no mini-skirts, no bikinis, no sleeveless dresses, no low necklines… Seriously? No freakin’ way! I will wear what I choose, when I care to, and as I want! Myself, I err on the side of comfort – but hey, we each choose for ourselves. You like heels? Go ahead, kill your feet. It’s your choice – no one else’s. Your legs are beefy? Tights and skinny jeans might show ‘em, but they’ll also hold ‘em firm. Yay for that. Got a juicy butt? Wear “Juicy” sweats - if you wanna pay for ‘em. A wrinkled décolletage? If you got it, flaunt it. Your tummy pops out of your teeny-weeny bikini? Yeah, tummies tend to do that. Embrace it. A bit of arm flap? Why not? You’re transitioning into a symbolic butterfly. So it makes sense to me… Fashion is for fun and self-expression. Not for rules and conformity to a set of arbitrary imperatives. Not for me. No way. No how.

We’re technologically-challenged. It would seem that the general assumption out there today is that technology is too complex for grandmas. Who hasn’t smirked at the meme of grandma’s remote duct-taped with only the power, channel, and volume buttons showing? It’s just a silly stereotype, but sadly, an effective one. It discourages women of a certain age from even trying new technology for fear of looking stupid when they can’t figure it out. Now c’mon! The irony of grandma-proofing makes me laugh – especially coupled with the cultural inference that if grandma can use it, anyone can… While “grandma-adoption” may make for a universal headline (because y’know…pretty much everyone has one), basically the only things all grandmas really have in common is that they’re female and no longer particularly young. Realistically, we could be anywhere between the ages of 35 and 105, and our educational backgrounds, cultural experiences, income levels, geographic locations, and career paths vary as widely as any one individual is different from another. So that just brings us back to the outrageous assumption that older women are bad at tech. Tell that to this older woman, why doncha?  

Older men don’t want women their own age. While there are a few men out there who see the value of an experienced, proficient woman of maturity, everyday experience clearly  illustrates the social stigma older woman deal with in our culture. The belief is: older women are bitter and jaded…while younger women are fun, frisky and good-natured, older women have lots of baggage…while younger women are fun, frisky and good-natured, older women have timeline agendas…while younger women are fun, frisky and good-natured, older women are self-conscious of their aging bodies…while younger women are fun, frisky and good-natured.  Hmmm…bitter, loaded with baggage and hidden agendas, and insecure vs. fun, frisky and good-natured. No wonder we feel overlooked by men in our own age group and try so hard to appear younger than we are! But this ridiculous concept of a fountain of youth we’re chasing is not about biology, and it’s not solvable by science. It’s a cultural message. And we need to stop listening to it. I know plenty of “older” women who are fun and spirited and spontaneous and kick-ass awesome—single and otherwise. Why should we want to change ourselves into anything less than the amazing women we are?  If we’re happy within ourselves, it’s all good. Any man who doesn’t want our fabulous selves is losing out – and isn’t worth our efforts anyway.

Aging women lose value. It’s not just that women in our fifties are hardest hit by the gender pay gap, while most efforts for pay equality are aimed at our younger colleagues. Nor is it merely that older women “face daily insinuations in the media that we are ugly because our age shows”. As women get old, our age impacts each contribution we make and every belief we hold. Rather than highly regarding the lived experiences of older women, and the wisdom those lives have revealed, our society turns away from them, dismissing them as irrelevant. Robert Fulford illustrates it well in his article, How age (wrongly) makes women invisible.  We neglect to listen - at the exact life moment when women are able to offer the profound insight that is most worth our attention. And what the hell is that??  The truth is that we gain value as we age. We're independent thinkers. We're knowledgeable, with abundant experience. We support ourselves. Life has given us a great work ethic along with superior critical thinking and problem solving skills. We're done with drama. We know what we want. We know what we're worth.

And seriously...we're hot. 

So…

I call BULLSHIT!

Do You Like Me?

This week, I had a long conversation with an old friend who's struggling and I was reminded how painful the need for the approval of others can be. I have spent far too much of my life worrying about whether people like me or approve of me. 

I was a pretty much a model child. I did what I was told, my academic results were impressive, my friends were who society dictated they should be, and I was exceptionally polite. Stepping out of line just wasn’t part of what I understood to be correct behaviour for the “smart, firstborn and only daughter”. So I worried about saying something ‘stupid’, other kids laughing at me, my parents being disappointed in me, and whether or not I was popular.

It only got worse in high school. I was hugely preoccupied with what others thought of me. The few times I tried to articulate a maverick opinion, the teachers quickly put me in my place. My peers were in the same boat and became either contributors to the problem, or outcasts. As I heard others ridiculed for being weird and not cool, I was even less likely to express my own unique ideas or question the status quo. At least not out loud. But I was experiencing my own personal internal struggle and making my own decisions…quietly. And then – a surprise to everyone, including me – I entered a period in my teens where I rebelled whole-heartedly. I simply did whatever I wanted, followed every crazy whim and devoted myself to la vida loca. Spectacularly. So spectacularly in fact, that I lived to deeply regret a few choice decisions. And that quashed any more overt efforts to colour outside the lines for a while.

My university days were marked by a desire to question everything, and yet I was never quite comfortable with the concept of interjecting my thoughts and concerns.  An introvert in the extreme, the dialogue went on inside my head, but I was far more comfortable keeping the debate there than opening myself up to unfriendly fire. As a result, only a very few people really got to know me at all. Oh, I had various little crises of personal identity as an adult that led to forays outside the accepted status quo, but for the most part, I towed the line. Lots of people thought that was good. But I was really disappointed in myself. I believe in being authentic, and for most of my life, I just wasn’t.

And then Michael was born. And he changed everything. Having a child at an older than average age (38), and consciously exploring how I wanted to raise him, brought my core values to the forefront of my consciousness. I already understood that all children naturally assimilate what is modeled for them. And I wanted what I modeled for Michael to be positive, encouraging and authentic…and for our relationship to be characterized by mutual respect, joy, love, clarity and appreciation. That meant examining things like core values, boundaries, priorities, parenting roles, life philosophies, expectations, and the long-term legacy I want to offer Michael. This self-excavation was a game-changer. Suddenly, standing for who I was, modeling authenticity, and being able to self-express in a positive way became deeply important to me. Damn the consequences.

It’s taken some time and some devastating life experiences – even recently - but for the most part, now I’m pretty comfortable with letting my unique inner self shine as I uncover ‘the real me’. These days, even in challenging circumstances, I’m willing to:

Swim Against the Stream. I no longer care what everyone thinks. I care about doing what I believe is right in my heart, whether everyone else agrees or not. I understand that I may not often be part of the majority, and that’s okay with me. Not everyone is going to like me, agree with me, or value the same things I do. Alright then.

Live With Being Misunderstood. If I’m authentically being me, I tend to give more of myself than most people consider wise. It's who I am. I empathize with people. And that’s caused some grief in my life. I’ve been misunderstood, taken advantage of, slandered and judged. But if others being able to understand me means compromising who I am in my heart, well then, it’s not worth it. Not everyone can accept my parameters and boundaries – I can, and that’s what counts. Those kindred spirits who love and accept me as I am are getting an amazing and caring person in their lives.

Embarrass Myself. Okay. So I’m embarrassed. So what? I’m going to live through it, and chances are that it’s a learning experience that will ultimately enhance my life exponentially. And seriously? It’s much preferable to feeling like I’m not expressing who I really am. By stepping forward, and putting myself out there, I’m modeling authenticity – a huge core value for me – and being someone I feel really good about. 

Yes, all this makes me vulnerable. It opens me up to ridicule, gossip, ostracization, and a limited social life. But to be honest, I haven’t experienced very much of that. In fact, the few times I have, it's actually helped weed out the relationships that aren’t healthy for me anyway, and opened up my time for the ones that encourage me, breathe life into me, and support me.  It also makes me strong, courageous and liberated - a great role model for a young man who’s growing up in a world where conformity is the norm. And it makes me real. Very, very real. The big reward for me is that when my decisions and behaviours reflect my core values, my life fills with synergy, harmony and contentment. The need to be liked becomes a non-issue.

So. Do you like me? Yes? No? Maybe? It’s all good. Because now, I like me. And I’m teaching my son through example how important it is to like, honour and respect your authentic self.

And, to me, that’s what matters. 

Growth

Who's Afraid of #MeToo?

There’s a lot of backlash around the #MeToo movement. Many men are uncomfortable engaging with women at all these days – personally or professionally. I get it. There’s so much talk about it being a scary and unsafe time for men, and I’m sure it feels that way. I’m very sure it feels that way.  So sure.

I know exactly how frightening it is to feel truly scared and unsafe. That horrible feeling that something unbelievably wicked is about to happen - something that will hurt you more than you can even imagine. When someone, maybe even someone you trust, will do something unspeakable to you. Not just physically hurt you – oh no, it’s so much worse than that. What happens shames you. Shatters your self-esteem. Takes away any semblance of control and leaves you feeling completely powerless. Makes you doubt others’ belief in you. Has you blaming yourself. Allows fear and anxiety to become your constant companions. Ruins your ability to trust. And leaves you with flashbacks – nightmarish, raw, and oh-so-real flashbacks.  

No matter how you feel about #MeToo, there’s no denying the validity of the movement. It’s mainstream. Almost every woman I know has experienced sexual harassment at some point. And sexual assault isn’t limited to women; many men and boys suffer rape and sexual trauma.

Few victims say anything about it. According to The Globe and Mail, “the statistics show that about 95 per cent of sexual assault survivors don’t report, and when they do, they are often not believed. Despite the reality that false reports are extremely rare, occurring at a rate of 2 per cent to 10 per cent – similar to the rate of other criminal offences – there is an entrenched suspicion of reports of sexual assault that does not seem to apply to other offences.” But hey…I can tell you it’s pretty damn real. And it haunts you for life.

My abuser was a trusted friend of the family. He was in our house all the time and made sure I knew that no one would ever believe me over him. He used to phone my parent’s house and just breathe when I picked up the phone. Just breathe. It was long before the concept of caller ID or *69 identifying the last number that called you, so he was pretty safe to do it. I couldn’t have proven it was him if I tried. But I knew. Every single time I heard that breathing on the other end of the line my stomach turned to liquid, the hair stood up on the back of my neck, and often I’d vomit.

Let me say this… No matter what you think of #MeToo, be aware that the legacy of sexual assault never ends.

One night recently, home alone by myself (Rollie away at a car show and not expected home until late – Michael out with friends), I heard my cell phone ringing upstairs. I missed the call but could see it had come from a local gas station (the beauty of technology). Since both my guys were out, I quickly picked up the voicemail. And my world turned upside down. No words, just breathing. Instantly, my stomach turned to liquid, the hair stood up on the back of my neck, and I had to run for the bathroom. I texted Michael and Rollie – asked if it was either of them. Not Michael. No reply from Rollie. Instinctively – without even stopping to think – I was closing blinds, locking doors, turning out lights. Totally panicked, I was heading up to my bedroom with every intention of barricading the door when the front door knob rattled. I froze. I couldn’t breathe. Time stood still. And then suddenly, I was blazingly angry. A red wave coated everything in sight. Without thinking, I ran back down the steps, unlocked the door and threw it open, yelling, “Who’s there?!?!?”  You should have seen it. I was ready to do battle.

But it was Rollie. Turns out he locked his keys in the car at the corner gas station on his way home (earlier than expected) and walked home because I didn’t answer my cell.

Once I could breathe, I started to cry and wasn't able to stop for over an hour. So yeah, I know exactly how frightening it is to feel truly scared and unsafe. Even forty years later. Let me say that again… Forty. Years. Later.

I've been awed by the courageous women and men who've come forward to speak out against their offenders. I'm not that brave. I didn't name him then, and I won't be naming him now. There's no real support after you speak out - and there's a sh!tload of judging, shunning, and black-balling. The response might be quiet, or it might be loud, but the backlash always manages to hit the one who had the audacity to speak of it. 

But hey… I understand why the #MeToo movement has left many men (and some women) incensed over the new – and let’s face it, more expandable – social definitions of sexual abuse. Obviously, it leaves the door open for anyone’s past or present behaviours to be reclassified as harassment and assault.

I imagine that feels very scary and unsafe.  

Sins of the Mother

Mother’s Day is always a bittersweet event for me. Why, you ask? Because. Despite having the best mom in the world, I know that I wasn’t always the best daughter in the world. That’s the bitter part.

Those who remember me from my teens may not even realize what kind of a run for her money I gave my poor mother. We lived in a small town where people had an unfortunate bent towards judgmental thinking and gossip. It probably won’t surprise anyone that I was an exceptionally sensitive and emotional teenager who was very easily hurt in that environment. My very strong and progressively-minded mother had nothing but contempt for judgmental attitudes and gossip, and as a result, I was raised with the expectation that I wouldn’t worry or care about either. I did try. Hard. I didn’t conform, wouldn’t commit to any specific social group, and quietly called out those who were causing difficulty for others. Not surprisingly, that mindset did not endear me to many of my contemporaries. And it left me with little support for my opinions and ideas that were so contrary to the popular logic of the time. Yeah. People didn’t always appreciate me.  As a result, after putting out as many outrageously forward opinions as possible into my hometown environment without success, I left the area to finish my education in a larger centre. And I never looked back. Except to blame my mother for my inability to fit in anywhere.

But that was then. And this is now. Make no mistake…being a 50-something-year-old daughter is very different from being a 15-year-old daughter. I have finally figured out who I am, and what I need. Even at this age, I continue to learn and grow at warp speed, and what I’ve learned about being a daughter since my father’s passing is making me a much better daughter to my fiercely independent and forward-thinking mama. I am so blessed to have this open and redefined mother-daughter relationship in my 50s… That’s the sweet part. That…and the learnings.

My mother was always doing her best for me. No matter what it felt like at the time, she loved me with her entire being and all decisions were made with what she believed to be my best interests at heart. (Funny how easy this was to believe once I was a mother myself.)

Forgiveness is the key to happiness. The unforgiving heart is full of fear, doubt, anger and weakness. It’s important to understand that we all make mistakes, step wrongly, and hurt others – and that we are all connected to one another. Forgiveness is a gift we give our world and ourselves. My mom has always forgiven me – even when I believed I was unforgivable. 

My physical health is too important to take a back seat in my life. I wish that this particular lesson had taken hold a bit earlier than it has, but better late than never. 

There is no substitute for face-to-face contact.  We live in a society filled with fake connections. Technology has given us greater access to one another, but at what cost? We’ve sacrificed honesty, intimacy and deep connection. Choosing to be physically close to another person deepens the sense of importance of the relationship. There’s no doubting the “cool” factor of technology, but sharing real life experiences is more authentic and meaningful by far.  So while I make sure that my mom has a certain level of electronic gadget knowledge, I won’t be giving up our daily chats and regular in-person visits. Nor will my son.

The toughest times were the best learning experiences. Each painful moment has taught me a new life lesson, and for this I am very grateful. The best part is that I know how to pass my knowledge along – or how to manage the times when my son repeats my mistakes. I have been blessed with the privilege of mothering the most wonderful kid on earth. And although I have to work daily on being the best mom I can be, the effort is totally worth it.  Most of what I know about mothering came from my mom. And knowing that this mothering bit is not for the faint at heart – nor for the uncommitted – empowers me to be the best mama I can be in my own right.  

So, being a 50-something-year-old daughter means that I now realize the “why” attached to many of the things that drove me crazy about my mom. She was afraid that she couldn’t stop me from repeating her mistakes. What 15-year-old me saw as rigidity now looks like concern. Rules look like parameters. And nagging looks like the teaching of life lessons. My mother hoped and prayed that I wouldn't revisit her sins. And I didn’t. I sinned my own sins. My mother stood by me all the while. She staved off my monsters, held me close when I was afraid, fixed everything when I bled, when I cried and when my heart was broken. Every time I stumbled and fell, my mother’s heart shattered into a million little pieces and she was left to pick each one of them up. And she could only pray that I learned from it and experienced growth. Through it all, her commitment and strength were unwavering. She is the bravest person I know.

A daughter’s feelings, thoughts, wishes, expectations, and attitudes have been shaped by the power of her mother’s love for her. And gratitude for this will be with the daughter forever. The sins of the mother are used as lessons to forge the backbone of the daughter. And the almost-grown-up version knows this.

Thank you, Mom. 

There Has To Be More Than This

I was online talking with a dear friend last night, both of us in tears. The conversation was poignant. We discussed medical diagnoses, the toll of an unfulfilling marriage, the pressure of elder care, children (up until now, the raison d'être) moving out and creating their own lives, dissatisfaction with our physical selves, money problems, aches and pains, job woes, and the invisibility of midlife women. We were on a dark and slippery slope into despondency. 

Ever the optimist, I said, “There has to be more to midlife womanhood than this…” And, of course, there is. She said, “What are other women doing?” And, obviously, that’s the bottom line. It’s all about the choices we make…the priorities we choose. THAT is what creating the life we want is really all about – changing our priorities to make room for significance and meaning. We have to focus on what's really important to us.

It’s never too late. We can make a new choice at any time. Who cares if we feel like we’ve misspent the last decade (or two, or more) focusing on the wrong work, the wrong people, the wrong pastimes, the wrong self… Time is in front of us, to spend as we choose. The future beckons - full of potential and possibility. We only have one life. The question is…how do we want to spend it?

 

I have only one life, so I want to make sure it's a good one. ~ Yoko Ono

 

A bit of introspection convinces me that I’ve been making excuses for myself:

I can’t change directions now. Look at the time and effort I’ve invested in my current path!

I’ve given this excuse a lot of power by using it over and over. But it’s such a crock of sh!t. I’m now asking myself, how good is my current path if it isn’t what I want…? And anyway, who’s to say that the investment I’ve made to this point won’t serve some positive purpose on a different path? I’ve learned a lot over the years, all of which knowledge is transferable to other circumstances and situations. I needed that experience to move ahead. 

I might upset people.

Maybe. But if I’m not happy with my direction, am I really helping anyone else anyway? Could changing my direction actually motivate them? Sadly, women tend to live small. We feel okay about it because we figure we probably couldn’t get what we want anyway. So, we just stay in our comfort zones (no matter how depleting) and avoid making the changes we really want to make deep down. We trick ourselves into keeping things just as they are. Maybe I’d be doing someone a favour by taking a stand for living my best life.

I have too many challenges to overcome.

“I can’t afford this change.” “I don’t know how to get from here to there.” “Others are depending on me.” Yeah. All true. And so what? The truth is that if I want this badly enough, I’ll find a way to make it happen. No matter the obstacle, I can work through it. Am I willing to sacrifice? To change my style of living? To give up something in order to gain this? Maybe I won’t be able to have it ALL, but I can decide what is most important to me.  The challenges don’t have to hold me back.

 

So it’s on. I've been thinking and writing about it for too long. I don’t want to be one of those people who keeps talking about making a change but never actually steps into it. I’m moving ahead. We can all build the life we want – and we deserve to live that life. There absolutely can be more, but it’s on each of us to achieve our more. We have to make the change. No one can make it happen for us.

 

Atrocity, Thy Name Is Cancer

Cancer is a blight on the human species. It's a leading cause of death worldwide. After having my share of dealings with this evil and monstrous disease, I move that it be obliterated from the face of this planet. There are brilliant scientists and researchers working on that, so I think my small piece of the solution is to draw attention to how it's affected me personally, and encourage my family and friends to take a look at the way we're living - and change our ways to avoid cancer, or at least to detect it early.

The person who probably knew me better than any other was Larry Fegan. We met in grade 9 and bonded immediately. We were nothing alike. We came from different family types, different socio-economic backgrounds, different religious systems, totally diverse upbringings and yet it was as if we could read each others' minds right from the first moment. He was my confidante, my sounding board, my conscience, my best friend and my knight in shining armour. He was always there for me - and regularly picked up the pieces of my tattered existence, bundled them up, handed them to me and helped me to stitch them back together. Larry impacted my life immeasurably, and had my son Michael been a girl, he would have been Lauren. (I know that seems nonsensical - because why not name him Larry? but that's another story...) My deepest regret is that Michael and Larry never met. Larry passed away from liver cancer on July 23rd (my birthday) - of the year Michael was being born on Larry's birthday - cosmic, isn't it? When someone tells you that a couple of weeks won't make a difference, don't believe them. I lost one of the best and most significant people in my life to liver cancer in my (and his) 30's. He is simply irreplaceable and I think about him every single day.

Larry smoked from the time he was 10 years of age. Don't smoke.

One of my very best friends, Sue Dahmer, has recently come out on the other side of her breast cancer treatment. One mastectomy later, she is stronger, more beautiful, infinitely more whole than she's ever been. Sue used her breast cancer journey to strengthen her family, educate her children, improve her marriage and influence her friends to reach beyond the limits we've set for ourselves. Sue Dahmer is da bomb, baby!!! I couldn't be more proud of her. She inspires me to believe George Eliot when she said, 'It is never too late to be what you might have been.'  I want to be as strong as Sue is.

Sue is a survivor. She recognized an unusual lump in her breast and sought immediate medical attention. Know the signs to look for.

My mother is a breast cancer survivor too - far past the "5 year mark" now, Thank God. I think I was numb through most of her journey, but walking her to the doors of her surgery was one of the scariest moments of my life. Sitting holding my dad's trembling hands while she was undergoing the surgery was one of the most life-changing moments I've ever experienced. Before that, I would have thought that my dad was made of stone. Turns out he wasn't. He was as terrified (or more so) as I was that everything wouldn't work out as we hoped. It was my first clue that my parents were symbiotic and that one would be irreparably altered by the loss of the other. I've always prayed for a relationship like theirs.

Mom had regular mammograms and her cancer was caught early. Early detection is everything. Get tested regularly.

In the early cancer years, my father was diagnosed with prostate cancer, and after that, leukemia. He battled both in his heart and mind every day. Although he didn't share his innermost feelings about it, I knew that he was afraid of chemo, didn't want to be sick and tired all the time, and deeply resented what he perceived to be the loss of his independence and manhood. His strength of purpose and incredibly positive "never say die" attitude characterized his entire life - even his last weeks. My dad lost his battle with cancer in August 2012. I miss him so much. 

My dad never worried about his health. He didn't eat properly as he aged, and as a result, developed Type II Diabetes. This not only complicated everything but quite possibly allowed the disease to take hold. An anti-oxidant diet would have been a good idea.  Eat plenty of fresh fruit and veggies - the deeper the colour, the better.

The man I married, Rollie, was diagnosed with a malignant pancreatic tumour in 2008. They found it accidentally - or I doubt we would have known before it was too late. He required a "Whipple Procedure" which essentially meant that they cut out several affected sections of his pancreas, duodenum, and intestinal tract, re-sectioned and attached him back up in a totally different way and then waited to see if his body would adjust. The procedure has been said to have a 5% or less success rate. We prepared for him to die. Thank God he appears to be in that blessed 5% and is still kicking.  

Rollie was in amazing physical shape before this happened. A few months previous to detection, our insurance company actually LOWERED his premium due to his youthful energy and fitness level. He swam, biked and walked all the time. He knew his body and recognized that there was something wrong, and he was fit enough to live through extensive surgery and to regenerate. Get regular exercise and stay physically fit.

In all of the above examples (even the survivors) I grieved. Grief isn't just about the death of someone you love... it can also be about having to adjust to a new set of rules and values after things and people we love change. It's actually just emotional development: allowing yourself to feel sad, to think about the unfairness of it, to consider how things used to be, and how different they are now. There have been times when I caved, and allowed myself to feel as though my heart and head were exploding and that I'd never be able to feel good about anything again. But underneath it all I know I will. Avoiding thinking about the feelings is sometimes easier, but they always catch up with me anyway, so I end up choosing to face them in the here and now. Doing the hard emotional work is what allows me to move forward and claim my life as my own.

Interesting sidebar - the person most willing to explore this with me is my sister-in-law. We weren't close in the beginning, but I've developed a deep respect and affection for her over the years. She always seems to be there for me. Go figure. Thanks Sam. And of course Sue has been an incredible example of grace under fire - my admiration for her knows no bounds. Be open with your loved ones about your concerns and talk to them about your feelings. Be there for each other.

I hope that just one person reading this will make a small change in their life that will make the difference that means avoidance of - or early detection of - this disease. Cancer IS a blight on the human species and I hope beyond hope that I can make even the tiniest contribution to encouraging those I care about to make conscious lifestyle changes so that they are less likely to be affected.

Ten Things I Want My Son To Have

Sixteen years into being Michael’s mom, I find myself recognizing a few things that I really want him to have - and apply to his life…

A loving nature.  It’s my deepest wish that my son will never lose his natural  ability to love - both others and himself. Love is intricately connected with meaning and fulfilment, so it’s valuable for him to define love as a verb, an action, or series of actions he can take to bring him closer to the people he values. We all need love. 

Fortitude. He will gain strength, courage, and self-confidence with each experience where he faces his fears. His success will come from doing the thing that his mind is saying he can’t do. His heart is strong - he can do anything he sets his sights on. 

Truthfulness. I want him to always speak his truth - respectfully, politely, and with empathy. He deserves to stand in his integrity. 

Passion. Life isn’t worth living without passion. I want my son to believe in something enough that it keeps him going even when the going is tough. 

Empathy. I believe it’s important to create bonds of trust, to be able to understand what drives the actions of others, and to relate to one another. Empathy connects us. 

An Open Mind. If he’s open to everyone and everything that comes his way, it will allow him to embrace different possibilities, opportunities, people, views, suggestions and interests. He doesn’t need to believe or accept everything…just listen, observe, feel and try to comprehend every situation on his path. It’ll make his life a hell of a lot easier and less complicated. And it’s fun to practice.

A Thirst for Understanding.  I want him to know how to learn and the deep importance of gathering knowledge from a variety of sources so that when he considers and evaluates information, he’ll come to strong, holistically-thought-through conclusions. And if his conclusions are wrong, a desire to understand means that he will learn the lesson from that and keep moving forward. 

Education. Whether it’s through formal education (which, as my dad always said, “isn’t heavy to carry around”) or an education from the school of life, paying attention, asking questions, reading, researching and expressing himself are essential skills for his success. No matter how he defines it. 

Independence. In order to survive as a contributing member of society, he’ll need to able o look after himself.  That means knowing how to manage money, cook & clean, look after his health, and most importantly…know how to have deep, strong, and valuable relationships. 

Enthusiasm.  Pouring himself into life will mean he has a lot more fun. Enthusiasm is probably one of the most attractive qualities a person can have. The impact on his body language and tone of voice will make his words and message so much more powerful. And enthusiasm gets things done.  

Through all of this development, I pray that he has a LOT of fun, laughs frequently, shines his beautiful light on the world, and lives big. And I want him to always, always know that I love and support him in all that he chooses for his life. My heart swells with love when I think of him and I am so grateful for all of the possibilities that lie ahead.

I just know he’s gonna rock it.