An Open Letter to the Devastated

If I could, know that:

I would confirm that it’s a dream for you, a nightmare and you shall wake up, love. I would not let you feel the pain that I remember all too well. I can’t protect you, no one can.  So, you will protect you.  Know that there will be a haze that moves in to do this. The haze allows you to accomplish the things that need to be done.  Decisions one should never have to make.  You’ll choose arrangements in the haze.  You couldn’t possibly feel it all and make these decisions. 

You’re protected, my love. 

 I would wrap my arms around you and not let go. I’d hold you if I could while you scream to the heavens.  Rage.  There will be rage.  You must let it out, my love.  Curse the heavens for a love lost too early.  I’ll wrap my arms around you and won’t let go until the air returns to your lungs.  You’ll collapse, collapse into my arms. Impossible to stand with no air left, I will sit at the bottom with you until your lungs fill once again. 

You’re safe, my love.

 I would help you to your knees.  Slowly, we emerge together.  Slowly we kneel.  Holding your hands in mine, we will beg.  You will replay all the times in which you weren’t perfect.  I will remind you that you were perfectly imperfect.  When we are truly loved, as you were, we are always loved for our flaws.  I’ll help you to your knees and monitor your self-talk while you beg.  We are hardest on ourselves while we are on our knees.  I will not allow you to suffer too long here.  It’s lonely and one-sided.  He’s not coming back to you as you know it. 

You’re loved, my love.

 I would open the curtains for you as mine were done for me.  I wouldn’t ask for much, only that you get out of the bed.  I would be present with you but not speak unless you asked me to.  I would hold my tongue tight as this is where damage can be done.  You are fragile and need nothing more than my presence.  Words are useless, banter simply annoying.  The darkness feels like home, and I will sit with you in it.  We will get up each day, open the curtains, but never fully move in.  I will not ask for you to navigate the darkness alone. 

You’ve got a light, my love.

 I will remember him with you.  I’ll tell you about the last time I saw him - how he made my whole day with his big smile and how he laughed at the fact that I didn’t recognize him without his beard.  His smile, bearded or not, was so warm.  Everyone that loves you will remember him with you.  If a quick chat with him in the Canadian Tire lineup warmed my heart like that, I can only imagine how he touched every other person in his short life.  Embrace others love for him too.

You’ve got an army of love, my love.

Open Letter to You

An Open Letter to You

You used to smile, staring at her while she worked though her own thoughts, waiting patiently for her to come to whatever conclusion she was going to arrive at, unknown to the both of you.

You said you loved this about her, but you didn’t.

You used to stop whatever you were doing to unlock the door for her, coffee in hand, for a quick pop in.  She’d apologize profusely.

You said you loved this about her, but you didn’t.

You used to wipe her tears away while talking about the heavy stuff or the silliest of commercials.  She found herself in your eyes while you did it.

You said you loved this about her, but you didn’t.

You used to make her finish her sentences when she would get interrupted – put a finger up and say, “we aren’t done here.  So, when,

You said you loved her back, she believed it.

No, sweet girl, that wasn’t love, it was novelty.

She asked to explain herself.  She asked for 10 minutes of your time to work through the mess that she was feeling and experiencing.  You couldn’t care less what she was thinking. 

You said you loved all of her, but she was just novel.

She asked if you wanted a tall americano as a peace-offering for her fiery spirit.  This isn’t new, She’d shared that it was under there.  You knew this about her.

You said that you loved all of her, but she was just novel.

She asked if she could carry this on -have a piece of you still.  Begging for crumbs like a fool you’d already moved on. You don’t need her thoughts, her coffee, or for her to finish her sentence.

You said you loved all of her, but she was just novel.

I guess being novel feels a lot like being loved.

She was never loved, simply a novelty.

An Open Letter to You, My Former Friend.

Sometimes missing you keeps me up at night.  I think about how you might perceive me, my intentions, or what happened between us. I overthink, replay, and criticize myself far too much.  It’s 3am and you’re on my mind, all of you.  I guess there is a few things that I would like for you to know:

-       In the early days of us drifting, I thought about you all the time.  I checked in on your socials to make sure that you were happy and healthy.  I saw the quotes that very clearly were for my eyes.  I saw them and knew you were processing the demise much like I was.

-       My heart remains the same.  All of the things that you loved about it are still inside, it’s just the outside, when it comes to you, is guarded. 

-       Someone else has stepped into your former role.  I’m a good-ass friend and your exit just gave space for others who I saw qualities in.  I laugh until I cry with them.  The joy of friendship did not exit my life when you did.  I hope for you the same. 

-        I’ve taken my time and processed what happened: I hold myself accountable for my role and have worked hard to understand yours.  This processing that I do, the time it takes, and my revelations once completed, should not be new to you, as you know how I work.

-       If you ever needed me, I hope you know that I would be there.  Never question that.  If only thing can be held true, it is this. 

-       After I ran into you, I checked my phone more frequently.  I thought that, perhaps, my smile softened you to me.  Perhaps, just perhaps, my smile said everything that was left unsaid between us and you might have some things to say too.

-       I know that if we sat at a tiny table, coffee and tea between is, it would feel like not a day has passed.  I know this to be true because, former friend of mine, I’m still me and you’re still you.

It’s now 4am and both my heart and eyes feel heavy. 

Goodnight, Dear Friend.

xoxo

An Open Letter to The Queen of the Wilderness

I see you, split into two. 

It’s not the before and after, for both are you - rather, it’s comfort versus scary, safe versus unknown, still versus movement. 

Neither is better than the other, unless, of course, you’re me. 

One side – comfortable, safe, and still.

The other – scary, unknown, and moving.

This is how I describe it, how I must describe it to make sense of it. 

This understanding has taken me some time to arrive at - how one could present themselves so very different.

I took this hike once, solo, into the mountains of BC.  I’d done this exact hike a few weeks previously with several girlfriends. With them, I was able to explore places I would never had gone by myself.  Then, without anyone knowing, I packed the same items, drove out solo, and trekked along the path, finding the same patch of dirt, and setting up my tent.  My goal was to explore further on my own.  I craved pushing myself into the scary unknown, and to keep moving.  However, when I got there I boiled some water, poured a tea into my tin mug, and went into my tent for a nap.  I spent the rest of the day moving between the tent and my small burner, making tea after tea.  I read my book, curled in my sleeping bag, turning my face to the sun.  I found comfort when I thought I was up for a challenge.

I know what it’s like to want one side but be perfectly content on the other, to know that you should be moving but also enjoy a quiet break with a cup of tea (or beers on at patio).  There is beauty in both because you are in both, both are authentically you.  Both serve you - however, only one will continue to serve you. 

I didn’t venture any further on that solo trip and I left disappointed in myself.  I sat with that disappointment everyday, right or wrong. I was disappointed in myself. I was not, it seemed, The Queen of the Wilderness. But, as it turned out, it wasn’t long after that hike that I craved movement. I did venture back out, exploring foreign lands by myself, continual adaptation became my new normal. Growth, a currency in which I value myself, as well as my friendships.

I sat with you, listening to your desires to tackle the scary, the unknown, and grow.  I helped set up a space in which that could happen.  You showed me only this person - I stood, only on this side with you.  I helped you prep for the trek of your own. I was awestruck, inspired, and along for the ride.I listened to how excited you were to venture out, Queen of the Wilderness.  I helped you set up your camp, placed key items - a clock here, a plant there.  I was excited for you to explore this side, having never known you on the other. 

But, just like me, somewhere along the way you made a cup of tea, crawled inside your sleeping bag, and took a nap.  It’s cozy, isn’t it?  Face upturned to the sun, somewhere on a patio again.  You might not explore any further, and that’s okay.  It’s okay because I saw the other side of you.  I know you set out on that trek to keep moving forward but the stillness of the moment took over.  I know because I’ve been there. I’ve enjoyed the still, (but much prefer movement.)

I see you, split into two. 

It’s not the before and after - rather, it’s comfort versus scary, safe versus unknown, still versus movement. 

Neither is better than the other, unless, of course, your me.

An Open Letter to Emergency Telecommunicators on Emergency Telecommunicator’s Week

I was there with you on your first day – green and scared shitless.  I know that you had no idea what to expect – how could you?  

I was with you during those long grueling training days and nights; it felt like you would never be really doing the job. You sat, motionless for hours on end, reading endless policies, deployment plans, and various Acts, learning how to do the job before actually doing the job.

So, it naturally made me proud when you hit the floor, meet the intense mix of A-type characters who would soon become your teammates, your friends, and eventually, your family. 

I was elated when they cleared you; you were finally good enough to do it on your own.  I know you were terrified; I saw it through your plastered-on smile.

I know the nights were sleepless; they were spent either at work or dreaming about work. It seemed to master this level of multi-tasking required practice during both waking and sleeping hours. 

I drove into work with you while you white-knuckled your drive.   The snow was so heavy and you immediately knew what you were in for on the other end of the lines. 

I was there for the first call that you fucked up; I saw both the realization and the fear on your face.  So, it seems, did a senior dispatcher. I heard her calm you.  She told you that she had fucked up before, too.  Just don’t let it happen again, she says.

I sat quietly while you delivered your first baby over the phone.  We all held our breath as you moved your first-aid instructions between the instructions for “Living, Breathing Baby” and “CPR on a Newborn,” hoping it was the former that you would be giving, and not the latter.

I was there for both.

When you returned to work after your own trauma, I held you tight and let you know that you could handle whatever was thrown your way.  I saw you build back both your skills and your resilience.  I’m your cheerleader - always will be.  You’ve got this, I’d whisper.

I was there at 4am when the giggles hit - hard. You and your teammates laughed so hard at something so simple, questioning after, is it really that funny or are we really that tired?  Who the fuck knows?  Damn, that just killed a solid hour!

I witnessed as you were disciplined for swearing in the workplace; I saw that sly eye-roll behind management’s back.   They are doing their job as you are doing yours; but fuck, sometimes this job gets the best of you.

I was there when you brought your work home; it started filtering, little by little, into your home-life.  It began with a sensitivity to sounds and then crept into your relationship and parenting.  You are all too aware that anything can happen – and does!

I heard you call your husband on your tear-streaked drives home, begging him to keep the baby up.  You need that baby more than it needs you sometimes. It feels good to hold your own after the helplessness of hearing someone lose theirs. 

I watched you strain to hear the background noise of a call that turned your stomach a little bit.  You knew, in the absence of proof, that something else was going on at that residence.  Why else would those hairs be standing up on the base of your neck?  Something is off and it’s your job to hear what isn’t being said.

I listened as you dispatched your friends, your family, your lover, your spouse to a call that you wanted them as far away from as possible. Your voice cracked and you’ll replay that weakness over and over.  You’re scared and it shouldn’t show on the air.  They can’t know that you’re scared for them.

I’ve listened along with you, helplessly, as they beg, cry, and plead to the heavens.  You know that the heavens aren’t going to help so instead you inject, help is on the way whenever you can.  Help is on the way, you repeat; wishing that you could be a bigger help.

I’ve been there this whole time, on the other end of the line, wishing I could be a bigger help. 

I am the first, first responder. 

I am you.

Open Letter to My Father

Dear Dad,

I let you walk me down the aisle.  You stood on one side and on the other, the man who raised me.  That honour should never have been split.  You deserved no part of that day.  I was weak when I asked you.  I was weak during that time and allowed you in when I should have remained strong. For that, the splitting of that honour, I won’t forgive myself.  I no longer put my needs aside for others out of obligation.  This letter, for you as well as for me, is long overdue.  I should have said goodbye to you a long, long time ago.

Here’s why I was weak – I would do anything for them.  I was pregnant when you asked to come back into my life as if you were entitled to that position.  You took no accountability and we both tried to move forward without acknowledging the past. I would do anything for my children.  Anything - even give them an extra grandparent to dote on them when it was hard on me. 

But, here’s the thing.  The hurt amplified as soon as I held my own.  As soon as I held her lifeless body, I knew that I would die to have her.  Why didn’t you have those same feelings for me?  Why couldn’t love for me ride above all the other challenges you faced in your life (and I know you had challenges).  I guess a part of me hates people who use their past as an excuse for their shit future.  Now look at you, a shell of a man with nothing.  I hate you for that. 

I have happy memories.  Whenever I hear John Cougar Melloncamp I smile.  I remember dancing in your living room to that music from the 80’s.  We had good times.  You danced in the living room, careful not to spill your drink.  My happy memories were of a happy drunk father, not the angry drunk.  There was no security of those happy moments.  They weren’t truly happy because I knew at any moment they could turn. You could turn angry and violent.  As a child, that was so scary.  Your unpredictability scared the shit out of me - I was little, scared, missed my mom.  It never felt like you wanted us there.  You had plenty of opportunity to connect with me, to know me as a little girl, but you made the choice to ignore us on those rare weekends.  You chose to put us in the car and leave us outside of a strip club while you went inside.  You betrayed my trust from the most fragile of ages. 

At 13 I gave myself the best present.  It felt good to cut you out.  But the thing is, I held onto it.  I processed it as a strong move, a defining moment of my young life.  I was held by mom as ‘the strong one’ after that act.  But it hurt.  It hurt that you didn’t fight.  That you didn’t even notice.  Did you even notice?  Your lack of fight for me snowballed into my whole life.  I cut people out.  A lot.  It’s so easy.  You made that easy.  I grew up feeling so insignificant – like I was an option, never a priority.

I wish I was a daddy’s girl.  But here’s the thing: I am a daddy’s girl.  I wish I was your daddy’s girl.  I know you wished for that too.  I know that you think you have a role in my successes.  I know that you bragged about me, likely still do.  I know that that comes from a place of wishing I was your girl.  I used to lie and brag to my girlfriends too.  I created the image of a father that I wanted and I would tell them that you were just busy, a business-man, will buy me my first car, take me places.  None of it was true.  You were not that man.  You are not driven, successful, too busy, or placing me ahead of anything else.    After Penelope died, you tried to slide into this role.  I was grieving and you saw it as an opportunity to be the father you wished you had been.  You injected yourself into my life when I didn’t need you.  You made things feel worse.  Saw me grieving and asked your grown daughter to sit on your lap.  You wanted to hold me, I get that, but it just felt odd and uncomfortable.  I have a daddy, who’s lap I can curl into when my world has crashed.  That is not and will never be you.  Fuck you for trying.  You lost that privilege and will never have that back.

You try to take credit for my drive, my brain.  How many times do you think you have told the Smartie’s story?  Bribing me with smarties in the grocery store once when I was two had zero impact on my University scholarship, my writing, my acting, or my determination to succeed.  You know what did?  Rick sitting at the table with me while I did my homework. It’s always bothered me that you thought you could take credit for that shit.  You get zero credit. 

I’m hardened, but so soft because of you.  My boundaries are firm but very vast.  I lose my shit when someone says that they are going to do something that they have zero intention of doing.  I won’t do that to my kids, ever!  I know what it feels like to be let down.  My promise is my word because your promises never meant anything.  I’m learning to love myself.  I know to invest where there will likely be a return.  A relationship with you is not reciprocal. 

It’s hard to know what parts of me are a direct connection to your failures or to mom’s successes.  I see parts of my personality with both a positive and negative lens.  Each part of me can be seen as an amazing quality or too much.  I’ve been told that a lot.  I’m too much.  Sometimes I feel like I am too much.  I go too far on almost everything. But people respect it, seek it out, admire it. 

I like men who are in touch.  I never wanted the ‘bad boy.’  I married the most amazing man.  He is everything that you are not.  He is everything that Rick is.  I knew I was worthy of so much more than you and I never fucking settled for someone who would hurt me.  I choose right, he’s nothing like you.  As I walked down the aisle to him, I knew that I had done something right.  You did everything wrong, but somehow, I navigated without you and found him.

Fuck you, you shouldn’t have had the honour of walking me down the aisle to him.

My mistake.

An Open Letter To Those Moving Forward

When you close the door behind you in your new space, I want you to remember a few things:

1.     This is all yours, and there is so much beauty in that.

2.     Everyone loves a protagonist that rises to any occasion, rise.

3.     It’s okay to fall, just don’t stay down for too long.

4.     This is not a step backwards, rather a step sideways onto a new path.

5.     Here there is less: stuff, space, and negative energy.  Learn to live with less because happiness isn’t found in the extras.

6.     A charcuterie board in bed is self-care.  If someone at some point told you otherwise, they are wrong, not me.

7.     Carefully place items on the walls and within the shelves, each item is linked to the new you on this beautiful journey.

8.     It will be too quiet at times, learn to embrace the silence but also learn to fill it with music and laughter.

9.     Play more music and watch less TV in this space.  If the depth of you felt stunted in your last space, refuse that here.

10.  Don’t sacrifice within these walls; no shitty coffee, company, or sex.

An Open Letter To Keanu

You don’t know me and I don’t know you but your grief brought me comfort during the hardest days of my life. Let me explain:

I walked into my apartment and have never felt so alone, like such a failure. The first thing I did in that apartment was to shut the door to the baby’s room because there was no baby - not any more. She was gone and that room was a painful reminder of her previous and short existence. I was high - high from the hospital drugs - as well as in shock of the ongoings of the last 12 hours. The drugs and shock are the only reasons I didn’t rage in that apartment on that morning. The rage came later. Did you rage too?

I went straight to bed, shutting out the awful world in which babies die. When I woke I needed answers, statistics, and to have at least one person who understood. You see, I was given no answers when I left that day. I have only been given one answer. It’s simply this; sometimes babies die. Sometimes babies die? To whom? I had never considered that fact, never, not once. So, I Googled. I wanted to know to who this might happen to and BOOM, there is your name: Keanu Reeves.

You see, as soon as I read your name I was no longer alone. Even though I don’t know you and you don’t know me, I instantly understood a small fraction of you and vice versa. Your name and history brought me comfort on those extremely hard days when I felt like a failure, like I would never move forward. You did, so can I.

As I move forward in my grief I never lose sight of the fact that my story holds weight in this world. My story, my daughter’s short life, as tragic and dark as it is, can provide comfort to someone, as yours did for me. It’s when we feel alone that the days are darkest - you were a light for me and I vow to do that for others.

You don’t know me and I don’t know you but our grief has brought comfort others during the hardest days of their lives.

Open Letter to Penelope at Nestle Baby

Dear Nestle Baby Employee-

Nine years have passed since you answered that call from me. Nine years have passed and I think about that phone call all the time. I want you to know a few things about me.

I’m an ambulance dispatcher. On the day we spoke, I had recently returned to work after the loss of my baby. Everyday since returning I’d dreaded the ‘bad call’ that would set me off. The call where I assist a mother holding her lifeless infant, giving CPR instructions to her as she awaits help. The call where I am forced to listen to her screams. The very screams that resemble those of my own.  On that day, I took that call. I listened to those screams. 

On my way home, I called my husband. I told him of the call and he assured me that wine was waiting for me. All I wanted after work on that day was wine and a bath.

When I grabbed the mail from the lobby I noticed a postcard with a photo of a baby. It read, ‘baby daze’ I still have that postcard. I keep it tucked into a memory album I have for my daughter. It’s one of few things that remind me of her sweet and short life. Holding that postcard, the unfairness of my loss struck. I wanted to scream and throw things. I wanted her back. I was angry and sad and every other emotion one could feel. After the day I’d had, I was resigned to call Nestle Baby and remove myself from the mailing list to make sure that I wouldn’t ever feel what I felt in that lobby, holding that postcard. 

I went up to the apartment, passed the wine and grabbed the phone. Angry and focused I dialed the first customer service number for Nestle Baby I could find online. When you answered I was going to scream at you. Tell you to take my name off your mailing list and to f**k right off. I was going to take out all my loss, heartache, and stress of the day on you. I was going to rip you apart.

Then you answered like this: ‘Nestle Baby, Penelope speaking, how may I help you?’ 

I dropped to my knees. Penelope was my daughter name. I started sobbing, uncontrollably. I can only imagine what you were thinking. I don’t really remember our conversation. Perhaps you do? I know I told you if my loss. I know we talked. If I close my eyes, I hear your voice. ‘Nestle Baby, Penelope speaking’

So, here I am. Nine years later. I’d love for you to know that I still remember your kindness in that day. I would like you to know that your name is beautiful. I’d like you to know that I’m okay. Nine years later and I’m okay. 

So, to the internet, Facebook, and Instagram world. Please share. Share in hopes of Penelope from Nestle Baby remembering this day, 9 years ago, too.