Friday, February 28, 2025
Wednesday, January 15, 2025
Gifts - Written Friday January 8th, 2010 by Cheri (Heidi's Sister)
Today is one of those days that I have to be thankfull for the many gifts I have received from the Universe.
In times like this you have to be thankfull for the gifts we receive. Because those are the things that get us through our toughest times.
Today I am one step closer to being even happier and at peace with myself and my experience. My journey.
I am one step closer to recovery.
And feeling more at peace.
I started out my day remembering I no longer have my sister to call on the telephone. But quickly remembered she was always close by. She was only a thought, a glance at an old photograph, or a beautiful memory we shared together away. My favorite was one of the many goofy things we used to do together. Despite our 14 year age difference. There were many things.
I am so greatfull for the fact that I was the younger of the two sisters, only siblings, and I had my life filled with these memories. It is an honour to have known her all my life. It is the one gift I am so truly honoured to receive. Honoured.
As Heidi's sister, I was able to witness things, and regretfully, judge things a different way. It was through her illness and death did I get to know her as others did. It was her greatest work of art. She was an artist, you know. Many people who knew her, knew that about her. And her life was quite the most exquisite piece one could ever witness. No worldly gallery could possibly display it and give it full justice. There is no media created to capture the lightness of her being. It was breathtaking and inspiring framed by grace and despair.
Jesus said something about whatever he had done, we would be able to do and greater. Heidi is someone who proved that and then some. She had lifted the hearts of so many. She had eased their pain in so many ways. And comforted many. Yup, she was a saint. I, her sister.
I tried to follow her foot steps. However, my feet were two sizes larger. And I really liked driving motorcycles!
And that's life!
I was given the gift of having 3 children by ceasarian section. She had the same scar. For 3 multiple myomectomies. She was never able to have children.
When she was preparing to adopt her long awaited baby she prepared a beautiful baby's room. It was well equiped with a crib with all the lace and frills. A white bassinet and in the corner of the room sat an already in progress teddy bear tea party. With one empty chair.
She looked at an empty crib. Every night she went to bed. Thinking that she will never be a mother. A mom.
I prepared for every pregnancy with watching the little purple lines cross on the little plastic stick I just peed on. Which, by the way, was always preceded with some kind of hormonally fueled argument with my sister. Even after the first time that happened I knew I was pregnant. My sister and I would have some kind of really odd unreasonable argument. Usually it was my not so reasonable side took over. And after I would hang up I would sit there and wonder where the hell that came from????! And then start counting the days. "Uh, oh. Um. Honey? Go to the drug store and get me a pregnancy test? Please??? I don't think we are going to need two. But, you decide."
My last pregnancy I didn't have an argument with Heidi. We just cried together.
Her empty womb echoed our cries. But the echoes were only muffled by the tumors growing in her lungs. A silent scream of "I am dying" came from her heart. "I don't want to die. I love my life!", is what she cried out from her bed on her last New Years Day. But isn't that what most of us tell ourselves everyday? Or at least shouldn't we at least be saying "I love my life!"? Every moment we have? How many moments do we really have to consciously sit there and say,"I love my life!" I have written that on my shower wall with my family's bath time crayons. Along with other inspirational sayings, like "Remember to wash behind your ears." Hey! I can't be everywhere all the time, and remember to tell them little things like that. I would rather to remember to tell them that I love them and take the time it needs to show them that. And that is my full time job. And another gift that I am greatfull for.
At least writing on the bathroom wall will inspire them to read. Eventually they will start wondering what the heck mom is writing on the wall this week. And at least they might become semi-literate. You never know, it might be a secret code for a map to the family treasures! Yeah, right.
Maybe I will start writing recipes on the wall with the hopes that one or two of them will learn how to read and cook. I will have to remember to try that soon. Maybe Tiatoo will start to pitch in with a paw in the kitchen.
I went on with my day. I handled my sleep deprived, grief burdened parents like the the thin slice of processed cheese of this generation sandwich that I am. It used to be a ham and cheese generation sandwich, however, the meat of this sandwich was already eaten up by life. By cancer.
They are truly forlorn without her. She was their love child. I was hers. She was my mom. She was my sister. She was my friend. She was our meat. She was Heidi.
I was thankfull today that I still have my parents, and they still come to help me any way they can. Having them to spend time with even if it means dealing with their quirks is important to me. It's important for my children. But sometimes I sit there and look up and say, "See! This is how I live!", knowing full well my sister is looking back down at me and laughing at my daughters' recent over-production of poop. And my mom, all the while I clean and change said product of my female poop master's butt, telling me how I have to feed her more, "she's too skinny". My mom doesn't seem to realize that there is obviously something making it past my daughter's mouth that produces so much fecal matter in just one sitting. Pardon the pun. But if I feed her any more, I am going to have to put a serious effort into potty training the Queen of Poopdom. The kid is skinny because she metabolizes her food very well. And she in her terribly, terrific two's. I am going to enjoy those tweens, teens, and twenties. At least she'll have trained herself through the motivation of sheer peer pressure by then. Hopefully.
By the way... Trin... When you read this in your tweens, teens or twenties... Assuming you did learn how to read through mommy's rantings on the shower walls... Thanks for that lovely corn laden piece of art you created for me this afternoon. That was a real gift. Lovely fragrance too. I was impressed. So was Opa in the next room.
As evening wore on and chances for a homemade dinner became as likely as our winning tonight's jackpot lottery win, I became ever so greatfull for the left over roast from two nights ago still sitting in our fridge. Its amazing how a reformed vegetarian can be so filled with gratitude for two hunks of meat sealed in a reused plastic take-out container. Not very appetizing but it was a foundation for something nutritious. Yup, that's what I told myself at least. I was greatfull, nonetheless. I didn't have to think too much to slap something together that my kids will eat. There was always that chocolate cake Trin and I made earlier today when I needed to distract her with something constructive to do. Empty calories, but at least I don't have to worry about my mom saying that Trin was getting too skinny. And I will have solid proof that my kid really does eat.
I miss my sister. It's been six weeks. Every Friday night marks another week since that night. At 9:20 pm, or somewhere there abouts, I remember how her hand felt in mine. I remember how she slipped, so beautifully, away. How her hand was cold long before her heart was. Those final moments, the final strokes of her paint brush.
Or so I had thought.
Today, I was reminded again how her hand was still busy working the final touches. Those tiny nuances that add light to accentuate the colour of a leaf. Her life.
Her life after her life.
I stood looking at the reflection in the window of my screen door. I stood remembering the few moments on Christmas Eve when I believed she is still alive. I mean, still in her physical form. I saw her standing outside my door. I saw her smiling, with long blonde, natural hair. She was happy and free to be where ever she wanted to be. She was leaving my house. At about the same time she would have left all the years before. She looked so beautiful!
As beautiful as life.
In times like this you have to be thankfull for the gifts we receive. Because those are the things that get us through our toughest times.
Today I am one step closer to being even happier and at peace with myself and my experience. My journey.
I am one step closer to recovery.
And feeling more at peace.
I started out my day remembering I no longer have my sister to call on the telephone. But quickly remembered she was always close by. She was only a thought, a glance at an old photograph, or a beautiful memory we shared together away. My favorite was one of the many goofy things we used to do together. Despite our 14 year age difference. There were many things.
I am so greatfull for the fact that I was the younger of the two sisters, only siblings, and I had my life filled with these memories. It is an honour to have known her all my life. It is the one gift I am so truly honoured to receive. Honoured.
As Heidi's sister, I was able to witness things, and regretfully, judge things a different way. It was through her illness and death did I get to know her as others did. It was her greatest work of art. She was an artist, you know. Many people who knew her, knew that about her. And her life was quite the most exquisite piece one could ever witness. No worldly gallery could possibly display it and give it full justice. There is no media created to capture the lightness of her being. It was breathtaking and inspiring framed by grace and despair.
Jesus said something about whatever he had done, we would be able to do and greater. Heidi is someone who proved that and then some. She had lifted the hearts of so many. She had eased their pain in so many ways. And comforted many. Yup, she was a saint. I, her sister.
I tried to follow her foot steps. However, my feet were two sizes larger. And I really liked driving motorcycles!
And that's life!
I was given the gift of having 3 children by ceasarian section. She had the same scar. For 3 multiple myomectomies. She was never able to have children.
When she was preparing to adopt her long awaited baby she prepared a beautiful baby's room. It was well equiped with a crib with all the lace and frills. A white bassinet and in the corner of the room sat an already in progress teddy bear tea party. With one empty chair.
She looked at an empty crib. Every night she went to bed. Thinking that she will never be a mother. A mom.
I prepared for every pregnancy with watching the little purple lines cross on the little plastic stick I just peed on. Which, by the way, was always preceded with some kind of hormonally fueled argument with my sister. Even after the first time that happened I knew I was pregnant. My sister and I would have some kind of really odd unreasonable argument. Usually it was my not so reasonable side took over. And after I would hang up I would sit there and wonder where the hell that came from????! And then start counting the days. "Uh, oh. Um. Honey? Go to the drug store and get me a pregnancy test? Please??? I don't think we are going to need two. But, you decide."
My last pregnancy I didn't have an argument with Heidi. We just cried together.
Her empty womb echoed our cries. But the echoes were only muffled by the tumors growing in her lungs. A silent scream of "I am dying" came from her heart. "I don't want to die. I love my life!", is what she cried out from her bed on her last New Years Day. But isn't that what most of us tell ourselves everyday? Or at least shouldn't we at least be saying "I love my life!"? Every moment we have? How many moments do we really have to consciously sit there and say,"I love my life!" I have written that on my shower wall with my family's bath time crayons. Along with other inspirational sayings, like "Remember to wash behind your ears." Hey! I can't be everywhere all the time, and remember to tell them little things like that. I would rather to remember to tell them that I love them and take the time it needs to show them that. And that is my full time job. And another gift that I am greatfull for.
At least writing on the bathroom wall will inspire them to read. Eventually they will start wondering what the heck mom is writing on the wall this week. And at least they might become semi-literate. You never know, it might be a secret code for a map to the family treasures! Yeah, right.
Maybe I will start writing recipes on the wall with the hopes that one or two of them will learn how to read and cook. I will have to remember to try that soon. Maybe Tiatoo will start to pitch in with a paw in the kitchen.
I went on with my day. I handled my sleep deprived, grief burdened parents like the the thin slice of processed cheese of this generation sandwich that I am. It used to be a ham and cheese generation sandwich, however, the meat of this sandwich was already eaten up by life. By cancer.
They are truly forlorn without her. She was their love child. I was hers. She was my mom. She was my sister. She was my friend. She was our meat. She was Heidi.
I was thankfull today that I still have my parents, and they still come to help me any way they can. Having them to spend time with even if it means dealing with their quirks is important to me. It's important for my children. But sometimes I sit there and look up and say, "See! This is how I live!", knowing full well my sister is looking back down at me and laughing at my daughters' recent over-production of poop. And my mom, all the while I clean and change said product of my female poop master's butt, telling me how I have to feed her more, "she's too skinny". My mom doesn't seem to realize that there is obviously something making it past my daughter's mouth that produces so much fecal matter in just one sitting. Pardon the pun. But if I feed her any more, I am going to have to put a serious effort into potty training the Queen of Poopdom. The kid is skinny because she metabolizes her food very well. And she in her terribly, terrific two's. I am going to enjoy those tweens, teens, and twenties. At least she'll have trained herself through the motivation of sheer peer pressure by then. Hopefully.
By the way... Trin... When you read this in your tweens, teens or twenties... Assuming you did learn how to read through mommy's rantings on the shower walls... Thanks for that lovely corn laden piece of art you created for me this afternoon. That was a real gift. Lovely fragrance too. I was impressed. So was Opa in the next room.
As evening wore on and chances for a homemade dinner became as likely as our winning tonight's jackpot lottery win, I became ever so greatfull for the left over roast from two nights ago still sitting in our fridge. Its amazing how a reformed vegetarian can be so filled with gratitude for two hunks of meat sealed in a reused plastic take-out container. Not very appetizing but it was a foundation for something nutritious. Yup, that's what I told myself at least. I was greatfull, nonetheless. I didn't have to think too much to slap something together that my kids will eat. There was always that chocolate cake Trin and I made earlier today when I needed to distract her with something constructive to do. Empty calories, but at least I don't have to worry about my mom saying that Trin was getting too skinny. And I will have solid proof that my kid really does eat.
I miss my sister. It's been six weeks. Every Friday night marks another week since that night. At 9:20 pm, or somewhere there abouts, I remember how her hand felt in mine. I remember how she slipped, so beautifully, away. How her hand was cold long before her heart was. Those final moments, the final strokes of her paint brush.
Or so I had thought.
Today, I was reminded again how her hand was still busy working the final touches. Those tiny nuances that add light to accentuate the colour of a leaf. Her life.
Her life after her life.
I stood looking at the reflection in the window of my screen door. I stood remembering the few moments on Christmas Eve when I believed she is still alive. I mean, still in her physical form. I saw her standing outside my door. I saw her smiling, with long blonde, natural hair. She was happy and free to be where ever she wanted to be. She was leaving my house. At about the same time she would have left all the years before. She looked so beautiful!
As beautiful as life.
Roadblocks and Rememberance (Written about November 13th, 2009) By Cheri (Heidi's Sister)
There are times in life when I am so greatful for moments where I can actually find something to laugh about. This is one of those moments. I am very greatful to the cast and crew of The Big Bang Theory. Thank You!
At the end of the day, if the world’s troubles depended on your next decision, what would you choose to do? I asked myself that question just a few moments ago. It was the very first time I had come across a situation where I needed to ask myself that caliber of a question. I was reflecting on the events of the week, global and personal. It was a tough week for me. As it was for many others. It was Remembrance Day this week. A time to reflect and pay respect to many that have given their lives for peace. Until this moment I could not understand what it was to be a soldier. I could not understand why someone would choose this way of life. But now I understand the honor that goes with being a soldier to fight for peace. I understand what it means to give your life so that others may have peace in theirs.
Today was a particular day where vengeance and justice became my motivating force. It is something that I don’t frequently feel. However, I have felt it strongly in the past – but that’s another story. I believe every experience we go through we take something from it. Learn from it. If we do not learn, we must repeat it again. And sometimes, similar challenges are set before us, to see how well we have learned from the previous lessons. Today was one of those days for me.
A situation was brought before me where most would judge it to be inhumane. Immoral. Even, cruel. It was definitely how I had judged it to be for most of the hours of my day. It had caused me to feel things and do things, and say things that I believed was out of love and protection. I had a grievance against another human being, and nothing was going to stop me from trying to achieve my goal of destroying that person in some way. I was not patient in letting the Universe unfold its secrets. I was resistant to the roadblocks placed before me as I had set out on my campaign of destruction. Every phone call I had made, every authority I was connected to brought me no closer to a resolution or my satisfaction. I was livid that a system was so flawed in caring for its weak. I was even more livid that I perceived myself to be so helpless for someone I love so dearly. My last words before I left her side were “I love you.”
I walked away with anger.
I was at a complete loss as to go about what I had set out to do. I was confused with fear and hatred for someone I barely know. I knew only that retribution was to be the reward for the actions which I had just witnessed. “Where do I start?” I asked myself. Do I knock on a neighbor’s door? Should I wipe on their door step what sticks to the bottom of my shoe? What can they do to help? Is it really asking for help or is it just asking them to participate by listening to my campaign? Would they know who I am or would they just think I am a crazed woman asking them to blindly join my cause? I stepped back off the curb and away from the direction of the neighbor’s door.
I drove away in confusion.
What is the best way to deal with this? Who can I talk to? Where do I go? If I go home, I take this with me and bring it home to my children. Why should they suffer for another’s ignorance and shameful behaviour? Yet, still I drove in that direction hoping an answer will come to me. I wanted nothing more than to be home and to be held. An idea struck me. But the police station was miles back, and there wasn’t one in my area. The universe provided an officer of the law for me by way of a speed trap. I am not sure if he pulled me over or if it was I who pulled him away from his regular business. You can thank me later if you were one of those who sped illegally past us.
It was the first time I had began to truly sob. I was in a miserable state. I had even used the sleeve of my ski jacket to wipe the tears and snot that ran down my sweat soaked face. I recounted the story. I question myself now if it was to expose the already seasoned officer of the further dereliction of the human race, or if it was to summon his support in a time of crisis. Nevertheless, he pointed me in a semi correct direction of how to commence my campaign of destruction.
Lawyers were called. Distraught parents. Police Units. Hospitals. Doctors. Nursing care. Crisis Centres. Friends. I even considered calling the local papers. There was no satisfaction in anything I heard. There was no resolution. Only blessings wished upon me and the situation.
It wasn’t until half way through a conversation with a friend that something had changed. It was after I had spoken with an angel at a public health hotline. The agent had humbly apologized that there was nothing that could be done, despite the situation’s despicable nature. The agent suggested I took care for myself and wished blessings to come my way this evening. It was the only thing she could offer as help in this time of need.
The friend was outraged. She had lived in search of vengeance for some time. She was no stranger to it, and had already begun her own campaign of destruction in the name of my same cause. “What are we to do? What can we do? What is legal? What is right?” We volleyed these questions at each other. Only one answer came to my lips. Only one that is powerful enough to make miracles happen.
“Pray.”
“It is the only thing we can do. Pray. Pray for Heidi.”
It was only then that I felt a wave of satisfaction come over me. It was only then that I could stop the tears from flowing. It was then that I know what Heidi would want. I am not a religious person. It is not how I choose to describe my faith. It works for many others. In my experience, religion doesn’t work for me. I can’t seem to go to any house of worship without crying and that just makes it terribly difficult to read the literature. Although I do carry a card in my purse with the Prayer of St. Francis printed on it.
I have started a ritual in the last few months. No matter how hard my day was, no matter how emotionally trying it was, I will end the day with a sitcom and a bath. I am always guaranteed a good laugh with the two sitcoms I choose to watch at this time. Tonight was no different. My bath has become my ritual to wash away any dirt that remains from my day, physical and/or emotional. Tonight I had plenty of both.
I have learned it is the quality of questions we ask ourselves that improves the quality of our lives. As I slowly undressed, peeling off layers of tear and sweat stained fabrics, a question popped into my mind. “If the future of the entire planet, and possibly the universe was laid on my shoulders right now, what would I choose?” The last thing my sister said to me during our last telephone conversation of the evening was, “I just don’t want to fight anymore. I can’t take it any longer. My heart is too weak.” I agreed, thinking to myself, “This isn’t finished. I can do this for her without her being affected by it.” But really I was kidding myself. There isn’t any way this could be done without her being affected by it. Not while she is alive. Not while it is still remained meaningful in its cause. Not while the rage and need for vengeance is still burning like a brand on my heart. My love for her began to soften my need to destroy and seek redemption. This time is about what she wants.
I gingerly stepped into the bath tub. The water had barely covered the floor of tub. The question still haunting me, breaking through my mind past the noise of the water gushing from the tap as the water rose above my thighs. The question still lingered and hummed through my head in harmony with the whir of the whirlpool jets. I closed my eyes and submersed my head below the waterline so that only my mouth and nose were exposed to the rising steam of the cleansing water. Released emotions swam around in my head as the oils and dirt dislodged themselves and swam around my body.
The jets flicked off and only the drip, drip, drip of the faucet could be heard as the last remaining droplets of water fell from its mouth. A calm. A resolution. Satisfaction.
Today is Friday the 13th of November. I was visualizing and reflecting on all of the turmoil of my week, coincidentally climaxing on this superstitiously unfortunate day. I used to judge soldiers to be cogs in the machines of war. They were sent off to fight. To kill. To destroy. They chose to defeat the enemy with violence and sometimes, terror. Until this week I had never looked very closely at what it really meant to be a soldier. With the many wars civilization has repeatedly experienced, in the past and present. It is hard to really understand what they are really about and what was being learned from them. I looked passed the thick lenses of glasses into the eyes of a veteran. I saw that there was a look of dissatisfaction as he pressed his toothless gums together. It wasn’t anger, nor vengeance, but pity that burned in his heart. A pained look came across his face when he gazed at the latest generation of wounded soldiers saluting before him. The canons rocked and he shook as if it were still the first time he heard them, not the anniversary of his sixty-fifth year of hearing them. With age and experience he was already wise to the answer of the question that was building up in my mind.
“If the future of the entire planet, and possibly the universe was laid on my shoulders right now, what would I choose?”
I chose peace.
At the end of the day, if the world’s troubles depended on your next decision, what would you choose to do? I asked myself that question just a few moments ago. It was the very first time I had come across a situation where I needed to ask myself that caliber of a question. I was reflecting on the events of the week, global and personal. It was a tough week for me. As it was for many others. It was Remembrance Day this week. A time to reflect and pay respect to many that have given their lives for peace. Until this moment I could not understand what it was to be a soldier. I could not understand why someone would choose this way of life. But now I understand the honor that goes with being a soldier to fight for peace. I understand what it means to give your life so that others may have peace in theirs.
Today was a particular day where vengeance and justice became my motivating force. It is something that I don’t frequently feel. However, I have felt it strongly in the past – but that’s another story. I believe every experience we go through we take something from it. Learn from it. If we do not learn, we must repeat it again. And sometimes, similar challenges are set before us, to see how well we have learned from the previous lessons. Today was one of those days for me.
A situation was brought before me where most would judge it to be inhumane. Immoral. Even, cruel. It was definitely how I had judged it to be for most of the hours of my day. It had caused me to feel things and do things, and say things that I believed was out of love and protection. I had a grievance against another human being, and nothing was going to stop me from trying to achieve my goal of destroying that person in some way. I was not patient in letting the Universe unfold its secrets. I was resistant to the roadblocks placed before me as I had set out on my campaign of destruction. Every phone call I had made, every authority I was connected to brought me no closer to a resolution or my satisfaction. I was livid that a system was so flawed in caring for its weak. I was even more livid that I perceived myself to be so helpless for someone I love so dearly. My last words before I left her side were “I love you.”
I walked away with anger.
I was at a complete loss as to go about what I had set out to do. I was confused with fear and hatred for someone I barely know. I knew only that retribution was to be the reward for the actions which I had just witnessed. “Where do I start?” I asked myself. Do I knock on a neighbor’s door? Should I wipe on their door step what sticks to the bottom of my shoe? What can they do to help? Is it really asking for help or is it just asking them to participate by listening to my campaign? Would they know who I am or would they just think I am a crazed woman asking them to blindly join my cause? I stepped back off the curb and away from the direction of the neighbor’s door.
I drove away in confusion.
What is the best way to deal with this? Who can I talk to? Where do I go? If I go home, I take this with me and bring it home to my children. Why should they suffer for another’s ignorance and shameful behaviour? Yet, still I drove in that direction hoping an answer will come to me. I wanted nothing more than to be home and to be held. An idea struck me. But the police station was miles back, and there wasn’t one in my area. The universe provided an officer of the law for me by way of a speed trap. I am not sure if he pulled me over or if it was I who pulled him away from his regular business. You can thank me later if you were one of those who sped illegally past us.
It was the first time I had began to truly sob. I was in a miserable state. I had even used the sleeve of my ski jacket to wipe the tears and snot that ran down my sweat soaked face. I recounted the story. I question myself now if it was to expose the already seasoned officer of the further dereliction of the human race, or if it was to summon his support in a time of crisis. Nevertheless, he pointed me in a semi correct direction of how to commence my campaign of destruction.
Lawyers were called. Distraught parents. Police Units. Hospitals. Doctors. Nursing care. Crisis Centres. Friends. I even considered calling the local papers. There was no satisfaction in anything I heard. There was no resolution. Only blessings wished upon me and the situation.
It wasn’t until half way through a conversation with a friend that something had changed. It was after I had spoken with an angel at a public health hotline. The agent had humbly apologized that there was nothing that could be done, despite the situation’s despicable nature. The agent suggested I took care for myself and wished blessings to come my way this evening. It was the only thing she could offer as help in this time of need.
The friend was outraged. She had lived in search of vengeance for some time. She was no stranger to it, and had already begun her own campaign of destruction in the name of my same cause. “What are we to do? What can we do? What is legal? What is right?” We volleyed these questions at each other. Only one answer came to my lips. Only one that is powerful enough to make miracles happen.
“Pray.”
“It is the only thing we can do. Pray. Pray for Heidi.”
It was only then that I felt a wave of satisfaction come over me. It was only then that I could stop the tears from flowing. It was then that I know what Heidi would want. I am not a religious person. It is not how I choose to describe my faith. It works for many others. In my experience, religion doesn’t work for me. I can’t seem to go to any house of worship without crying and that just makes it terribly difficult to read the literature. Although I do carry a card in my purse with the Prayer of St. Francis printed on it.
I have started a ritual in the last few months. No matter how hard my day was, no matter how emotionally trying it was, I will end the day with a sitcom and a bath. I am always guaranteed a good laugh with the two sitcoms I choose to watch at this time. Tonight was no different. My bath has become my ritual to wash away any dirt that remains from my day, physical and/or emotional. Tonight I had plenty of both.
I have learned it is the quality of questions we ask ourselves that improves the quality of our lives. As I slowly undressed, peeling off layers of tear and sweat stained fabrics, a question popped into my mind. “If the future of the entire planet, and possibly the universe was laid on my shoulders right now, what would I choose?” The last thing my sister said to me during our last telephone conversation of the evening was, “I just don’t want to fight anymore. I can’t take it any longer. My heart is too weak.” I agreed, thinking to myself, “This isn’t finished. I can do this for her without her being affected by it.” But really I was kidding myself. There isn’t any way this could be done without her being affected by it. Not while she is alive. Not while it is still remained meaningful in its cause. Not while the rage and need for vengeance is still burning like a brand on my heart. My love for her began to soften my need to destroy and seek redemption. This time is about what she wants.
I gingerly stepped into the bath tub. The water had barely covered the floor of tub. The question still haunting me, breaking through my mind past the noise of the water gushing from the tap as the water rose above my thighs. The question still lingered and hummed through my head in harmony with the whir of the whirlpool jets. I closed my eyes and submersed my head below the waterline so that only my mouth and nose were exposed to the rising steam of the cleansing water. Released emotions swam around in my head as the oils and dirt dislodged themselves and swam around my body.
The jets flicked off and only the drip, drip, drip of the faucet could be heard as the last remaining droplets of water fell from its mouth. A calm. A resolution. Satisfaction.
Today is Friday the 13th of November. I was visualizing and reflecting on all of the turmoil of my week, coincidentally climaxing on this superstitiously unfortunate day. I used to judge soldiers to be cogs in the machines of war. They were sent off to fight. To kill. To destroy. They chose to defeat the enemy with violence and sometimes, terror. Until this week I had never looked very closely at what it really meant to be a soldier. With the many wars civilization has repeatedly experienced, in the past and present. It is hard to really understand what they are really about and what was being learned from them. I looked passed the thick lenses of glasses into the eyes of a veteran. I saw that there was a look of dissatisfaction as he pressed his toothless gums together. It wasn’t anger, nor vengeance, but pity that burned in his heart. A pained look came across his face when he gazed at the latest generation of wounded soldiers saluting before him. The canons rocked and he shook as if it were still the first time he heard them, not the anniversary of his sixty-fifth year of hearing them. With age and experience he was already wise to the answer of the question that was building up in my mind.
“If the future of the entire planet, and possibly the universe was laid on my shoulders right now, what would I choose?”
I chose peace.
Burdens (written about December 17th, 2008), By Cheri (Heidi's Sister)
Soft music filled the air. Wordless tunes of merry holiday wishes and one horse open sleighs played throughout the open corridors, encouraging already debt laden, weary customers to spend some more. “No interest. No payments for 18 months“, the signs all around shouted in bold, black lettering against their garish, neon yellow backgrounds. Signs trimmed with holly and bells, and fine print barely visible without the aid of reading glasses. Printers zipping off the latest purchaser’s credit card receipt mingled with the distinct jingling of the bells of a soldier asking for alms for the poor . Only a few coins swam around the clear plastic bowl, trying to find refuge under the single five dollar bill.
We slowly walked through the sparse crowds with the goal of making it to the center of this retail maze. It was our annual pilgrimage to the man in the red suit who sits on his golden throne. This year was different though. We weren’t skipping along joyfully as we had in previous years. It was a week after I had given birth by caesarian section to my third child. My body ached with exhaustion. My heart ached with grief. I watched my sister carry load of jackets. She was always like that. She always needed to carry someone else’s burden despite her own. She would take a few hurried steps as if her body had forgotten that it was no longer able to take on this simple task. She would stop, cough, adjust her load, and continue on, a little slower this time. This was Heidi. Determined. Defiant. Dying.
We stood in line with the other families. Children running amok. Giggles and whines. My sister and I looked on to my own two children. My newborn son was at home in the protective warmth of his father’s arms. Too new to be out in the December cold. My 16 month old lifted her dress, showing her belly button to her new playmate. I call it the Toddler Salute. The other child returned the gesture, as if it were a secret language of greeting fellow toddlers. I wondered how it was that I was so lucky to be blessed with such perfection in my life. My sister laughed and took photos of the group of tiny people gathering in the circle before us. My son, older and wiser to the situation stood back with me, with a look of deep contemplation on his face. I mistook it for deep concentration on what he should ask Santa for. After all, that is what we were there for.
Julian is years beyond his age of eight. He knows everything going on. He knows that Tante Heidi is wearing a wig. A wig made of synthetic hair, not like the real hair he grew. It was just that summer past that he had donated his own beautiful locks of hair that he had grown for more than two years. Despite my efforts of dissuading him, the schoolyard teasing, and being mistaken for a girl a number of times, he still grew it. He knew that there was another child out there somewhere that needed his hair. He was determined to carry this burden of taunts and ignorance so that he could give another child some joy. He knows why Tante Heidi wears her wig. He knows she is sick and getting chemotherapy regularly so that she can stay alive a little longer than the eight to ten months the doctors had given her. She was already in month six.
We move a little closer to see Santa. I pick Trinity up so that she can see the other children sitting on Santa’s knee. “Look at the other children having fun, getting their picture taken and telling Santa what toy they want for Christmas!” I say with hopes that she will be encouraged to keep her usual pleasant disposition when it’s our turn. She reaches over to her Tante Heidi and pulls Heidi’s wig askew. I help my sister set it straight again, and I notice the melted strands of synthetic hair. She had been baking cookies a few days before and forgot that she was wearing her wig when she bent over to take them out of the hot oven. She had trimmed away a great deal of her bangs so that people couldn’t see the remnants of her error in judgment. We centered it and adjusted it so that the evidence was barely visible.
Trinity is screaming. Clawing her way from Santa. No picture this year with her sitting on his knee. I push my sister next to Santa. I sit next to her with Trinity on my knee. Julian has years of experience and knows what to expect. He sits comfortably on Santa’s right knee. We all smile, except for Trinity. Her eyes are as round as her mouth. A big ‘O’ is frozen on her face. Lights flash. The moment is captured forever in time. I thank Santa and his helpers and notice my sister hesitantly whispering something in his ear. He shakes her hand and wishes her a Merry Christmas. For a brief moment Heidi looks like a small child. “I asked Santa for one more Christmas”, she admits to me in a voice as small as the child she looked like. I wiped away the tears. I had never imagined a Christmas without my big sister.
It’s Julian’s turn. Instead of taking his usual time telling Santa, he quickly tells him what he wants and walks away. I notice something different about Santa this year. He didn’t just wave and turn to the next child. His eyes lingered on my son. He looked speechless and puzzled for a moment. His gaze turned to my sister for a moment and back to my son. Another look crossed his face. As if he were doing a math problem in his head and the answer had finally dawned on him. “Merry Christmas…” he finally responded in almost a whisper.
For years I have been trying to keep the magic of Christmas alive for my son. Every visit with Santa is always followed by dinner at a restaurant where we discuss what he asked for over a burger and a chocolate milkshake. It was our way of making sure that Santa always got him what he asked for. “I’ll tell you later”, was his answer when I prodded him into telling me. It was incredibly important for me to know, and I wanted him to tell me before his eight year old memory started to become vague with the short time between then and bedtime. “No, mom. I’ll tell you later”, he repeated after glancing at his aunt. I figured he was just embarrassed of his immature Christmas wish and didn’t want anyone other than his mommy to know. I let it go until bedtime that night.
“So. What did you ask Santa for Christmas this year?” I asked in my enquiring minds want to know voice. He told me. I was speechless. I quickly kissed him good night. Waited for his deep breathing as sleep swept over him and took him to a far off place where dreams were real. I slipped out of his bed, avoiding the creaky floor boards of his room and clicked the door closed behind me.
I took a deep breath and began to let it all out. Tears rolled down my cheeks and grief brought me to my knees. Great, deep moans crawled out from my mouth. Ken reached down for me and lifted me into his arms. He knew how hard I have been taking all of this. He has been my strength when I was too weak. He is the one who cares for our children when my eyes are too puffy and red, and pasting on a smile is too much of an effort. He asked me why I was crying. I was totally devastated and exhausted from emotion. I laid down and got enough control of myself to tell him the events of the evening. As I laid my tear soaked face on my own pillow, I told him about our son.
“He gave up his own Christmas wish for someone else.” I said between heaving breaths. A mixed emotion of a mother‘s pride and a sister‘s sorrow tore away at my heart. “Instead of asking for another car racing track, a wrestling action figure, or some mindless game for his video game player. He asked Santa for a gift for someone else. At an age when a boy should be selfish and careless, and the burdens of life should still be light, my eight year old son asked Santa for Tante Heidi to be well again.”
We slowly walked through the sparse crowds with the goal of making it to the center of this retail maze. It was our annual pilgrimage to the man in the red suit who sits on his golden throne. This year was different though. We weren’t skipping along joyfully as we had in previous years. It was a week after I had given birth by caesarian section to my third child. My body ached with exhaustion. My heart ached with grief. I watched my sister carry load of jackets. She was always like that. She always needed to carry someone else’s burden despite her own. She would take a few hurried steps as if her body had forgotten that it was no longer able to take on this simple task. She would stop, cough, adjust her load, and continue on, a little slower this time. This was Heidi. Determined. Defiant. Dying.
We stood in line with the other families. Children running amok. Giggles and whines. My sister and I looked on to my own two children. My newborn son was at home in the protective warmth of his father’s arms. Too new to be out in the December cold. My 16 month old lifted her dress, showing her belly button to her new playmate. I call it the Toddler Salute. The other child returned the gesture, as if it were a secret language of greeting fellow toddlers. I wondered how it was that I was so lucky to be blessed with such perfection in my life. My sister laughed and took photos of the group of tiny people gathering in the circle before us. My son, older and wiser to the situation stood back with me, with a look of deep contemplation on his face. I mistook it for deep concentration on what he should ask Santa for. After all, that is what we were there for.
Julian is years beyond his age of eight. He knows everything going on. He knows that Tante Heidi is wearing a wig. A wig made of synthetic hair, not like the real hair he grew. It was just that summer past that he had donated his own beautiful locks of hair that he had grown for more than two years. Despite my efforts of dissuading him, the schoolyard teasing, and being mistaken for a girl a number of times, he still grew it. He knew that there was another child out there somewhere that needed his hair. He was determined to carry this burden of taunts and ignorance so that he could give another child some joy. He knows why Tante Heidi wears her wig. He knows she is sick and getting chemotherapy regularly so that she can stay alive a little longer than the eight to ten months the doctors had given her. She was already in month six.
We move a little closer to see Santa. I pick Trinity up so that she can see the other children sitting on Santa’s knee. “Look at the other children having fun, getting their picture taken and telling Santa what toy they want for Christmas!” I say with hopes that she will be encouraged to keep her usual pleasant disposition when it’s our turn. She reaches over to her Tante Heidi and pulls Heidi’s wig askew. I help my sister set it straight again, and I notice the melted strands of synthetic hair. She had been baking cookies a few days before and forgot that she was wearing her wig when she bent over to take them out of the hot oven. She had trimmed away a great deal of her bangs so that people couldn’t see the remnants of her error in judgment. We centered it and adjusted it so that the evidence was barely visible.
Trinity is screaming. Clawing her way from Santa. No picture this year with her sitting on his knee. I push my sister next to Santa. I sit next to her with Trinity on my knee. Julian has years of experience and knows what to expect. He sits comfortably on Santa’s right knee. We all smile, except for Trinity. Her eyes are as round as her mouth. A big ‘O’ is frozen on her face. Lights flash. The moment is captured forever in time. I thank Santa and his helpers and notice my sister hesitantly whispering something in his ear. He shakes her hand and wishes her a Merry Christmas. For a brief moment Heidi looks like a small child. “I asked Santa for one more Christmas”, she admits to me in a voice as small as the child she looked like. I wiped away the tears. I had never imagined a Christmas without my big sister.
It’s Julian’s turn. Instead of taking his usual time telling Santa, he quickly tells him what he wants and walks away. I notice something different about Santa this year. He didn’t just wave and turn to the next child. His eyes lingered on my son. He looked speechless and puzzled for a moment. His gaze turned to my sister for a moment and back to my son. Another look crossed his face. As if he were doing a math problem in his head and the answer had finally dawned on him. “Merry Christmas…” he finally responded in almost a whisper.
For years I have been trying to keep the magic of Christmas alive for my son. Every visit with Santa is always followed by dinner at a restaurant where we discuss what he asked for over a burger and a chocolate milkshake. It was our way of making sure that Santa always got him what he asked for. “I’ll tell you later”, was his answer when I prodded him into telling me. It was incredibly important for me to know, and I wanted him to tell me before his eight year old memory started to become vague with the short time between then and bedtime. “No, mom. I’ll tell you later”, he repeated after glancing at his aunt. I figured he was just embarrassed of his immature Christmas wish and didn’t want anyone other than his mommy to know. I let it go until bedtime that night.
“So. What did you ask Santa for Christmas this year?” I asked in my enquiring minds want to know voice. He told me. I was speechless. I quickly kissed him good night. Waited for his deep breathing as sleep swept over him and took him to a far off place where dreams were real. I slipped out of his bed, avoiding the creaky floor boards of his room and clicked the door closed behind me.
I took a deep breath and began to let it all out. Tears rolled down my cheeks and grief brought me to my knees. Great, deep moans crawled out from my mouth. Ken reached down for me and lifted me into his arms. He knew how hard I have been taking all of this. He has been my strength when I was too weak. He is the one who cares for our children when my eyes are too puffy and red, and pasting on a smile is too much of an effort. He asked me why I was crying. I was totally devastated and exhausted from emotion. I laid down and got enough control of myself to tell him the events of the evening. As I laid my tear soaked face on my own pillow, I told him about our son.
“He gave up his own Christmas wish for someone else.” I said between heaving breaths. A mixed emotion of a mother‘s pride and a sister‘s sorrow tore away at my heart. “Instead of asking for another car racing track, a wrestling action figure, or some mindless game for his video game player. He asked Santa for a gift for someone else. At an age when a boy should be selfish and careless, and the burdens of life should still be light, my eight year old son asked Santa for Tante Heidi to be well again.”
Tuesday, November 15, 2022
Where Do We Go From Here?
I don't know about your life, but mine seems to be always changing. A certain amount of adaptability is most definitely required or it would simply make me crazy.
I have a lot of things going on. On the surface it doesn't look like a lot... Three kids, a mom with Alzheimers Dementia, my rascal of a dog, and two businesses. Once you spend a little time and dig a little deeper, it's amazing that one person juggles what I do under the conditions and circumstances under which I do it. I'm actually not here to brag, (far from it), but to connect with you, dear reader audience, to help you with your own life challenges and see that if I can do all of this and work my way from the ground up, you can too!
I always say you have to laugh your way through life or else you will find yourself drowning in your own tears. Believe me. I've been there, covered in snot and tears, struggling to make sense of some of the worst things life can throw at a person. I don't want to talk about these things right now. What I do want to talk about is some of the fundamentals of what you need to build yourself back up again.
Let's start with mental health. The pillars of good mental health are:
Healthy Diet
Regular Exercise
Sleep
Meditation
Sleep - I was in my late 30's before I learned these things. I had chronic insomnia during my high school and college years and into my 30's before I learned that sleep deprivation was a sure fire way to become emotionally dysregulated. Meaning, I'd cry at the drop of a hat or even worse, become self destructive and do some really stupid shit like overdose on pills and attempt suicide.
Sunday, December 19, 2021
My Connection with My Spirituality
I dealt with depression since I was a kid. Children of Hoarding disorder often are emotionally, psychologically, physically abused and neglected. My sister and I were no different. Parents with Hoarding Disorder often suffer a multitude of mental health issues like Post Traumatic Stress Disorder, tragic loss, victims of violence, or have a physical reason as to why they hoard. Brain injuries and dementia are causes for hoarding as well. Both my mother's and father's life histories were filled with violence and loss. They were from Slovenia and Austria, and were young children when World War II broke out. They were children of the Depression Era. My father's history in Europe ended with losing his own homeland and everything he knew. Forced at the tender age of 15 to join the German Army. Migrated through Europe in Displaced Persons Work Camps and eventually ended up in a small town of Skt. Josef, Austria where he worked alongside my mother in the farm fields.
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