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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.

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.

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.”

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.

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. 

More of My Story From 2017

July 3rd, 2017. A photo I have never made public.

Taken moments after the first time I spoke with my mother and children days after my arrest and removal from my home.  My bail conditions were so strict I was not permitted to call my own home and speak with my younger two children.  I had to wait for them to call me.  Or have someone pass their phone to them, as was the case here.  Without my knowledge or consent, my new life had already begun.  My children and mother were blissfully unaware of how our lives had changed.  I had to keep it together and pretend all was okay.  It most definitely wasn't.

It's difficult to move on to events that followed after that first day in my new life in this story.  There was so much that happened and so many people to be remembered and greatfull to.  There is a lot of information that needs to be shared and advocate for.  There was so much to describe in the trauma and the damage, but also those that came to my salvation and how simple acts of kindness can make such a difference in mere survival and recovery.

While I was laying on the cold hard concrete bed in the cell, so many things came to my mind.  If he was being carted off to the hospital, where were my children?  Who was looking out for them? Was he going to tell the police the truth and will it only be a matter of a few hours before I am home again?  Will he continue with the lie? Am I trapped here for what was already feeling like forever?  The hardest was coming to the reality that no one will believe I am innocent and help me through this.  I had to push these thoughts aside.  I found escape in prayer and my faith.  Everything happens for a reason.  My mind searched for anything and everything that would console me and give me strength to endure and survive the night unbroken.  

Sitting here writing all of this is difficult.  I want to write about it every day but it is damaging in its own right.  I have to put my thoughts back into a time when I was being psychologically and emotionally tortured and the feeling of helplessness can be retraumatizing in my present life.  The need to write about it is overwhelming however not always cathartic.  People ask me why am I doing it if it's so painful?  The intention is to bring to light what victims go through in this type of abuse, to advocate for victim's rights and open more doors for them. To put a face to the story.  My own story is terrible but it isn't near as horrific as many others experience.  I don't know why I am more fortunate than others. It could be my sense of humour or my knowledge of how to stay positive despite adversity.  Or maybe it's my ambition to grow and succeed.  Or maybe it's God's plan for me to keep going, tell my story and to inspire others. The daily struggles even to this day to survive and stay sane are often challenging. But I am still here.  I'm still laughing.

I know without a doubt if it weren't for my friends and strangers who believed me and believed in me when I was at my weakest, I would have died.  

My oldest son had heard what had happened while he was out that night, ran home and immediately had arranged for a criminal lawyer and called friends to come to my aid.  My son was only 16 at the time but those moments made him grow up regrettfully overnight.  His young, carefree and naive days of childhood came to an abrupt end.  He had to be a man and responsible and help his mother because he knew the truth and that I wasn't a violent person and without his help, I would have no one else. He became my Superhero that night.  He called and left messages everywhere for my friends.  Some ignored his cries for help for weeks. It seems to be true that you will find out who your friends are when a crisis comes along.  To this day I am still in shock and angry that the one person who I had trusted the most in this world to do right, the person who was written in my Will as the executor of my estate and made guardian of my children chose to disregard my son's cries for help.  I am not a violent person but I might just slap that self-righteous hypocrite of a bitch for turning her back on my children as a trusted friend and the professional she was in my world.  Instead, I had surgically cut her out of our lives permanently where she belongs.

I entered the courtroom sometime in the late afternoon Friday, June 29th, 2017 to be arraigned after spending hours in holding cells hearing but not wanting to listen to the most mundane of conversations by other inmates further down the corridor. Their voices carried so clearly with the cinder block walls, I had to drown out the sound of their voices I would flush the toilet almost obsessively.  I needed silence and peace to work out what was happening inside my own skull. The only thing I can clearly remember them saying was when they whined "Why does she get to go in before us?!", when I passed them to proceed to the courtroom to be arraigned. The doors were opened and to my absolute horror and relief, I saw my son sitting there in the courtroom gallery.  I was horrified for him to see his mother in this state.  No child should be put into this position.  I walked through the doors with my hands bound in handcuffs in front of me.  I cried and shook my head in silence as they read the charges.  I looked my son directly in the eyes and mouthed the words "I didn't do it!"  He responded from across the room by nodding and mouthing back "I know mom, I know".   Much to my surprise, he was sitting next to a familiar and kind and loving face.  A friend with whom I had reconnected with a few years earlier but she didn't really know me well enough to believe my innocence to support me as she had.  I felt such incredibly shame knowing that my tragic life events had torn her away from her peaceful and happy life.  She sat next to my son as an angel from God with her glowing blonde hair and her soft gentle, sympathetic smile.  She has become my "Sunshine" in this story and one of the people who will always be one of the most incredible women I know. 

They sat there together in the gallery while they listened to the court officers and Judge announce my name, and my charges, and the conditions of my bail.  When I heard my full name being stated, my first thought to myself was, "Now I've shamed the family name. And I did nothing but want a better life for myself and my children."  I had been accused of shaming the family name only a short time before because I discussed my parents' hoarding disorder openly and honestly on social media with the intent of helping people.  It had caused some family members distress and judgements. But now!  Here I am with my hands cuffed together in front of me, hair dishevelled and askew, dirty clothes, standing before a judge, listening to her recite the terms of my bail.  My family and my world had been blown apart by a lie.

To be continued...

12 years ago, at this time, it was still just me

12 years ago today, at this time I was in being poked, prodded, monitored and medicated. I was induced into a labour that never progressed into anything further than a crap load of pain that made even my hair hurt. I even had the joy of passing kidney stones at the same time, (more about that later), and throwing every maternity ward nurse into a tizzy because they knew how to deliver babies not kidney stones. 12 years ago today, at this time, I kept straining over my nurse's head to watch a new type of reality game show called "Survivor" to keep my mind off my fear of how my life was going to change forever. And laying there thanking God for the invention of epidurals and morphine (for the kidney stones). 12 years ago today, at this time, facebook was not on my mind, (I am pretty certain it wasn't even on Mark Zuckerberg's either). What was on my mind was "was it going to be a boy or a girl?", and "Please God, let my baby be healthy despite what the medical texts say". Infection and fever was setting in on me. And the doctor could only imagine that my baby had the same thing going on with him/her. 12 years ago today, at this time the doctor told us we'll have to do a ceasarian in the morning. She didn't really specify a time, but we figured sometime after she'd had a good night's sleep. So my sister, who had been waiting so patiently all day to see her first niece/nephew arrive, went home to get some sleep and return in the morning... To be continued in a few hours :D But, before I go... For those of you ladies who have never experienced kidney stones but have been in labour... When a man tells you kidney stones hurt. Believe him and don't come back with "Oh ya? Suck it up! Try labour pains!" Because I can say, without a doubt, from the experience of having both AT THE SAME TIME, kidney stones hurt MORE!!! Cut the guy some slack and take him to the hospital. It's even worse for men. He needs morphine. LOTS OF IT! I'm back :D 36 minutes ago · Like Cheri Koschir 12 years ago today, at this time, it was still just me. But only for a few moments longer. The final moments, strapped to an operating table all 250lbs of pregnant me and my baby. Fear, excitement and anticipation wrapped me like a blanket while the doctors and nurses worked through what was just another day to them. It was actually the beginning of a new day for everyone. But it was the beginning of a new life for two of us. Me and my baby. The doctor changed her mind and decided not to sleep but instead to make a sleepy, crooked incision across my abdomen and change my life forever. 32 minutes ago · Like Cheri Koschir 12 years ago today, at this time, I no longer felt the labour pains. I no longer was passing a kidney stone that felt like a jagged boulder ripping through my body. What I felt was the surgical instruments cutting through the chemically numbed muscles of my uterus and heard the unimportant chatter of the hospital staff. Talks of plans to Disney World and what not. Nothing I really cared about too much in the moment. I missed my sister and wished she were there for all of what I was thinking. 28 minutes ago · Like Cheri Koschir 12 years ago today, at this time, I felt the tugging and pushing and pulling of the tiny little body that fluttered, then kicked and turned and rolled inside my body. The little alien being I had been reponsible for for so long, without ever seeing its eyes. A love that grew and multiplied and ripened until that moment. And exploded out into this world with screams and cries. And in that moment, at 1:34 am, my son was born! Covered with gunk and goo. And in that moment, 12 years ago today, at this time, I looked into his age old eyes and I knew. I finally knew what it meant to love someone so much I was willing to kill or die for him. In that moment, he introduced me to the most powerfull emotion there ever was. He gave me the gift of what every first born child gives. He was the first to give me the gift of knowing the power of love. He gave me the gift of being his mother. 12 years ago today, at this time, I touched the softest skin and looked into the oldest eyes I had ever seen of my first born son, Julian, and fell in love with the tiniest, most powerfull person in my life. He gave me the most beautifull gift there can ever be. One that I do not take lightly or for granted. A gift that was always wanted by my sister, and by so many others, but was never given. Thank you Julian for the 12 years of the love and joy you have given me. 12 years ago today, at this time, you changed my life from it being just me, to forever being US. And gave me courage to keep it growing to more than I had every expected ir deserved and now have been given the gift of three voices calling out to me... "Mommy" Happy Birthday my sweet baby boy! You deserve so much more in return for the gift of motherhood you have given me, but I hope my words in this note will do for now. I love you!

Therapy

My name is Cheri Koschir. And this is my story. Cheri is French for beloved And Koschir is pheonetically translated from Jewish as "blessed by a rabbi" so I was once told. It was what I had believed until only moments ago. Google - Dictionary Your search - requirements to be kosher - did not match any documents. Reset search tools Suggestions: Make sure all words are spelled correctly. Try different keywords. Try more general keywords. Try fewer keywords. Wikipedia kosher has become English vernacular, a colloquialism meaning proper, legitimate, genuine, fair, or acceptable I believed what you are called, is what you are. I was one hell of a teenager, with very few teachers or guides. I was judged for crimes I didn't do. And had no help when I really needed it. I was a mess. But I somehow survived. I really haven't got a clue as to how this happened. By the grace of God, some would say. To be able to teach from it, others would also say. I learned the hard way, there is meaning in life. And, there is purpose. Growing up with a name like Cheri Koschir was pretty freaking tough. How does one live up to a name like that?! It's like eating an elephant one bite at a time. But that is what life is about. For anyone. I have worked at many jobs in my life. I think I am doing my favourite one right now. To be a Realtor. And to be a writer. Because with both, you get to experience the most amazing people. And observe the beauty of who we are. Today, for instance, I was able to witness two people sharing a very caring moment, despite the fact that they no longer have a weak relationship, but a strong friendship. I saw two people who grew apart, but somehow found themselves still in eachother's hearts. I am blessed with many moments in my days. I am blessed with being able to help people move on to the next stage of their life. I am blessed to watch my children grow up and be apart of their daily lives. I am blessed with being able to talk to both of my parents and walk with them on their journeys. I am blessed to have a man who cares for me and makes me laugh much more than cry. And he can ring a bell like no other :D My journey hasn't been the easiest. But I chose it to be so. I am responsible for my choices. And I am responsible for making the changes that needed to be made. It was hard work. However the rewards are worth it. CAMH The Centre for Addiction and Mental Health. DBT Dialectical Behavior Therapy Marsha Linehan The woman I am so very greatfull to for taking her challenges and turning them into her victories. So that I may do the same. Google her. She's very interesting. And has helped so many. I would like to eat a few more bites off the elephant. Not that I condone eating elephants. I am talking hypothetically here, PETA. I have always wanted to volunteer my time somewhere. I value my time very much now. Since my sister's death. And even before that when I was diagnosed with cancer. It is the only thing we can never get back. Including the 13 months I needed to get help to change my life. That time will never come back. I have the rest of my life to make up for not talking to my sister during that time. But now I give my time to Heart House Hospice.

Dear God, Please have it so that I win the Lotto/Max jackpot tonight. You have seen me fit enough to be blessed with my beautifull, healthy (and sometimes a little too smart) children. Can you now see to it that I can afford the little buggers too? Thank you for being such a great listener all these years, but I think it might be time to lend a little extra help. Thank you for any help you could send my way. I really appreciate it. Thanks! Cheri (Heidi's Sister)
Please tell my sister Heidi that I say hi. And tell her that I miss her so much. We all do. Tell her I am doing the best I can around here. But, I am not her and never had the energy like she always had. Anyways, I am sure she knows everything going on down here. And I am sure you have her pretty busy up there with you. I can't imagine you got her to be with you for any other reason than for something really important. Let her know that I tell the kids about her as much as I can so that they will always remember her even though the little ones didn't really know her love well. I am sorry. I gotta go. I can't see the screen anymore for crying so much over her. You know what to tell her. Afterall, you are The All-knowing. Please? Thank You!

The Want to Write Overwhelms Me

The time to write eludes me.

By Cheri (Heidi's Sister)

Since I was born, I had been know as Cheri. Heidi's sister. Heidi would take me with her everywhere she went and people would ask, "Who is that?" and someone would always answer, "That's Cheri. Heidi's sister." And then I would be cooed at and tickled.
If I weren't in tow, Heidi would talk about me to her friends. She was my only sibling, and I was hers. Heidi was 14 years older than me. She was the one that looked out for me. And always tried to make my life easier than hers.
When I was older, she would take me to her friends' parties. I could hear the whispering again. "Who is that?", "Why, that's Cheri! Heidi's sister." I was accepted into their social realm.
When I was desperate to make big changes in my life I applied for a job where Heidi worked. People looked at my resume and saw my last name. I heard them huddled together again, waving the pages of my employment history, and hearing those familiar words, again in secret whispers, "That's Cheri. Heidi's sister." I got the job!
Years later, I wasn't hearing those words as often. Life took us both into different directions. I became a single mom. She became married, once again. Life became busy and difficult. I had always heard those words somewhere in the background of my life. It had become part of my identity. By not hearing them, somehow caused me to loose who I was and my connection to the world.
Time went on again. And slowly I no longer needed to hear those words to know who I was. I am Cheri. Heidi had named me.
I became independant as Cheri. I had metamorphasized into a stronger being. I had found power within myself to take on the world and laugh.
Then it all crumbled once again.
The nurses all whispered behind their desk and their mountains of patient files. Just beyond the beeps and rushing of air through the myriad of tubes, I left her room and I heard them say, "That's Cheri. Heidi's sister". I entered a foreign world.
I gingerly stood up from my seat, took a deep breath, wiped away the tears streaking down my cheeks, touched the smooth glazed oak of the coffin as I walked past it, and then exhaled. I heard whispers again, as I stepped up to the sanctuary, "Who's that?" Her friends were asking in solemn tones through their tears. "That's Cheri.... Heidi's sister." It was the last time I was to ever hear those words. They were to be buried with my sister in her still unmarked grave.

I stood there before her friends and our family. The hundreds of the thousands of lives and hearts Heidi had touched. I spoke the words that Heidi lived by. "Let me be an instrument of Thy Peace..." The Prayer of Saint Francis. My final gift to her, my only testimony to her life that I could find the strength buried deep within my grief to speak. And then said good bye to my sister.

And from now on, again, I am Cheri. Apart of the world. Strong and powerfull, and living a life again filled with laughter.

Rodeos and Roller Coasters (originally written October 29th, 2009)

We’ve all been through times like this before. I know I have been. Just not this caliber. And it’s not just the caliber of the situations we are all going through; it’s also the number of them. Wow, I have never been able to fathom something so great and so terrible at the same time.
The thing I have noticed is that everyone has had at least one person, someone special, close to them, or even themselves who has lived with cancer. It touches everyone’s heart in some way. Some look at it as a disease from which you suffer terribly from, or it’s one that can be a gift in barbed wire packaging. It is a gift like no one can imagine receiving. It is one of pure terror and utter bliss. Your appreciation for the fleeting moments of your life becomes a millionth fold more. Just being able to sit here and write this makes me filled with joy and gratitude.
I was diagnosed with cervical cancer in 2005. It was diagnosed after a long delay in having my physical. My doctor’s receptionist/angel reminded me six months after I cancelled my last appointment. Back then I didn’t get out much. Going to the doctor’s office was the only break in the monotony of agoraphobia, (the fear of open places). I was “only” afraid to reach my hand outside my front door to get my mail. My only goal in life was to get through my day without crying.
The doctor’s office seemed to be the only place I could go on my own. By myself. It was safe.

This beautiful angel of a woman reminded me to get a Pap smear. She really did look like a delicate little angel, by the way. At least she did to me. She had beautiful long flowing blonde hair, crisp sparkling blue eyes, a fantastic smile and an incredibly sweet demeanor. I still can’t understand how she bore a child naturally with those tiny hips. “Cheri, you haven’t had your physical yet. When are you going to book it for?” She said to me sternly in her little less than lyrical accent. “Oh boy!!! “, I said in my sarcastic we’re going on an adventure voice. Always remember… We build the houses with the words we speak… I can’t remember who originally said that, but it’s true. Oh yeah, it’s true.

“Your PAP smear came back for positive detection. You tested positive for carcinoma in situ. You will have to go to the Colposcopy Clinic to have it biopsied”, or something like that. “It. What is IT??? My cervix, the cancer, my whole womanhood? How much of my anatomy are they going to biopsy? How much are they going to check before they find something? How much do they remove until I feel they have got it all?”, my mind was screaming, while my mouth was barely whispering. I don’t really remember. It went something like that in my head. I was already in a fog with a pain killer addiction – maybe that’s how I managed to not completely lose my nut. Or maybe I already had lost my nut, hence the addiction.
Holy Jabolies! This was going to be one hell of an adventure. I always did love rodeos and roller coasters.
I don’t think about this time in my life too much anymore. Unless I can use it for something positive. Like now.
Anyways…
Yup, I had cancer and got through it. I learned how to deal with pain – my secret is not to suffer. And meditation. I went back to work. Had a baby. Then another. Took an extended parental leave. Bought a new(er) Buick. Was accepted and graduated as a student of life at the Centre for Addiction and Mental Health. And had only my mortgage and utilities to pay. And diapers. And formula. Yup, I didn’t have a care in the world. I got to the other side of it and saw how fantastic it was to have freedom of mind. It only took the realization that appreciating everything in life, the good and bad, was always there for a reason. My cancer was a blessing for many reasons. Mine made me take a real good, hard look at my life. The good, the bad, the ugly. I just had to choose what I WANT.
I got personalized plates for my truck that says UOYKNAHT. I would have put an exclamation point on the beginning of it, but that’s not available yet.
I say it was my cancer, because someone else’s is always different. There seems to be no two alike in how it affects people. The diagnosis, the treatment, the drugs, the doctors, the attitudes, the procedures. The prognosis. Mine was good. Mine was the kind of cancer someone would want to have. That’s if someone ever wanted cancer. That’s what people consoled me with at least. I call it good only because it taught me what it meant to fear for your life. It taught me prayer. It taught me to love without question, and to accept all that comes my way. You could say it was a “quality experience”. However there are some things in life you don’t want to go through again. At least not too soon. Maybe later.
They say you are the average of the five people you spend the most time with. I spend the most time with my family. My partner 45 year old Kid… I mean Ken, my compassionate son Julian who is about to turn nine, my terrifically terrible two year old daughter Trinity, my bubble blowing 10 month old son Gabriel, and our four year old red Labrador Retriever Tiatoo, (loosely translates to Dog of Many Names in Ken-eese). You do the math. I’ll tell you my psychological average… Sometimes I am just barking immature. Not mad. Barking mad would insinuate that I was angry. I somehow lost the ability to get angry. If you find it, please bring it back to me. It just feels darn good to be able to get a little angry once in a while. There’s only so much Iggle Piggle, Miley Cyrus, Sesame Street and the never ending roar of W.W.E. Championships you can take before becoming barking mad. I choose to become barking immature.
My two favorite singers are no longer Stevie Nicks or Pink, its Bobs & Lolo. That’s okay if you don’t get that reference. It just means you don’t use a television to babysit your children like I do.
Some days I walk around saying, “Maka Paka aka wakka, mikka makka moo”, as if it was the first language spoken in our household. They haven’t put that language on the census yet. However, I am sure there are many parents and caregivers that know what the hell I am saying. Even if I don’t.
My sister would be the one I would call and relate my adventures in LaLa Land with. There was this one particular day I am thinking of was one where I didn’t have anything too exciting to tell her. It was a day where she needed to talk to me. But I still had something to tell her. I didn’t know how to come right out and tell her. She was, after all, never able to have kids of her own. She had a history of benign fibroid tumors, (never cancerous), that had left her so scarred that there wasn’t enough space for an embryo to imbed itself. That’s what she was told only after years of hormone injections, and countless in vitro-fertilizations, and a number of failed embryo implants, not to mention the thousands of dollars invested in the tuition for the School of Hard Knocks. I always felt some guilt that I could have children, and she couldn’t.
She came right out and told me. But only after a few minutes of talking about the antics of our aging parents and what they got up to in each of their daughters’ homes. “I have a lump on my breast. They know it’s cancer. They just don’t know where it started yet. You should feel it so you know what to look for.” I didn’t know how to respond. After a long pause, “I am pregnant.” was my complete and utter failure at attempting to put on a silver lining. I felt selfish. I was denying that her cancer could be anything serious. It was Heidi after all. Nothing life threatening could happen to HER.
Here, in my head, I could hear the universe murmuring in the background, “You got through that last pile of shit pretty good! Let’s see how you are going to take being pregnant while watching your sister die. You just might surprise yourself.” I don’t remember buying any tickets, but I think I had just got front row seats of the Calgary Stampede with the special opportunity to ride in the saddle of a bucking bronco. Not only do I get to feel the dirt on my face, I also get the thrill of going for the big prize! Yeehawwwww!!!
Two nights ago I bathed my sister. Washed her hair. And changed her diaper. She has hair again! They stopped the monthly chemo treatments that were keeping her alive. The chemo had decreased her red blood count so low that it was killing her. Ironic. Ironically, when straight hair grows back after chemo, it comes in curly. It’s called “Chemo Curl”. Heidi always wanted curly hair like mine. More irony.
She is in so much pain the simple act of taking a shower or a bath is too much. She can’t bend her legs to get over the side of the tub. She’s now considered to be, as the professionals call it “palliative” – suffering from an illness from which she will not recover and death is imminent, just keep her comfortable and happy. Wow, I just realized… Living without an illness could be seen like that too. All it takes is just one random bus. I guess we could all be “palliative”.
There’s a big difference between the cancer I had and the cancer my sister has. I never had to decide if I wanted to die at home. I am glad that my sister is getting a couple of things she has always wanted. Her curly hair is pretty cute.
Gabriel was born six months after Heidi was diagnosed with the completely inconceivable Small Cell Lung cancer. Inconceivable because she did not smoke. The doctors gave her eight to ten months to live. I bathed her for the first time in the final days of month 17. Gabriel finally got his third tooth that same day. We are looking forward to what month 18 has to bring.
I go to a gym every morning now. It’s actually the local community centre. It’s the only place nearby where I can get a little “me” time. It has another angel of a woman who cares for children while their mothers sweat off the frustration of the mediocrity of their lives in the allotted hour and fifteen minutes babysitting time. I know that’s what my kids’ mom does. The mediocrity in my life is my postnatal belly.
I have learned routine is a good thing for both mothers and children. Especially when it comes to wandering through the maze of gym equipment trying to remember what body part I was trying to focus on next. Today was a back and legs day. I am fighting my genetic joke of thunder thighs that both my sister and I have the unfortunate experience of inheriting. We physically did not look alike from the hips up. However, there is an uncanny resemblance of cellulite and orange peel skin from the thighs down. It’s the one time of the day that I forcefully push all thoughts of my sister out of my head and focus on those ridiculous thighs. It’s actually a time when I come up with all the things I am grateful for. I also remind myself how important it is for everyone that I stay as positive and keep my mood up. My own good health depends on it, physical and mental. And you really don’t have anything if you don’t have good health. Ask my sister.
Cancer taught me that. That was another part of the gift that cancer gave me. Bitching and complaining about how terrible your life is and how tough things are, really doesn’t make you any happier. It doesn’t make your life any better. And it certainly doesn’t give you more time. It makes your pillow really wet with tears. And then you get the additional problem of how to get those mascara stains out of cotton pillow cases.
People don’t seem to do things they know will bring them joy in life because of fear. Fear of not enough money, not enough time, fear of not being good enough, not getting or having enough love, or just the seemingly simple fear of going outside. Fear of kicking the bucket is one of my all time favorites. Trying to not kick the bucket only gives you sore feet.
We all die. That’s the truth. That blessedly, beautiful gift wrapped in barbed wire given to me four years ago wasn’t cancer. It was life.
Filled with rodeos and roller coasters.
Thank you for every minute of it!

Learning Patience for Picky Eaters

I was recently asked what my favorite hobby was. The answer used to be a resounding "Cooking!", but being a mom to 3 very picky eaters has slapped that passion right out of me. I found myself answering the question with, "Gardening... It teaches me patience."

My Name Change

Some days I think my last name has been changed to INEADU... as in Cheri Ineadu, and Mommy Ineadu

Young and Old

I am starting to believe that there isn't any difference between young children and elderly parents. Among other similarities, both like to test their boundaries and and push it to the limit. Then use their sweet innocent, (toothless) smiles to get away with it.

mommy's mistake

My youngest child, Gabriel, was walking around with his dirty face and hands up in the air, looking quite distressed. He kept repeating "Fa cough, fa cough, fa cough..." (I am spelling it so no one will be offended). I was completely startled that he knew such words at the tender, innocent age of 2. I couldn't understand where he could have possibly heard this language. No one here would say such smut.
No one but his father on occasion, and maybe, sometimes, after a few too many telemarketers have caused me to drop what I was doing and run for the phone with the expectation that it just might be the Ontario Lottery and Gaming Corporation finally ringing me to notify me of my jackpot win, only to stumble in my stretch for the handset across the laundry decorated dining room table. The stumble causes me to plow through the recently folded but not-yet-put-away drifts of freshly cleaned toddler clothes. Scattering the yet to be matched socks and now adding to the frustration of the mediocrity of my life. I claw the handset and blindly push the buttons before the last ring sends the caller to voice mail oblivion. At least that's what it is in my house - who has time to check personal voice mail? "This is an important message from... (brief pause where I clench my eyes waiting to hear the letters, O-L-G, only to be irritated with...) your Credit Card company. You are paying too much interest! Please wait while we connect you to one of our operators to see how you can decrease your rates..." The wait is eternal. How dare they keep me on hold for so long? Ten minutes go by. I hear a click. Oh good, I'll be next to be served! Then another click.
Followed by the dial tone.
"FAAAAAAaaaaa Coooooooooouuuuuuugh!" I scream into the phone. My children are startled out of their imaginary play world of talking trains and kleenex confetti snow flakes. I breathe deep and anounce, "T

Finally, he got real angry, face turning red, with teeth clenched, he looks me straight in the eye and screams "Faaaaaa... cough!!!!!" It was only then that I realized my dirty little boy was demanding a "Face cloth" I am such a bad mom.

A Milestone in Parenting.

You have reached another milestone as a parent when you have realized that all of your questions have become rhetorical.

Hoarders

You know your parents are hoarders when... You are 40 years old and your mom brings you your old school gym t-shirt from Grade 2 - and it's in mint condition!!!!! I am glad she didn't want to make me try it on :D True story, happened today. Will have pictures later to prove it.