Today is Bell Canada’s “Let’s Talk Day”. It also marks 18 months since Jordan died as a result of his Bipolar disease. I have searched since his death for somewhere to direct my grief and anger – to find a way to ensure that Jordan’s life and Jordan’s death had meaning, and that others get the help and support they need. There are so many gaps to fill.
We need more research – no one ever talked about Jordan’s illness with hope in their voice. And there was never a discussion on cure. Why? If one day the chemicals and neurons in his brain turned against him – then surely there must be a way to turn them back?
We need more services and support – in the communities where we live and delivered in a way that does not disrupt our ability to work, or go to school, or care for our families. It is hard to imagine ever reaching that goal when mental health services receives a mere 4% of the Saskatchewan health care budget (it’s only about 5% nationally).
We need that care delivered by specialized health care professionals who know how to engage their clients in therapeutic conversations.
We need a better approach for dealing with our acutely ill mental health clients that doesn’t involve jail cells or being dragged into an overwhelmed and ill suited emergency department.
All of this is important. But I have come to see that until we can drive out the stigma attached to mental illness, until we can normalize a discussion about a mental health diagnosis so that it is met with the same caring and support that a diagnosis of cancer receives, then we will never be successful at tackling the other challenges.
The “Let’s Talk” campaign is making a difference. I looked at the lineup of programming occurring across Bell’s television network today – Marilynn Dennis, The Social, CTV’s airing of the documentary on Clara’s Big Ride, and of course a special episode of Michael Landsberg’s OTR on TSN (including a heart felt interview with the amazing Mike Babcock) and I was amazed at how this campaign has gained momentum.
In a world where there is no judgement and no stigma attached to depression, I believe Jordan would have said “Mom, I am really struggling emotionally and I think I need to see someone”. No different than all the times he came to me with his training injuries and we sought out physiotherapy and other medical support to get him back into the game. In a world without stigma and judgement – Jordan would not have felt so painfully alone.
So please go to the “Let’s Talk” website and tweet, text, and share to raise money for Mental Health. More importantly – commit to having one conversation today with someone about mental health.
This first week of the “new year” has been kind of weird. I am tired (despite having spent most of the last two weeks in my pajamas) and feeling completely out of sorts. I can’t quite put a label to what is going on.
Last night I watched the powerful promotional videos for the 2015 Bell Let’s Talk campaign – Clara Hughes, Howie Mandel, Mary Walsh, Michael Landsberg. And found myself wondering if any of this is making a difference. Did Clara’s heroic physical and emotional feat last summer change people’s perceptions? When people watch and listen to these very personal stories, does it really change their opinion? Do they act with more kindness and understanding towards those who have developed a neural health issue?
It took so much emotional energy for us to participate in the mental health review process and the quiet release of the report during the pre-Christmas legislature catfight over Lean and Senior’s Care left the report largely ignored. We were extremely disappointed and I found myself wondering what the point was to any of this.
That’s the mood I was in today when I finally got around to asking the good folks at Facebook to memorialize Jordan’s Facebook page. It’s just becoming too painful to see his beautiful face popup every time I log on and it gives me a stab to the heart whenever I receive a note telling me “Jordan likes this page”. And then there was the really hard, can’t breathe moment when I got prompted to wish him a happy birthday. Ouch. And it suddenly dawned on me this weekend that I wasn’t the only one that this would be happening to; that his face was likely popping on my Friends pages as “People you may know” – sorry about that.
It made me sad to do it – another task completed in a long list of pragmatic details that must be dealt with in the aftermath of death (the final tax return is still outstanding – don’t tell the government but we can’t seem to bring ourselves to do it).
Then I returned to my Facebook page, and Kathleen Smith’s poignant posting hit my newsfeed.
His name was Mackenzie Thomas Pawluk.
I know it’s going to be difficult for some of you to understand, but our family is united in speaking out about our son’s suicide.
On Dec. 30, as I was sound asleep, my 18-year-old son took his life in his darkest, most desperate moment; a beautiful life filled with joy, wit, sarcasm, intellect, love and giving to those in need.
Statistics show hundreds of young men in his age group will take their own lives in 2015 in this country alone. Of those, 90 per cent will suffer from depression and other forms of mental illness that may be undiagnosed. Many will be shuffled from social worker to social worker, with no true resources for psychiatric care and in many cases for the medications that would help them care for themselves. They will be shuffled haphazardly through a system that cares nothing for them, focused on only the paperwork and the costs involved.
Their families will be judged, as though there is something we could have done to prevent this and as though we were bad parents.
But we will not hide. We will not be shamed. We will not be made pariahs.
We will shout their names at this government in a unified chorus.
And as for our children, our victims of mental illness:
They will be written off as street kids. (My kid lived in an affluent Sherwood Park neighborhood.)
They will be labeled drug addicts. (Mack smoked weed on occasion. We knew about it and had no issues with it because he smoked responsibly.)
They will be labeled bums. (My son had a physically demanding job that he not only loved and showed up for every day, but that also paid him more than enough to provide and care for himself.)
They will be called alcoholic party boys. (My son often gathered for beer with his buddies at Oscar’s Pub. He ate as many pickles as he drank beers. He was not a “party thug.”)
It will be attributed to their lifestyles. (My son was employed full time and a contributing member of society with no ties to the drug community, gangs or violence. He was madly in love with his girlfriend, travelled often to visit his out-of-province grandparents, showed up for every family dinner and stopped by with Barbie dolls for his kid sister whenever he could. Does that sound like “thug life”?)
There will be a thousand untrue labels thrown at him and all young kids like him who takes their own lives; labels that suggest their lives didn’t matter.
We shout it together: My son’s life mattered. Our children’s lives matter.
This is not the time to be talking about cutbacks to health care and mental health resources; this is the time to yelling at the top of our lungs for help for our children.
So if it seems as though I am channeling the profound grief at my son’s loss into a rage against the corporate medical monstrosity that keeps those in need from getting the medical attention and treatment they so desperately require, I am. And I won’t be stopping any time soon.
So, Government of Alberta, this grieving mother is coming for you and your impending cuts to health care. And I’m coming with an army of moms and dads behind.
You are the “gangster” mob that makes it impossible for kids like my son to get help.
And I am coming for you. In the name of my son, Mackenzie Thomas Pawluk.
Kathleen’s grief is so fresh and so raw and her rage is so righteous. I remember it well. I read her words and wept for the pain she is in, and at the thought of another brilliant light needlessly extinguished. And now I find myself, at the start of this “new year”, confronted with old resolutions and filled with new determination to ensure that Jordan’s story and Jordan’s life makes a difference. Fear not Kathleen – I will join your warrior cry:
And I am coming for you. In the name of my son, Jordan Conley Chartier.
At a planning retreat last week we were asked to highlight significant events of the past year – both personal and work related. So I placed on the wall two post-it notes that said “bought pontoon boat” and “bought new car”. We didn’t discuss them as a group, and I wondered later if someone looking at those two notes was thinking “Wow, quite the Material Girl”. These purchases are status symbols – I’ll admit that – but they are symbols of my mental health status not my personal wealth. Their meaning and purpose goes beyond the tangible.
Much of the grief reading I have done over the last year paints a pretty bleak picture in terms of my longevity – grief takes a significant physical toll and it is pretty well evidenced that losing Jordan will have shortened our life expectancy. Add to that the stress of the years spent dealing with his illness and then factor in that I wasn’t exactly the picture of health to begin with, and it is clear I won’t need my retirement funds to sustain me much past the next 20 years. We also no longer need to save for Jordan’s university degree, or his wedding, or to spoil his future children. So the question became – how do we use this freed up financial capacity to make living more bearable?
My first priority was to search for a way to make our time at the lake less about painful memories and more about peace and relaxation. I wanted to find a source of new memories, a new way of enjoying the cabin that that didn’t carry Jordan’s history with it; something that our new, smaller, family could enjoy together. After a summer of early morning fishing trips, late night star gazing, and long lazy cruises where dog and boy and mom lay sprawled out under the sun while Dad captained the yacht, it is clear that the pontoon boat achieved that goal.
So that took care of the cabin.
One of the many things I have been surprised to discover along this journey is that grief is a constant companion when you are driving. Something about being encased in that metal room with only your thoughts to keep you company opens the memory flood gates. I can be in a perfectly happy frame of mind, looking forward to a weekend at the cabin, get into the car and then find myself in tears before we hit Warman. You can’t trust the radio to keep you company – there are just so many musical triggers. The situation is compounded by the fact that we tend to drive our vehicles well over the 200,000 km mark, which means the vehicle itself is filled with memories. Transporting kids to school, to sports events, hundreds of trips to the cabin, camping and ski trips to the mountains. Those long worry filled drives to Penticton. That final terror filled race to the emergency department. Add in the fact that I begin and end each day in full view of the Dube Center (and really need to find a way to ensure I look forward to that drive every day), and there are plenty of reasons to buy a new vehicle.
Not the least of which is that I have never owned a new car. I don’t even know what one smells like. I can’t even imagine what it is like to own a car that isn’t filled with dried up French fries, sand from the beach, mud and grease from bikes and tools, the smell of a sweaty exhausted dog after a romp in the dog park. I had vowed that I would buy myself one for my 50th birthday but there was always something else that we needed more (tuition, treatment center, new kitchen at cabin). Jordan bugged me about it constantly – mainly because he wanted the old Highlander – but also because he thought I deserved to have a car that was just mine.
So yesterday we drove to Prince Albert to pick up my fresh off the factory floor Rav 4 – complete with a big red bow!
A huge black crow flew across the sky as we pulled into the dealership. Another one swooped over our heads as we entered the insurance agency to get the plates. And then this one (the same one?) dropped by as I sat in the parking lot of Tim Horton’s waiting to hear from Greg that the insurance package was in place.
It made me smile. And wonder. But then they kept appearing all the way home – swooping across the highway, flying alongside me in the ditch. I finally stopped trying to count them and just gave into the experience and let the tears fall.
“Those who believe in the spirit world believe Crow is an omen of change. Crows live in the void and have no sense of time; able to see past, present and future simultaneously. They unite both the light and the dark, both the inner and the outer. Crow is the totem of the Great Spirit and must be held with utmost respect as they are representations of creation and spiritual strength.”
New car or old – my boy continues to find ways to let me know he is OK and that he is never going to leave me. So it seems my goal of eliminating the weeping zone by purchasing a new car won’t be achieved. But the edges aren’t as sharp, and it has a feeling of peace to it. And most importantly, we’ll be enjoying each other’s company in plusher surroundings – and with a rockin’ sound system!
Niko the Wonder Dog turns 4 tommorow. Which means we should probably stop referring to him as “the puppy” – although I am not sure who is going to break the news to Niko. This past summer one of the lake neighbors was telling me how much calmer Niko was this year. I stood there, feet braced; hanging onto his leash with two hands as he tried to tackle someone, and thought “Good God – how bad was he before?”
Here he is lounging on the couch – on his back, head twisted impossibly one way and legs splayed out, completely content. I am constantly amazed at how much space this dog can take up. I routinely wake up clinging to a small strip along the edge of the bed while he snores on, curled up beside his beloved Greg. I’m sure he believes it is actually his bed and when he is banished from it he flops with an indignant snort against our closed door.
We learned this summer that he is a little indiscriminate about who he will sleep with. As Carla discovered during their first night at the cabin when she went to brush her teeth and returned to find Niko spooning a snoring Bob.
He has no concept of his pony like size and thinks nothing of hurling himself off the stairs to greet visitors or crawling into your lap for a cuddle. He has this uncanny ability to bring the right shoe to the right person – making the rounds of all the available humans until someone agrees to take him for a walk.
He goes crazy after a bath, running laps around the house, practically upending the couch as he rubs his ears against it.
He loves to have the wind in his face during a car trip, ears flapping in the breeze.
He can smell Tim Horton’s a mile away and eagerly awaits his free Tim Bit. He learned very quickly not to bark at the attendant at Great Canadian Oil Change or he would not be offered a Milkbone treat.
His favorite place on earth is the lake – and all it takes is for Greg to bring a gym bag up from the basement and the dog goes insane – racing around the house, vibrating with excitement. He has been known to scramble into an open car door and wait there patiently for over an hour as the packing proceeds. And when we finally arrive at the cabin – pure joy. Racing down the beach. Chasing squirrels. Begging treats and ear scratches from neighbors. Going fishing. Chasing balls in the water till the human’s arm falls off from throwing.
He is addicted to lotion – sunscreen, moisturizer,make up. He thinks he has died and gone to heaven when I have a pedicure. He is constantly doing his own version of “twerking” – presenting his butt to be scratched and rubbed.
He is always so happy to see me when I get home and greets me like I have been gone for months: every single time. He has seen me at my worst, in full blown crazy woman meltdown, yet never judged me. He has licked the tears from my face when I’ve been wracked in anguish. He has lain down beside me and wrapped his paws around me when the grief made it impossible to get out of bed. He seems content just to be around me, whatever I might be doing. He will follow me from room to room – watching quietly or flopped over my feet. His constant presence is a comfort and joy. The house is so still and empty when he is away.
And the truly amazing thing is that he makes each of feel we are his special person.
Of all the gifts he has brought to our life, the one I am most grateful for is the unwavering and totally unconditional love he showed Jordan. When I look through the photos on Jordan’s Facebook page I can see by Niko’s body language that he wasn’t always comfortable with some of their adventures. They appear to have walked for miles some days – in blistering heat and in freezing cold. I asked Jordan once how he took care of Niko’s needs on those walks and he replied that he “just asked people for food and water.” The kindness of strangers always astonishes me. Obviously they were able to get beyond first appearances – saw beyond the guy with the shaved head and wild eyes and his scary giant hound and instead saw only a friendly young man and the dog he adored.
When Jordan died, we learned that dogs could mourn – and the sight of Niko lying on one of Jordan’s shoes or shirts and crying was heart wrenching. He misses him still. Certain sounds and smells will still jolt him alert and send him searching the house and yard for his boy.
The average lifespan of a Goldendoodle is 12 years – the longest is 16. Here’s hoping Niko truly is a wonder dog and manages to set a new record. Happy Birthday Niko – you wonderful 85 pound bundle of hairy dog love.
There’s a blog I’ve found helpful over the last few months called “What’s Your Grief”. A recent posting on “ambiguous grief” hit particularly close to home.
“There are times in life when someone we love becomes someone we barely recognize. The person is still physically with us, but psychologically they are gone. There are a range of reasons this can happen. Some of the most common are things like addiction, dementia, traumatic brain injuries, and mental illness. If you have never lived through loving someone in such a situation, this can be hard to understand. The person you love is still there, sometimes they ‘look’ sick, sometimes they don’t. But regardless of how they look, they do things they would never have done, they say things they would never have said, treat you in ways they never would have treated you, and they are not there for you in ways they previously were.
Your mom, who always loved and supported you, doesn’t recognize you, understand you or says hurtful things. You husband, who was always kind and considerate, is now lying and stealing to support an addiction. You son, who was brilliant and driven, is now struggling with delusions and hallucinations.
These things do not change our love for the person – we still love our mom with dementia, our husband with an opiate addiction, our son with schizophrenia. But this continued love doesn’t change how deeply we miss the person they used to be, the person we lost. Though we still have a relationship with the person it has radically changed and we grieve the relationship we used to have.
Things get even more complicated if that loved one dies. Our recent experience with the behaviors and words of the ‘new’ person causes us to question our old memories. Our ‘ambiguous grief’ feelings may be sadness and yearning, anger and guilt, or a range of other emotions.”
I’m not sure if “ambiguous” is the right word for it – but I certainly agree that our grief experience feels more complicated and far more difficult to navigate; shaped by our journey with Jordan in the years preceding his death. As a result, guilt and regret have been frequent visitors of late – the chorus of “coulda, woulda shoulda,” has been drowning out everything else, leaving me anxious and unsettled.
Then last Monday night I dreamed of Jordan again.
It came on the tail end of that brief, deep sleep that occurs after you’ve woken at 4 and struggled for an hour or more to get back to sleep – desperate to get more rest before the alarm pulls you from bed. He wasn’t even on my mind – it was work that kept me tossing and turning.
The dream began in what seemed to be a living room. He was on the couch sitting beside Lucas and I could tell they were enjoying each other’s company. His hair was a little long, but his face was clean and his eyes were bright and he looked so healthy and was smiling so beautifully. I smoothed his hair away and cupped his face in both my hands and I could see him so clearly – right down to the freckles on his nose. And I said “I know you, I remember you, I knew you were in there” and I kissed his face over and over.
And then in the next moment, in that surreal kind of time travel that only occurs in dreams, we were in a tunnel of some sort. Like a parkade or an underground walkway. It was filled with people and I realized that Lucas and Jordan had gone on ahead. I came around a corner and there was Jordan – stark naked, lying in a fetal position in the middle of the tunnel while everyone walked around him.
And my immediate reaction, the thought that stayed with me as I came awake, was “Oh – I see. He was always ill. He was always going to get ill. There was nothing I could have done.”
It was such a powerful moment. I was afraid to move, afraid to breathe even, as I lay there trying hard to hang on to the dream in hopes of discerning more meaning from it.
Theresa Caputo, the Long Island Medium, often tells her clients that dreams are our loved ones way of communicating with us. It’s a nice thought isn’t it – that the dream was Jordan reaching out to tell me to forgive myself. All I know is that I’ve been able to breathe a little easier this week.
One morning this summer as I settled into my deck chair to enjoy my coffee and the beautiful lake view, two giant Dragonflies (one green, one blue) collided midair with a thunderous crash and fell down onto the deck at my feet. Limbs wrapped around each other, wings beating madly; it was obvious they were mating. “Oh how wonderful” I thought, “The Circle of Life is being acted out before me!”
After a moment it became clear that the blue dragonfly was a rather “vigorous” lover. And then things quickly descended from a lovely Disney movie to an episode of Mutual of Omaha’s Wild Kingdom. With a ferocious snap, the green Dragonfly’s head suddenly rolled across the carpet and the murderous blue Dragonfly proceeded to rip the remaining wings off the green body before tossing it aside in victory.
Thank you very much Mother Nature. Like I needed yet another reminder of the cruelty of life.
For most of the “firsts” this past year, the actual event (first Christmas, first Easter, first Anniversary, first Birthday) was never as bad as I anticipated. Perhaps girding our loins in anticipation of the worst offered some protection and carried us through. It is after the event that I often found myself smothered in a blanket of sadness. August was like that. There were moments when the pain was as fresh and sharp as it was last summer. I think I secretly hoped that once we got through that first horrible year things would be better somehow. But I have begun to see why other parents from “The Club No One Wants to Join” speak of the second year being harder than the first. With all those “first” hurdles overcome, you are left with the realization that Christmas, Easter, his birthday – all have been changed forever. And the difficult and painful job now is to figure out not just how to get through a year, but how to get through the rest of your life. It’s a daunting task. And as I dragged myself back to work and tried to push the sadness out of the way, life looked kind of bleak.
But then the Circle of Life made itself present again.
In early September, the clan gathered on the shores of Emma Lake to witness nephew Dylan marry the love of his life. The weekend was this joyous joining together of two families through the sharing of ancient traditions (and yes, just a wee bit of Vodka) and the opportunity to witness first-hand what it looks like when you find your soul mate.
It was my privilege to act as the celebrant and I welcomed the guests by reminding them that “the wedding ceremony is an act as ancient as the human species, and as new as each morning, for it speaks of the past and the future, of the life of the individual and the support of the community.” And as I spoke those words out loud I found myself thinking – what is more hopeful than a wedding? That joining of hands, exchanging of vows and the leap into an unknown future – the never ending circle of life.
When the ceremony was over I felt a sense of peace descend upon me and a lifting of my heart that I am managing to sustain. And as luck would have it, Greg captured and preserved a moment right after the ceremony where I wrapped my arms around Lucas – filled with joy by the physical presence of one son’s love and the spiritual presence of the other.
“It’s the Circle of Life. And it moves us all through despair and hope, through faith and love”
Jordan would have been 25 today. And my Facebook newsfeed is filled with shock and sadness over the death of Robin Williams; another beloved soul lost to the pain of depression.
I haven’t written much lately. I was feeling too fragmented as the anniversary of Jordan’s death approached. Not shattered, not broken – but certainly very vulnerable. I was more than ready to head to the cabin for a few weeks – to gather my pieces together and breathe them back to life. To watch the sunrise and listen to the rhythm of the waves. I have to admit that after the pain of last fall, I was worried that the peace I always experienced at the cabin was lost forever. I am grateful to have discovered that the stillness of the early morning, the familiar scent of the forest, and the company of the crows have once again worked their magic.
July 30th rolled in with rumbling thunder and flashing lightening. When I was little and a storm rolled in at the lake, my Dad would say “There’s your Grandpa”. So as I sat there in the middle of the night and watched the lightening light up the night, I imagined my two Conley’s – Jack and Jordan – having a wee drink and putting on a fantastic show for those of us left behind.
We spent the evening of the anniversary cruising the lake until the stars came out – just the three of us. Friends had put together a little survival kit and we drank the wine, ate the chocolate, lit the sparklers and dove into the dark water with the glow sticks. Balloons decorated the boat – we celebrated his life as well as mourned his loss.
It was a peaceful evening – and I found myself stunned by the realization that we have achieved what we thought was impossible 12 months ago – we survived. I certainly wouldn’t categorize it as thriving, and I’m not even sure that’s even a possibility in our new life, but small steps and deep breaths have gotten us to a point I couldn’t imagine a year ago.
His loss has changed us all and his absence is felt daily.
This sorrow filled year seemed to drag on forever and yet it feels far too soon to have arrived at the anniversary of his death. He would have been 25 this August – and we find ourselves immersed in memories of his childhood and in thoughts of the future we have lost; unfilled ambitions and dreams of the man he might have become. The emptiness, the flatness, of life without him, is stark and profound. There is nothing heroic or noble about grief. It is painful hard work, and it lingers a long time.
We want to express our heartfelt gratitude for the love and support we have received this year – it truly meant the difference between standing and collapsing. We are also grateful to those who are honoring Jordan’s memory by committing their time and passion to the Neural Health Project; the first ripple in a much needed wave of change.
His spirit lives on in his family, his friends, and his community. We are all better people for having him in our lives and hearts. He was our light and our love. He “lived and laughed and loved and left” and the world will never be the same without him.
He is gone, yet I see him everywhere; in actual memories and hopeful imaginations. I see him in the crows flying in the morning light. In the rainbows disappearing into a rolling field. I see him reflected in Niko’s eyes as we press our foreheads together in shared grief. Driving down a street I will catch a glimpse of a young man, head close shaved, hoodie up, coffee mug in hand and my heart momentarily leaps in hope.
I sit in the garden across from his empty chair and he is there; head tilted back, Niko at his feet, the sun warm on his face.
My God, I miss my boy. Every day, I expect to open the garage door and find him having a smoke in his favorite camping chair. Every day I expect this great hole inside of me to get just a little smaller, but instead it grows. I miss his laugh. I miss his calloused hands and his giant smelly feet. I miss his voice. I miss his dirty room. His wit. His smile. The way the crook of his neck smelled when he let me wrap my arms around him for a hug. I loved him long before he was even born and nothing, certainly not death, can diminish the love I feel. He travels with me always.
Those who are near me do not know that you are nearer to me than they are Those who speak to me do not know that my heart is full with your unspoken words Those who crowd in my path do not know that I am walking alone with you Those who love me do not know that their love brings you to my heart
Rabindranath Tagore
It is usually late at night when the weight of his absence falls most heavily, threatening to bring me to my knees. I find myself immersed in memories of his childhood and in thoughts of the future we have lost; of the man he might have become. The emptiness, the flatness of life without him, is stark and profound.There is nothing heroic or noble about grief. It is painful hard work, and it lingers a long time.
Oh my sweet Jordan, you “lived and laughed and loved and left” and the world will never be the same without you.
Invictus is a Victorian poem written by the English poet William Ernest Henley. The word invictus is Latin for “unconquered”. Nelson Mandela found strength and inspiration in the poem and would read it to his fellow prisoners in the Robben Island Jail. I printed out the poem and taped it to the kitchen cupboard just after Jordan got home from his first hospitalization in Penticton. I told him the background – that it had inspired Nelson Mandela to hang on and stay strong – and I told him that I believed with all my heart that he too had the strength to be the master of his fate, the captain of his soul.
Now both Jordan and Nelson are gone and the poem still faces me every time I reach for the salt and pepper. While a reminder of our lost hopes, the words still remain a source of comfort. I doubt we will ever take it down.
Out of the night that covers me,
Black as the pit from pole to pole,
I thank whatever gods may be
For my unconquerable soul.
In the fell clutch of circumstance
I have not winced nor cried aloud.
Under the bludgeonings of chance
My head is bloody, but unbowed.
Beyond this place of wrath and tears
Looms but the horror of the shade,
And yet the menace of the years
Finds, and shall find me, unafraid.
It matters not how strait the gate,
How charged with punishments the scroll,
I am the master of my fate;
I am the captain of my soul.
Lori's Blog 