Tag Archives: parenting

Three binders of regrets…and a wall full of starbursts

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On Tuesday we presented Jordan’s story to a multi sectoral group of stakeholders as part of the Mental Health Commission review.

I hadn’t realized how heavy this task was weighing on me – the relief I felt afterwards was enormous. I learned I could tell his story and not fall apart. And that I could tell it in a way that affected people and move them to want to change things.

In preparation for our presentation, we spent an afternoon in mid-April with staff from the commission; walking through Jordan’s history and creating a client experience map. This required me to spend the Easter long weekend finally making my way through the three binders of health records we had gathered – a task I had been dreading.

It’s not like anything lurking in those stacks of paper was going to be a surprise – we lived it after all. What I think I was most afraid of was possibly discovering comments written about Greg and I; judgments about our handling of the situation. In the end there was only one, written by his psychiatrist as he attempted to handover Jordan’s care to someone else.

“His mother is ‘burning out and disengaging” and his father displays some ‘enmeshment’”

I looked it up. Enmeshment refers to “an extreme form of proximity and intensity in family interactions. In a highly enmeshed, overinvolved family, changes within one family member or in the relationship between two family members reverberate throughout the system”.

Isn’t that the exact description of what you want to see in a close knit family? Love and concern and support and when one member of the clan is hurt, the others bleed too? Yet according to Jordan’s psychiatrist, this was a bad thing. That one of us was under involved and the other was over involved.

That seems to be a common theme in mental health and addictions services. “You have to let them hit bottom”, “You need to kick them out so they suffer the consequences”. Are you kidding? This is my vulnerable child you are talking about. Given the horrible outcome we experienced I would suggest it seems pretty obvious we were not involved enough.

What is becoming clearer to us now is that Jordan suffered from a deep clinical depression. And had been suffering for a very long time. It is likely what drove him at age 13 to try and run himself to death, and control his food intake and exhibit signs of OCD. We saw it, it concerned us, I even called the mental health intake line to get him an appointment with a psychologist, but in the end we didn’t follow through. Fear of labeling him?  Worry that placing too much attention on it might take a passing bad moment and exacerbate it into something worse? Denial? All of the above?

Of all the regrets I carry with me, this is the one that gnaws at me the most, the one I feel could have made all the difference. If I had it all to do over again, I would have insisted we put him into therapy in Grade 6. What if he had been able to develop coping mechanisms that would have prevented the descent into deep depression?

Reading the various descriptions of his psychotic episodes didn’t bother me; the bizarre thoughts and behavior. After all, those had simply become part of our new “normal” life. It was the unexpected reminders that my boy still loved us that reduced me to a sobbing mess. Like the nurse’s note from May 2012 where he expressed to staff that he really wanted to go over to the RUH Mall to buy his mom a mother’s day gift and was worried that it would take longer than the 15 minutes his pass allowed. Or when he was arrested last March and told the corrections center staff that he had not slept for 96 hours because his parents were away and he was worried that something would happen to the house or his brother if he fell asleep.

Reviewing all of his various records in one sitting confirmed what we already knew; that the last four years were a complete gong show. Everyone was focused on the drug use and the psychosis. No one was paying any attention to Jordan as he stated again and again that he was depressed. No one questioned whether the car accident was an attempt at self-harm. Only one nurse ever talked to him about all the self-inflicted burns on his body and what the motivation might have been to hurt himself. There was no communication or handover between psychiatry and his family physician, between the forensic unit and his family physician. That first critical year after his first episode of psychosis he had three 15 min appointments with a physician in October, then nothing till he ended up back in hospital the following September. He had little to no contact with the community mental health team and no treatment plan was communicated to his family physician. He was left to the mercy of his altered brain chemistry – and his brain proved to be an unmerciful god.

That was the story we shared on Tuesday.

We began by asking the group’s permission to place Jordan’s portrait above his value stream map. I told them it was important for them to really see our son as we told his story – because not a single person he came into contact with during his journey – not the police, not corrections, not justice and certainly no one in health care – every saw him as anything but his disease. No one ever saw the person he was and the person he could have been.

We were the last to speak and I think it was almost 4:15 when we began. At 5:00 I noticed the time and apologized to the group, said we would wrap it up. One person responded that he couldn’t speak for the group, but even though he was facing a drive back to Prince Albert, he was riveted by our story and could we please continue. So we did.

Greg spent the evening afterwards replaying it in his mind and wasn’t really happy with how it went – I think he wanted to impart far more facts to the group. I saw it as an opportunity to tell a compelling story – and based on the comments people made on their way out, they will never look at their work the same way. One woman thanked us and said “your story has left me with a heavy burden. I need to do a lot of self-reflection”.

I finished with a challenge to the group. I told them I believed with all my heart that Jordan’s death was absolutely preventable. That our fractured, underfunded, under resourced and quite frankly, fucked up mental health care system directly contributed to his death.

I rejordanminded those who work in health care about the story of Mary McClinton, the patient whose death lead Virginia Mason hospital on a mission to improve patient safety. I said today we are offering you the story of our beautiful, talented, brilliant boy in the hopes that you will be equally inspired to radically change the care and service experience for those whose mental health issues are every bit as critical as those with physical illness.

We spent the next day working with the group to identify barriers and challenges and making recommendations for how the various sectors (education, social services, police service, justice, corrections and health care) could work more effectively together. This was where Greg was able to share his carefully compiled data and research to great effect. We are cautiously optimistic that telling our story will have made an impact on the Commission’s report; that in the end it will have been worth the emotional cost that comes with telling it. But regardless, actually getting through those two days was more evidence that the ground is feeling firmer under our feet every day.

Joy of the Mountain

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Once the boys were passed the age that their teacher’s pushed them to create hand drawn cards and crafts, Mother’s Day became a non event at our house. For the last decade or so I have started the day with a take out coffee and a walk on the Meewasin – watching the pelicans play at the weir – and then home to either make myself breakfast on the deck or to attend brunch with the Chartier’s. So last year was a complete surprise.

Lucas managed to carefully carry home on his bike this lovely citronella candle holder from Pier One.

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And Jordan – who had barely spoken to me in weeks – brought me Oregano. gift

I later found these photos on his Facebook page. Obviously during one of his frequent visits to his grandparents he had taken over a ceramic pot a dear friend had created for me years ago and had planted and then carefully transported home what would become a perennial reminder of him.

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Oregano –genus Oreganum. From the Greek words “Oros” meaning mountain, and “Ganos” meaning joy, Oregano is seen as a symbol of happiness. The Greek’s believe that this herb springing up on a grave signifies the happiness of the deceased in the after life.

I am not much of a green thumb – most plants die under my watch. But this little pot of oregano is thriving in its spot in the sun on our kitchen table. A daily and much needed reminder that despite all our challenges and arguments – I was his mom, and he loved me.

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Oh Christmas tree…

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lucas tree

“Why oh why” grumbled Lucas, “Does our family tradition have to include getting the tree on the coldest frigging night of the year?” Minus 37 with the wind-chill – a new record.

A major hurdle has been negotiated and I am so proud of all of us.

Decorating a Christmas tree has always been my favorite part of the holiday season. Even when I was in high school and living at home on Ave J, I would drag a Charlie Brown tree home from Mayfair Hardware and decorate it with ornaments purchased at the Army and Navy store (some of which are still around). I was a tinsel user from way back until I met Greg who was not a big fan of the stuff (more conflict ensued as we discovered that I was a gentle draper of tinsel and he was a thrower of tinsel clumps.) But I stuck to my guns till the boys were old enough to have an opinion (“it looks stupid mom”) and I was out voted.

Once we moved into our home and had the advantage of a cathedral ceiling (allowing for very tall trees), and once the boys were born and became part of the annual tree decorating tradition, things got a little out of control. Gone were the days of my beloved Charlie Brown tree – replaced instead with manly monsters that had to be wrestled into the house and secured with additional bolts and strings to prevent them from tipping over and taking the house with them.

There was the year we tried a different tree vendor and discovered as we were setting up the tree that it had been sprayed with a sickly green colored fire retardant that had everyone breaking out in a rash and hives.

There was the year we bought the most perfectly shaped, perfectly colored blue/green beauty of a tree – only to discover that “trimmed” meant none of the branches actually had the strength to hold an ornament.

The best year ever though, was the year Greg dragged in a 12 foot monster, at least a foot of which bent over at the ceiling once we hammered it into the stand. “Are you sure it isn’t too big Clarke?” I asked. “No worries” said Greg as he cut the final string. Thwack. Thwack. Thwack. Children flew. Lamps were broken. Paintings were knocked off the wall. It was a pine scented, sap spraying Christmas explosion as the tree unfurled itself to its full 8 foot wingspan. The boys loved it! They slept under its branches every night that year and fondly referred to it as their “Christmas in the forest”.

This year finds us scaling back a bit – not quite to the Charlie Brown tree of my youth, but certainly smaller, easier to set up, less time to decorate. I have been dreading Christmas since the day Jordan died and   I honestly did not think I would be able to find the courage to even fetch the box that holds the decorations, let alone touch the ornaments that Jordan’s hands have touched so many times over the years.

But as December arrived I found myself wanting to provide Lucas with some sense of stability, some way to reassure all of us that we will make our way through. So we talked about it as a family and the tree was bought. And we survived.  We didn’t wallow, we reminisced and even laughed. I was determined to make Jordan part of it all, so we lit his candle and hung all the decorations that Jordan had made over the years. And we talked about the ornaments that represent special moments; like the Christmas we went to Disney World, the Christmas spent in a hut in the middle of the Abel Tasman trail in New Zealand, ornaments representing their favorite things, like hockey and soccer. And we found some joy in the remembrance of those priceless family moments.

I am well aware that I am still very much cushioned from reality. That some force is at work protecting me from the full pain of this unbearable loss. I like to imagine that it is Jordan’s gift to us – this ability to remember him and love him and take comfort from the familiar traditions we have always shared during this holiday season. But still, it is so very hard.

Small steps. Deep breaths.jordan

Reflecting on my parenting skills…

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Lucas blue

It’s only now, as my youngest child has reached adulthood, that I am  finally able to assess the full impact of my parenting mistakes. And the good news that I want to share is that it doesn’t seem to have had any lasting negative effect. In fact, there is some evidence that my “mistakes” have actually resulted in positive outcomes.

I have spent countless hours over the years tormenting myself because I wasn’t like the other moms. You know the ones I mean. The ones who never raise their voice, who have never sworn in their child’s presence (nor… gasp… actually directed an invective at their child). Who have never grabbed them by the arm, shook them, and yes, I admit it, spanked them. Who’ve never had an out of body experience; watching and listening to themselves as they screamed at a decibel level that could peel paint off a wall.

Those mom’s also didn’t have toilets that would have looked at home in a service station. Or dust bunnies the size of a small country hiding under the fridge. They  never threw a fruit rollup at their kid on the way to a soccer game and counted it as a vegetable. Nor can they claim to be responsible for the huge profit margin  McDonald’s Restaurant realized during the boom years of 1991- 2003.

I am quite certain that somewhere in my neighborhood there were children who actually rose up quietly off the couch, brushed their teeth, said a prayer and quietly climbed into bed for a solid 10 hours of sleep each night. Whereas I seem to have spent most of my children’s lifetime rocking them to sleep, lying down with them till they (or more likely I) fell asleep, and dragging them kicking and screaming to the bedroom, confiscating flashlights, and threatening any number of punishments in an effort to get the lights out before 11 pm. (Mrs. Chartier, Lucas seems very tired in the afternoons. Yeah? Well maybe you could let him take a nap ’cause I give up trying to get him to go to bed).

I let them watch the Simpsons ’cause it was on at 5 pm and the TV was too far away from the kitchen where I was frantically putting supper together for me to monitor it. I let them watch Seinfeld every night for an entire summer because it came on at 1000 PM and for the first time in years they would cuddle up on the couch with me to watch and the boys would laugh together instead of punching each other out.

Because I worked, and especially because I worked at a job that I was passionate about but that periodically demanded a lot of time from me, I gave them what felt like too much independence. I was wracked with guilt because I felt they were on their own too much. And I know for certain that they were left alone at a younger age than many of their classmates.

So where are the positives?

They did their own laundry. They did housework (yes, they needed a list and usually some threat of violence but they both knew how to wield a vacuum). Lucas can cook anything from a full turkey dinner to a gourmet feast complete with a scratch made chocolate cake.

Yes, they were loud and annoying and they learned from the master how to raise their voices. But they also learned how to demand what they needed, to stick to their principles, to call people on bad behavior.

While I didn’t appreciate it when the fast wit and quick retorts were directed at me, the wry sense of humor they honed on Seinfeld and Simpson’s made them good company, interesting conversationalists and excellent debaters.

While I recognize that I was likely an even worse mother than usual when I was taking my Masters degree (as was their father when he took his) they seem to have grasped the value of education and that achieving goals requires hard work.

Lucas has successfully navigated his first semester in the College of Engineering. We had our concerns about him tackling school so soon after the death of his brother. And even more concerns when we discovered that he had a seven class load to manage. But he navigated his way through with his usual pragmatic ease and with all seven finals now complete, it does indeed appear that he has passed every class.

As I watched him study (holed up in his room, living in his PJ’s, rarely bathing) I was reminded of a weekend when he was about 9 or 10 and he had once again procrastinated on a major school assignment. I think I spent the entire weekend yelling at him. By 10 pm Sunday night I was completely finished with him. I pronounced that he was a lazy shit, grounded him for the rest of his life, told him I hoped he failed and stomped off to bed. Nice. Yet another parenting success story for my scrapbook. About an hour later he arrived at my bedside for a hug. Still damp and sweet smelling from the shower, he wrapped his arms around me and said “You know mom, the important thing is that I am done. It’s not like the prince rescues the princess from the fire breathing dragon two weeks in advance. He does it in the knick of time and it’s the fact that he does it that’s important”.

How did I get so blessed?

I still suffer too much guilt over my past parenting indiscretions to feel like I can take any credit for how well they both turned out. However I do take comfort in knowing that they seem to have turned out pretty perfect despite their mother’s failings.

The one true lesson I have learned? As long as you love them, really… the rest is insignificant.

Not sure the College can manage another Chartier

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hatFinally – a joyful moment at the Chartier house. Lucas was off to orientation today and seemed quite excited about it. Up and showered and dressed by 0815 – which is a miracle in and of itself. He allowed me to take the annual “first day of school picture in front of the cedar” picture and let me drive him to campus. Hopefully he will get into the groove soon (he is already regretting the anticipated reduction in TV viewing time). I have attached a picture of him reading the orientation manual out loud to us (not kidding – every word!) and proudly wearing Dad’s vintage “bullshit protector” hat. He seems keenly interested in the social activities 🙂 and he and Greg sang the Engineering song (“We are, we are, we are the Engineers. We can, we can, demolish 40 beers”). He sadly reports that the Godiva ride is no more, nor is kidnapping the Agro student president allowed. He was less certain about whether the 40 Beer contest is still permitted and plans to share his Dad’s concrete toboggan exploits at tomorrow’s “war stories” session (he may even wear the hat). Lucas is assuming that all of Greg’s Profs are “probably dead by now”. Greg was not amused 🙂

As for me, I had a less productive day than Lucas did. Returned home from dropping him off at the University and immediately bathed the dog. After a month of swimming in our disgusting lake even Greg (who cannot smell) could not stand him any longer. The scent actually burned your nose. He smells much better but is still very, very unhappy with his mean owners.

We spent the weekend at the cabin. Had some rain and wind on Friday and Saturday, but Sunday and Monday were the hottest days I ever remember experiencing on a September long weekend. It was absolutely fantastic weather. The annual sailing regatta was on which is always fun to watch. Dave let us borrow the pontoon boat for the weekend and I believe Lucas and I have sold Greg on the idea of getting our own. Great for fishing, reading, lying in the sun, letting the waves rock you to sleep, lots of room for Niko to roam around. Lucas especially enjoyed the late night star gazing cruises.

It was very, very difficult to leave the cabin yesterday. It seemed to signal the end of summer and therefore the end of pretending that Jordan was just away or working. The reality of having to adjust to this new life without him was right in our face and in our hearts. To be honest, things seems to be getting harder, not easier. The guilt and regret over the hundred different times we could have intervened or reacted differently and prevented this tragedy is always present and painful.

The counsellor I saw last week (and who was highly recommended) said I was “doing as well as could be expected” and wasn’t sure what she could offer me. Hmmm. Why do I keep provoking this reaction from therapists? I was open and honest about my feelings, my guilt and remorse, cried a lot. I certainly wasn’t Sally the Stoic. Maybe there really isn’t anything anyone can do to help us – we just have to go through it. But I will try someone else and see how that goes. Perhaps a bereavement group might help.

The ambitious plan for this week is to try and regain some sense of normal. Get some groceries. Cook some meals. Clean the bathrooms. Clean up the yard. Get out and see people. Get some exercise. I am hoping the old adage “fake it till you make it” has some truth to it. Small steps. Deep breaths.

Are you kidding me?

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I thought I would share the rant I wrote today in response to a query from the Public Trustee on why we had not filed our guardianship papers yet (six weeks after we first initiated contact).

Good morning. No we did not go to the courthouse after all. Frankly we  finally just gave up out of sheer frustration as we were overwhelmed in dealing with our son.

 Our 24 year old had his first psychotic break 4 years ago and has been certified and hospitalized 6 times in the last four years. I don’t believe he has ever been stable during that time – he has simply learned how to hide it better. We are working with a diagnosis of Bipolar – and  I can’t imagine a more challenging population to deal with. Young, bright, ambitious people who are suddenly tossed into a terrifying world of delusions, paranoia and hallucinations – and who have little insight if any into the fact that they are ill.

His last psychotic break occurred while we were out of the country. And despite flying home early and trying to manage him over the phone and through family, by the time we got home he was missing. And would remain so for three days until we finally received a call from him from inside the Saskatoon Correctional Center. He was terrified and had no idea where he was, why he was there, or what was happening. I can’t imagine a more frightening experience for someone who has paranoid delusions about the police wanting to  “make him disappear”

 No one at SCC would speak to us about his charges. Nor would they allow me to talk to anyone so that I could ensure they were aware of his diagnosis and his medication and treatment plan. The police would not tell us anything either. And our son could not speak for himself.

I called your office in deep distress and spoke to a very kind woman on a Friday who walked me through the forms. Unfortunately I learned my husband had to sign in front of a commissioner of oaths and he was out of town. She reassured me that if I got them signed and faxed to her on Monday she would process. I asked her if I could just go to a judge in Saskatoon and she said no, the forms had to come to your office. So we faxed them. And then we waited. After several days we called, we emailed. Finally on the Thursday before the Easter weekend my husband got in touch with someone who said we needed to take the forms to the courthouse. And additional forms were needed than those we had been directed to fill out.  My husband called the courthouse and was told that it would be at least 14 days before a decision would be made. It had already been two weeks. At that point we simply gave up. Our son was now in the NB hospital and we were able to communicate with the care team – which was our most important priority.

 We are once again dealing with the fallout of these psychotic breaks – and there is inevitably significant financial cost to us as we deal with the police, missing vehicles, missing property, property damage, prescription costs, travel costs, court dates etc etc. I can’t help but believe it could have all been easier if we had legal standing as his guardian. The emotional cost is harder to quantify and it becomes more difficult with each instance as we are less resilient.

We will pursue some sort of guardianship so that we are prepared for the next bout. My email is not meant to lay blame, simply to point out that the process is confusing and complicated and certainly not timely enough when you are a family in crisis. There are huge gaps in communication between the police, corrections, and the healthcare system. If I had been able to obtain immediate temporary guardianship I could have advocated better for my son and ensured his legal rights were honoured and avoided a significant period of time where he was not receiving his medications.

Feel free to distribute this message to others within your department and engage them in a frank conversation about how your approach and processes could be improved.

Our day in court…

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Jordan had his final court appearance this morning. Absolute Discharge (no criminal record) – which is the only just result. Everyone involved knew he had no business being in the criminal system in the first place. So now he is ours again.

How do all those poor souls without loving families manage? He was immediately out the courthouse door and on the street with his prison sweats on his back. No jacket. No money. No ride. It is apparently up to him to go to the Police Station or Correctional Center to find his clothes and belongings. No meds either– and he does not have a current prescription for Lithium. His last dose of Olanzipine was Tuesday – and he refuses to take any until he sees Dr. A on the 23rd. He says he only needs it “prn”.  I called the pharmacy and begged 4 days of Lithium from them until I can get in touch with Dr. A on Monday.

He’s jittery. Rapid speech. Up and down the stairs. In and out of the house. It’s exhausting. He smoked 4 cigarettes in the first hour – sigh. We need to buy an income property and put him in it asap. He’s by no means well – but hopefully some of it is just relief at being out and at home.  And while I predict we will have another episode within six months, I am willing to give him the benefit of the doubt and hope for the best.

My beautiful boy is in there somewhere – when the judge asked him if he had anything to say, he stood and said “I’d like to apologize to the court for my previous state of mind and my behaviour” and the judge told him that he had nothing to apologize for – he can’t help the fact that he has a mental illness. But he can take steps to stay well – by staying off weed and staying on meds. I asked him if his lawyer told him to apologize – no, he replied, I just felt I needed to.

My arm is much better. I can shower and dress myself (bit of a weird hair thing going on though as I try and style with my left hand).  I used a knife and sliced a cucumber without popping my bone out. I even signed my name to the document that signals the end of mortgage payments on the cabin (just in time to take on another mortgage for that income property)

My knee is still very sore. And tough to find the right position to sit comfortably. Walking is still a painful challenge so I will be making everyone come to me at work next week.  I will experiment with some long acting arthritis meds and see if that improves things.

I have given up waiting for the snow to disappear – my Weather Network app shows little snowflakes till next Thursday. To cope with this depressing news, Lucas and I have turned viewing all the spring ads on TV for bug spray and lawn fertilizer into a drinking game.

Peace on earth…

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This December I found myself spending a lot of time reflecting on the meaning of “Peace on Earth”. Perhaps it’s because Greg was in Cairo during the Palestine/Israel conflict and then found himself right in the middle of the Egyptian protests against Morsi’s new constitution. Perhaps it was the tragic shootings in Newtown that I can hardly bear to think about. But more likely it’s because there was no peace to be found in our home last Christmas and 2012 seemed to delight in testing our resilience over and over.

I briefly toyed with the idea of boycotting Christmas – no tree, no decorations, just ignore the whole thing. But then in one of my rambling internet searches one night, I stumbled onto an editorial from the NY Times written Dec 25, 2002:

“Peace on Earth. In all the clutter of Christmas meanings, in the rush and burden that almost engulfs this day, that hope is still its truest meaning. The resilience of this holiday, the way it seems to clutch at our emotions in the most unexpected ways, comes as much from the sense of individual promise it arouses in each of us as from the rituals of shopping and giving gifts to one another.

We postpone our resolutions till the New Year, but if we have resolutions to make, they awaken today. Through the lights and the wrapping paper, over the sounds of music and what for many of us has become a quiet celebration, we take the risk of imagining a better world, containing better versions of ourselves. To imagine that world and those people takes ”mercy mild” and the willingness to give in to this festival in the darkest time of the year. It takes the hope that ”Peace on Earth” isn’t merely a relic from an old, old tale, an impossible wish overheard in the night.”

The written word can be such a powerful tool. And so I resolved then and there to take the risk of “imagining a better world”. Lucas and I bought a tree, strung the lights, watched “Christmas Vacation”, baked sugar cookies and listened to Christmas music. We faithfully watched all of the Food Network Christmas specials for the secret to the perfect turkey and eventually applied Gordon Ramsay’s techniques with spectacular success. While I had long ago ordered iPads for the boys online, Greg and I hit the new Factory Outlets when he got home so we could feel a part of the Christmas shopping experience (and got unbelievable deals as well!). I took time each evening to sit beside the twinkling tree; fireplace on, dog at my feet and watch a corny Christmas movie.

But most importantly I took the time to reflect on, and be grateful for, all the blessings in my life. For Jordan – who survived his darkest and bleakest year yet and is in a much better place than he was last Christmas. For my mom – who wasn’t sure she would see this Christmas and whose cancer journey has been far better than we had imagined it would be. For Lucas – who gets more confident, more responsible and yes, wittier, every day.

I am grateful for all the beautiful babies that arrived this year – and for the joy they brought to their Grandmother’s. And for Carter Brian Ron Hood – the handsome young man who made me a Great Aunt!

I am grateful for the time we were given with Paulette and for the gift of being able to support her and be with her. Her passing reinforced how important it is to nurture the deep and abiding friendships that constantly shore me up and help me bounce back from life’s latest punch.

And so I find myself heading into the New Year with renewed hope and optimism. 13 has always been Greg’s lucky number – so 2013 must surely be the “Year of the Chartier”. And my “impossible wish, overheard in the night” is that we do find some peace on our little patch of earth. That Jordan continues to move forward in his recovery, that Lucas discovers the freedom that driving a car will give him and that he takes himself on a grand adventure before heading to University in September. My wish for Greg is that he continues to find ways to blend his consultant work with the travel he so enjoys, and that I can begin to free myself from my responsibilities in order to join him along the way.

And I wish the same for you –whatever your hopes and dreams and burdens are – that 2013 brings you love, joy and most of all … peace.

Merry Christmas and Happy New Year

(Did you really think I’d let you get away without a picture of Niko waiting to open his presents?)Niko Christmas

It’s starting to feel like Christmas

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Our kitchen was filled with laughter and memories today – it finally felt like Christmas!

Sugar Cookie Day looks a little different now then it did 20 years ago. Dozens of cookies of all shapes and sizes have been replaced with man sized Christmas Trees. Three colors of icing, chocolate sprinkes, and multi colored sparkles have given way to a giant bowl of icing plopped beside the cookie jar for “ice as you go” convenience. When they were little, the boys would often lose interest after decorating 4 or 5 cookies and I’d be left all alone to decorate the remaining three dozen by myself. Now I’m lucky if there are still cookies left by the time I’ve washed the dishes!

Even Jordan made an appearance to eat some dough – lured no doubt by the traditional sugar cookie music – Lucas and I were singing along to “I believe in Santa Clause” from Kenny and Dolly’s Once Upon A Christmas. The original television special aired the Christmas Greg was travelling in Australia, and “Christmas Without You” can still bring me to tears. I wore out the vinyl album and was thrilled to find the CD a few years ago. A copy now lives on my IPOD  – so if we are ever blessed by grandchildren the tradition will live on.

What would the world be like without music instantly transporting you to people and places? Memories of this year will be stirred everytime I hear “I want a hippopotamus for Christmas” – I’ll picture bare chested Lucas with his home done haircut (it looks surprisingly good) belting out ” No crocodiles, or rhinoceruses, I only like hippopotamusses!”

Last Christmas I was still pretty raw, and I spent a lot of time listening to the Goo Goo Dolls and hoping for “better days”

“And you ask me what I want this year

And I’ll try to make this kind and clear

Just a chance that maybe we’ll find better days”

I’m not sure that at first glance you’d classify 2010 as “better days”,  but it certainly taught me to be better at accepting that which I cannot change, changing those things that are within my control, and being thankful for all that is good and joyful in my life. So the Christmas song getting a lot of play time at our house this year is Josh Grobin’s “Thankful”.

 Some days, we forget to look around us.

Some days, we can’t see the joy that surrounds us.

So caught up inside ourselves, we take when we should give.

So for tonight we pray for what we know can be.

And on this day we hope for what we still can’t see.

It’s up to us to be the change,

And even though we all can still do more,

There’s so much to be thankful for.

I am thankful for all of you and I am hoping you are all enjoying the season as well.

Reaching for hope…

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” I learned that parents can bear almost anything. Every time we reach a point where we feel as if we can’t bear any more, we do. Things had descended in a way that I never could have imagined, and I shocked myself with my ability to rationalize and tolerate things that were once unthinkable”

The parent who wrote the above quote is David Sheff,  a writer for the NY Times. The quote comes from an article he wrote called “My addicted son”. He went on to write a book called “Beautiful Boy”. Which could just as easily been called “Jordan”.

We’ve been making a little progress with Jordan. Hard to see it sometimes when you are buried in the day to day crap. He had been doing really well on the Respiridon – brighter, more talkative. We even had a lovely supper out a few weeks ago. Then the UIC cheque came and we descended into another smoke filled black hole.

I lost it – on Greg and Jordan. Said I would no longer be witness to his death spiral and would be moving out (since Greg can’t yet get to the point of kicking him out). That he was killing himself, killing the family. As luck would have it, the next day Dr. A had a frank and honest conversation with Jordan about the deterioration he was seeing and the risk he was running of permanent cognitive function loss. Jordan sat on it for a night and then came and said he would go to Edgewood. I said if he was sincere about it, that he could check into Larson House first. So he did. Lasted 3 days. Came home and said he wasn’t comfortable there, that it didn’t feel like the place for him, that the sessions were not what he expected (they spent one session playing two truths and a lie and he struggled to see the value), could he go to Edgewood?

Made him call Edgewood and talk to a counsellor. Made sure he was aware that he had to do group sessions there as well and that he wouldn’t always understand the point behind the exercises. That he would have a roommate, have to do chores etc. That it wasn’t a spa vacation. That if he walked away from Edgewood and disapeared, that it would most likely kill us. Or at a minimum bring on the cardiac arrest that has been imminent for the last 18 months.

He still wants to go. Says he knows he needs to stop smoking and that it needs to be for the rest of his life and that he can’t do it alone. So we agreed. Truthfully, I am not overly optimistic that this will be successful. But Greg and I decided that if we don’t try it, and things continue on this downhill slide, we will always wonder if it could have made the difference.

So I am pulling escort duty on Tuesday. As seems to be the recurring pattern of the last three years, Greg is once again away when things hit a crisis point. If it was a direct flight I would just put Jordan on the plane, but the two hours in Vancouver makes everyone a little nervous. I am also a little worried about continuity of care in regards to his meds so would like to have a person to person conversation with the psychiatrist. There is also the  little matter of the downpayment…yikes…I just keep focusing on how many airmiles it will generate 🙂

But most importantly,  Jordan asked me if I would come with him. And no matter how angry and disapointed I am with him, and even though I feel as if he has beaten all feeling out of my soul – he is my kid. And I need to recognize how hard it was for him to finally reach this decision and show him that I support him. As one of the family panel members said at last year’s workshop – “Were it not for hope, the heart would break. Hope kept me alive”. So we keep hope’s light burning.

Fingers crossed.