Ladybugs

I don't have very many memories from when I was little. I know that we lived in Ireland with my Mum for three years. My sisters were sent to Boarding School and from what I understand, I was bounced around from relative to relative. When I took my own daughter over to Dublin when she was three years old, my cousins took me out for dinner to a pub, wanting to reminisce. It was early 1990 so I was surprised to see a couple of IRA soldiers walking around the pub with their weapons strapped over their shoulders. 


They were recalling all these memories that I myself don't have. "Ceridwen, do you remember the rabbit muff and the pink cookie monster coat you used to wear all the time? With your brown Mary Janes? You refused to wear anything else!!!" Followed by chuckles. "Ceridwen, do you remember Uncle Dan picking you up from the orphanage in the afternoon and when you got home Auntie Mary would ask you what you wanted to eat and it was always "Smashed" Potatoes?"  No, but I do love a good potato. "Ceridwen, do you remember running down the street in the middle of the night in your thin night gown yelling for help after your Mum fell through the plate glass window and Peggy and Betty found you the next morning under the bed freezing cold?" No, but I do remember later in my teen years that my Mum tried to blame that scar on my Father. "Ceridwen, I remember when you picked up a huge branch on the way to church and when the choir began to sing you stepped up on the pew and conducted them with that branch." Hmmmmm, I can almost see myself doing this. I do remember however that when my oldest sister came home for break that she brought me a gift....Donny Osmond knee high socks!!! I hated Donny Osmond and I had to wear the socks when we went into the city, Dublin, because it was the polite thing to do. Ugh. Even at the ripe old age of 4 I knew this was an embarrassment and has scarred me forever.


I don't remember being shuttled amongst relatives after my Mum had fallen through that plate glass window. I do remember the Nun at the Orphanage, they didn't have day cares then so you participated with the Roman Catholic Church. She had the longest red hair and did not wear a habit. I was very confused over that. I remember putting a toy truck on my foot thinking I could roller skate with it and cracking my head open. She was very caring and wonderful. I only wish I could remember her name.


Before the shuttling, we lived in a house outside of the city and I remember I had a wonderful playhouse in the back yard. My Mum would bring my meals to me out there. Sometimes the boys that lived across the street would jump on the house and make it rock, horrid little boys, I did not like them at all. I believe their last name was Moore. 


There was a huge field in front of our house and I would wonder over there, with some kind of container in hand, in search of the ladybug! This is really my only memory of Ireland along with the red headed Nun who seemed to be breaking the dress code. 


The field and lots of ladybugs just waiting to be collected by me!!! 


They are perfection, round, shiny red with little black dots on each wing. They never flew away from you but landed gently on your arm or hand and just crawl around. They were magical little bugs that wouldn't bite you but did sometimes leave a trail of yellow on your skin. I would be in that field for hours, by myself, sitting with the ladybugs and if they were lucky, put in the container to be brought home. My Mum told me a story of when she went into the kitchen and spotted a tin cigar container on the kitchen table. She reached over to grab it and opened it upside down. She said ladybugs spilled all over the table and floor. They were everywhere!!! I am guessing after that she checked all containers and freed the ladybugs. Good thing, I might carry a lot of guilt if I knew the ladybugs had died a horrible suffocating death. 


This is my precious memory. People tell me that they remember a lot from their younger years, I am actually grateful that I don't. 

Ladybird, ladybird, fly away home

Your house is on fire and your children are gone

All except one, and that's Little Anne

For she has crept under the warming pan.

Dirty Dish Water

I can't remember how old I was, maybe 14. I was banned to the kitchen to do dishes after dinner. My sister and her then husband were in the living room. It had been a particularly rough week if memory serves me correct. I had finished cleaning all the plates and glasses, now working on the cutlery, as I lifted the butcher knife from the water to clean it. The sides glistened and it was so shiny. I stood there for a moment, mesmerized by the knife, wondering...how quickly would this gash through my wrists? 


Let me tell you how I got to this point in my life. My parents lived in Saudi Arabia and I chose to stay with my Sister after having lived in Saudi myself for two years. We were very close even though there was a nine year gap. She took care of me when my Mum couldn't. 


I liked my brother-in-law when I met him. He was funny and friendly. He was much better than her last boyfriend! I stayed with them the summer of 1982 and when fall approached I started school. The moment it was decided that I was to stay with my sister, his demeanor changed towards me. He was no longer funny or friendly, he was physically abusive.


I recall the first time he slapped me in the face. We were living on Bell St N in a two bedroom apartment/duplex and I am almost positive they had friends over. I must have said something wrong because the next thing I knew the right side of my face was hit so hard I didn't have time to react for the hand that was ready to lay down on the left side. "That's what you get for talking back!" Talking back??? I always talked like this. What is talking back???


My Father never spanked me. I did one time get a swat on the mouth but I knew why, I was yelling like a crazy maniac because Angelique wouldn't let me roller skate with her and she stole my friend. I was 11 years old. My Father cried so hard over that and hugged me so tight I couldn't breathe. Yes, I was shocked when it happened but I understand why he did it.


I still don't understand, though, why my sisters ex-husband did it. I really was not a bad kid, spoiled yes, but not bad. For three years I was subjected to this and it became worse as I got older. He dragged me by my hair upstairs to my bedroom one time and then proceeded to rip it apart. Another time he slammed me up against a wall in the hallway and attempted to strangle me. Good thing I knew how to fight back, took him a while to stand up straight after that. And don't ever tell anyone where your sensitive spot is because that is where a person will aim for first. In this instance before I gave him the obligatory knee in the crotch, I hit him in his jaw, which was his sensitive spot due to many surgeries and ridicules from childhood tormentors because it used to stick out and made him look "like a lizard". This was the hit that loosened the grip around my neck.


They always had boarders. Some of them were nice, others were crazy. There are two boarders in particular that must have decided for themselves that if my ex brother-in-law was hitting me, they could too. The first time I was 13. His name was Tim. My friend Elizabeth was staying night and we really wanted to watch television but he was playing his guitar in the family room. He had a friend come over so we seized the opportunity to watch a program. When he returned about an hour later he lost it!! He grabbed me by my arm and dragged me towards my bedroom where he threw me into the closed door, which promptly opened upon impact. He then shoved me in the back, towards my bed, where my toe caught the leg. Nice......I now have a broken toe. I called my other brother-in-law, he came over to get us and brought us to Elizabeth's house where I stayed all weekend until my sister and her other half returned from a weekend away. The second time I was 14. Her name was Penny. I am not too sure what set her off, I just remember she grabbed my face and dug her false finger nails into my cheeks and mouth. I was standing on the first level of the stairs where I had a height advantage over her. I lifted my right leg up placed my foot square in the middle of her chest and kicked her off of me. I supported my self with the banister because I really need to get this crazy bitch off of me and leg power was the way to go. I am surprised I didn't stop her heart from beating. She moved out shortly after that happened. 


My ex brother-in-law was a master manipulator and lair. He told my parents that he was doing the best he could with me but that I was out of control. I freaked out and started yelling at my parents over the phone and with much frustration hung up!! Yes, this call was placed all the way to Saudi Arabia, before those lovely phone plans, and I am sure cost a pretty fortune seeing how I did it twice in the same night.


I detest the kitchen table and do not eat there. I own one but that is about it. My ex brother-in-law loved to talk at the kitchen table. Here he would proceed to tell me that I was a looser, I was going to become a drug addict and alcoholic like my Mum and other sister. I was going to amount to nothing, I was a failure. No one cares about you, why do you think they dumped you here. Therefor, I eat on my couch at the coffee table. Mark Harmon doesn't seem to care either and keeps me entertained. Screw the family table, I can talk to my daughter about her day in the comfort of my family room.


I survived this abuse for three years. When I was 15 my parents sent me to Military School. I returned home for summer break and moved out when I was 16. I have pretty much been on my own since then. I did return home for my grade 12 year but found myself moving out again promptly for my grade 13 year. (No, I did not fail, there was a grade 13)


As the light flickered on the blade of this huge butcher's knife and I held it to my wrist, getting ready to slash my skin upwards, I thought of the mess I could potentially create. I also feared someone walking in behind me, scaring me, and the cut being ruined. I didn't want to be institutionalized, I am sure he would have loved that!!


When I was 27 years old, my friend Heather took me to the pharmacy to get my daughter some medication. As I was walking down the aisle I noticed him. Oh Lord, please don't let him have seen me. I attempted to dodge him but he caught me. He approached me and said Hello, I responded the same. For some reason, with my friend standing next to me, he proceeded to tell me that for whatever it was worth he was sorry for what he did to me. Whatever it was worth? He was wrong, his premonitions of how I was going to turn out did not transpire. I had a wonderful seven year old daughter, I graduated from High School and College, was working in the medical field and was living happily in the east end of Ottawa. Is this why he attempted to apologize because he was wrong? Whatever it was worth? Odd. "Do you forgive me?" I wasn't stunned or taken aback. 


My response was "No." 


I looked straight into his eyes and didn't quiver. He however, looked to the ground and shook his head with what seemed like sadness.  With that, I bid him good afternoon and walked away.


Forgive? Never. 

My beautiful Patty

Let me introduce to you my best friend. I had the pleasure of her being a part of my life for 12 years. She was 14 years old when it was her time to go to The Rainbow Bridge and wait for me. I hope my Father was there to greet her, my biggest fear is that she is alone. She left me December 9, 2010. A month and a half after I lost my Father.


She had a thick sable coat that your fingers would just sink into when you would pet her. She loved to have her stomach and underarms scratched. She loved to kiss and if you weren't careful, she would slip you the tongue. Uck....had that happened a few times, thank goodness she wasn't a poop eater.


My Mom found Patty for me. She had dogs so we had to have a dog. We met Patty at her house where I watched her interact with other dogs. She was full of life, seemed to have a constant smile on her face. I knew she was coming home with me. Her owner hadn't planned on letting her go first, he had other dogs he needed to give away (he moved back home with his parents) and Patty was his first dog, he wanted to cherish her until the end. I understand why.


She didn't have a lead on when I called her over to my Fathers mini van. She jumped right up in there as if she had done it a million times over and sat right next to me. She never looked back to her owner, she was focused on me, as if this relationship had existed from the moment she was born. When we reached my parents house and I got into my car so they could follow me with Patty, she ignored them!!! She wouldn't even take a boneo from them. When they arrived to my house and my Father put Patty in her new back yard I went to go and greet her at the door. She ran to me and kissed me.


My Mother had said she never saw a connection like that ever happen, Patty and I were meant to be.


She was such a good dog. She loved Lauren and was her playmate for years, right up until she passed. I would come home from work to find the dog dressed up on many occasion. She loved her huge backyard,  she could roam the perimeter and run up and down the fence with the neighbours dogs.


She touched the hearts of everyone she met. The groomers always said she was the best behaved dog. The vet couldn't believe how well a long she had come from her first visit, she had mange, was skinny and had no hair along the top of her body.


She was the best dog, ever. I miss her very much. Her ashes lay on my night stand table in a beautiful wooden box.

"Not the least hard thing to bear when they go from us, these quiet friends, is that they carry away with them so many years of our own lives."

-John Galsworthy

I feel guilt, though. I had to make that decision when it was time to send her off into her internal sleep. I know it was the right and humane thing to do but I still feel guilt.


Guilt was not listed in the definition of grief. So shall I choose anguish? 

Grief....which one am I?

DEFINITION OF GRIEF: 

The emotional depiction of great loss accompanied by a sense of hopelessness, anguish, denial, anger and confusion

Hmmmm....which one do I suppose I am suffering from? It almost feels like I need to play "eenie meenie minie moe" with this one, or close my eyes and wherever my finger lands....I will choose that one!!!! 


If only it were that simple.


I have lost a lot over the past decade. November 2003 my Mum passed away. February 2008 my sister passed away. August 2008 my Mom passed away. May 2010 my favourite uncle passed away. October 2010 my Father passed away. This is the hardest. My heart hurts. My feelings are very heavy and thick, with what???? I can't describe it.


I was recently in a car accident and had a CT scan performed. They discovered a tumour in my small bowel. Did I mention that my Father was first diagnosed with colon cancer before his other cancers? No, of course I didn't, we have just begun the roller coaster story of my life.


My path of life seems to be have been predetermined, or did I allow it to be? The tumour seems inevitable.. Eventually it was going to happen because my Fathers genetics are rampant through me.....so why bother?  I should bother though.


Which is my biggest fear??? Becoming a drug addict (my Mum and my sister were both addicts) or being riddled with cancer and dieing that horrible death that I witnessed twice??


Ha!!! A drug addict I will never transpire....I am too tired to engage in that business and I do not care to loose control of senses. I like to be in control....that is where my inner conflict is. But that is for another day.


But the cancer I ask......does it matter what steps I take? Yes, I can quit smoking and start eating better. But really?  The genetic makeup of it is already a part of my DNA, so it's just the waiting? Maybe this is part of my fear. Actually, it is.


For today I will choose hopelessness.

Today

Since I have been quarantined to my house for the past week, I have had the opportunity to just think and reflect.......and of course surf the internet. I have been staying awake until 2-3 a.m., thinking, reading, and listening to music. 


I somewhere along the past decade have lost my identity. I am a self confessed workaholic, mother, sister and up until recently a daughter.


Maybe this is where I am starting to feel lost. My daughter is 20, soon to be 21, so there are no more girl scout meetings, fast pitch games, dixie softball or productions to be watched on the high school stage. Am I suffering from empty nest syndrome even though she still lives with me???


I recently lost my Father to pancreatic cancer. Previous to that I lost my Mom (step-mother) to the same horrible cancer and I now find myself struggling with the fact that this is it....I am an a orphan. My Mum passed away eight years ago, unexpectedly, to a drug overdose. She was addicted to prescription drugs. But this another story for another day.


I am no longer an exciting individual. At least this is how I perceive myself, I could be wrong. I think back to my early twenties, and compare that decade to this new decade that I am getting ready to thrust myself into, both feet, but fear it. Ha!!!! Most people who know me would think this is not so. It is. 


I feel very alone without my parents. Someone once told me that the pain doesn't disappear but becomes bearable through time......liar. It has been two years since my Mom passed and it still feels like yesterday. I want to pick up the phone and call my Father only to realize that his old phone is now in my living room. No one can replace them, ever. But people can intrude on a family, cause huge disruption during the last moments of a parents life and only to extend it afterwards. Another story for another day.


Where do I begin to find myself again? I truly am lost....colledig.