Saying goodbye

Yesterday our family spent the day remembering Alex’s mom, Joan. After a difficult illness, she died in her sleep last week.

Joan was born in England and moved to Canada when she was a young woman to work as a draftsperson at the Avro Arrow. While in Canada, she met a young RCMP officer at Parliament Hill in Ottawa (Alex’s dad), who she eventually married. Their wedding was in England and then they moved to Ontario. Alex’s older brother was born there. After a few years, they moved to Burnaby and then to Surrey where Alex’s dad grew up. There they had two more sons.

The first time I met Joan, I felt like she had decided I was already part of her family. As an immigrant who married a man with a very small family, Joan was always happy to make her family bigger. I heard her squeal through the phone when Alex called to tell her we were getting married.

She was so excited when we told her we were pregnant with J and when Alex announced cub #2 would be arriving some time in April, she was overjoyed. Joan loved her family and always wanted to do “something” to help us out…We never left her home after a visit with out “something.” Sometimes she had happened upon a sale on bath towels and picked up some extras for us. Sometimes we came home with a bag full of cold cuts, cheeses and buns to make our lunches for the week. Sometimes it was a folded $5 bill for J to do something special with – J would save her money up and take it somewhere with her. Those little folded bills bought souvenirs at the Aquarium, new books, and a visit to the movie theatre. More than once we came home with a turkey or a roast. One time, before I had any idea what to do with it, she sent us home with a massive hunk of pork – it was longer than my forearm. Alex liked it best when we were sent home with Costco sized boxes of goodies – Mint Patties and jellies were his favourites and Joan remembered that when she went shopping.

I will always remember how much Joan’s family meant to her and the kindness she always showed us. When I watch Alex, I can see some of Joan in him. Her love and desire for a big family lives on in him – I saw it when he met my huge extended family for the first time and instead of approaching them and all their loud, craziness tentatively, he dove in head first. And I see it every day when he plays with J and talks about our new baby and our plans for the future.

Rest in peace Joan. We miss you.

In an instant, it all changed

Tuesday, September 11, 2001 was a beautiful day in London, much like the beautiful day we're having today in Vancouver. When I got up that morning, I never, ever would have thought the day would end with such sadness.

I was off work that day and had gone into London with a friend who was getting ready to leave London, go on a trip through Europe and then head home to Mexico. I don't remember much of the morning, but sometime after lunch, around 1:30 or 2:00, we were in a tacky gift shop on the Strand. And over the chatter of the tourists in the shop, I heard something about a plane hitting the Empire State building.

And that was it. I didn't think much of it, in my mind it was a small, personal aircraft that must have made some kind of navigational error. The person reading the news was pretty calm and matter of fact and moved on to the next news story. Sad, but what do you do, right?

Not long after that we decided it was time to move on to our next destination - I'm not sure what it was, we never made it there. When we stepped out onto the street, something was wrong. It was quiet. Very quiet. It's never quiet like that on the Strand. And there was a lady on her cell phone in the middle of the street, sobbing. And a man next to her, who obviously knew her, but not well, awkwardly patting her on the shoulder.

As we walked through the streets, we could feel the mood thickening and the city getting quieter, but we didn't know why. I had forgotten the news report and didn't make that connection until later.

We decided that we were just going to go home. We didn't like the way London felt and we had tickets to the theatre that night, so we thought we'd go home, drop our purchases off, get changed, have dinner and come back.

The underground was eerily quiet. Everyone was very subdued. Every once in a while we'd see someone who had obviously been crying.

When we got back to Pax Lodge, it was a little crazy. We were hosting a seminar and there were American participants who were trying to connect with their relatives. We still weren't sure what was going on. Everyone crowded around the tv, but the news hadn't become huge yet...most stations were showing regular programming. The internet was nothing like it is today and in the entire building there were two computers (maybe four?) that were connected to the internet...nothing would load because the demand around the world was exceeding most sites' bandwidth allowance.

Eventually the UK caught on and all five stations that we got switched to newscasts. And it was devastating. There was huge concern about where terrorists might strike next. There was talk of shutting down the underground. The City was evacuated. All of our international guests and staff just wanted to go home. Of course, we knew that wasn't going to be possible.

Edna and I weren't sure if we should go to the show that night. We were scared that we'd get there and then the underground would shut down and we would have to walk all the way home. We waffled for hours about going and finally our boss told us just to go. That's what we needed to do, keep living and not let the terrorists scare us into staying home, even if we were terrified. She even offered to drive into London to get us if the underground did get shut down.

We went to the theatre and Oxford Street was almost empty. There was two minutes of silence at the beginning of the show and the theatre pretty much stayed quiet throughout the show. The show was great, but the collective sadness of the audience was so heavy. I have no idea how the actors managed to put on such a great performance.

My tv, which pretty much lived in a cabinet, came out of storage and for the next few days there was almost always someone in my room, even when I wasn't there, watching the coverage. I don't think I've ever cried so many tears. I don't think I've ever been so homesick either. Not that being home would have made the reality of it any less, but being home would at least give me the comfort of knowing my family was okay. I figured the world was ending.

The world didn't end.

My parents flew, very safely, to London a few weeks later to visit me and do some travelling. I flew to Finland and flew back to London with two pairs of scissors in my carry-on luggage and no one stopped me. I figured an armed guard would be waiting to arrest me when the plane touched down at Heathrow. Edna didn't get to go on her trip through Europe. Her mom was so concerned she asked her to come home right away.

Things changed. People seem to be more cautious. I need a passport to cross the 49th parallel. I can't carry a water bottle with me on the plane anymore. Thousands of people lost loved ones on September 11. Thousands more have lost loved ones in the years since in London, Iraq and Afghanistan and in other terrorist attacks. But the world has carried on.

This morning when I got up, my thoughts immediately went back to that day ten years ago. I hugged J a little tighter than usual. Then I turned the tv on and saw that the three year old from Sparwood had been returned to his family. And I hugged her again. She looked at me like I was crazy. Then she saw the tears glistening in my eyes and she gently patted my shoulder and told me "It will be okay, Mommy. I love you."

And I think she's right.

It will be okay. The world didn't end. It changed.

Remembering belatedly

Dear Facebook: And this is why I *HATE* you.

When I lived in London, my Papa Billy came to visit me and took me to meet some of his cousins - Persis, her husband George and Cousin Bob. Persis and George lived on the way from London to Heathrow and became my special British relatives. I visited them as often as I could - probably once a month - and usually spent the night with them. I was the only person who was not a member of the immediate family invited to Persis' 80th birthday. That's right. They were elderly. I often referred to them as my pretend British grandparents.

They lived in a typical British home - a duplex by our standards - with a front and back room and kitchen downstairs and three bedrooms, an airing closet and a bathroom upstairs. I was given the front bedroom when I visited alone (their daughter's bedroom growing up) or the back bedroom (their sons' bedroom) if I came with a friend.

They had a gorgeous back garden - it was a maze of paths and plants with small statues hiding among the greenery, begging to be discovered. Persis would often make me fish sticks because while I didn't eat meat (back then) I definitely ate fish and she wanted to make sure that I could have dinner with them even when she was cooking something like a joint of lamb. I loved going to their place for a day or two of relaxation when life in London became too crazy. Persis called me on the phone regularly just to talk, asking if that was "my Shannon" when I answered and always saying "See you soon, my love" when we said goodbye. Persis was a smoker, but I don't think I ever saw her actually smoke a cigarette. She walked around with a lit one between her fingers almost all day, sometimes with a good inch and a half of ash hanging off the end of the cigarette, leaving a trail of ash in her wake.

George was the quieter of the two, a very intelligent man with lots of interests and interesting things to say. We had many memorable conversations and shared many quiet afternoons just sitting in the back room or on the patio sipping tea, reading or George possibly doing a crossword puzzle, while snooker played on the tv in the background. I remember visiting them with my friend Kristine and she and George had an interesting conversation about the history of Latvia. He was thrilled to have someone to talk to about Latvia and I think Kristine was surprised and happy to meet someone who knew so much about her country.

When my parents came to see me in 2001, they stayed with Persis and George for the first few days of their trip. We used their home as a starting point for a day trip to Windsor and Eton and to do some quiet, local exploring while the jet lag wore off. We went out for dinner at one of Persis' favourite restaurants, an old manor house near their home, and our waiter was called Alan. After that, she called my dad Alan. Even in Christmas cards and letters.

That year, I spent my birthday at their house. They gave me some lovely gifts, some chocolate and even a special, tiny birthday cake.

Whenever I went away, I made sure to send them a postcard - Persis had a wall dedicated to postcards. She also had a gallery of family photos in her front room - last time we were in England, she proudly showed us our wedding picture and some baby pictures of J that she had added to the gallery.

After I left London and came home, I wrote to Persis and George at least once every couple of months. We often received phone calls from her at Easter and at Christmas. I often talk about how wonderful and large my family is and how no one really concerns themselves with whether or not we're first cousins or second cousins three times removed or whatever, we're all just cousins and therefore, we're all just family. It shouldn't really surprise me, but it still does, that Persis and George took that same approach to family. By the time I visited them for a second time, I felt like I belonged. I met their children and grandchildren. I visited (and stayed with) their two grandsons and their daughter-in-law over Easter when I was in Australia. Their son, who was the head of Capel Manor College, invited me to attend the Chelsea Flower Show with a friend and gave us a guided tour. They were all so lovely to me.

Every time I went back to London, I made sure to stop in and visit. On our last visit in 2009, they got to meet J. They were certainly getting older - George had had a stroke some years before and Persis was his caregiver. He was frustrated. His stroke seems to have left him with a perfectly functioning brain, but very little in the way of communication abilities - he had much difficulty with his speech and he couldn't write, but he still read and watched the news and sports. My mom sent them a subscription to Beautiful British Columbia every year for Christmas and he got excited every time one arrived in the mail.

On January 4, 2011, George took his last breaths. Persis followed him on March 30. I don't know more than that today, but I'm sure that Persis died of a broken heart.

I've spent the morning staring out my window, tears running down my face and not really getting anything done...George was 94 and Persis was 89. It is going to be terribly strange not to get off the underground at Hatton Cross and pop in for a cup of tea the next time I go to London. I'm so thankful that my Papa Billy introduced me to Persis and George. I'm so thankful that they had the chance to meet my husband and baby girl.

Persis and George, I'm going to miss you.

Pictures to come when I get home later today.

[And as for why I hate Facebook - that's how I found out...and then I Googled it. And Facebook is not a good way to find out that someone you care for has died.]