The Club

Club/Life Who are we; an assemblage of clones; Xeroxed human forms convinced we are seeking individuality yet exploiting its very existence? Are we simply, “Club goers”, attending the “club” of the moment, striving to be a part of the “in” group; a clique, attempting to carbon the look, speech, smell, and thoughts of others? Are we lost in a sea of conformity, adapting to anything familiar to feel whole, to feel righteous and accepted? Or are we just gregarious sheep, with a flocking instinct, that when separated from the group, we become agitated and require the feeling of safety, to avoid lurking predators who may challenge us or our character? Are we searching for the lead sheep to follow down the road, the ‘Road to Conformity’ or worse, over the cliff and to the death of our very own unique originality? NO, we are beautiful, uniquely designed individuals. We are the result of a recipe; a concoction of ingredients blended together to create a masterpiece of epicurious delight. Like a recipe, our ingredients and our process contain both habitual and fortuitous variables, making each and every decision, experience and moment, directly affect the core of who we become both internally and externally. These uncertainties and variables add the very flavour and texture to our souls and lives that make up who we are. The Ingredients to the recipe are drastically important to the end result. The accompaniment of spices alone, provide enormous contributions to the outcome, even though they are generally distributed in such insignificant, small doses, barely apparent to the eye. As the recipe is blended together the sight of the spices disappears entirely into the mix, regardless of its potency, yet the flavour remains. So whether we desire bland, spicy, sweet, sour or tangy, we most likely will not be able to see this with the naked eye. Our taste buds however will receive instantaneous gratification at the very moment of introduction. The minute dosages of spices will leave exaggerated and lasting effects to the outcome, making it unique and hopefully delicious. The particular ingredients and the mediums they have been exposed to, also play huge roles. Take vinegar for instance; determining whether we would use white, cider, malt or balsamic would be key. If it was balsamic, we would need to know whether we would pour it directly from a bottle in its, fluid and potent form or would we reduce it through heat so it becomes thick and sweet. The same ingredient in different states results in immensely different characteristics from the inside, out. The measurements play a vital role; a pinch, a dash or a teaspoon, all make highly exaggerated differences in taste. The abundance of an ingredient or lack thereof can ruin what we perceive as the expected end result. Who’s in the kitchen, a 3 Star Michelin Chef preparing avocado mousse with green pistachio oil and garnished with fleur de sel or is it Grandma, loving hands and warm heart fondly preparing her mother’s age old family recipe of roast beef and mashed potatoes? The temperature and how it is administered plays a drastic role. Are we using intense heat or low and slow, is the lid on or off, is it baked in the oven or charcoal-grilled on the bar-b-q with mesquite cedar chips? Is it sautéed or fried on the stovetop or simply served, cold and raw? The heat or lack thereof changes everything.Regardless of the methods, the resulting culinary dish is directly proportionate to not only the ingredients and form of cooking we use, but the quantities. Each of these elements plays a drastic and vital role in what will be plated and served to tantalize or terrify ones appetite at any given moment. And at the end of the day all we can say is ... Dinner is served, Bon Appettit! And so my story, and the philosophies that I have derived from it begin. We, as humans are full of a variety of ingredients, mediums, measurements, methods and so forth that make us both unique and the same. Within this uniqueness that we so crave, desire and often own we seem to conversely crave to “fit in” and become a part of a group; a “Club” that unifies us and brings us together in a harmonious and understanding manner, thus the “recipe”. The universal understanding of clubs comes decked out in the all knowing perceived costume of; book clubs, tennis clubs, rotary clubs, dance clubs, bike clubs, yacht clubs, even golf clubs. But the clubs in disguise that resonate in all of our lives each and every day are blatantly obvious yet not drafted and defined. These are the clubs of reality, the clubs of experience, the clubs of hard ache, sorrow, joy, bliss, danger, and courage, LIFE. These clubs build the foundation within us to erect relationships with others based on empathy and understanding of shared mutual knowledge and experiences. These clubs hoist us categorically into levels of sameness that ultimately allow us to relate to one another in a truly understood way. The clubs become a vast and endless springboard to deeper relations and understanding. The Club menu adorned in its new attire is decorated and large; lost a parent club, pregnant club, married club, divorced club, singles club, owned a business club, been an addict club, had a daughter club, had a son club, had a sister club, was abused club, lost a job club, went bankrupt club, made a million club, survived cancer club, chronic pain club, attended university club, wrote a dissertation club … I think you get the picture.

My Son

It’s September 25, I am nearly 7 months pregnant. It is my second child, a child who would not be alive in 5 days from that day.

It was overcast. I had just left my scheduled ultra sound. It was a rare occasion for me to be childless, besides the baby inside of me, of course. I was 7 months pregnant and loving each and every moment of it. I drew my hands down my body, over the basketball-esque lump that protruded from the camouflage dress clinging snugly to my body. I told my baby I loved “it” and pressed, a little obnoxiously, on its body parts to hopefully awaken the little one and feel the movements inside of me . . . I felt so whole, so beautiful, so utterly complete. I was growing the required pace but was squished behind the steering wheel. I could only put my seat back so far with my legs still being able to extend to the pedals. So many little nuances along with pregnancy, so many little discomforts we ignore, because, well, because incredibly, we are the conduits of life.

Hopes and dreams and questions of my unborn child played out in my head as I drove down the street that afternoon. Would it be a boy or a girl, had I seen a penis, would it go to an Ivy League school, would my first born adjust to her new room, her new sibling, and the nursery . . . what about the nursery? I loved my round crib but the decorating was not complete. I figured I would have time, although I anticipated an early arrival to carbon copy my previous little miracle that had entered the world two weeks prior to her delivery date. So many questions, so many thoughts, so much newness about to burst.

In a couple of months, we would have two children, two years apart . . . perfect; and I wouldn’t split my love, I would double my love, yes it would all be perfect. There was enough of me to go around!

U2’s, new song “It’s a beautiful day” played on the radio and I sang along, to at least the words I knew and mumbled through those I didn’t. It was perhaps a grey day but it was still a beautiful day to me. I always seemed to leave ultra sounds in such a euphoric state after observing life inside me, a life that I had been a part of creating, a life that I controlled at least for those nine precious months . . . “it’s a beautiful day, don’t let it get away, it’s a beautiful day, don’t let it get away”. “You’re on the road but you’ve got no destination you’re in the mud mmm mmm mmm mmm mmm . . . you’ve been all over and it’s been all over you”. I was entirely responsible for the well being of the little miracle inside of me and I would take that responsibility seriously.

I felt the vibration of my phone in my lap and the ring followed shortly thereafter. The voice on the other end was my husband competing with Bono; “what you don’t have, you don’t need it now”. After a sing-song hello from me, he said; “Honey, great news, your doctor just called and has the results from your ultra sound”. “Was a beautiful day”. I veered off the road.

My heart pounded, pounded, so vigorously. Thump, thump, thump . . . I wanted to back up, I wanted to wake up, I wanted to start the day anew. You don’t get results from ultra sounds unless they are bad and no, not only minutes afterward, not personal calls from your doctor. I couldn’t hear anything, the world was spiraling around me, I needed air, I knew at that moment, the hopes and dreams I had entertained in my head only moments before, of my unborn child, would NEVER be. I just knew.

The 5 days to follow were some of the most mentally agonizing, I had ever experienced. Tests, tests, tests and more tests, ultra sounds, amniocentesis, internal exams, external prodding, counseling, tears, tears, tears, so many tears, agonizing decisions that needed devastatingly conclusive answers.

4 days after receiving the news that there was a problem, I sat with my husband in a boardroom of the hospital in another city. The walls were white, the table brown with insignificant metal and woven fabric office chairs surrounded the perimeter. The room felt empty and lifeless except for the dozen or so medical professionals that gathered to re-summarize the prognosis, answer any questions and hear our decision. Our decision, was actually my decision, one my husband chose to leave in my hands, head and heart.

Introductions were made after everyone was seated. Dr. Jones, Dr. Remirez, Dr. Denard, Dr. Hall; all a blur of specialists, a handful of nurses, a couple of Psychologists and some pre-med students. It all felt so blurred, the formalities seemed so inconsequential. My heart was pounding, I swallowed or tried to but the dryness in my throat made it next to impossible.

The professionals’ spoke, I listened. ” Your son”, Oh my gosh, I had made a son, “has severe heart defects”… their mouths continue to move but the words are now muted. The cold, rawness of the first words spoken “severe heart defects, a son, severe, a son” skips like a scratched vinyl. I seem to be in and out of a coherent state. “His chances of survival are next to none through the birthing process, if, if he even lived that long. Upon giving birth he would need an immediate heart transplant which is only possible in a few select hospitals, thousands of miles away, you would have to relocate for quite some time, that heart may be rejected or we may not have a heart for him, he would need more transplants as he grew. My mind is Kansas… “chances,” “a son,” “survival,” “immediate transplant,” “relocate, thousands of miles,” “a son rejected” . . . a whirlwind, spinning, for what seemed like an eternity. And then it stopped.

The room held a thunderous silence. I looked out at the blank faces staring back at me. I felt so small. Why couldn’t they make my decision, why did it have to me? I opened my mouth to speak, my voice cracked, breathe, breathe, breathe, I told myself. “I, ehmmmhmmm (clearing throat again) want to terminate my pregnancy”. I said it; I said the words I did not want to say but knew I had too. I said the words that I had prayed to receive. And then I heard it, I heard sighs, sighs that to me were that of relief, escaping the mouths or hearts of the others in the room, sighs that gave me comfort of a decision well made. We left the hospital. Silenced and dispirited. At 9:30 the following morning I would return to the hospital to voluntarily end the life of my child.

It was familiar staying at the same hotel we had just stayed at a year prior for my husband’s heart surgery. Actually it was a hotel with many memories. It felt comfortable and homey; they knew our names and we were treated well. My first experience there had been a private invitation party with a rock band on their world tour. That was followed by a “Bride-to-be” wedding gala and the list goes on. It was a common place for “B” actors and the infamous to stay while shooting on location and making conversations with them was a regular occurrence in the elevators or the lounge. Ultimately, and honestly, the close proximity to shopping, retail therapy and bag drop at your finger tips was enough to keep me coming back. Those thoughts, that night, however were as foreign to me as any and did not even tease the depths of my mind.

They gave me drugs so I could sleep that night. I think I did, I do not know. I remember telling myself to breathe, just breathe deeply . . . inhale, exhale, breathe. Song of the year by Faith Hill, ran through my head “caught up in the touch, the slow and steady rush. Baby, isn’t that the way loves supposed to be, I can feel you breathe, just breathe”.

I woke early the next morning, unable to sleep and we went down to the restaurant in the hotel for breakfast. Happier times had been had in this very restaurant for us, lots of them. I ordered Eggs Benedict, because I knew I had to eat so I would have energy for the labour I was about to self administer.

Nearby a man and a woman sat enjoying coffee and laughing together. I wanted to laugh so desperately. Her laugh was familiar, familiar enough to make me look up. I realized it was Marion Cunningham, (or at least that is who I knew her as, the perfect mother from Happy Days.) I had spent many days on a bean bag chair after school enjoying the Cunningham family and their antics, while my parents were away at the Cancer Clinic. I smiled; in some odd way she made me feel safe, like a surrogate mother who had been there for me. She had no clue of who I was, sitting next to her, the trauma I was facing, nor the small amount of hope she gave me at that moment.

We drove to the hospital; I wore my camouflage dress again with chunky crimson red boots. I needed to take anything and everything I could from this moment. I needed to remember every detail. I wanted my senses to never forget, and that is why the camouflage dress. It wasn’t a maternity dress, it was simply a form fitting, high necked, short sleeved, ever so slightly see-through fabric, three quarter length dress. I felt good in this dress and it was the dress I wore the day I got the “news”. I was desperate to accentuate any ray of light I could out of what I was about to experience and if some trivial, inanimate piece of fabric could boost my senses even an iota, I was going to take it.

We walked through the doors, hand in hand. I observed the walls lined with bright paintings and clay works of young children, the only brightness in a flatly lit room. The smell was that ‘ever present’ smell of a hospital, so clinical yet sort of stale. Uh yes something else familiar from my past. Oddly enough I found some comfort in that. Two ladies sat behind a desk, where we would register. One was on the telephone leaving the other as the lucky candidate who had the task of me. I’m pretty sure she secretly wished she had been the one on the telephone at the time. “Good morning, can I help you?” she asked. “uh yes, I am here to” . . . and that was the end of my conversation with her . . . I broke down. Someone stepped in for me and we were ushered away.

We stepped out of an elevator, walked left twice, there were carts of linens and gowns creating a maze down the hallway to what would eventually lead to my room, the room where I would give birth to my son. The room felt so forgotten, so obscure and hidden, like a place to hide a dirty little secret. Inside the room the walls were white; the bedding on the lone single bed was bright. Medical instruments hung on the walls and there was a window looking out onto the rooftop of another part of the hospital and a wall blocking any view that may possibly exist. The window had dismal peach coloured drapes that would come to be closed at some point. I was glad the room was bright. The bathroom was not. It was small, dull and grey with a toilet, a sink and an emergency pull cord. I wished the bathroom was brighter.

A couple of doctors, an intern and two nurses entered the room. We had previously discussed the alternatives to inducing my labour. I agreed to take part in a test using a series of pills that I would insert vaginally throughout the day, thus causing labour to ensue. I signed the necessary forms and was handed a package of pills and told to go into the washroom and insert one. I was then told to leave the hospital but not to venture too far in case my labour came on too quickly. And oh yes, try to keep calm. Dazed and confused we hit a nearby mall for lack of anywhere else to go. There was no buying, only aimless wondering of the mall hallways. Looking but not seeing, hearing but not listening, thinking but trying so hard not to feel. My emotions were so contradictory, so raw; I wanted to experience everything and I wanted to experience nothing.

Mental torment soon became secondary to the physical agony. The pills were working, the labour had begun and with a vengeance. For some reason I did not expect the labour to be as severe as my previous experience. I mean why should it? This baby was not coming to this world to stay. I was wrong, very, very wrong.

My previous labour experience had been 39 and a half (can’t miss the half) hours of labour, 4 hrs of that, pushing with short intervals in between and long laboured segments. This was no different. Blessed with insanely high pain tolerance it has always been a testament to my labours and those who knew me of the intensity I was able to endure. After our first child, my husband came to me and said “I have a new respect for you. I bet I could take an axe to your leg and you wouldn’t even flinch.” That had always amused me.

The labour was severe, we kept walking. My husband wanted to return to the hospital but I didn’t. In the non contracting moments my head would fill with emotion. I didn’t want to say goodbye, not yet. I didn’t want to lose my son; I didn’t want to lose this feeling of him inside of me. I didn’t want to lose part of myself, make the decision a reality. I wanted to continue to talk to him and play with him, moving his little body about me, rubbing love all over him. I didn’t want to let go of the hopes and the dreams. The desperation was excruciating. In the contracting moments my head would go somewhere else. Breathe, breathe, breathe. I was stubborn; I would not go, not yet. We walked out to the truck, where I cried profusely. I looked over at my husband and could tell he could take no more; he was despondent. I didn’t care. I was in, what I thought was my finest form, I loved myself pregnant, both body and soul and I didn’t want to vacate either of those. Painful whimpers occasionally escaped me, but the emotional pain was louder. We drove back to the hospital where we sat in the truck for as long as I could convince him to stay. We then walked back through the hospital doors, up the elevator, pausing every 45 seconds or so to breathe through the pain, down the dingy hallway, around the linen carts and into the white room in the back corner of the hospital, that would be my son’s birthplace and the place where he would die, today.

The labour was so vigorous now, yet I wasn’t dilating, typical, for me. A nurse stayed nearby, giving her support as best she could and watching my progression. My husband was attentive yet terrified. I was now clothed in a dreadful blue hospital gown and laying in the white linen bedding, trying to find calm, embracing the last moments with my child within, praying that I would be given the strength to deal with all of this, breathing through the pain that would not give me a moment’s peace. Hour after hour went by. Time went so fast and time stood still. With the nurse on one side of me and my husband on the other, I was escorted to the small, dull, grey washroom, numerous times actually. I would ask them to leave (yes . . . modesty at this point . . . ugh) and relieve my over squashed bladder. Time and again this happened but the last time was different. I sit down, labour pains, breathe, breathe, breathe, I feel the urge to push, I think I may throw up. It’s excruciating, I’m not sure how much longer I can do this, I don’t know if I’m supposed to push. At that moment my world changed . . . “oh my God what is happening to me?” I feel something, I am screaming now . . . “help me, help me, someone, please help me . . . God, help me.” I look between my legs. My son’s small hands are grasping at my legs, he is out, he is flailing beneath me. I can only hear my screams for anyone, somebody hold me, take me away, I need to die now. “He’s alive, he’s not supposed to be alive” . . . oh my God, what have I done?” The nurse and my husband are there, alarms are going, people are running. I am told to hold my baby so we can get me to the bed but I don’t want to, I don’t want to touch him, I am so afraid. They manage to get me along with my son onto the bed and the umbilical cord is cut. I want the noise to stop, I want silence this is a hospital. I don’t realize till later it is me, I am screaming

The life that has called my body home has moved out. The chaos continues for no more than a few minutes. Everyone leaves. I lay there alone, empty and hollow.

The dismal, omniscient peach coloured curtains are now closed. As though choreographed, a dark grey shadow from the nearby outer wall casts itself against them, leaving the room more muted and mundane than before. The natural flat light is like a foggy day except for a tiny crack of light, coming from, the door of the dull grey bathroom where moments before I had given birth to my son. The blue gown I wore now truly bore the meaning of ‘dreadful’. Now, wet and blood soaked, it lay limp and lifeless covering my, no longer taut, abandoned abdomen. The grave silence that echoed throughout the room was bastardized by the contradiction of torment and confusion that battled within my skull and my heart. The words kept running through my head; “Why was my child moving, why was his heart beating, Why was my son alive”?

The moment of observation and clashing reflection was interrupted by the door opening. My husband and a nurse entered the room holding my son. He was swaddled in a satin and flannel blanket that Grandma had made especially for him. I took him in my arms and wept quietly yet uncontrollably. I had so many questions that still were unanswered as my soul ached for reason. My brain was a stuck 45 as the words why, why, why played over and over again with no melody. I was trying so hard to stay in the moment. A moment in time, I knew would end shortly and without a closure I wanted to live with.

We spent the next three hours mostly alone with our son, his small chest moving rhythmically but with no breath. I held him and told him stories of his sister and the life he would have had. Pum pum, pum pum, pum pum. He was perfect, small but perfect. His skin was slightly transparent and he had so little fat yet still on his body. His heart continued to beat. My heart beat faster. His long delicate fingers wrapped around mine as I held him. I tried to make each and every piece of him a photograph in my memory, a keepsake of the son, my son that I would not know beyond these moments. Pum pum, pum pum. I apologized to him and told him how much I loved him. He had the sweet aroma of all newborns, a scent that if could be bottled would be an overnight Fortune 500 company. Why wouldn’t his damn heart just stop beating? Why wouldn’t my heart just stop beating?

We lit a candle; named our son and had him blessed by the hospitals pastor. I felt peace for a moment. The peace however was short lived and quickly kyboshed and absorbed by the resounding and lurking question. The question I needed an answer to, I had just ended, or so I thought, my sons life because of severe and impossible heart defects, yet he was born with a beating heart and three hours later as I loved him in my arms, it continued to beat.

That day stood alone as possibly one of the most empty I would ever encounter. Another Club, I didn’t want to belong to, but now did. I entered into an experience, an experience that would hoist me into an unknown abyss of tests and decisions equipped only with my previous life experiences. Hollowed yet grown I would now walk to a different beat. In life we are all put to the test, but it never comes at the time or in form we would prefer, does it?

My Father

He’s dead ... my father ... lifeless, hollow, dead.

My first experience with a therapist was at the age of 13. My father had just died from a harrowing seven-year battle with cancer, a battle I would ultimately come to recognize as one of the most significant and certainly defining moments of my young life. It would serve to be a catalyst, a key ingredient to the person I would become.

Silent, sober, glazed, I sunk into the worn velvet sofa, the tearstained domicile of heart wrenching human agony. The façade is calm; the only evidence of anguish would be saved for the petals of an innocent victim, a crimson poinsettia that methodically would become the lacerated outlet of my pain. I feel her sympathetic yet, clinical and analytical eyes summing me up. I don’t want to be here, I want reprieve, I want to melt into blueness of the sofa, blend into the flat, silent, inanimate walls, walls that have absorbed multitudes of heart wrenching epics of malaise.

… Hours earlier …

I’m in the room, the poem, “DON’T QUIT”, my father’s mantra, is taped to the dull beige wall above his bed, the edges are worn, it’s ripped a little from being moved from hospital wall to hospital wall through the years. The deafening respiratory wheezing is erratic yet constant; we’re drowning in this aching cesspool of disease. But it defines life is still present. It defines that my father is still alive, so we sit, we wait, we hold on to each breath. I have been here hour after hour, day after day, night after night for the better part of the last three months. In reality, I’ve been here for seven years, when not in the physical, fully in the emotional. The hospital is an all too familiar environment, oddly homey to all of us. The room is scattered with our life. A keyboard, magazines, photos, Dad’s guitar, a soapstone carving of a seal he’s crafted, all here, all in an attempt to feel any peace. The penthouse stairwell landing is a makeshift sleeping area that we fight for amongst the siblings. I generally lose because I am the youngest but it’s better than sleeping upright in the chair listening to that strained struggle for breath from my Dad or being removed from the doctors lounge for their impromptu midnight meetings. Doctors, nurses, porters, administration, housekeeping, parking attendants, patients, their families, everyone within that sphere, all of it is “home.”

Seven years prior we had been given the news. I remember the day. I was 6 years old. My mother was in the hospital room with my father and had, as I would later learn, just been given the “news” herself. As I waited in the dimly lit hallway, glancing around at the unfamiliar and sterile surroundings, I remember feeling both excited to see my Daddy again and a little nervous as to why we were in this strange place to begin with. Daddy had just been really tired and required some tests, whatever that meant. I had no concept of what I was about to hear.


“Your father has cancer”; those were the words. And then more words ... blah, blah, blah ... the words continued but few were as impacting as the word; “cancer.” “Can I catch it?” I asked. “No,” the response came. Hmm, Cancer, I wondered what that was. I looked over at Mom, her eyes were puffy, she had been crying, she was very sad. I was on one side of the bed, holding my Daddy’s hand, like I always did, he squeezed my little fingers, looked into my eyes and smiled at me. My mother was holding his other hand, small gasps escaping her lips, tear filled eyes. “Your Dad will be having some treatments to make the cancer go away,” they said. “He will be losing his hair” ... STOP, SCREECH, HAULT!!! I was 6 years old and instantly horrified! What did they mean, he’d be losing his hair, why is he losing his hair and where is it going? My Dad was going to be bald??? They continued, “It could come back in any color.” “Like pink, or purple or red or blue,” I quizzed, eyes wide with innocent apprehension. Their indulgent “sure” seemed to give me some small peace that I longed for at that moment but I knew, I knew by the look in their eyes and the strain in their voices something was wrong, very wrong. Their obligatory attempt to convince me made it undoubtedly obvious that my life would never be the same. I knew the hair didn’t matter, but was unable to comprehend the scope of the sadness of the reality that would become our life, my life.
He was given 30 days to live. My mother, bless her soul, was just 36, and would be left to raise a family of five alone. The course of my life from this moment forward would be altered forever. The subsequent seven years, cycles of 30 to 90 days to live, would prove to be an unimaginable journey ... fear, insecurity, rape, loneliness, lack of identity, rape, hardening, pain, rape ... yet, the brush strokes, and mediums were layered; opaque textures veiling a stark and sombre reality, the canvas appearing bright, a guise brimming with fun, friends and popularity.

Dreading the last buzzer of the day at school had become mainstay. What would I be going home to? I turned 7, 8, 9 … the years went on, some questions remained the same, some different. Would I be alone, would that old lady with the weeping mole be there again, or would I be shipped off to whoever would take me, knowing I may be with them for often more than a month. 10, 11, 12 … the pain continued … would my parents be home, would the chemo induced nightmare have Dad slumped over the porcelain, convulsing, heaving, regurgitating nothing, would he remember me today, would he get lost driving if he could even drive, would Mom be crying, she always cried, would the ambulance be backed up to the door with Dad crawling to the stretcher as a form of pride? 13 … would Mom and I survive?

He was dead. The excruciating sound had ceased. The agonizing gasps for life that accompanied each passing second for the past month stopped. That last breath of life had been taken, leaving a silent, still, deserted form laying there, my Dad ... dead.

I didn’t know it then, but I was now part of a new “Club,” a club that was, as I would come to find in later years, unlike any other. Neither prestigious, nor chic, but a “Club” nevertheless, a club that would give both a bearing and a direction into the person I would become, a club that opened so many open doors leading me into the lives of so many others.