Erin's Journals

Well, this is a big day on our family’s calendar: this beautiful woman was born February 4, 1933. He she is at 72. And this is not going to be a sad journal, I promise you!
 

 
Mom would have been 86 today; she died in nearby Palm Desert six years ago yesterday. Actually, we’re pretty sure she left us on the evening of February 1st when a brain aneurysm took her down, quickly, at the home she and Dad were renting for the winter. They’d just finished a great day with my sister Cindy and her husband; they’d had dinner while watching a M*A*S*H rerun and she suddenly complained of an awful headache, how hot she felt, and boom. She was on the floor.
 
The hospital was good enough to keep Mom on life support until three of her four daughters (youngest Leslie didn’t have a current passport at the time) could be there to say our good-byes as they took her off life support. How grateful we were to play soft music and say our goodbyes with six roses in her lovely hands (one for each child, one for her and one for Dad).
 
I write of Mom’s passing in Mourning Has Broken in terms of having been visited by death before in our lives; the circle of life and the expected passing of a parent is the way things are supposed to go. But it was what happened when she was taken off the breathing apparatus which had sustained those last hours of “life” that was remarkable. Here’s some of that story. 

The mechanical clicking that had accompanied her aided breathing had stopped, and all we heard above our sniffles and quiet words to our mother were the slowing beeps as the numbers on a machine registering her heartbeat continued to drop. Aware that the staff was waiting to come in and prepare the private room for another patient, we steeled ourselves for the final goodbyes. Down, down, down the numbers dropped: 98 . . . 82 . . . 60 . . . 
 
When the numbers had gotten down near the teens, my sisters began to gather up their jackets, the speakers, their purses. I sat at the bedside and rubbed mom’s arm, speaking softly to her all the while. As the beeping pattern changed, I looked up.
 
52 . . . 60 . . . 72 . . . 88 . . . the numbers began to climb! What was this—some kind of miracle? “She’s not quite ready to go yet,” I said hopefully. But when I stopped rubbing her arm, the numbers and her heart rate slowly began to drop again. Was Mom sending a signal that she knew we were there—that she wasn’t going to be leaving us all?
 
As lovely as that would have been to believe, I suspect the truth is that she really did go on her way when she fell to the floor in her bathrobe at home. What we were witnessing was some kind of static-electric reaction to me rubbing her skin. Of course that was it . . . wasn’t it? 

How I wish that Mom was around to be a part of this book journey that we have undertaken, but I remain grateful (the sentiment of gratitude arises again and again in this book) that she didn’t live to endure the passing of her granddaughter and, one year later, her first grandson. There are always things for which we can be thankful, and certainly that is one.
 
We’re also grateful that she filled out a book of memories for her grandchildren to cherish. I’m not sure where that book is now, but hope I have it somewhere at home on a bookshelf and that it wasn’t ruined in a flood that hit Lauren and Phil’s home a few months after her passing. I’ll have to look for it. Here’s one of Mom’s humorous entries. 

 
It’s a great thing, writing down some thoughts (including the lighthearted ones) by which your descendants may one day know you. I highly recommend this – just get a pen you like and get writing, or poke someone you love to do this for you and your own children! We were able to use some of mom’s entries for her grandkids to read at her “Momorial.” A wonderful thing, indeed.
 
Have yourself a gentle Monday and thank you for stopping by. Tomorrow, word of another writing adventure that you might enjoy taking a look at. This time, Rob’s not on the hook to edit; I’m just writing away like a mad fiend! How much fun is this? (Lots!)
 

Well, here we are in February. For many frozen folks who read this journal, there lies on the horizon a high temperature above freezing. After wind chills and truly trying conditions over the past week, you deserve it.
 
Here in Palm Springs (where I have been loathe to even mention the weather, even the rainiest which, I always remember, I don’t have to shovel) we’re heading into another wet, coolish spell. Unusual, we’re told, but these days what isn’t? Unfortunately, with company here, we don’t get to show off the sights and beauty of the area with as much golden lighting as usual, but given that Ross and Yolande, our friends from Georgina, were delayed by a day in getting here by problems with a snow-covered jet at YYZ, it’s all perspective, isn’t it?
 
Speaking of perspective, it’s been quite a week of highs here in our home. Not temperatures, emotions: to see on amazon.ca that Mourning Has Broken now has “Bestseller” tagged next to it, as it’s #1 in books on Grief & Death. (Yeah – not a category anyone wants to lead in, I suppose, especially when it’s also an autobiography of sorts, right?) But it sat, as of yesterday, at #8 in Books for Women and #17 in Memoirs.
 
Now, I know I’ll never hit #1 in those latter two categories (as if surpassing the incredible and accomplished Michelle Obama in any category could ever be a possibility!) but we were just simply stunned and humbled by the presale of our labour of love. As Rob pointed out, “It isn’t even in stores yet!” and I responded, “Maybe I didn’t really have to write it!” Yes, we’ve been a bit giddy over it. Which is also a very strange way to feel about a book like this. I didn’t say any of this made sense….
 
But all of this brings me to an email I got yesterday that truly is the underlying message in this book and the way that Rob and I have chosen to move forward. J writes:

You probably don’t remember my email to you after Lauren passed away. I related my family’s story to you. My son had lost his wife after giving birth to their third child and first daughter in 2015. He was left with 3 children under 5. No one can imagine the heartbreak my son and our families experienced except those who have gone through it themselves. My son has happily moved forward (he thought he never would) and has a wonderful woman in his life now…she has 2 children of her own so life is very busy for them..and us as grandparents! But it is so wonderful to see him smile and enjoy life again. We will never forget his beautiful wife and mother to his children of course but this is an example that things keep going and we have to make the best of it because the alternative is much worse. Sincerely…J.

I responded to her that we have totally embraced that concept and are nothing but happy with the fact that, in our own lives, we have a daughter-in-law (or that’s how we refer to Brooke) who has brought so much joy and love to two broken boys, as well as to Rob and me. 
 
The start of a new month is a great time to look ahead and see how things can be different if we adjust our perspectives. Or our sails, as the saying above reminds us. 
 
Thank you for sharing these days, these moments, these highs, lows, signs from above and signs to take our shoes off this week. Let’s do this again Monday, shall we?
 

I wanted to express my gratitude for the outpouring of thoughts and, often, your own perspective about yesterday’s very raw journal. I received most of them on Facebook, but also some came in my email. Thank you for taking the time to share; they say that confession is good for the soul, right? (Well, someone did.) And I do believe that living as transparent a life as one can, especially when you have even the tiniest platform that might be able to help just one person to identify and step out of the dark, is living your best life.
 
Of course, there’s a fine line between the personal and the private. Radio guru and my own long-distance mentor Valerie Geller always preached about the importance of sharing the former and leaving out the latter. I learned so very much from her.
 
Just as I learn from you – and from paying attention! Case in point: we were going through some open houses here in Palm Springs, CA last weekend. No company, so why not, right? I tucked into my purse a pair of flimsy hotel slippers to wear in the houses, and off we went.
 
Eyebrows rose when I put them on in the first two houses (I had sandals on and wasn’t going to walk around someone’s house barefoot – for their sake and for mine) and then, in another we entered, a pretty blonde lady named Grayson – whose spelling I never caught – asked me if I was from the midwest US or from Canada. 
 
Well, tap my timbers and call me maple syrup! “Canada,” I answered in surprise. “How did you know?”
 
Turns out Grayson is from Red Deer, Alberta and has dual US citizenship, as does her husband. She now works in real estate in Palm Springs, smart lady. She said that the only people she encounters who take off their shoes are from those two places.
 
And it got me to thinking. My mom, who died right here in nearby Palm Desert just seven years ago next week, would ask me, “What the heck is all of this about taking off your shoes? When did that start?”
 
I wondered what she meant. As far as I knew, we’d always taken them off (perhaps having to do with the slush and muck that would inevitably get tracked in during the shoulder months, not to mention the depths of winter). We expected that when people came to visit our house or condo (but not the cottage). It just seemed to be natural. Would you come in with your coat on?
 
I posed the question in a Twitter poll @erindavis that ran from about noon on Tuesday ’til the same time yesterday. About 300 people took part and here are the findings: 
 

 
I got some great comments, too. Like this one. 
 

 
And these two…
 

 
Okay Lisa – now I’ll be noticing that, too. And finally, this from Max who just wants her piggies to be free range!
 

 
I found it fascinating that even though so many of our fellow countrymen-and-women come from arguably the coldest parts of the continent, Grayson knew we were Canadians from us taking off our shoes! 
 
Or perhaps we really are just that polite!
 
If you’re looking for actual reasons why shoes should come off, this article could help.
 
Have a good day and thanks for contributing to the journal if you answered my little poll! 
 

The power of being vulnerable. The strength in asking for help. These are two of the underlying themes that have come to Rob and to me so very loudly and clearly since our daughter’s passing in May of 2015. And they’re what I’d like to shine a light on during today’s Bell Let’s Talk Day. 
 
You know what this day is, right? For weeks – if you’re like me – you’ve been getting bogus “share this and Bell will give 5 cents…” and until this day that hasn’t been true. This IS the day. You’ll see it blow up your social media accounts, you’ll hear about this on the radio and see it on TV. It’s a big deal. Here’s a link for more information.
 
Sometimes on a day like this, people will take to their keyboards to demand how a company that has caused so much stress in firing X number of people in the past year (looking at you, radio) can be perceived as being proactive in the cause of eradicating the stigmas surrounding mental illness. Others will ask why their son or daughter can’t get into CAMH or get a recommendation to help save their lives. I have no answers for those and the many other critical questions that will be posed today.
 
All I have is the way I felt about my own struggles: like a great big, fat hypocrite. 
 
Those years where I was cheerily helping to wake up Toronto alongside my partner from 1988 to 1999, Don Daynard, I struggled with depression and a feeling of being unable to cope. I was trying too hard to “have it all” – as the magazines said women of the Baby Boom generation totally could! I felt like a fraud for struggling on the inside while presenting an air that I hoped provided the positive, happy yin to my partner’s lovably crusty yang.
 
I also fought unhealthy body issues and was a terrible example to our daughter: if I wasn’t doing the latest cleanse, I was getting injections and starving to help me lose weight or making our family eat cabbage soup every night, or going to a Japanese restaurant and just eating the shrimp tails left over from Rob and Lauren’s tempura (along with my own meagre servings of sashimi).
 
And it’s not like it was effective; when I was dressed like a hockey ref for one of our TV commercials, a co-worker said – on the air – that I was the first person he’d seen who’d made vertical stripes NOT thinning. Yuk yuk yuk. My boss at the time made a point of showing me a comment in Gary Dunford’s Toronto Sun column that a sports guy at a competing radio station made about my looks. It was a comment I wouldn’t have seen, since I was on vacation. But he made sure I saw it. Fat, ugly…keep going….
 
Surely the calorie intake in the way I coped with the stress, unhappiness with conditions at work and the massive insecurities I fought daily wasn’t helpful: I’d mix myself a bottomless martini or open a bottle (or two) of white wine.
 
I’d be lying if I said I don’t still struggle with some of the issues that I’ve mentioned – I come clean about the drinking and its toll in Mourning Has Broken – and while I feel deep shame about some of my weaknesses, I realize that I’m not alone and never have been.
 
Shame is a useless emotion and it just serves to beat us down. (Brené Brown has some remarkable thoughts on the topic if you want to Google her. I love what she says about no one EVER having the right to say “shame on you…” and how many times have we heard those three words?)
 
Depression runs through my family tree like a thick, black sap. Being on anti-depressants made the sun positively shine in the last third of my mother’s life. I have returned to a prescription in order to help me cope with the last three years of my life; writing and remembering took me to such a place of deep sadness that I found myself asking “What’s the point?” enough to take notice and talk to my doctor.
 
So here’s the thing: there’s no shame in asking for help. Talking is one of the best therapies there is and if you have someone who will listen to you with compassion and WITHOUT JUDGMENT, then you are already, hopefully, on your way to a better place. Meditation is an amazing thing, too. A quiet time to let answers gently come to you, instead of you having to hammer away like a woodpecker on a phone pole. (Insight Timer is a free app that is worth your while.)
 
Life is hard. No one gets out alive. Don’t believe the posts on FB and Instagram showing shiny, happy people. But also remember this: pain shared is diminished and joy shared is multiplied. I didn’t write that, I just believe it, and I will try to live it for whatever time I have left here. Which I hope is a lot.
 
And, please, if you’re not suffering, reach out to someone who is. Let them know that even if they’re not ready to talk now, you will always be there for them when they are. 
 
Even the harshest winter can’t last forever, my friend.
 

And how are you today? I hope that this final Tuesday of January is treating you well – or at least gently. 
 
I know that being present and in the moment is supposed to be a thing – a very big and important thing – but how many times have you found yourself in one place, checking online to see what rates are in another spot for the next time you travel? Maybe that’s just me (although I know my friend Nancy does the exact same thing, so I suspect it’s not!) and we’re guilty of it this week.
 
As our time here counts down to weeks instead of months (and soon it’ll be just days), we’re already looking to this fall. I have some work in Ontario that I hope will parlay into book-related appearances, too, and then we’re going to try the snowbird thing again.
 
So I was looking online at different homes for rent and my heart almost stopped (I know it did something weird) when I saw some reviews on this one place.
 
First of all, the property manager’s name is Louisa Davis. “Loo” is one of the nicknames we had for our Lauren. When I read the woman’s name to Rob, he’s the one who made the Lou/Loo association.
 
But then look at the comment below the Louisa Davis one (which was posted, you’ll note, by an Albert A. Alberta: province of my birth. Hmmm.)
 

 
Yep – the comment below is a loud bit of applause from one “Lauren D.”
 
I couldn’t believe it. This HAD to be, right? We were sure this place was going to be perfect. Alberta. Lou Davis. Lauren D..
 
Then we went into the bedroom to call it a night. And our bedside clock was flashing crazily. Not on-off like a clock that’s had the power interrupted, but changing times like prices on a digital gas station sign before a long weekend. Just…bizarre.
 
So, being the rather superstitious person I am, I thought: Maybe she’s trying to get us to slow our roll on this one. After looking for all the world like this house had the Seal of a-Loo-val, the nutso clock made me wonder if she was telling us something else. 
 
Or maybe it was just two coincidental comments and a flashing clock. There’s always that possibility.
 
Did we see the house? Yes. Was it perfect? Maybe for someone, but not for us; it smelled sour, was dark inside, the furnishings were well-worn and dismal and the whole place was just simply not us. We’d be much better off in the same place we are this winter, thanks. So it was a hard pass.
 
What did it all mean? Two coincidental comments and a flashing clock. Sometimes, as we often remind ourselves, when you hear hoof beats, you don’t look for a zebra. It was just a horse – and not one we wanted to ride, thanks. That’s all. 
 
OR WAS IT? 
 
Have yourself a gentle Tuesday and, finally, because I got such great feedback the last time I linked to one of his videos, here’s a brand new Randy Rainbow parody. I have the utmost respect for this guy: his rhymes, his humour, his musicality and production, and his timing. He turns these things around with lightning speed! Enjoy, and we’ll be back with you tomorrow.