Love Letters from Heather

To my middle child, Candice.

Hey, Red!

I remember the second I set eyes on you. You were just the cutest seven-year-old ever—your perfect tone of red/auburn hair, your incredible smile, and your intelligent eyes. Your foster mother gave you the nickname “Grandma” because even at such a young age, you were looking after your siblings.

Even after you were adopted, you kept an eye out. Thunderstorms terrified your little sister. Well, she wasn’t that much younger than you with only 10 ½ months between you (your poor birth mom!). But when the lightning hit, you would comfort your sister, get out of bed, and close the window. Technically, it wasn’t your job to take care of the three of you, but I am sure your brother and sister are glad you did.

One memory makes me laugh out loud. To be fair, it is important to preface this with the fact that I was really slim, some may even say thin, back then. We had a giant jet tub in the basement bathroom in our little bungalow. As I was filling it up for you and your sister to enjoy a good soak in the bubbles, you made a mental comparison of the size of your naked chest with my clothed breasts. “How come you are bigger there than I am?” you asked. I paused, then responded, “Well, you will get bigger as you get older.” Without missing a beat, a smile hijacked your face and your eyes squinted like they do when you genuinely grin. You looked me straight in the eye and said, “I bet you can’t wait until YOU get older.” Thanks, kid.

You were your own person, still are. Had a healthy sense of self, still do. You paraded your “life book” (a compilation of pictures and notes of your life pre-adoption) around school without hesitation, letting everyone know who exactly you were. I always admired your openness and take-me-as-I-am attitude.

You were good at school. Math enrichment classes and you voraciously consumed C.S. Lewis’ works like a two-year-old with a bag of candy. Later, in high school, courses such as music and Latin caught you on fire. Learning came easy to you even when maximum effort and motivation didn’t.

You never had a plethora of friends, but you always had one or two REALLY good ones…and I’ve always liked them. You don’t need lots of friends, you just need one good one. You met Genny in grade 9 band class and you are still close friends today. I was so proud of you when you guys started that quintet in high school. More importantly, however, more significantly, she bakes and brings me treats from time to time. She’s a keeper!

You always loved animals. Your first beautiful pet was also your first significant loss—a rescue, a cross of some type of collie and goodness knows what, named Kelly. You worked tirelessly with this frenetic dog, not only with basic training but with agility.

While over at your friend Jenna’s house, Kelly jumped up in the air while barking, then slammed to the floor, suddenly lifeless. I rushed her to the vet, only to learn what we already could see. She was gone. Possible aneurysm.

She was only three or four, you only a few years her senior, probably only eleven. When you came home, we sat you down, unfolding the unfortunate news. You were incredulous. You kept saying, “How could this happen when I wasn’t here? I just went to my friend’s house and now she is gone.” Kelly’s lifeless body was still in the car. You asked to see her.

As a kid, I saw being around death as something to be avoided at all costs. The very idea of being close to something deceased scared me. But not you. Not on that day. You took your dog and held and rocked her for at least 20 minutes, tears freely dripping onto the fur. Kelly was still warm and strangely beautiful, and you know what? You taught me two important lessons that day: the first was that everyone grieves differently and the second was to not be afraid. You were and still are so brave.

I cannot reminisce about our lives together without my mind churning out countless cat stories: the headless cat, the dead cat, the polar bear-eating cat, the missing cat. Where to being?

One weekend morning, I looked out the master bedroom window when we lived in Utopia. Suddenly I did a double take. I wasn’t sure so I called you and your sister, “Hey, Char, Candice, what is that?”

It looked like a cat. We lived next door to a farm, and there were lots of barn cats around. A white cat without a head.

We conferred and decided that was, in fact, what we were looking at: a decapitated cat on our front lawn. So, being the responsible adult that I was, I sent YOU down to take a look. I was too freaked out.

Turns out the dead cat was very much alive. However, he had managed to get his head stuck in an empty can of peas from our recycle bin. After some trouble he…or she…gave up the struggle and decided to lie still, the label of the can blending perfectly into the grass, rendering him…or her to look like a cat with a missing head.

You removed the can, and he…or she…was right as rain.

You and I left Utopia shortly thereafter. Just the two of us to share a townhouse within Barrie’s city limits. Well, almost just the two of us. We brought another cat, a 23-year-old calico named Caladore, who developed a tumour in her nose.

It was time to say goodbye, and once again you were the brave soul who stayed with her at the vet’s as she transitioned out of this life. We brought the body home in the car that warm June day so that adopted dad could pick up you and the cat after work to bury her at her original home in Utopia.

But then you wanted to hold her one last time. I handed you the car keys, not giving it a second thought. A few minutes later you came into the house with a look of sadness and slight panic. When you told me what happened, I developed a look of slight sadness and truckloads of panic.

“You WHAT?!” I asked.

You had accidentally locked the keys in the car, deceased Caladore sprawled prostrate across the back seat, stiffening with rigor mortis and baking in the summer sun with every ticking minute.

I DID have CAA and could call to get the car opened, but WHAT would they think when they arrived? Would they think I killed the cat? Left it in a hot car to suffocate?

I had to do something so I called anyway and paced back and forth at the end of the driveway. I needed to intercept before the cadaver was spotted. When the kind gentleman approached, I blathered out immediately, quick and cramped, true verbal diarrhea, “I’m sorry. We put our cat down at the vet’s, and we are going to bury it and…”

Luckily the guy was completely nonplussed by my lunatic rant and simply unlocked the car before driving away.

We would get another cat in relatively short order and you named her Echo. You worked so darn hard on the science project about polar bears, Bristol board sporting inkjet-printed pictures of the magnificent beasts. We turned off the lights, project against the wall, and miraculously, in the morning, when the lights came on, all the polar bear faces had disappeared. Apparently Echo liked the taste of ink and had relieved the bears of all their facial features. That was the strangest “Dear Teacher” note I had ever written.

You were accepted into Northern College to study a veterinary technician course; however, Echo did not pass the entrance exam, and she remained with me. You did acquire, much to my chagrin, some new pets while living in the northern mining town of Haileybury, one being a cat named Pan. I drove up to help you move into a new apartment, an upper floor over another apartment. Somehow, we managed to get everything from point A to point B. As we sat down and rested after our efforts, we realized we had no idea where Pan was. Pan was named after a character in Greek mythology, a shady sort who caused a lot of Pan-ic. You named him well.

Imagining the worst, we combed the streets, calling, looking, hoping. But he didn’t show up. We couldn’t find him. Saddened, we had to call it a day when darkness and coldness halted the search. As I lay in bed, I kept imagining I heard Pan’s meow. But wait, it seemed real. We ran out to look around the house. Nothing. Back to bed. I heard it again! It sounded like it was inside, but we overturned everything, unable to locate the cat. What we did find, however, was a hole in the wall behind the washing machine that seemed to allow access straight down to the empty apartment below. Rushing outside, we peered into the window.

There sitting smack dab in the middle of the kitchen table, was Pan, obviously not happy with the current situation. A call to the landlord and Pan was freed early the following morning, basically none the worse for wear.

You are the only one of my three kids who I can truly say had rocks in her head, literally. While vacationing at the old house my great grandfather built in Newfoundland, I managed to burn a blueberry pie. Not a good thing to do in a house most likely insulated with sawdust. Ferrying the burning pie to the front yard, I heard a faint cry that appeared to be coming from across the bay. I couldn’t see anyone. It kept coming, though. “Help…help me…”

It wasn’t distinct, loud, or alarming. More ghost- or dream-like. Ethereal, even. Was I imagining this? It was time for a reality check. I called over to the others. No one saw anything either…until I pulled an inverse Friendly Giant and looked down, waaaaaaay down. There below the shale escarpment was a very confused redhead wandering back and forth, quietly whisper-wailing, “Help. Help me.” Blood freely flowed down your face, creating a rather alarming sight. Apparently, you had the bright idea of climbing the mini-cliff in sandals. A large rock had come loose and hurled to the ground below, bringing you with it. Little bits of shale had sliced your forehead and embedded themselves between your skin and your scalp. Head wounds are very vascular, and you bled at an amazing rate.

We applied towels and pressure to the cut and drove you to the closest hospital, which was small by anyone’s standards. We had called ahead and they called a doctor in for your arrival. He was probably enjoying a meal of cod tongues or fish ’n’ brewis before you interrupted his day.

He took a measured and thorough look at your head and proclaimed his analysis: “You could get this sewn up by a plastic surgeon. There is one on the island, but he is in St. John’s.” St. John’s was about a seven-hour drive. Valuable healing time would evaporate by the time we got you there. I wasn’t excited about this option.

The doctor continued, “I did stitch up a pilot who had a plane crash a few years back. He wrote me a letter afterwards to tell me he was happy with the job.”

This piece of news sealed the deal. The humble yet very competent doctor began fishing out the pieces of shale that had lodged in your head. He found five pieces in all before putting Humpty Dumpty back together again! I think he did a fantastic job, don't you? In fact, I have to look really closely to find the scar.

The next day we stayed back, you and me, as we watched the rest of the family hike up Gros Morne. You needed to heal, and we felt that a break from any type of incline would be a good thing for you!

As an adult you would give birth to a beautiful daughter and name her after me: Emma “Ann.” My heart aches and my breath catches just a little bit when I recall us sitting in the pediatrician’s office with Emma and hearing the words “she has moderate to severe autism.” Yes, we were sure but when you actually hear aloud they are like toothpaste squeezed from the tube. There is no possibility of turning back.

You are an amazing mom. You research and you learn. Your early yearning for knowledge emerges once again. I know it is hard, but I am equally confident that you have what it takes. When Emma asked who your mommy was and you told her it was me, she was aghast. “You mean you don’t live with your mommy anymore?” followed by inconsolable tears. The discovery that she may not live with you forever was a hard blow, winding her—a discovery and a devastating loss of innocence all at once. After you explained to her that she could live with you as long as she wanted to, she calmed down. She loves you so much and is lucky to have you.

I owe you a lot of apologies, but here is the big one: I wish, for your sake (and possibly mine), that I had left earlier. I know that things were particularly difficult for you.

It should also be noted that you were, at times, infuriating. In the worst possible way. You would ask for a topic for speeches, science projects…fill in the blank. I would give ideas only to be torpedoed, mercilessly. I must have said “Why do you bother to ask me, then?” more times than I can remember. I could not help you with any schoolwork, despite being a licensed teacher. It always ended badly. Pushing or punishing never worked either. But when I backed off, gave you some space, you generally figured it all out for yourself. That was your process and how you function best. It still is. Self-reliance and a strong sense are your superpowers.

I also have so much to thank you for. There isn’t enough room. You kept me from running back into the metaphorical fire on more than one occasion, you taught me what courage looks like, and you exemplified the healthy meaning of personal boundaries. And your sense of humour is witty and cerebral. I can’t get enough of it.

What you might not know is that you also launched my writing career into nonfiction. I had spent a year of mailing out fiction proposals to publishing house after publishing house only to be met with rejection after rejection. It was discouraging enough that I actually gave up. I sent out one last piece, a nonfiction essay to a craft magazine about how we, a mother and newly adopted daughter, worked past our differences to turn a piece of your artwork of an Orca whale into a pattern for a sweater. The essay was titled “Team Work Not Steam Work.” It was the last thing I sent out to a magazine called Canadian Crafts Plus before packing in the notion of writing any more. Turns out, they liked it, and it was my first paid piece of writing, launching a part-time career in magazine writing, then books, which led to starting my own publishing company. I don’t think I would have ever thought to write nonfiction if it hadn’t been for that little anecdote that inspired that article. Who would have guessed that that $50 paycheck would start a chain of events that would cement a career path for me? I am so grateful!

You are good at acknowledging and recognizing your feelings. You have a self-awareness and awareness of others that I appreciate.

We are both nerdy introverts trying to muddle our way through an extroverted world, but here is something I would cautiously suggest: Watch out for that fine, barely inseparable line between a boundary and an avoidance. It is a tricky one that I haven’t figured out myself!

I am proud of you and love you very much! I am so happy to have you in my life.

Happy Valentine’s Day,

Mom

PS. I think you should be proud of four-year-old Emma for calling her IBI therapist an asshole. After all, she DID use it correctly and in context, and that’s a win!

PPS. Due to your athletic prowess (or lack thereof) and quick reflexes, I will never tire of tossing you something, watch it hit you in the head and then witness you raise your hands to catch it. For some reason, the chronological order for this type of event never stuck. Never. Gets. Old. (In my mind’s eye, I am currently envisioning you smile and hearing you say, “Shut up.” )