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the Neverending Puzzle

Vancouver > Castlegar > Edmonton > Vancouver > Kelowna > Vancouver > Calgary > Edmonton. You’d think I’d have this whole ‘moving to another city’ thing figured out by now.

Show up. Set up. Go and make friends, find your place in social circles. Sounds simple and sort of easy enough, doesn’t it? Especially after I’ve gone through the puzzling process numerous times.

Except – it never is. This time around, it’s definitely not.

As I drove home on a recent Friday night, I was slightly conflicted between the extreme desire (and necessity) to be a couch potato for the weekend… and the loneliness that lingers with a lack of friends in the city.

***Shit. If you’re reading this and you’re one of the few people I know in Edmonton – I’m doing my best not to offend you. I swear. It’s not you – it’s me. [I’m an only child. It’s always about me, duh!]

Real talk: I’m at a point in my life where I need / want my go-to comrades and soulmates – the people I can spill my guts to without fear of judgement, while sitting in sweatpants with way too much dry shampoo in my hair because I haven’t washed it in approximately 4 days. And yes, I know you’re going to tell me that you don’t care and that none of that vanity stuff matters, and that I’m more than welcome to show up looking somewhat homeless. I know, I know. But it’s not the same. We haven’t reached that level in our friendship yet.

I’m nothing but completely honest on these blog posts, so I’ll admit:
I really just don’t feel like making new friends right now.
There – I said it.

I feel like I’ve been stuck in a tornado for 3 months; an EF4 tornado that causes epic destruction and devastation. My father got sick and passed away within a month, and within a week of his passing, I had travelled between 3 cities – moving, packing, unpacking, relocating and then starting a new job.

“Overwhelmed” only begins to scratch the surface of how I feel. Underneath that lies emotions like sadness, confusion, doubt, and tiredness [is tired an emotion?]

Either way, I’m currently experiencing tired. ALL THE TIRED.

A good night’s sleep is a unicorn in my life. A sweet dream, if you will, that only comes at the aid of ZzZQuil, a combination of B100’s + Cal-Mag tablets, or other sleeping pills I’ve been prescribed. When my brain ditched the ability to sleep through the night, it also ditched it’s desire to remember anything and now I rely heavily on calendars, post it notes, a whiteboard, and written reminders on my hand to keep me accountable to every errand, appointment, and event I shouldn’t miss.

In the process of the last 3 months, I’ve lost: an iPhone charger, a camera lens cap, two hoodies, a set of wine glasses, a bra, a pair of gym shorts, a laptop case, a pair of headphones… there’s definitely a few more things I can’t seem to remember at the moment. I feel like I’ve lost my sanity, and my ability to be a functioning human being at minimal effort.

I’ve mastered the art of faking it until I make it. Waterproof mascara helps immensely and so does a hot summer with endless sunshine. Also, I’m not ashamed to admit that I’ve been riding the high that comes with assorted compliments from the best kinds of friends and even random strangers to keep me smiling through even the gloomiest days.

The tornado that swallowed my life up a few months ago changed everything and shook me up mentally, emotionally and physically. Because of it, a lot of my life these days feels somewhat like a chore and it’s weird. I’ve spent more times crying in bathrooms and behind sunglasses in 90 days than I have in my entire life – and I don’t like it. But it is what it is…

There’s something about death that’s both terrifying and beautiful. It’s a harsh reminder that eventually life is going to come to an end – quite possibly, when you least expect it. It’s a warning that people we love will disappear from our life one day, and all we’ll have left is memories of their best contributions to our existence. And it’s one of life’s smaller but significant gestures to us that everything we do matters – to those we love and to our legacy.

I recently decided that my final story is going to be something I’m immensely proud of, even if I won’t be around to hear about it; not that I wasn’t already in the process of writing a great story – but now, I’m putting more thought into the sentences I write and the pages I fill. Except, it’s hard to focus when you’ve lost more sleep than you can fathom and you’re always worrying about whether or not you possibly left your straightener plugged in and turned on (again), while also wondering if you left the kitchen sink running (this happened while I was on my way to the airport) and stressing about all sorts of things you can’t tend to because you’re stuck at the office, in traffic, or out and in the middle of something for a few more hours.

I’m just trying to be real with myself, mostly. We live in a world that can easily convince us to be “on” all the time – that the hustle should be constant, that every expectation should always be met, and that there’s always something higher, shinier, brighter and better to keep on reaching for. And while there isn’t anything wrong with hustling and setting new goals for yourself, you’re allowed to take a breather when life becomes more than you can handle. You’re allowed to turn your tolerance down a few notches and take time to simply do YOU.

In light of everything that’s taken place over the last few weeks and with the intense life and self-reflection that’s transpired in the aftermath, something inside my soul has shifted. It’s both interesting and confusing, but it’s forced me to accept that all I can do is what’s best for me in any given moment. And so, I’m going to try and keep my worries to a minimum about why the puzzle pieces haven’t matched together yet and why certain aspects of my life aren’t magically falling into place. I might just not be ready (fact: I’m definitely not ready). I’m still trying to wrap my head around the concept of devastating grief; how to balance an abundance of it with this burning desire to unfold the next chapter of my life. I’m also mindfully practicing getting through days with less crying and more genuine smiles, while also attempting to catch up on sleep, give my entire existence some well-deserved rest and avoid a constant empty battery and complete meltdowns.

And I’m chasing after life experiences that I truly enjoy, rather than committing myself to anything else that I feel is ‘expected’ of me.

Life is short, but it’s also not an experience we should rush through or simply participate in for the sake of other people’s fulfillment. So, if I can offer a piece of advice should you feel the same way I do at any point, it’s that you never have to force yourself to do anything you’re not ready to do. Life isn’t about pleasing the masses – so don’t feel like you have to exert extra effort if there’s an aspect of life that just doesn’t jive with you. No one likes that person that tries too hard anyway, y’know?

I’ve shown up and I’ve started to settle. I’ve been as strong as I can when it was necessary to get through the moment, but I’m going to just be for a little while now. The rest of my life and the other steps in the process… will happen eventually. And maybe one day, I’ll find my new Edmonton friends or they’ll find me. Maybe one day, the puzzle will start to look a little more like a picture and less of an abstract mess.

Who knows.

All I know is this: we can’t force the pieces of our life to come together. The best puzzles {and life IS a puzzle} are an elaborate process that require patience and time.

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“Okay”

“Okay”

That’s my response to  most things these days – when everyone asks how I’m doing, when people ask how life is going, when other people invite me to join them in their plans.

“I’m okay.” “Things are okay.” “Sure… okay (followed by a heavy sigh).”
It’s all… okay.

Every day is different. I can’t tell you how I’m going to feel in 5 minutes, an hour, tomorrow or next week until we get to that point. I can’t promise that I won’t cry or forget anything, or that I’ll be keen to dress up and go out for a night of fun.

Because for the most part, I’m okay… until it all comes rushing back: when that vivid memory of me holding my Dad’s chilling hand, minutes after he took his last breath takes over my brain. I remember I can’t pick up the phone and hear my Dad’s reaction to the ridiculous life I sometimes live.

The reality of his death sinks in again, and in an instant – I’m barely okay at best.

Grief is a puzzling process.

There are no rules to grieving. People keep reminding me that there’s no right or wrong way to manage it or maneuver through it; you get to do it all on your own, as you please.

But that’s the blessing, and the curse. For me, I feel like I’m constantly searching for a stretch of feeling ‘normal’, but my mood is hardly consistent. For the last 3 weeks, I’ve perpetually made plans only to cancel them hours before they happen.  The idea of socializing with old friends and new faces seems exciting in fleeting moments, but usually transitions into a sense of exhaustion as I contemplate the idea of spending time with people and making small talk. I’m stuck on a rollercoaster of ever-changing emotions, perpetually moving through moments of sadness, anger, misery, emptiness, heartbreak, and contentment.

To quote someone else: “Grief makes us crazy.”

I want to go on and live my life, while simultaneously sitting in a pool of my own tears. I want everyone to leave me alone, but I don’t want them to leave. It’s been 4 weeks, and yet I can’t tell whether it feels like just yesterday or an eternity since he passed away – the reality is so fresh and raw and it doesn’t make sense.

How is it possible that just a couple of months ago, my Dad was sitting on the phone with me complaining of being ‘just tired’? And then weeks later, he died of a furiously spreading cancer? It’s not fair, and I want to stomp my feet and demand answers… but nothing.

The only thing I really want is to pick up the phone and hear his voice again. I want to fly home and smell the stale scent of his familiar sweater, to hear him snoring in front of the TV, to see the spaces between his wispy white hair on his head. I want to listen to him chuckle at my silly remarks, to watch the smile light up on his face when I tell him something charming, and just hear him call me Miss Pennifer — one more time.

But I’m asking for the impossible, and so there’s no fix for my pain. I’m destined to suffer indefinitely – which isn’t an easy reality to accept.

My heart is both empty and heavy all at once. I’m systematically programmed to live in auto-pilot mode, coasting through the motions of a set routine most days. I put on a brave face and fake my way through my workout, my job, and even at the grocery store.

In between it all, there are good days. There are days when my laughter is genuine, the smile and the joy I feel are real. I can make it through some days, only crying for a few moments or only feeling sadness for a short span of time. But there’s also bad days, and awful days – where I can’t concentrate on anything beyond the fact that my Dad is no long a physical human being. I cry endlessly, I feel lifeless myself and comprehending anything past my sadness is unimaginable.

–

Death. It’s an inevitable part of life, and yet something we can never properly prepare for. Looking back, I don’t know that I could have ever readied myself for this pain… and so, I’m doing the best I can.

I sit at home and stare into the sky – wondering where he is and what he’d be doing right now if he was here. I wear his glasses and try to imagine the world through his eyes, sift through old emails from him, and think back to all my favourite quirks about who he was and how he inspired me to be me.

Life isn’t easy right now, but admittedly – it’s not awful aside from the significant loss I’m experiencing.

So uh, yeah. I guess you could say I’m okay.

 

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Dear Old Dad

I don’t have any memories of my Dad without grey hair.

He’s 47 years my senior, and to be quite honest – I’ve always considered him to be an “old man”. And for as long as I can remember, he’s been a stay-at-home Dad. He’s always been there when I needed someone; actually, when anyone needed someone.

Dad was the reason I made it to school safely, up until about grade 5 when I decided I was old enough to cross the street by myself and count on the company of my friends to ensure I got to school on time. Although I wasn’t the biggest fan of his peanut butter + butter sandwiches put together on squishy, whole wheat bread and the more brown than yellow banana he would pack for my lunches, Dad woke up every morning and made sure I didn’t starve through the day for all of elementary school. When I was sick – he’d come pick me up. When I forgot my homework, my gym clothes, etc. – he would make his way to the school as quickly as possible, with “Casper” the family dog in tow. When it was time to go home, he was standing outside the school doors waiting for me… and we’d walk home sharing stories about our day.

When I needed him, he was there. But it wasn’t always just for me.

Dad was sometimes at school as often as I was. He’d volunteer to supervise class field trips – and made sure to always engage with fellow classmates about the best parts of the trip. When we visited old mines, the planetarium, and the local heritage village – he’d immerse himself with fascination and get just as excited as all the kids about new information to learn. When my friends and I were simply stuck in class on a regular school day, Dad would volunteer his time to stop by for a few hours and help struggling kids improve their reading skills. And if there was ever a moment when he wanted to help out and wasn’t balancing on a pint-sized chair while helping students who were fighting their way through their required reading, you’d likely find him in the computer room tinkering away and teaching others how to use them efficiently.

Mr. Thomson (or Mr. T to some people) has always been one to offer a helping hand, but more importantly – a bit of encouragement. He’s always there for assistance or advice, but he’ll never take the load off your shoulders or give you the answers. He’s the type of guy to teach you a lesson, to help you learn, to make sure you get something out of the experience – rather than giving you an easy way out.

Actually, it’s always been about the experience with Dad. Playing outside or playing with manually propelled toys always trumped slouching on the sofa watching any TV show. Reading a book always beat out spending hours getting sucked into a video game – unless you were playing Zelda, and you let Dad play just as much or more than you got to play yourself. He taught me the importance of appreciating a simpler life, not getting wrapped up in the idea of “keeping up with the Jones'”, and living a life without worrying about judgement from others.

Because – and it’s really sunk in more as an adult than ever before – none of that stuff matters.

To Dad, having the latest, greatest, whatever was cool – wasn’t important. He knew that it was absolutely possible to smile, laugh, and enjoy yourself with crayons, a piece of paper, a pencil, and whatever other knick-knacks you could find lying around the house to incorporate into some sort of make-believe adventure; there wasn’t a need for luxurious things that cost more money than our family could afford. Dad taught me that having fancy, expensive clothing or something new on a regular basis didn’t define, change, or impact who I was as a person. And although I didn’t believe him for the longest time, he would always imply that my life and who I really was in it was perfect, without bells and whistles to dress it up.

If there’s one thing I’ve learned from Dad – it’s that you don’t need more than a shirt, a pair of pants, an extra pair of underwear, a good book, and staples like milk, cheese, a loaf of bread and deli meat in your fridge to get by for a lot of your days.

Life truly can be just that simple, really. He’s living proof.

My father has been a significant influence to who I am today. Over the last 30 years, we’ve drifted back and forth, bumped heads, and misunderstood each other on so many occasions, but he’s definitely impacted the way I see the world and how I’ve chosen to be.

Though he may not know it, he helped fuel my passion for writing. He’s the reason I’ve fallen in love with the smell of books and why I wish I read more often than I do. My confidence to face the public with no makeup, my attempts to be frugal, my willingness to be kind and help others as much as I can is all because of my Dad – and everything he taught me. I spend my life trying not to worry about things, because Dad’s never been the type to do so. I try not to over complicate things (although I’m not very good at it) because… Dad wouldn’t do that either. And I try to learn as much as I can, because that’s what Dad likes to do.

There’s been many moments when I’ve debated which parent I’m more familiar to, but the truth really is that I’m a solid half from both of them. And while it’s without a doubt that I’m my mum’s little girl, but there’s no question that I’m Dad’s baby girl too – his lil’ Miss Pennifer for always, no matter how old I am.

I can honestly look in the mirror and see who I am, because of who my father is.

He’s the man with the grey hair and the big heart, who’s taught me to enjoy life in such simplicity. He’s always home, and always there when I need him.

And that’s exactly why I love him, and am so happy to call him my Dad.