Breaking Down the Walls - Mental Illness and Suicide

I don't actually know who found him. I have long suspected it was my mother and that perhaps that moment in time was responsible for some of her later struggles, but I don't know for certain as she and I never discussed it. In fact I never discussed it with anyone until after my mother died unexpectedly because while it wasn't a family secret it wasn't out in the open, either.

My maternal grandfather committed suicide.

From what I have gleaned he ended his life shortly after my maternal grandmother died after suffering a  cerebral aneurysm. My grandparents were very close, apparently. My mother often spoke of their marital bond, and from her words I could see that she worshipped them both. She described her father as "sensitive", likely  in reference to a man who struggled with mental health issues and seemed fragile to others. I never knew either of my maternal grandparents, both gone long before to tragic diseases.

This narrative is one that has hovered over my family for decades. While it was never completely hidden it was never really pulled into the light, either. The stigma of mental illness and suicide is a deep one, powerful and tough to counter. My mother never spoke of her father's death, although she would often speak of her mother's.

I have tried over the past three years to break the cycle. I have shared stories of my struggle with depression, and stories of my mother's long battle with mental illness. I have openly discussed the genetic legacy of mental illness in my own lineage, and yet for some reason I admit it took me a very long time to tell the Intrepid Junior Blogger how her great grandfather died.

I suppose it is because I didn't know how to explain it. I didn't know how to have that conversation, but last year I did. I wrote about World Suicide Prevention Day, and I sat down with my daughter and told her the few details I know about her grandfather's death.

I suppose it is why I have become so adamant about the fallacy of calling those who commit suicide selfish. From my mother's description of her father I know he was not selfish. His death was not about a selfish choice. His death was about a troubled man dealing with a disease he did not choose and that is in the end no different from the disease that killed my grandmother. Her death from a cerebral aneurysm caused by a weakened blood vessel in her brain was not her choice. My grandfather did not choose to suffer from a mental illness that led to taking his own life any more than my grandmother chose her illness. Mental illness is a disease just as real as brain aneurysms, heart disease and diabetes, and can be just as deadly.

Just as in other diseases early intervention can often prevent the worst outcome. In the case of mental illness and those who may consider suicide such intervention is crucial. Things have come a long, long way since my grandfather's death but we still struggle to break down the stigma surrounding mental illness and suicide in particular. It is still a topic we try to avoid and one we find difficult to talk about with our family, friends and colleagues - and yet it is so vital to do exactly that.

It is the most difficult conversations we often need most to have. In many ways I regret never talking to my mother about her father's death, but my mother was sensitive, too, and I suspect her fragility was rooted not only in genetics but in the untimely death of her parents. They were both lost to diseases that seem tied to my family through our genetics, not diseases of our choice but ones with which we contend regardless.

It was difficult to tell my daughter about my grandmother's death and the fact that cerebral aneurysms can have a genetic link. It was equally difficult to tell her about my grandfather's death and another disease that is tied closely to our family. But knowledge is power and education is a tool, and these discussions have better equipped her for the future. We have begun to break down the walls of silence in my family and to talk about our genetic legacy, the good and the bad, and all the factors that make us who we are.

Wednesday is World Suicide Prevention Day. It is the day to bring it out into the light, to talk about it with friends and family and colleagues. It is the day to remember how it has touched our life and to learn how we can prevent it from touching the lives of those we love. For me it is another opportunity to tell the IJB about her great grandparents, and not just their deaths. I will share with her the loving stories my mother told me and I will share with her the stories of their deaths. It won't be an easy conversation - but it will be one so very necessary to have.

Brother, Can You Spare a Cornea?

So, hey, I have a question for you...

Have you signed your organ donor card?

I know this seems like an odd question to appear out of nowhere. It isn't really nowhere, though, as you see within the next few years I am likely going to need one of your corneas - or at least someone's cornea.

I have endured a chronic eye disease for fifteen years. After years of irritating medications, repeated assaults from the virus that scarred it and emergency glaucoma surgery, my left cornea finally surrendered this week. The perforation in my cornea, while small and likely repairable at this point, is an indication my cornea has begun to degrade, and the time to consider joining the corneal transplant waiting list may have arrived.

I have known for some time this could be coming. About eight years ago my ophthalmologist at the time asked if I had considered a transplant to address the deep scarring of my cornea. I was so used to the scarring, though, that I rejected the idea. My brain has learned to virtually ignore the signals coming from that eye as they are of such poor quality, and I am not even certain what it would be like to see clearly with it once again. I have been so fortunate that my right eye has been unaffected and so I have muddled along for years, dealing with chronic eye problems but rarely of the severity that has occurred this summer. This latest development, though, has me thinking a great deal about donor cards and transplants.

Current statistics are a bit tough to find but there are thousands of Canadian on the waiting list for new corneas. Some are in far more dire straights than I, needing two healthy corneas to replace their damaged ones, and some have been waiting for a very, very long time to see. And of course there are all the other organs needed in order to prolong the lives of others, but it is a topic we are still hesitant to discuss because it deals with things like death, a subject which makes most of us squirm.

The reality though is that the people on waiting lists for hearts and lungs and corneas are just like me. They lead their lives like we all do until some part of their body fails them, like my poor cornea which has just grown weary of years of damage and insult. For some their very continued existence depends on that donated organ, while for some of us it will simply change our lives by just maybe allowing us to see again.

This week I am in Edmonton as I receive care for an ophthalmologic emergency. It seems most likely that my cornea can be salvaged for now, but my future very likely includes a corneal transplant. As I sit here in my hotel room I think about that eventuality and how I have long known some day my vision in my left eye would depend on someone signing a small card indicating their wish to donate their organs, including their corneas, when they will no longer be using them. I always knew it would depend on a family who, after their own tragic loss, finds the strength and courage to allow some good to come from it in the form of changing and saving the lives of others.

One day in the future I may well see the world far more clearly, with an undamaged cornea that once belonged to someone else. I am still working through my feelings on that, because as a writer I cannot help but wonder about the person who may one day allow me to see. And I know this: they may be signing their organ donor card right now, or thinking about it.

It is humbling to be so reliant on the kindness and generosity of others, particularly when that generosity means they must think of their own death. Now I look into  a future that includes seeing through the eyes - or at the least the cornea - of someone else.

I hate to ask, but when you aren't using them anymore any chance you could spare a cornea? I would be so very, very grateful - as would the thousands of other Canadians waiting for corneas, hearts, lungs and more.

Sign your donor card. People just like me - in fact, me - are relying on you to do it. And we want to thank you in advance for giving us the gift of life - and sight.

Information on Organ Donation in Canada

Free Falling

I could never get the hang of it.

It came up in almost every drama workshop, an "exercise" designed to break the ice and make us work together, trusting each other. But I couldn't do it.

"You are stiff as a board when you fall," said the instructor. "The idea is to relax and let yourself actually FALL," they would say, shaking their head in frustration. "You need to learn to TRUST people to catch you."

"It isn't about trust," I would say, my own frustration mounting as I tried again and again to simply let myself fall into the outstretched hands behind me, allowing them to catch my limp body before it hit the ground. "I can't ask people to catch me. I don't know how to ask that," I would say.

"I don't think you get this exercise," the instructor would say sadly, convinced it was about trust or a lack thereof - but it wasn't. It was about the inability to ask for help, even if it meant avoiding hitting the ground.

I was the child who never asked for anything, you see. I suppose I grew up very comfortably with parents who could provide well for me, but even so my mother would often remark about my lack of requests. I never asked for new clothing or money or toys. I never asked because I didn't know how to ask, and so I was always just content.

When I graduated from high school a cousin came to live with us. She was going to school in the city and her parents lived a fair distance away on a farm. When they came to visit her and us they brought her a small stereo because she had asked for one. A day later my father came home with a small portable stereo (aka the ubiquitous 80's "ghetto blaster") and left it on my bed. I was perplexed and when I said thank you my mother told me it was because I never asked for anything, even if I wanted or needed it.

Over the decades, and particularly in the last two years, I have become far better at asking although it is still difficult for me. It is not about a lack of trust but rather about an inability or unwillingness to show vulnerability in this way, admitting to needing help. I am on occasion distressed that the Intrepid Junior Blogger displays the same behaviour, unwilling to ask for help from teachers, store clerks or friends. It is not necessarily the most beneficial of behaviours to pass on, and I ponder how to change it.

I suppose first though I must change myself. This week I let myself fall. It was hard to release myself that way, to let myself go limp and ask those around me to catch me. I won't go into the details - not yet - but what I found was that when I asked those around me to catch me what formed beneath me was a safety net woven from the hands and hearts of friends, family and colleagues. I let myself go limp and simply fall into their hands, always knowing I could trust them but finally finding a way to ask them to catch me.

This week I went into a free fall, but it was ok. Those hands that were always there waiting were right there to catch me, and I didn't hit the ground.

Today is Her Day - and She is Off and Away

I sit and watch her go, freshly dyed ebony black and lime green hair streaming behind her. The hair almost matches the emerald green shoes, with just enough difference in shade to keep it interesting. She has grown so much over the last few years and I as I sit there I realize we have entered yet another stage of this adventure we call childhood, except she is no longer a child in many ways. She is off to high school and I am sitting in my car, and that sniffling noise you hear is most certainly not me fighting off tears.

This year the Intrepid Junior Blogger entered high school as a Grade Ten student. Watching her bounce up the sidewalk with confidence in her stride reminded me of all the “first days” over the last ten years, every single one of them at schools within the Fort McMurray Public School District. She is now a Westwood High School student, one of the many entering those doors that will arrive as new students and leave as graduates.

Parenting is full of trepidation. You worry if they will find friends, if they will meet the expectations of their teachers in terms of academics and behaviour and if they will be happy. It is always such a tremendous relief when they are happy, and I am so incredibly grateful that the IJB has begun this new adventure, the final chapter of her educational life here, with happiness.

“How were the first two days?” I ask.

“Terrific!” she exclaims.

“Terrific?” I ask. “Like, really terrific?”

 I am surprised only because the IJB is not typically effusive about most things, being far more reserved than her mother who loves everything almost indiscriminately. The IJB is far more careful and measured in her evaluations, and few things beyond her pets, some select websites and her beloved computer games are deemed “terrific”.

“Yep, terrific,” she says. “I love my new English teacher, she is amazing. And my French teacher? She speaks almost only in French, it’s great. The school has a 3-d printer so my CAD course should be pretty cool. And hey, do you know what an isotope is? How about atomic weight, do you know what that is?”

I pause because while I studied chemistry long ago I do not recall the fine details, and so she patiently explains isotopes and atomic weights and shows me how she has to memorize the first 32 elements of the periodic table.

She is happy, engaged and excited about her first semester in high school, and I am so equally happy and grateful I almost find myself in tears.

When I went to the orientation for students pursuing AP courses I suspected the IJB would love her teachers and her classes. I pretty much fell in love with the teachers myself, wishing I had teachers like them in high school, brimming with enthusiasm for their subjects and students. I had a few teachers like that, especially my English teacher who not only taught me to write but to strive to excel. It was those teachers I remember, the ones who shaped my school experience and who even now I think about on occasion – but that was then, and this is now, and my high school days are long over. The IJB’s have just begun.

I think perhaps it is not always easy to be my kid. On occasion the IJB will comment on how strange it is when her friends say they read my blog, or when people recognize her and refer to her as “Theresa’s daughter”. The IJB is very much her own person, with a strength and resiliency and character that is all her own and in some ways much like me and in many ways far, far different.

“Oh, and one of the teachers stopped me in the hallway to tell me she loves my shoes,” says the IJB and grins at me, her love of good shoes, especially the Fluevogs we both adore, written on her face.

I grin back because while she is her own person and quite different from me this apple has not fallen far from this particular tree.

As the venerable Dr. Seuss wrote, today is her day. She is off to great places. She is off and away.

 

Milk Matters in McMurray - Supporting Local Moms

“You don’t SEEM like a crunchy granola mommy,” he said.

I was bemused by this response when I once told a man that I was an ardent supporter of breastfeeding. Somehow in his head he had linked breastfeeding with the earthy, Birkenstock wearing mommy crowd – and absolutely no offense to them as they do exist, but I am not one of them.

“You seem pretty normal,” he continued.

Normal indeed, much like the crunchy granola mommies are normal, too, and much like breastfeeding is normal, and the way nature intended for us to feed our young. I should make clear I am also not one of those moms who levels judgement on other moms for choosing formula for their babies, but I do believe in the benefits of breastfeeding – and even more than that I believe in ensuring the moms who choose it receive the support they need to succeed, because while it is normal and natural often new moms need that support.

It’s why I was pleased to attend the recent anniversary celebration for the Fort McMurray Breastfeeding Support Group. Held in the concourse of the Suncor Community Leisure Centre it was wall to wall mommies and babies, taking me back to a time when the Intrepid Junior Blogger was much, much smaller.

The IJB was born in a small community in northwestern Ontario. I fully intended to breastfeed, and thanks to the support of the local La Leche League I had strong support getting started. When she was three months old, though, I developed the chronic eye disease with which I still contend even today, and my ophthalmologist tried to convince me to give up breastfeeding to use oral medications that he was worried could prove harmful to my new baby.

I was terribly torn as I was committed to breastfeeding my daughter and I was devastated at the thought of quitting when we had just gotten the hang of it. I went online to search for information, and that was how I found Dr. Jack Newman, the Canadian physician who has proven the saviour of breastfeeding women everywhere.

I fired off an email to Newman, never expecting a response – but not only did he respond to me he contacted my ophthalmologist and between the two of them they devised a treatment plan which would not require me to give up breastfeeding my daughter. There were people who thought the lengths I went to were absurd, but I knew I wanted to breastfeed and I was going to do it, come hell or high water – and I did, weaning my daughter when she and I were ready and having been satisfied that both her needs and my medical needs had been met.

Being surrounded by breastfeeding moms, pregnant women and those who support these important initiatives for women took me right back to those early days. I was grateful for the initial support of my local La Leche League, but even they were in a bit over their heads when it came to the medical crisis I faced. What I would have appreciated back then was an even larger core of groups dedicated to supporting women who choose to breastfeed and who could provide the resources I needed when things got tough – which is why I am so grateful to see this kind of support network in our community.

I have written in this blog about our need for a birthing centre as our community grows with each new family member added. I have written about the need for doulas and midwives, the support systems many pregnant women seek, and I have written about breastfeeding. And this isn`t about saying breastfeeding is the only choice, or that doulas or midwives are better, or that birthing centres trump hospitals – it`s about providing women with the options and support they need as they bring our most important asset into this world: our next generation of citizens.

Every member of a community is important, of course, and we all have our respective roles. To me, though, there can be no more important role than raising children as the continuation of our species, community and society relies on that very act and I am not only an advocate of breastfeeding but an advocate of parenting as it is so very vital. As a community and society we have a responsibility to provide the support and encouragement and fundamental services parents need so they can focus on what matters most: the children.

You see it takes a village to raise a child, and in our village we need to come together to support those raising the children, making sure their parents have the best possible support, resources and options they can to succeed in their incredible role in building our community.

Connect with Fort McMurray Breastfeeding Support Groups

 to support local moms and babies!

 

 

Connecting to the World

The email was clearly not in English.

In fact I wasn’t entirely sure what the language was, and I would have entirely ignored it had I not caught three words that meant something to me: Zhen Shan Ren. I copied the entire email, pasted it into an online translator, and connected with a blog reader from across the world.

It is always a remarkable feeling when something you have written reaches an audience you didn’t even know existed. It is even more remarkable when that audience reaches out to you and tells you what your written words have meant to them. In the past couple of weeks this has happened to me repeatedly as the blog post I wrote about the recent Art of Zhen Shan Ren International Exhibition at the MacDonald Island Community Art Gallery spread around the globe.

It all began when the post was shared on a Facebook page devoted to the exhibition. The administrator of that page contacted me to let me know she had posted it there, and I was delighted to see that it was being well received. I was even more delighted, though, when emails began to pour in from several points across Europe, all connecting over an incredibly profound art exhibition that had tremendous impact on me. But the readers didn’t just drop by to read that post. Some of them stayed to read about a little community in northern Canada, far removed from their worlds and a world apart – and then they contacted me with questions.

Some of them wanted to know about job opportunities here. Some wanted to know about life in northern Canada. One asked if I had ever seen a polar bear (the answer is no, they are found much further north). Almost all of my new correspondents expressed interest in our community and in life here. Most had never been to Canada – and most had never heard of Fort McMurray.

You never, ever know what will happen when you put pen to paper or fingers to keyboard. A little post, heartfelt and written after you have experienced something deep and meaningful, can connect to a far wider audience than you expect. Even more than that, though, it can mean that you have introduced someone from far away to your community – not through a magazine article written by a visiting journalist, not through a documentary filmed by a visiting film crew, but through a community resident who lives here, works here, plays here and has found her heart here.

In the past two weeks I have welcomed several “virtual visitors” to Fort McMurray. The found me – and us – through this blog, and I am once again humbled by the opportunity to share my story of life here every day with you and with them. On occasion I have wondered if this blog had meaning – and on days like today I suppose I feel it does.

On days like today I open my email and find yet another email in a language that is not English, and I translate it quickly to discover a new correspondent – and a chance to continue my small effort to connect Fort McMurray with the world.

Is This Legal? Graffiti, Guerrilla Art and a Simple Question

Sometime the best discoveries aren't the ones I have made at all. They are the ones that filter their way to me through friends and acquaintances, often culminating in an email or conversation that starts with: "Did you see this?". This happened to me recently when a friend sent along a photo that proved very thought-provoking, sending me off on a tangent as I considered the nature of graffiti, vandalism and art.

Yes, I used the words "graffiti", "vandalism" and "art" in the same sentence as on occasion you see something that stops and make you think about the complexities words like this bring. The "something" I saw was this:

Photo Credit to Carolyn Murray

For the record that is plastic wrap stretched between two trees and then spraypainted. No buildings, trees or property were harmed during this creation, which seems to have prompted the creator to ask this:

Photo Credit to Carolyn Murray

Is this legal? I suppose technically this would could be considered littering and punishable on those grounds. Vandalism does not seem to apply as no permanent property or structure was involved, but if one wanted to be precise and adhere strictly to the law then I suppose this is "illegal" as the creator has "littered". But then I began to think about another creative pursuit, one that I have several friends involved in and that looks like this:

Yarn bombing and crochet graffiti are a huge hit in many urban centres, brightening up the landscape with the work of fibre artists who adhere their intricate creations onto trees, lampposts, bike racks, railings and more. Legal or illegal? Technically littering but also a work of "guerrilla art" designed to evoke smiles and bring cheer to dull landscapes.

And then I thought of this:

It is called "guerrilla gardening", and it is the work of those who use spaces such as this as the canvas for their works of living (and often edible) art. Legal? Technically the space belongs to someone else, I suppose, and one could claim vandalism.

The reality is that we have a graffiti problem in this community. The problem, however, is not the type of creation but the place where it is being created. Graffiti on the side of a building, defacing it and affecting the tone of the neighbourhood around it, is clearly vandalism and cannot be tolerated. But graffiti on plastic wrap stretched between two trees, yarn knitted onto a bike rack or flowers planted under a grate? I think these are examples of creativity and - yes - art, that we should encourage and applaud.

To the creator of the local plastic wrap graffiti I want to say thank you for the creative idea, for sharing your work and for asking the question: "Is this legal?". 

I don't know the answer, but I know this: I think it is a terrific way to build a bridge in this community between those who create graffiti and those who want to keep it off their property. I think perhaps what we might want to do is invest in a whole lot of plastic wrap and invite the creators of graffiti to enjoy their new canvas while we enjoy the results of their creative expression. One simple question can sometimes provide the simple solution to a complex question, and we should never be closed to the possibility of exploring those solutions, even if they seem far, far too simple indeed.