Schrödinger's Dog

Schrödinger's Dog by Martin Dumont, translation by John Cullen, ©2020, Other Press

Loss is a difficult topic for people to read about. Grief is messy and hard, and full of emotions that many don't know how to deal with. When you mix loss of spouse with critical illness of a child, the result might seem more than anyone can bear, but Martin Dumont handles it honestly in his debut novel Schrödinger's Dog.

Yanis is a single parent. His wife died in a car accident almost twenty years ago, after a serious illness. He was left with a young boy—Pierre—whom he devoted his life to. But now there is something wrong with Pierre and Yanis doesn't know how to fix it. He can avoid the issue, like he did with his wife when she was ill, but putting Pierre inside a box doesn't stop the cancer that ravages his body. Time is racing and bringing up a grief that Yanis didn't even know he had. But the box is open and can no longer be closed.

Does something exist if we don't look at it? That is a theory of quantum mechanics that Physicist Erwin Schrödinger proposed in 1935; that if you put a cat in a box with a potential poison, until you observe it, the cat simultaneously may be alive or dead. It is more complicated than that, but also simpler. It boils down to observation. Is something real if it is not directly observed? That is the story that Dumont plays with in his poignant novel.

A theory exists that Yanis' wife committed suicide. He never fully contemplates it, thus gives no life to the supposition. As Pierre's health declines, he refuses to see the signs. But can he create an alternate world for his son regardless of the reality that comes with his illness? This is something many people who have faced serious illness wish for, but the box is sadly fallible. Looking in the box or not does not change the outcome. But the story itself is yours to write.

Dumont does a lovely job of exploring loss, grief, and the emotional challenges that come with it in Schrödinger's Dog. For a slim novel, it packs a punch worth reading. 

Soar

Death and dying. I sense a theme. Is it the age I am at? Really? Early forties?! A mite young for contemporaries, but we are exposed to death at any age.

At age of 5, my father died. A few years later, his mother died from grief—god speed Gaga.

The years passed and family friends faded away; some old, many young. Cancer, you fiend, you were often the cause.

Lest you be a stranger, cancer came knocking again. After a seeming lull, you knocked on my door to announce your presence in my husband's life; his leg. You took your pound of flesh, then within a scant few years came calling for the rest.

Thirties—that's what Brad was. Too young, but you don't play with numbers. I have seen children touched by your mark. You are ruthless in your indeterminate arc.

I thought I had made peace with you. After fearing the C-word for most of my life, I saw the other side. Some fought the good fight and won. They looked you in the eyes and met you—survived. They were given a reprieve; the gift of rebirth. Oh, I know it means you lurk forever in the wings taunting with what-ifs, but when given the second chance to cherish every day once more, it is worth the gamble.

But today, you snuck in from the wings. Bert hadn't even seen 60. She lived a good life; rarely drank, drove the speed limit, took care of her mother... No matter. It was enough for you. It seems unjust! She lived for her cats, to do a good job at work, and to make sure her mother was well cared for. Now what? She complained, but not early enough. Surgeons opened her up to find you everywhere. Your chaos was more than anyone could battle. Within a month poor Bertie was gone.

And I found out too late.

No funeral, no mass, no fanfare. It was her way, but leaves me hollow. How does one say goodbye when the guilt of days passed stands in the way of goodbye? I should have called. I could have visited. No more.

I'm sorry Betha. I wish you had been given a fairer shake in this thing called life. More moments, Bigger joy, in depth love to make a heart swoon. It was not to be.

Perhaps this is my reminder to reach for those moments myself. Just this week I noted my lack of joy, the infrequent pangs of love, and the crazy busy life I lead, which, while hectic, doesn't fulfil my heart's desire. Is someone trying to tell me something? Live life before the unknown number of allotted days are gone...

Oh Bert. I am so sorry for your quick departure. I hope you find your way to the next life and discover more joy in it. Blessings to you my friend.


RIP BK. Soar...

tissue paper hands

If I squeeze too tight

tissue paper hands will tear

my dying vigil

your forehead's stress lines

passed to survivors

In memory of my grandmother, Margaret McLeod
RIP

Measure

Daily updates
from my phone
no change...
no change...
never any change;
but the worst is in store.

Three, the number of 
weeks one can live without food...
You have been going on eight months.
No solids have passed your lips.
No voluntary movements towards fork or spoon.
How does a body survive on memory alone?

Three, the number of 
days one can live without water...
You stopped drinking two months ago.
Occasionally thirst will get the better of you
and a dixie cup can be coaxed between lips;
that third day must be the charm.

The number of spilled tears
counted in family;
children, grandchildren, great grandchildren.
The amount of sweat equity 
counted in people;
nurses, doctors, support staff.

This is what a life comes down to
at the end of a day;
measuring tears, sips and breathes
until they all run dry,
but today's update:
about the same...

Rant

Rant.

Go...

My neighbour died last week. Another neighbour came over to break the news to me. She knew that I would want to hear, as I had always had a soft spot for him. It had been quick. He had gone to hospital Wednesday in distress and died before the day was out. The only thing left to do was schedule the funeral. 

Larry was a sweet old man. He was 90, still lived in his own home, drove his own car, and took care of himself. Another neighbour cut his grass and took care of his pool. Many neighbours brought him over meals, pies, and treats of one sort or another. We always gave him some of whatever we baked. He loved his sweets and appreciated everything that people did for him. From what I could tell everyone liked him. I was sad to hear of his passing.

Today was the funeral. As Larry had been kind to me in days when my grief was most poignant, I felt I needed to go and pay my respects. I had never noticed his family visit much, but the gesture of saying goodbye is an important one to me, so I wanted to go. A visitation was held, followed immediately by the funeral. He was to be interned afterwards. I knew that the internment would be out of the question, as I had to pick the girls up from school, but I planned to attend the other events. 

I drove to the church and said my hellos to the granddaughter that greeted me at the door. Larry was laid out in the next room with a few pictures nestled into the coffin with him. Death is never pretty, as the lifeblood that makes one real flesh and blood leaves the deceased withered and waxy. But I left a tear in his presence nonetheless. I took a seat in a pew off to one side and waited for the funeral to begin. A woman noticed me wipe my eyes though and approached to say hello. She was Larry's niece and looked like she needed a friend to talk to. We shared stories and I was convinced to sit in her aisle with her. Once the pianist played a few songs, the doors of the chapel were closed and the service began.

That is when I should have left.

I have been to many funerals. As much as they are sad affairs, they are held so that people can pay their respects to the deceased. They are an opportunity to start the closure of loss. This funeral was far from respectful though. And it certainly did nothing to honour the memory of the neighbour that I saw as a kindly elderly gentleman who was social, active and friendly with all he met. 

The preacher took to the pulpit and began by reading a letter from the daughter-in-law, who was seated in the front pew. It was awful. Not only did it highlight the ugliness of Larry's final hours, but it cast Larry in a light I never would have imagined. We were told of his mother's young death, then the destitution that followed. His father put him in an orphanage, only to bring him home to a house of alcoholism and poverty. So the story went, it made Larry bitter. And it went on to say that he remained that way for the rest of his life. 

As my fingers dug holes into my palms, I listened to Larry disparaged due to his lack of faith. His son and wife supposedly prayed for him to take Jesus into his heart, to no avail. It was his downfall and left him desperate to fill that whole with material possessions. 

Now it wasn't a secret that Larry had a problem. He was a hoarder. Two years ago he had damage in his home because of flooding. Due to the sheer mountain of stuff in his home the cleanup took the better part of six months. He spent that time living in his trailer out of town. I never heard tell that his son ever offered to put him up during that time. Oh, but they prayed that he would release the devil in his soul! 

Last I heard, hoarding was a mental illness though. Not a reason to castigate someone. Especially not at their funeral. 

There was no mention of what Larry did for a living. No recount of how many years he was married to his wife. Nothing said about his love of dancing. I wanted to pipe up that he was blessed with another romance late in life that was sadly cut short by his fiance's death on the day Larry asked her to marry him. And gee, he was 90 years old, living on his own, still able to walk and drive (not well, but its hard to let go of that independence) and visit with his neighbours when the mood struck him. 

No, we were told that despite Larry having made his family's life miserable for so many years by refusing to take up their faith, they finally won. As Larry lay dying, wracked by painful seizures that apparently terrified him, he finally saw the light. After yet another seizure, he "saw the light" that was Jesus. And then his fear left him. And he died. 

The cynic in me thinks that the tidy summation of Larry's awful existence was probably not exactly accurate. I offer no disrespect to those who have experienced this first-hand, but after listening to all the awful things said, I couldn't stomach the moral of the story - that we all must accept Jesus into our heart or be left to live eternity in hell. No heaven for any disbelievers or sinners. What about Jews, Muslims, Hindus, and others? No Jesus - no heaven.
.
I wanted to leave. It galled me to sit and listen to them bash this dear man that had helped rake my lawn at the age of 83 years old because he saw me crying in fresh grief with rake in hand over a leaf pile. Local bank tellers had spoken of him in glowing terms for goodness sake. And all they could see was a bitter old man that I am sure they are glad to be rid of.

Well, I made it through the service, despite my seething brain. And tonight I toasted Larry with fellow neighbours that had attended the funeral and were equally shocked by the things said and manner that Larry's death had been handled. We all deserve better than that. As my neighbour said, "they could have just stated facts if they didn't have anything nice to say." But I guess their god lets them feel justified in their ugly actions. I for one want nothing to do with their religion, if it is that judgemental and cold.

... end rant

End of the Week

Let's take a little ole peek at my life. Do I need to be where I am? Should I be doing what I am doing? This week has been difficult as the lady I was gardening for died. When I met her, I knew she was in the last stage of her life. She was dying and it would be sooner rather than later. Should I have let that into my life? Do I need another taste of death and dying? Many kind-hearted people have suggested maybe not. I am a feeler, full of emotion. Why put myself in a position where you know you are going to lose someone in your life? And now the funeral is this afternoon. Should I go to it? Do I really need to walk down that path and open myself up to fresh pain?

Well, when I got the idea into my head to do some gardening and help people in need, I don't think I specifically went looking for someone who was going to die. Especially not while I was actively involved with them. Believe it or not, I know that I am a leaky soul and that might be a hard thing to bear. Michelle came into my life and was handed to me for a reason. I really liked going over to her house and working in her garden. I have an affinity for the earth and feel that tending to it brings happiness; to the earth, me and whomever else happens to appreciate it. Michelle appreciated it immensely. I was her hands and her eyes. She could not get into her cherished garden anymore to get dirt under her fingernails and see what needed to be done. I visited her the day that she died and brought her some flowers from my garden. I described the flowers I brought and her husband expressed that he felt her soul was smiling for the simple gift. Even while I sit here with tears in my eyes, I smile. I gave a precious gift and get the knowledge of that to take with me. I was one small little part of a woman's life, but I gave her something she wanted and appreciated when she could not do it herself. That is huge and I feel that. I am a good person. I am telling myself that, not you in case you were wondering.

And what did it cost me? Pain of loss. It is a familiar place and yes it takes me back to my bigger loss of Brad. Many things take me back to the loss of Brad though. I spent a few hours once a week doing something I love to do; gardening. I have the time to fit it into my schedule. I collected a few plants from Michelle's garden as I thinned plants for her. I shared some of my story with Murray. I knew that I did not have to know all of Michelle and Murray's story and tried to protect my heart. Murray needed the friend. He needed the help. I was a friend by giving him one less thing to do and subsequently more time with Michelle. How is that for a gift? I gave him time. Wow. That is pretty sweet Katherine.

So I take my tears and cherish them. I am not afraid of death and dying. I am familiar with them and know how hard they are. Too many people do not want to know this part of life, but it exists. Death makes life that much sweeter. My tears are sweet and beautiful and I would do it again in a heartbeat for the smiles and heartfelt appreciation I got in return. Better than anything I can think of.
So will I do it again? Again people have suggested that perhaps it is too hard a road to travel. It is a hard road. I know that I do not have to walk down death's path to make me a better person. Truthfully, I would like not to have to lose parts of my life and people in it. If I get another opportunity to help someone, I suspect I will gladly offer my time again. Perhaps for the elderly, the sick or just one with lack of time. I have been allowed to garden in a few other gardens and was rewarded by the earth's sigh of appreciation without having to lose anyone or anything. I take what life hands me. I pray that I can handle the challenges that will present. I sit back and realize the gift of time that I have been offered these last few years and hope that I do not waste them. I have not so far. What does tomorrow hold?

Saying Goodbye

I talked to a friend this morning to catch up on things. She recently had a double mastectomy, due to a disconcertingly high risk factor for developing breast and or ovarian cancer. Her Grandmother and Mother both died from Ovarian cancer and her Aunt (her Mother's sister) sounds like she is finally losing the battle to cancer herself. With her Aunt slowly winding out her last few days/weeks at home the family is preparing for her death. My friend has two young daughters, the oldest one being very close to her Great-Aunt. My conversation touched on what to say and how to explain death to young children. She wanted to know how I explained Brad's final illness and death to my girls.

T was 2 1/2 years old when her father died from cancer. She knew her father was sick and may have understood he was getting sicker. In his last month of life he suffered from extreme headaches that were extremely debilitating. I often had to tell her to play quietly because Daddy wasn't feeling well and his head hurt. She drew into herself in her Daddy's last month, I am sure not really knowing exactly what was going on, but knowing that it was something serious. Where television had never held any interest for her, it suddenly drew her in. No surprise when Daddy napped often and Mommy withdrew and cried a lot more. TV was a happy place where everyone was having fun. At our house everyone was serious. Even with doctors trying to be nice, I suspect she sensed how much angst the doctors caused for her adults. She did not have a lot of warmth for them, despite the smiles they offered her.

Brad was hospitalized in his last few days. He essentially had a stroke and seizures at the end left him in a coma. I was terrified and desperate and not sure what to do. We had been seeing a social worker at the hospital and she helped to give me ideas of how to handle this final turn of events with the girls. R was only 10 months old at the time, so was intellectually beyond being able to comprehend what was going on. I tried to have familiar caregivers surround her and tend to her needs. When Brad was stabilized, I took T to the hospital so that she could see her Daddy. I explained that Daddy was very, very sick and that the tubes coming out of him were to help him breathe and give him medicine. Essentially I described Daddy as alive and sleeping, but very sick. I told her that if she wanted to touch him or hug him she could. It was a bit much for her and she was not comfortable with that. She did not want to touch him and did not really say anything. We had brought her favourite bunny on the suggestion of the social worker and I gave it to Daddy. I told T it was so that Daddy would know that she had been there and would have a piece of her to hold onto. She was okay with that, but we left fairly quickly.

The next morning Brad died before anyone could come and visit him. I believe that he decided it was time and did not want anyone to uncomfortably hover over him fretting, worrying and not knowing what to say. His parents were there moments after he died and I arrived shortly thereafter. My Mother and Father got the girls fed and dressed, then brought them to the hospital. The social worker and Brad's palliative doctor took me aside and counselled me on what to say to T. The tubes were removed from Brad before we brought the girls in, so as to lessen fears and stresses. R was brought in and shown Daddy and told he had died. T came in and I held her as I explained that Daddy had died. That meant that he couldn't breathe anymore or eat. He could not drink, walk or move his body. The medicine that the doctor's had given him had stopped working and Daddy's body couldn't fight off his sickness any more. Daddy loved us all, but he was gone and not coming back. It was some of the hardest words that I have ever had to wrench from my lips and I wanted to vomit for saying them. The truth was as hard for me to understand, as for her to hear and comprehend. Reality is not pretty or kind in situations such as this. The mixed blessing of it all was that grief does not touch children the same way that it affects adults. That being said they are affected by the grief process and even R felt the vast changes that were going on in her world. Children may not be able to understand all of the complicated emotions that adults grapple with, but they see the people in their world being affected by it and feel sadness in their own way. Time brings the reality of their loss into a reality that they can absorb slowly. It can take many years for children to fully understand and come to grips with such a significant loss. My own experience of losing my Father at the age of five has taught me this.

My conversation this morning brought me back to my not distant loss. While sad to delve into, it is my reality and will always form a part of my world. The glimmer that made the conversation more dear was the recognition from my friend that my words may help her when it comes time to tell her daughter about a loved one's loss. My story is painful, but my story can help others. I am not alone in my pain and neither should anyone else be.