Boekenweek Part 2: You Have Me to Love

You Have Me to Love by Jaap Robben, Translated by David Doherty, © 2014, World Editions

Grief is a familiar topic for me. So when I read the description of 'You Have Me to Love' by Jaap Robben, the theme spoke to me.

"On a remote island somewhere in the North Atlantic, a nine-year-old boy looks on helplessly as his father is swept out to sea. Consumed by guilt and paralyzed by his mother's frantic grief, Mikael cannot bring himself to tell the truth about what happened. As the pair struggle to restore the fragile balance of their isolated lives, the young widow starts to demand the impossible of her only son."

A woman distraught over the loss of her husband is relatable. Hearing the story from her son's perspective is intriguing. Delving into her complicated and prolonged grief is disturbing, but worth exploring with the help of Robben's powerful prose. How does anyone handle someone stuck in their bereavement, especially when you have your own loss to process and understand? That is Mikael's challenge, and he is only 9 years old when his father drowns. Plus, he lives on an isolated island with no other support at his disposal to help either himself or his grieving mother. It sounds like a recipe for disaster.

While the subject matter is challenging, Robben tackles the novel with an unexpected beauty. Guilt is a familiar emotion in grief and Mikael struggles with it, especially as he is the only witness to his father's death. As the years pass, he tries to embrace love and acceptance once more, only to be confronted by his mother's inability to process her own grief. Add to that the spectre of loneliness—another component of bereavement—and compound it with their remote island home. How is one to find hope? Readers can only pray that Mikael can find the strength and maturity to combat his mother's impossible demands. To say anything more, would spoil the plot for readers eager to dive into Robben's highly-acclaimed novel.

The book is currently being adapted into an English-language film.

Boekenweek

Jaap Robben

'You Have Me to Love' is the second novel I had the pleasure of reading for Boekenweek. What a week to celebrate; a festival of literature for 10 days! I choose to read Thirty Days and You Have Me to Love to explore both a Belgian (Verbeke) and Dutch (Robben) author—Belgium and the Netherlands being the two main host countries of Boekenweek.

While Verbeke's novel was excellent, Robben's perfectly touched on this year's theme—The Mother The Woman. The blurred lines between those roles are a stark part of Robben's engaging narrative. As a woman, where do the lines start and end in motherhood? You might want to check out more books from this year's Boekenweek theme to help figure that out.

World Editions also provides more information about Boekenweek and the many tours, readings, and festivals going on in North America from March 23-31, 2019. They are proud supporters of high-quality English literature on a world scale, with an affinity for their European and, more specifically, their Dutch roots. Care to read more of their books? World Editions can help.

The Pink Steering Wheel Chronicles

The Pink Steering Wheel Chronicles by Laura Fahrenthold, ©2018, Hatherleigh Press

Earlier this summer I received a request to review a memoir by debut author Laura Fahrenthold. The premise of the story rang close to my heart—grief. A young mother loses her husband and goes on a journey to rediscover life and begin to forge a path to her new normal. I have walked in those same shoes, so it should be no surprise that I said yes for this review.

Instead of writing a review though—I feared I would take over with tales from my own grief journey—I asked if Laura would answer a few questions for me. In addition to learning more about the book, I thought my readers could discover more about the process behind Laura's journey. And I happily have a little more to share about Laura's journey with you! I hope you enjoy a few more insights from Laura's journey in life.

If you haven't had a chance to read The Pink Steering Wheel Chronicles, I highly recommend it!

 A Closer Look at The Pink Steering Wheel Chronicles...

Grief is a much longer journey than many people realize. When did you decide it was time and you were ready to write your chronicles highlighting your grief journey? How long did it take to write the book?

Actually, life is a much longer journey than most people realize! There are so many stages to it. That’s really what the book is about—it’s a book about going through the stages of life and how I coped with a huge tragedy by driving 31,000 miles across Canada and the U.S. searching for answers to life’s biggest questions. Sometimes, I got answers in the arms of Costco and Walmart shoppers; other times I found my own truths when staring into the sky. And I definitely learned so much from being with my daughters. It’s crazy how everything can change in a matter of six devastating minutes.

While that sounds so deep, and perhaps dark and depressing, the book is anything but that, as suggested by the title itself: The Pink Steering Wheel Chronicles! It’s truly an often hilarious look at my efforts to gain emotional and physical strength through the open road in a beat-up old RV we named HaRVey with my two eyeball rolling teenagers and a stray dog, driving through our grief while gaining new experiences to work into our backbones.

So really, I didn’t decide to write this book. It decided to write me.

What do you mean the book decided to write you?

I never set out to write The Pink Steering Wheel Chronicles. That isn’t what our ashes-sprinkling RV trips were about. They were about spending time with my daughters, having amazing experiences that would hopefully replace our sadness. We needed to climb mountains like Les Palissades de Charlevoix (which helped me overcome a fear of heights…well, sort of), ride the tidal waves in the Bay of Fundy and go mud sliding down the banks of the Shubenacadie River. We also ended up invited to a wedding in Cape Breton where we got to milk goats on their farm! We were always up to something during those 31,000 miles of adventures.

Friends kept saying I should share my story, that I should write a book, given that I am a journalist. And I thought, you know what? They are right! My story is so relatable on so many levels that it could really help motivate people to get out there and live before they die, too.

I started and stopped several times, but then when I found my husband’s journals, I knew I had to do this. Those journals were the puzzle pieces which put the whole thing into perspective. It was astounding, really.

It took about three years from start to finish while working my full-time job as an editor at Woman’s World Magazine. This meant I spent every second of my off-hours, including nights, weekends and holidays, writing, rewriting, examining every single word, rewriting more, editing more, putting it down, picking it up, crying, writing, doubting, declaring it done and then picking it back up again before finally pitching agents, and finding the best publisher— Hatherleigh Press, distributed by Penguin Random House. And now here we are with a book that was published this summer.

It takes immense strength to rebuild a life after the loss of a spouse. I know firsthand the process is not always pretty but is amazing in how transformative it can be. What are you most proud of accomplishing? What are some of your continuing struggles?

I’m most proud of accomplishing what I set out to do—which is rebuild our lives in the most wonderful way that I could, to give my daughters crazy, fun, positive experiences to draw upon so that their father’s death did not become bigger than our lives. None of us had the tools to deal with what we saw and experienced that night, but now we do. You can drop us in the middle of nowhere with a dollar in our pockets and we will find our way out. Mission accomplished. We are three strong, smart independent women who can now change RV tires, rock climb mountains, swim across rivers, ward off alligators—you name it! And find our ways back home.

I continuously struggle with having to do it all myself (I call myself Mr. Laura). I especially hate taking the garbage out; that’s when I miss my husband the most, on Monday mornings! But seriously, we all have struggles. My struggle is that I continuously struggle with my struggling to stop struggling.

Do you have any words of advice on how best to support someone going through their own grieving process?

Grief comes in all forms. Loss of a job. Unrequited love. Broken promises. Health issues. Divorce. Death. Disappointments. We all go through something at some point. My best advice is not to expect too much of a person in grief. Don’t take their responses or lack of responses personally. They need time. And when you are with them, just listen. Just be there for them.

You never know what a road trip might bring. Adventure, misadventure, laughter, tears, epiphanies, arguments, and hopefully a little growth along the way. Do you have any other road trips planned for you and the girls?

My daughters used to say they’d rather die than go on another RV trip! But then my older begged me to take “HaRVey the RV” on another trip with her and her best friend this past summer. And she drove most of the way! I joked that there’s a new sheriff in town!

HaRVey is and will remain a big part of our lives. It’s like having a giant dog in the driveway that always want to run free and play. Sometimes I like to go sleep out there. It’s fun and feels like a mini-vacation. I know the girls can’t wait for more trips. We’ve talked about Vancouver next! But no more sprinkling Mark. He’s RIPing at his boyhood home in Kansas in a giant field of bright yellow sunflowers.

***

Thank you so much to Laura Fahrenthold and Hatherleigh Press for sharing this poignant story and the strength it takes to grab life when you think it has escaped you. As Laura reminded me, Everybody needs love. The journey of finding it is within all our grasps, even if that means finding it within ourselves. 

Saturday's Email of the Week: Scars

Saturday's Email of the Week

Saturday has arrived again. I have to say that I am glad to see the week go. There wasn't anything extraordinary about this past week. The week before was rough though and I was riding out the after-effects from it all this week. Do you ever have those moments? Pushing yourself to survive in the middle of a crisis, only to be limp and stumble once you can breathe again? Well, that's me. I can handle crisis. I can be strong and stand up to do what I feel I have to do. Sometimes I might want to hide under a rock or run in the other direction, but I know when I have to face something.

Last week I did.

I put my cat down, then went to a family member's funeral with the girls a few days later. I didn't have to go to the funeral. It was my husband's grandmother, whom I haven't had much of a relationship with since Brad died, but I felt that I should for the kid's sake. Not that they knew her either. And not that they truly cared that she died. I don't say that to be callous, but they are 5 & 6 and not emotionally invested in a relationship that didn't have any flesh and bones to it.  Sad, but true and there is nothing that I can do about that now. What I could do though was take them to the funeral to meet some of their other relatives that are still around. Again, they weren't invested in the experience, but I suspect that some day they will be grateful that I made the effort. Perhaps they will be able to gain a new relationship with some of those family members down the road, that would not have occurred without my intervention. Or not, but I felt like it was my last opportunity to reach out and make that effort, so I grasped a hold of it.

This week, I have suffered for it all. I miss my cat. I dragged up old broken relationships with other members of the kids family, that would seem to be beyond repair forever now. I flogged myself for not being able to fix it all and make it better. But I have to move beyond that. I accept that time has moved on, because I have to, but still feel broken by those failed relationships. It is out of my hands though, so I must let it go. This week I had to process that though and try to shake myself away from feeling bad at kin lost. I have to accept my failings and those of others, and say "it is alright". I have to say and pinch myself until I believe it that "I am alright". Because I am. I cannot bring back a lost kitty, lost grandparents or great-grandparents. But I can accept them, grieve the losses, and be strong enough to let my children see that grief and the resilience that comes with moving on. I have to, because I love them more than anything and they deserve to have a parent that is as stable and imperfect as I can be.

So I guess this week was about healing. It can be an ugly process and I often disparage myself as I move through it. In healing though, once the scar has served its purpose, it falls off to show the fresh new skin underneath. It might be thinner, but it will thicken in time and those scars will be almost invisible to the naked eye. I guess that is what I am gunning for. I have an ugly coat around me, but it will fall off to reveal a beautiful new me underneath. That is the hope anyway.

Peace

Here is my handshake for you.

Journalling

Journals have always been a part of my life. They have been a friend, space for thoughts and poems, testing ground for new ideas, as well as the interminable lists that reign my life as of late. I still have several that I kept from back in high school and have three actively on the go at present. One lives on my beside table, the other journeys with me in the car, keeping me company in coffee shops and while waiting for appointments. The last is more for work, where I hastily jot down ideas that are suggested for new directions of projects by my "Boss Lady". She is a phenomenal whirlwind of ideas and I have to desperately catch the thoughts that spring from her like a fountain. I listen, understand, but without some kind of notes, am hard pressed to have all the fine details later when I need to plug away at something in the comfort of my own home. That journal should be a tome, but unfortunately always seems to be lacking that tiny sprig of information that I need right NOW.

Journals have helped pave the way to my African stories that I share here with you lovely people, as well. I brought home three journals from my trip and they help to feed details into the story that I am breathing to life. Without my journals, I would have lost little details that bring my journey back fresh as day for me, and subsequently you. My scribbles are priceless to me.

Journals have also soaked up many, many tears through the years of my husband's illness and beyond. Grief filled pages as the only outlet that I could turn to where I was safe. Of course, that isn't completely true, but in the depths of my sorrows I felt vastly small and alone. Getting all of the hard and poisonous thoughts out of my head and onto paper helped me to see them, understand them better and in many cases, let them go. Those journals will travel with me, bringing me insight and reminding me of the long road I have travelled in darker days. That road is life and it continues still, but new journals have taken their place.

While I now often find myself at the computer writing poetry and prose, I still value my journals. In the pages of my journals, I can be kind or cruel to me, as the season fits. I am not perfect, and am often my worst critic, but in releasing this to a journal, I sometimes find release to myself. Stepping back onto the yoga mat this morning reminded me that I need to be kind to myself and make time for me. Allowing myself space to breathe, and also write, is key to my survival. I am flesh and blood, and my pen bleeds emotions over the page. I need this. It balances me.

Today's journal entry looked back at grief. Over breakfast my 5 year-old declared that losing a partner was worse than losing a child. She noted that losing a partner meant that the remaining parent had to do everything themselves, like taking out the garbage, making meals (with a little help from the kids once in a while), and everything. Her statement is absolutely right and she knows it from watching me day in and day out, but I gently reminded her that losing a child was equally devastating. I reminded her of my aunt who lost a daughter and how she might be able to rhyme off several reasons why that was worse. A child represents the future and the best of you, but I don't need to go into that further here. Everyone's grief is different, none better or worse than another. I will just say, that the fact that she is processing this aspect of grief makes me sad, and makes me wonder if she feels like a burden tied around my neck. I don't really think so, but the thought crossed my mind. She is such a serious child. She reminds me so much of myself. Trying to fill the role of little mother, when she/I knew that the need was there. Doing the utmost to make me happy and proud (in hopes of staving off those tears that reigned for so long?). Her view of the world through my grief was probably worse than losing her father at the time. She lost him physically, but her remaining parent swirled out of control on a wave of never-ending tears. Any time a tear comes to my eye or slides down my check now, she questions why and what it is for. Both my girls do. That is my reality though.

So, what is the point today? Do you journal? Do you have thoughts in your head that swirl around making you crazy, sad, confused or numb? Don't we all at some point or another? My journal, while sometimes waxing and waning, has been my best friend, companion and lifeline for as long as I can remember. It does not critique your grammar, spelling or punctuation. It takes your thoughts without judgement and allows you them. If you are ever in a difficult spot in your life, give it a try sometime. You don't have to keep it forever or even for the day. A napkin can act as journal space to help you unjumble thoughts, and then be tossed in the refuse after you are done with it. No one is the wiser, but you. Some day, it might even save your life. Try it, you might find you like it. It is all about you...

Revisited Memories

I was on Facebook yesterday and noted a status update from an old friend of mine. She was "looking to the sky", which I immediately knew meant that she was remembering the passing of her aunt. Her aunt died from cancer a year ago; the third in a string of cancer deaths in her family. It reminded me of a post I had written around that time regarding cancer and how to deal with its ramifications. My history makes me an expert of sorts in the field. I thought I would repost this in Joy's memory and also in Brad's.

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.

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.