60 Postcards

When I need a daily dose of celebrity gossip, I tend to stop mid-morning at the Daily Mail's website. Packed full of photos and strange stories of movie stars going about their business, this site isn't one that I'd associate with a heartfelt, true life story of a woman desperately missing her mum. But today I found such an article. 

Rachael Chadwick is a 30-year-old Londoner who lost her mum two years ago. In the Daily Mail piece, she spoke of how some individuals can have problems dealing with other people's grief, and I couldn't help but nod wildly in agreement. As I've mentioned here on my own blog, I've seen my address book change in ways that I never imagined. People who I thought would be there for me, disappeared - and are still AWOL, sadly - while others impressed me with their caring words and actions. People, also don't know what to say, and often what they do say can be hurtful. I lost my mum three years ago, and the anniversary of the fourth year without her is fast approaching. I'm also facing the first anniversary of my dad's death, so this time of year isn't one that I'm completely comfortable with anymore. But reading of Rachael's experience and the new path she's taken made me feel not so alone. It also left me hoping that people will read her story and realize that grieving is not something that you get over, or heal from. It's an ongoing process and weeks, months, even years later, the griever still feels the effects. It becomes part of you. 

Rachael's story doesn't end here. Following her mum's death, she went to Paris to scatter 60 postcards in her memory. The hope was that the people who discovered her postcards would send her an email, so that she would know that her cards had been found. She set up a blog to track the progress, and what happened next is incredible. Not only did she hear back from plenty of Parisians, but she also landed a book deal in the process. Her book, 60 Postcards, was just published this week. It's inspiring that an act of remembrance and love resulted in such wonderful feedback, and a book that will help many other people who are currently grieving. 

7 Ways to Cope with the Holidays After the Loss of a Loved One

I must apologize for my prolonged absence on my blog. 2013 has been a truly difficult year. My father passed away in the spring after a short battle with the same cancer that claimed my mother's life. 

Becoming 'orphaned' as an adult is a fear that I always carried with me, but it doesn't matter how much you worry about the notion, you're never prepared for when it actually happens. 

And here we are… it's the holiday season, a time of family, memories and a renewed sense of loss for some of us. 

I recently wrote an article for Canadian Living magazine's website about how to deal with your grief during the Christmas holiday season. This subject is one that's very close to my heart. I wish that I had found an article like this one for the first Christmas that I spent without my mum. For my research this autumn, I spoke to a wonderful grief counsellor from Montreal - Dawn Cruchet. She offered some invaluable advice that I took to heart this year. I can only hope that my article will help others like me who are continuing to struggle with the death of someone special. Click here to read 7 ways to cope with the holidays after the loss of a loved one.

Must Visit Website

The 3rd anniversary of my mum's passing is only a few weeks away, and despite the ever-growing gulf between my previous world that I enjoyed with my mum, and the quieter, more lonely one that I'm experiencing now, I'm still comforted by new websites and books that cross my path.



I have no idea how I missed Grief.com. This wonderful site belongs to author David Kessler. His book "Visions, Trips and Crowded Rooms" was one of the books that I leaned on in the months following mum's death. I still refer to it when I'm having a wobble and I need some support.


His website mirrors his books. It provides a safe haven for those of us who have lost a loved one, and still feel the emptiness that their absence brings.

Mother's Day Eve

Mother's Day is celebrated here in Canada and the United States tomorrow. I've always loved this day as it's the 'official' opportunity to tell the world how much you love and respect your mother. It's important. Mums do the most difficult job in the world and they cannot be thanked enough for it. Some people might need the little push that Mother's Day provides to tell their mum how much they love them, but I never fell into that category. 

My mum was my favourite person on the planet. We would get together at least once a week and we spoke every day. Each night, after dinner when we both would have just sat down, fresh from washing the dishes and before we got tucked into whatever was on TV that night, we'd have a chat. Chances are, I would have spoken to my mum earlier that day too, but regardless of how frequent we spoke, I never let one of our conversations wrap up without telling her that I loved her. I didn't say it because I felt like I had to, or because she said it first. I said it because I felt it deep in my heart and I couldn't bear to have her hang up the phone without hearing those four little words: "I love you, mum."


I know many people think that occasions such as Mother's Day are just greedy opportunities for greeting card manufacturers and florists to make a killing on sad saps who need to make a grand statement. To those people I say, what's wrong with letting someone know - even if it is once a year - that you care about them? The world needs more love, not less. And if one day helps someone take pause and tell the people closest to them that they care, is that so bad? No, I don't think so either. It's amazing how a bunch of flowers or a glittery card can make someone feel loved and important. 


I've always been a fan of Mother's Day. But the last two years, my relationship with it has been strained. Marking the occasion without your mum here - to hug, to spoil, to love - is incredibly cruel and painful. I miss going through the motions on this day and every day. I feel like I can no longer take part as intended, that I'm standing on the sidelines watching all the other 'kids' of all ages, doting on their mums. The ache doesn't lessen two years on. It changes a bit, but it's still there and becomes part of you in a strange way. 


If you are fortunate to still have your mum a phone call away, do me a favour and tell her that you love her. But don't just tell her on Mother's Day. Tell her on her birthday. At Christmas. When the flowers in your garden bloom for the first time in Spring. Tell her every time you can - just because you *can*. You can't tell her enough, trust me... because when she's gone, you'll wish more than anything that you could tell her...one more time. 

My Mom, Style Icon

When your mum served as not only a parental figure, but a best friend, it's impossible to turn off the sensor that screams "cool mom-related stuff". Even with Mum gone, I seek out books, movies... anything really... that celebrates how special mothers are. 


Case in point, I found a blurb for this wonderful new book in a recent issue of Easy Living magazine. 'My Mom, Style Icon' by Piper Weiss is the spin-off from the hugely popular website, momstyleicons.blogspot.com. The book and its blog celebrate the fashionable fabulousness of our moms. While growing up, we're all too busy with our own issues to realize that once upon a time, our moms had their own social lives and amazing closets stuffed with wickedly fashionable clothes. 'My Mom, Style Icon' celebrates these incredible women, their clothes and the love that bonds us. As a daughter of a truly fashionable Mum, I find this project incredible endearing. 


Here's a wonderful clip from YouTube that showcases the book and the heartwarming process that brought it to fruition.

A Year Past

It's hard to imagine that I have experienced one full year since my Mum died. 


The first Easter, Mother's Day, Thanksgiving, Christmas, and birthday. Despite the year being only the passage of twelve months it seems to feel like it's been much longer. I hate the thought of this distance. Sometimes it feels like my Mum has been gone for much longer. It worries me that I will begin to forget her voice, her touch and her laugh. The longer that I am away from her, the more faint she becomes. 


The journey of making my way in a Mum-less world didn't end when the calendar flipped to the year mark. If anything, I'm finding a new perspective on my situation as each day passes. The pain of missing her hasn't faded. If anything, I seem to miss her more on regular days than I do during holidays. She was part of my daily routine. Phone calls, visits... we didn't wait for holidays, or special occasions to get in touch. We spoke every day. Sometimes multiple times. The daily grind is truly that... a grind - but with each day, I try to move forward just as my Mum would have wanted me to. 


I wanted to start this blog as a way for me to express my feelings during the worst spells of my life. I do feel that the writing process helped. Keeping feelings bottled up inside is never advisable. 


So what's next? 


For now, I plan to keep this blog active. My journey is still on-going and I'm not sure where I'll end up. 

Quiet Times

Song from 'Safe Trip Home', an album by Dido

The Day Before the Day

Song from 'Safe Trip Home', an album by Dido

Stumbling Towards the Inevitable

Is it human nature to find yourself tracking back to where you were a year ago? I'm assuming that it is, especially when a major anniversary is fast on the approach. The desire to compare and contrast where you stand today with where you were twelve months back is one that is at times overpowering, and somewhat inescapable. 


Since last year when I lost my Mum during its watch, March has lost its claims on being a kind, happy corner of the calendar. While I don't want the third month to be all doom and gloom -- especially as there are loved ones birthdays tossed in the March mix -- it generally feels like a cold, black hole. It's a strange feeling.


March for me, used to be that month when the NHL season was winding down. I'd be obsessed with my team's drive towards a playoff berth. The weather would often be teasing us with the first appearance of Spring. Robins would return, and the dirty snowbanks would be in mid-retreat. The first steps back into what felt like a renewed life with plenty of sunshine, warmer temperatures and budding trees was knocking at my door. Possibilities were right around the corner. 

March this year casts a different shadow. It feels...gray. Not just outside my window, but inside as well. Every day I find myself falling back into this time last year, and I get lost in my thoughts. I remember quite clearly what was going on, how everyone was. I wonder if there was anything that I should have done differently. Why didn't I fully realize the signs of what was to come? I try to make myself feel better by stating the obvious - it's so simple to question the past. At the time, we were too busy coping, struggling through daily events to analyze every single thing. Yet, this explanation still provides little comfort. 


The inevitable awaits me in a few weeks time. To say that I dread the occasion is an ignorant understatement. As my Mum would wish, I'm trying to be brave in the face of the worst anniversary imaginable. But like a magnet, drawing its prey ever closer, I cannot escape its pull. I will have to confront this milestone whether I want to, or not. I cannot hide, run away or pretend it isn't happening. Soon it will be here. Just another day for most, but for me it's one that will forever leave its mark on my heart. 

Never Let Me Go

In the past year as I dealt with the constant storm of swirling emotions, I've tried my best to avoid movies that would leave me in a puddle of tears. Normally I'm no stranger to touching films - I love them, and a good cry prompted by a heartwarming (or wrenching) movie is often most welcome. But this year, I've tried to steer clear. I've managed to be selective about watching certain scenes in 'Forrest Gump', and I was lucky to avoid 'The Family Stone' completely. There will come a time when I want to watch 'One Week' again - it's one of my absolute favourites, but it tends to do a number on me. It's best attempted with plenty of Kleenex on hand, and on a day when you don't have to go anywhere - so you can get tear-induced puffy eyes to relax, and shrink back to normal size. 


Recently with nothing on television one night, we decided to dive into the pay-per-view realm and take a chance on some spur-of-the-moment entertainment. Our choice? The new Kiera Knightley, Carey Mulligan film, 'Never Let Me Go.' I don't want to give the plot away but it's a very poignant movie. It's billed as a quasi-alternate universe-sci fi thing, but in truth, none of this labelling mattered; it's as moving as any of the aforementioned films, and I still find myself thinking about it.


The story offers several messages, but one in particular I took to heart - how none of us have enough time in life to be with the ones we hold close and love dearly. Some of us live long lives, others short... but we all share the common desire to have more time, more memories, more love with the people who mean the most to us. 


'Never Let Me Go' brings this hope home. It's a wonderful movie, one that I recommend for all to see. Just be prepared for the onslaught of puffy peepers - a temporary ailment that's well worth it in my eyes. 

Beautiful Quote Rediscovered

I found myself in one of my favourite places today - a greeting card shop - and I was reunited with a beautiful bereavement card that I once held dear. I have sent this card to a couple of my dearest friends when they lost a loved one, and to see it again in my current circumstances, well, it made me feel a little better.


The quote is well-known, yet there's never been an author attributed to it. Shame, really because the sentiment is so heartfelt and comforting, the writer deserves the accolades:


Perhaps they are not the stars, but rather openings in Heaven where the love of our lost ones pours through and shines down upon us to let us know they are with us.  


I've seen the quote with a slightly different ending... instead of 'let us know they are with us', it most often ends with 'let us know they are happy.' Both are beautiful messages, both offer solace at a time when we need it the most. 

A Card for Mum

Dear friends recommended that I continue the tradition of giving my Mum a birthday card. During my search, I found this beautiful greeting. 


Lovingly created by Tam Tam Design, it features a heartwarming image. I love how the baby bird is presenting her mother with a colourful posey. 


Unfortunately, Tam Tam Designs only ship within the US but all is not lost. I found this card in my local shop here in Toronto, so perhaps other savvy shops in non-US locales stock this unique line as well. 

Mum's Birthday

There's a hole in my diary this week, a day that I'm not quite sure what to do with. My Mum's birthday - the first without her. 


Up until last year, I would gladly take the day off. The notion of doing my usual thing, working away the hours on her special day, was just not on. I loved being with her so much. Mum was big on birthdays - for everyone else! She always went out of her way to make our milestones count. We would try to reciprocate the best we could. No matter what we bought, or did, it never felt like enough - I mean, what do you give to the person who loves you more than anything in this world?


This pressure was self-imposed. The presents, a special meal, flowers... Mum loved all that we gave her, but most of all she just loved our company. She valued the hugs, and laughs more than any trinket. We could have appeared on her doorstep empty-handed, and she would have been thrilled. We were there! That's all that mattered. On Mum's birthday for as long as I can remember, I'd spend the day with her. Now that her birthday has arrived, and she's no longer here, what am I supposed to do? 


There's a hole in my diary this week, and an even bigger one in my heart. Happy Birthday, my dear Mum. I miss you. xo


The gorgeous cupcake photo is from the beautiful Cupcake Blog. 

A Beautiful Bereavement Card

I have a habit of collecting meaningful greeting cards for 'just in case' occasions. Many of these cards never end up leaving my house - I fall in love with their message or image and choose to keep them close.


Here's one example that I found this past Autumn at a local shop. It's dressed with a lovely sentiment from writer, James Joyce. 


They lived and laughed and loved and left.


(inside) And the world will never be the same. Deepest sympathy.


It's so melancholy and achingly beautiful... I just had to keep it. 


If you would like this gorgeous card, it's a creation of Positively Green, and can be purchased at this link. 

Can't Let Go

It's January 6, and my Christmas tree is still standing proud. For someone who was hesitant back in December about marking this past Christmas in any shape or form, it seems odd that the biggest, most prominent sign of the holiday is still hanging tough in my living room. Even I'm surprised by my renewed attachment to this glistening pine. Just a few weeks back, I chose to shun its festive spirit, but now I find comfort in it like a security blanket.


I just don't have the heart to pack it away. As much as I wanted 2010 to be gone forever, a part of me wants to hang on for dear life. 2010 will be the last year that I hugged my Mum, heard her beautiful voice, and saw the love she had for me in her eyes. I'll never get that sweet comfort ever again. Every day is one more step farther away from her.


It's true that the move into any new year brings with it a collection of regrets, hopes and remembrances, but when you're still raw from loss, everything seems more vivid, more heartbreaking. 2011, at least for the first few months, will continue to be as upsetting as 2010. The one year anniversary of Mum's death is nearing with every day - it will be the last of the first-year milestones, and the most poignant one of all. So perhaps it does make sense why I'm dragging my feet regarding my Christmas tree. If I can delay the inevitable even by a day or two, perhaps I can feel a little bit closer to my Mum. It may sound silly but right now, it just makes sense. 

Happy New Year?

In a few short hours, 2010 will be making its hasty exit while 2011 clamors to take pride of place. 


New Year's Eve has never been an occasion that I'm particularly fond of. Going out was always too fraught with stress ... reservations that were never properly honoured, the battle to capture a taxi... it always made more sense to stay in at my Mum's. 


This year will be the first New Year's in a very long time - gosh, we're talking decades - that I haven't marked this milestone in her company.


Unlike many people my age, I never had an issue with spending these holidays with my Mum. She was always so much fun to be around. She loved to play board games, eat calorie-laden naughty foods that you only cook up on such nights, and don silly, sparkly cardboard hats festooned with 'Happy New Year'! We would all struggle to keep our eyelids from closing prematurely but somehow, someway we would just about make it. New Year's Day was always greeted with a brunch of epic proportions: pancakes, bacon, toast, a frittata... and lots of Christmas cookies. We'd watch the Rose Bowl parade, play more games and dip into some of the DVDs that we received from Santa. 


This year will be the first New Year's that I am at home - at my own abode. I really cannot shove 2010 out the door fast enough, for this year was the one that took away my beautiful Mum, and for that crime it has surely overstayed its welcome. 

Coping: The Great Book Search (Part 2)

Thanks to the kind heart of one of my dearest friends, I finally feel that I've discovered a book that is helping me with my grief. 


'Visions, Trips and Crowded Rooms: Who and What You See Before You Die' by David Kessler has been a godsend to me. 


It's beautifully written, and has been an amazing comfort to me. Kessler handles the topic of leaving this world for the next with sensitivity and compassion. I only wish that I had found this book before my Mum passed away. 


I always be grateful to my dear D who gave me this insightful book. xo

Skip the Popcorn, Just Bring Tissues

Dealing with the loss of a loved one can be difficult at the best of times but when Christmas arrives in all its finery on your emotional doorstep, your heart is inevitably greeted with even more painful moments. 


Take movies for instance... most motion pictures created for the holiday season are full of warm remembrances, love-filled reunions and clarity of thought -- all subjects that are difficult to embrace when you're missing someone who you will never see again.


As much as it feels out of character, I've chosen to avoid some of my usual December celluloid picks ("One Magic Christmas", "The Homecoming", "The Christmas Box", and "Little Women" - the Liz Taylor version, Mum's favourite) because I'm just too raw for their stories right now. And let's not forget the animated Rankin & Bass classics - they're even more of an emotional minefield ("Nestor the Long Earred Donkey", anyone? "Ears, Nestor.").


The common thread in all these movies: their themes, all so beautiful and moving... and yes, I watched them all with my Mum. She loved each and every one of them. Atop of my avoid-at-all-costs TV viewing list is "The Family Stone". The last part of the story, after all the hilarity and family hi-jinx... well, if you've seen this funny yet touching film, you'll know why. The tree decorating scene at the end... heartbreaking, and right now too close to home. 


So for this year while I *try* my best to partake and honour Christmas like my Mum would want me to, I'm sticking within the cinematic safety zone of Will Ferrell's "Elf" and "Love Actually." I'm not sure yet how I will fare with these flicks. I'm a big softie, and can cry at just about anything. Yes, I have been known to tear up during both of these favourites, but at least I'm hoping that I'll be able to stir clear of a full-fledged waterfall. I can't promise, but I'll try. 

Christmas Without the Merry

I was told it would be tough.


The first Christmas following the loss of someone so deeply cherished and loved.


I feel like I'm inhabiting someone else's body. Christmas is my favourite time of the year. Always has been. Normally, my tree is up just as our city's Santa Claus parade is wrapping up on TV. I strive to send out Christmas cards no later than December 1st, and search the shops early for the perfect gift wrap, and bows. Cookie baking is a joy, especially as my annual batch of chocolate chip just happen to be my Mum's favourite.  


But not this year. 


Dragging our tree out of storage and painstakingly taking a full day to decorate its branches - my heart wasn't in it. I was happy to be reunited with all my favourite baubles but they deserved more than me going through the motions while I hung them in their pride of place. Instead of hopeful anticipation, I felt sad, detached. Melancholy. 


The tree has been up now for a few weeks and surprisingly, I have all my shopping done (albeit from all online sources - I didn't have the heart to dig through all the cheery crowds in person). On the surface, this holiday appears to be just like all the others. The outside packaging is full of festive spirit and no one is none the wiser. Inside, however, my heart aches from the constant weariness of missing my Mum. All the tinsel and fairy lights wrapped around my tree won't make it heal anytime soon. And those cookies? I haven't been able to cross that threshold yet. Without Mum to enjoy their warm gooey brilliance, it all feels somewhat half-baked. 

There is No Escape

I just got back from my first proper vacation in four years. 


I've been anxious about travelling this year. The deep desire to disappear for a spell has been gnawing away at me but simultaneously, the notion filled my heart with dread. How would I feel several time zones away from home? Would events of this year seem clearer? Would I come to accept my new Mum-less reality and return home ready to start a new chapter without her? And who would be waiting at home to hear about my adventures upon my homecoming? Travel has wonderful healing properties - doesn't it?


In the past when I've packed my cases and gone off into the far blue yonder for a spell of exploring, it always felt like my Mum was there with me. Before I departed, I would make sure she had all my contact details. She was my first port of call when I actually arrived - a phone call home to her from our hotel, the first action I took to let her know we were okay. Part of the pleasure of going somewhere was to find the perfect keepsake to bring back for her. Mum didn't travel much preferring to stay grounded at home, so it was a treat to bring back stories, photos and souvenirs for her, to show her what we had discovered. She loved all the minute details, hearing what we ate, what we saw. Reporting everything back to her felt like reliving the experience over and over again with her approval making it all the more sweet. It felt like she was there with me every step of the way.


Unfortunately this trip was like no other I've ever experienced. Instead of gathering keepsakes to bring back to her, I carried an overwhelming sense of melancholy in my stomach. Going away to England didn't make me feel better about this year. Despite my Mum never setting foot in the country, being in London made me miss her even more. That quest for clarity? If anything, I felt even fuzzier about everything far from home. I continually would spot something I loved and have this incredible pull to tell her. Under normal circumstances I would have. I'd be straight on the phone - long distance, be damned - giving her the scoop immediately. Instead, there was no one on the other end of the phone line. My behind the scenes traveling companion was no longer with me. 


The infamous notion that you can run away from your worries, or troubles is an attractive idea but I sincerely doubt that it is feasible. Grief and despair just end up stowing themselves away in your luggage. There is no escape. You just end up taking them along for the ride. 


My trip was a long time in the making and I'm ever so thankful to have had the chance to disappear for awhile - even if the respite was felt only physically, not mentally or emotionally. If travel works its healing magic by making you think more deeply, or question where you are going, perhaps it has done its deed. All I know right now is that I seem to miss my Mum more than ever, and searching the globe for answers didn't do the trick. There is no escape.