​So, I will be the first to admit that I never expected that part of my journey would include becoming an author of children’s books...but here I am, with four under my belt, and two that I helped publish.  Interesting how life unfolds, isn’t it?
 
It’s another opportunity that I have to attribute to Shane and his teachings.  It started with him needing a voice of his own, when life circumstance didn’t allow that for him.  So , to assist with that, I started creating books for him when he was a child.  Books that he could take to school just to share his story and experiences at a level the other kids at that particular time could understand.  It worked beautifully!
 
What it also did was help me to understand that children are the place to start in making change in our world.  Being able to plant seeds in the fertile grounds of their open minds is where our greatest possibilities for change can happen I believe.  Not to brainwash, but simply to help them know and question those things that the adults around them may not have had the opportunity to know themselves, because, admit it...we grew up in a different time.  A time where people with disabilities were hidden away.  A time where the Residential School system was never talked about or acknowledged.  A time where bullying was accepted, because that’s just what kids do.  A different time, but not necessarily a better time by any accounts.
 
Fast forward twenty years, and I decided to self publish those little books, at least two of them.  Shane’s Big Adventure 1 and Shane's Big Adventure 2.  I did that so when we talk about them in presentations, they are available to purchase if attendees choose to have them as an example or a tool for promoting acceptance, inclusion, understanding and possibilities for all children who live life differently. 
 
When I finished them, it came to me that Bianca’s experience with Tyson in helping him to understand what Orange Shirt day was all about would make another great story for kids, to help them better understand its meaning.  That also has become a great resource to share...basically the same things...acceptance, inclusion, understanding and possibilities, and to help them understand their roles in being part of reconciliation and healing Canada’s past. Tyson’s New Orange Shirt has helped with that I believe.
 
Most recently, upon gifting a copy of that book to some of my other grand-kids, the discussion came to what could ‘we’ write about if given the chance?  Lynden suggested that as we talked about Orange Shirt Day with Tyson, maybe we could talk about Pink Shirt Day with his family.  Thus began the next project.
 

At first, there was a challenge to think about how to address the topic of bullying, but then it came to me that as a writer, talking about what we know can be beneficial for ourselves and our readers.  It was then I decided the best approach to this topic was to tell my own story, and the result was ‘You could Be the One’.  I only now realize how cathartic and healing sharing my story has been for myself!
 
‘You Could Be the One’ allows me to tell the story of my own childhood, where I was bullied terribly in Elementary School.  I was a new comer to the area, I was chubby, I was alone.  All things I didn’t understand or know until the bullying began, and it was incessant for a long, long time.  I was so lucky that each night I got to get away from it, go home to a Mom and Dad who worked so hard to rebuild my spirit and keep me moving forward, and for a time...get away from it. There was not the technology available that haunts today's kids when the bullying starts.  
 
Then the day came when the bullying stopped, and it all happened because an older girl saw what was happening to me and said enough is enough.  Her name was Sharon Myran.  She became my hero, my guardian and my example in life.  She saved my beaten little heart and helped to make school fun again, a place I wanted to go...because my friend...my first friend..was there.  She changed my world for the better.
 
‘You Could Be the One’ shares my story of Sharon.  It shares how maybe you could be the one to stop bullying when you see it, or if not, be an ally to the child being bullied in whatever way you can.  It also offers the hope and insight, that even though bullying was and is awful,  it will end.  Life does get better, easier, kinder with time.  Sadly, so many kids don't live to know that, and take irreversible steps in the midst of the pain they are suffering. 

​Maybe somewhere, someday, one child will read this book and it will plant that seed of hope in them...to hang on and ride it out.  My bigger hope is that it will plant the seed of kindness in others, so that bullying will become a thing of the past.  It’s a big dream...but each dream has to start somewhere.  

​DD entered my life when I was six years old, two years after we’d moved back to the prairies so that I could start school, leaving behind the coastal world that had been my life up until that time. 

It was a very difficult time for me, a chubby little outsider, as I entered the walls of that system not knowing any other children, not knowing until then that I was ‘fat’, not knowing it wasn’t okay to be too smart or even talented because that made you a teacher’s pet in the eyes of the other children, not knowing how tough life could be just being a kid.

DD was Mr. Dobbin to me then, the principal of the school.  He was a different Mr. Dobbin on weekends, as one of my Grandfather’s best friends. We’d often venture into the hills on Sundays to visit him and his wife Doris.  That relationship put him in an awkward position the first time I was sent to his office when I was in Grade 2.   I had blurted out the F word in a fit of anger at another 7-year-old who was tormenting me with teasing and hair pulling.  I’d only just learned the word days before when I’d seen it written on the school wall and had been told it was a very bad word that you only used when you were really, really mad at someone.  At that moment I was really, really mad.  Standing in the principal’s office I waited for the strap that everyone had said was inevitable if you ended up being sent there.  It didn’t come, instead I received a stern but compassionate explanation that even when you are really, really mad in grade two, using that word still wasn’t a good idea.

Fast forward 30 years, and Mr. Dobbin became DD, my father-in-law.  He remained in that role until the day of his death in April, for although I had been widowed when his son passed and I had remarried in the years following, there was never another father-in-law.  He, in return, never let me forget I was his favorite daughter-in-law, and even created a day in June to celebrate that sending a card amended to read just that each year.  We had a deep and special friendship for many, many years as he supported my continued farming of the land that had once been his.  He embraced the new people that came into my life as a result of my own remarrying, and he was a kind and patient confident for so many of my life’s events.

When I decided to make the move back out to the coast last year, I worried about how I was going to tell him that we were selling much of the farmland that had once been his, and that the house he’d built would be lived in by a renter while we explored other possibilities for our lives elsewhere.  When I visited to tell him, it turned out he already knew about that, as people who felt it was their duty to relay all that they ‘thought’ I was doing had already been busy on phone calls to him.  His words to me were that he knew that we loved the water and fishing, and we were young and should be exploring other things in life while we had our health and energy.  His words regarding those that had meddled in the business that should have been between he and I were not so kind.  It wasn’t often you saw DD angered by people, but he had little tolerance for those that chose to stir pots in an attempt to cause unnecessary trouble for others.
 
One of my fears about moving away was that I’d be so far away from him, but we kept in touch bi-weekly through phone calls, and I made sure we had good, meaningful visits when I was back in the province.  I also promised him that I’d be there when needed, and when his daughter called to tell me that things were not good and that he was being put on comfort care, I was on the next plane east to be there for him. 

He was the fifth loved one that I would sit vigil with as his days wound down. I’d learned much from the previous deaths I’d walked alongside and through the interest I have in reading end of life support books.  Still, with every new death, much of what is forgotten resurrects itself, and new learning takes place. As had happened previous times, in being there, I found myself becoming more present and responsive to the hours and needs of this man who had been a part of my life for so long, and was grateful that I had the means and the support to be with him on this last leg of his 98-year journey. 

The first night I arrived I feared I was already too late to enjoy that small, last window of time where communication and sharing was possible, as he was so unresponsive when I arrived at the care-home at midnight.  But the next morning when I returned at 7 he was wide awake and so happy that I was there.  We spent much of the next few days reminiscing about the loved ones lost, and I was grateful that I had memories of many that so few are left to remember now.  He shared more stories of his childhood and his family.  He relished moments with his wife, daughter and grandchildren, as life had blessed him with a second family late in life, and you could see the adoration he had for the little ones that were so important to him.
​
We took turns as a family spelling each other off when needed, and being there together for support when that seemed the more important choice to make.  Throughout the days, I started to be reminded of things that often only the dying can remind us about.  These are some of those things. 

• Eat dessert first.  DD’s appetite came and went in the first few days.  The second day I was there his sister and her friend brought in some nice, soft store-bought shortbread cookies.  When the meal tray would come in, he would take a look at the offering, replace the lid and ask for a cookie instead.  “I don’t have much of an appetite, might as well eat the good stuff first,” and so he did, closing his eyes, chewing slowly and deliberately, savoring every morsel and bite.  How often to we refuse the ‘good stuff’ because we think we should do differently, whether it’s in our eating, our leisure time, or in so many of our day to day lives?  Sometimes we should embrace life just like we were having it slip away on us, and just go for the dessert first. 
• It's not the dying who most resemble the walking dead.  I took a break for a meal, and ended up in a busy chain restaurant for lunch.  On the days where one is living and breathing death, you begin to notice more things more vividly, and what I saw was that we the living are the ones that are the most zombie-like.  I saw it all around me in the days I sat vigil.   In a local Montana's watching the faces of people wolfing down their meals, preparing for the next thing to happen on this day.   I watched kids coloring, their works of art unnoticed as their parents stared at their phones, mindlessly pushing the food into their mouths, while their eyes never left their phone screens.  Selfies, foodies, a lot of people who look so alone while together.  I, in honesty, have to admit most days I am one of them, until life gives me another one of her grounding reminders.  My father in law was that time’s touchstone.  He was dying, and in that dying I witnessed how he noticeably relished every moment of connection that presented itself. As I sat eating my lunch, I could sense that the man across the restaurant was also dying, I recognized the signs and the gaunt discolored look of his features, and I saw his focus, appreciation, deep tasting of the food and its textures. I could see it in the attention he was giving to the words of his dining partner.  What could we learn if we relished moments the way those that know they are living their last do?  
• Even at 98 you can have one more best day ever.  I arrived late on Thursday night, Friday much of the day was spent bedside with his daughter, his grandchildren, my daughter and my grandson.  Other beloveds came and went, and at the end of that DD, embraced each of us in the biggest hug I’d ever received from him, sharing that ‘this was the best day ever, I had all my family together here with me’. 
• Time and respect should be given before hand, not just on the last days.  Too often we put off spending that time with those we love, because our lives are busy and our calendars are full.  Then when we get the call that the end is near, there is the panic of how to get there to spend time and be with.  But that is not the time, the time was last year, or last month, when conversations could flow and medication did not stifle it.  I remember hearing him whisper 'I wish they'd come last week instead.'  The time is when your loved one says ‘come by and see me sometime’.  Life is fleeting and precious, and we forget that. 
• Laughter is the best medicine.  On days that can be seemingly the hardest, there is still room for laughter and joking.  The dying person doesn’t want our sadness and our heartbreak, they want to celebrate the good times, the funny things, the gifts of life that made us laugh out loud.  They want to laugh with us for as long as they can, and they want to hear us sharing together when they are no longer able to.   The sadness is within us, and will stay there for a long time to come, however, it doesn’t have to be the only thing.  There is always room for laughter, it truly is the best medicine for everyone. 
• Babies don't worry, they just shine in their own light. In the days we spent, three little ones spent time with us on and off.  They remind us of the preciousness of life, of the fresh start, the innocence of being through their busy, exploring little hands and their inquiring presence that refused to be dimmed by the dying happening close at hand.  They are not afraid to ask the questions that the dying one is open to answering.  They are not afraid to snuggle into the familiarity of the one they love, even though the process is changing that person.  They just continue to be the bright, shining spirits that they are, and they brighten the corners we abide in. 
• There are no timelines, pace yourself... Self care. There is no timeline for the process and best guesses are just that.  We have to remember that as we pace ourselves and look out for each other.  Too often people are afraid to leave the room in case their loved one passes when they are gone, and as noble as that might seem, the one that loves them back knows they were there for all the times that mattered most and wants them to take care of their own health.  Take the offerings of time to go shower, eat, grab a coffee or just sleep in your own bed.  Understand that the act of dying is only the first step of a long journey of grief that will take time and energy to walk through.  Of all the kindnesses that can come from inside you as you support a loved one who is dying, make sure some of that kindness is bestowed upon yourself.
• So many good things can come out of sitting bedside. I was once again reminded that in every loss, something is gained.  We forget that, or don’t think to look for the gift.  In DD’s death, I lost my father in law, but I gained a sister.  There is a large age difference between myself, who was connected more through his first family and his daughter, who is from his second.  There was always love, admiration and knowing...but only to an extent, as opportunities for deeper connection were seldom available.  The experience of walking this road together let us get to know, admire and love each other in a completely new way and deeper level that has opened a doorway to a new, different relationship that will continue as we live his legacy.
• Just be present.   At no time are we pushed to be more present than when sitting bedside, with a dying loved one.  Allow that.  Forget the phones, the social media, and the list of things you could/should/would be doing.  There is nothing more important than what you are doing in honoring their life by honoring them at their time of death.  Leave space for what is most important to them; the stories, the memories, the hopes, dreams and even the regrets.   Even at 98, I was reminded that each of us wish we had done some things differently.  Each of us wants to know that those we love recognize we did our very best, even if it wasn’t by the book or what other’s might have expected of us.  Each of us want to know that we are loved and will be remembered, and that we made an impact and made a difference having existed.  Listen deeply to the words, then look in and between those words for the deeper meaning of what is trying to be conveyed, then honor that sharing, by being present and responsive.  In the days to come, the ordinary will be there to go back to.  Embrace the extraordinary gift of being witness when it matters most.  Learn from that gift and let it walk with you into the days ahead, and work hard to remember the learning.  Life will be so much more alive if you can. 

It started in December of 2012.  I was on my way home from my training as a Passion Test facilitator, and had been doing much deep thinking about what was truly meaningful in life, or more specifically, my life.  That can be a dangerous thing for me to do.

We were a matter of weeks away from Christmas, and I had yet to do my shopping, but I tend to put it off because I really just don't like it.  It wasn't just that Christmas had become so hard with all the losses over the past few years...my parents, mother-in-law...most deeply my son.  But as I reflected, it had been a long time since I'd enjoyed it.  I remembered back to my days as a child, and in my twenties, and Christmas was so special.  We would wait all year, knowing that then might be the time we received those things we wanted so badly.  And that would be if 'Santa' was able to afford it, as it wasn't always the case.  That was when we'd receive the new clothes, the toys, the crafts...and you played with and cherished them until the next Christmas came around. 

But the world is different now.  We've become so disposable, and so unwilling to wait for anything.  What we want, we get, so that come the holidays there is very little left on the wish-list.  Add to that how incredibly commercial it is with the push by advertisers that the wish-list has become so big, so expensive or so technical, that it becomes a financial burden for families for months to follow, and in some cases years.

I thought about our large, combined family.  For years we'd get each of the grandchildren something useful, or smaller, clothes or a toy.  Then because we don't see them as often, or don't know what their individual tastes are, we'd give each of them a card with $50 in it so they could go and buy themselves something.  But as I thought about this habit on the trip home from San Diego, I became very sad, realizing that the habit was only widening the distance between them and us, as we never followed up on what it was that they chose to purchase, who they were becoming, if they even appreciated the money that was received.  My heart told me it was time for change, to bring a different meaning to these large family gatherings, and a stronger connection to those we love.

There was another catalyst to my wanting to make change as well.  Whenever I am away from home, I worry, as I'm sure many others do,  that in our absence someone will break in.  It's not that we don't have insurance to cover everything we have...stuff is replaceable.  But what I always tended to worry about more was my 'treasures', those things I've held on to as the family historian, or the pack-rat who attaches so much memory to items, knowing that if someone came in and vandalized our home, those 'treasures' would likely be destroyed and they were not things that I could replace.

The final thing that had me thinking was that I'd spent the previous two years in the clean up of my parents estate spending days on end going through the boxes and shelves of a home that held our family history for four generations.  With that came the sadness that so much of this 'stuff' meant something to someone. Of course there were things that were clearly valued that you could tell why, but there were more things that were kept for reasons we can't know, and there was a certain sadness of getting rid of someone elses 'treasures'.   I learned much from that process, and several things came out of it.  One being our new Christmas tradition.

I decided that year that from now on we all have enough 'stuff', and in so many cases we have way too much.  I want to pass along things to our kids that have meaning, at least for me, and I hope that in doing that I can provide a deeper meaning for them in terms of what I value, but also what is now their history, as they are now part of my family.  So I started that year, looking around the house at all of those things that I have my heart attached to, and began picking out one thing for each person in the family, our children and grandchildren.  My husband Cecil did the same. 

When we had picked out something for everyone, I then wrote each of them a letter to go with the item.  I explained to them why this item was so close to my heart, who it had come from, how I'd ended up with it...any story attached to it that I wanted to share. 

It was such an amazing experience, because as I wrote those letters and shared those memories, all of my lost loved ones gathered around me and became part of the celebration of all the wonderful memories I've had the privilege of collecting on this journey.  In sharing the stories I was able to share them with my own grandchildren and they could begin to see the people that were so instrumental in laying the foundation of who I have become.  My own grandparents, my parents, my son as well as Cecil's parents.

The second part of that Christmas's gift was creating a certificate for each of the grand-kids to fill out telling us what they would like to do in the next year with either their Grandpa, myself or both of us, that we could do together to create a memory.  This part made me very nervous, I will admit, because we could have had 12 kids all say they wanted to go to Disney world, and we'd have had to find a way to make it happen, as we'd opened the door.  But they didn't, instead we had wishes like going to a movie together, going put-put glow golfing, a camping trip in the summer, having manicures together, me teaching one to play guitar and a day of baking together.

I had been very nervous that they would look at this decision at our Christmas gathering and wonder what in the heck I had in my mind, passing along all this old 'stuff' and not receiving the expected $50 (which note to self, would have worked out a lot cheaper in the end, but we wouldn't be where we are now as a family).  Instead, everyone felt it was our best Christmas ever, and the best part was it lasted so long into the New Year as we arranged dates to follow through on all that we'd promised we'd do together.  That time spent together has created an entirely different connection, and I'm loving it.

One of my greatest memories is from after the day Haley and I had our baking day, making cupcakes for Grandpa's birthday at a campground in Kenora.  The family knows I'm not a baker, but we did it, even though some of the cupcakes turned out a little dark you might say.  She said not to worry, she's just put more icing on those ones.  When we were done she asked me if we were going to do certificates again the upcoming Christmas, so I asked her if she thought we should.  She said yes, that was the best Christmas ever.  That coming from a nine year old was a compliment that warmed my heart so much, and so we did. 

I love so many things about that decision. I love that we are challenged to keep that list in mind, and arrange our lives around making sure it gets fulfilled and the time we promised is spent.  I love that when the kids come to my house now, they are looking at everything differently and asking the story behind things, engaging in a completely different way.   I love that we are creating memories, because from where I stand now, looking back, I remember so little of the things that people gave me, but so much of the memories we made together. That is what I want for them. 

Last year, to make sure everyone had something to unwrap, we got each of the kids a gingerbread house kit..the one year old right through to the eighteen year olds.  I made sure that we had lots of extra decoration and had everything set up, so that after the tobogganing, eating, snowmobiling and unwrapping was done, everyone headed down to the tables in the garage and we spent the next two hours putting together those little works of art.  The kids loved it, the adults had no choice but to help, and we as a family had fun...together.   To me, that is what the spirit of Christmas is about.  

Thanks for letting me share.