November Blues - Remembering Mum

I am blue.

I am not despondent, but mopey; melancholy but not disconsolate.

I am looking for someone or something to blame for this current emotional state; leading contenders are the Discordians and the evolutionary process.

To be clear, I am not seeking a fix or cure or change of state - I am confident enough that my internal barometer will indicate a rise in spirits in its own good time. There has also been tremendous mitigation at play in my life of late: a weekend visit from our dear friends the Hawkins, playing D&D three times in four days (!), good conversations with close chums.

Discordianism (a religion, philosophy or parody depending on whom you ask)  and when)), teaches the significance of fives and an underlying belief that "ALL THINGS HAPPEN IN FIVES, OR ARE DIVISIBLE BY OR ARE MULTIPLES OF FIVE, OR ARE SOMEHOW DIRECTLY OR INDIRECTLY APPROPRIATE TO 5." There is a chicken/egg question around whether this is due to humans having evolved to a form with five fingers on each had, or if this morphometric direction was somehow influenced or ordained by the Law of Fives.

Regardless of the reason, our number system is keyed around fives and tens which has far-reaching implications for currency, measurement and memory. Feeling blue on and off this past week despite an impending pleasant visit prompted me to look at past visitations and the realization that it was Remembrance Day weekend five years ago that Mum suffered her stroke and entered the hospital. She died 29 days later.

Why would I read those posts again? What insight could I possibly gain? What benefit could I garner from re-exploring that experience? Damned if I know, but damned if I didn't read all those November and December 2019 posts again. 

Maybe revisiting those writings were a way to take my bad feelings of societal disappointment and disgust at the current political situation in North America and refocus them on something personal? Maybe I was worried about details I had already forgotten.

I think about Mum often, but certain dates feel more poignant. Strangely not the anniversary of her death, December 9, but previously established significances like her birthday, and Mother's Day, and Christmas. But most impactful is Remembrance Day. 

The day after Mum was hospitalized, our family still went to Patricia Park in Griesbach for the November 11 observances with the PPCLI. Now Fenya lives in Toronto and Glory is in Houston for fall break, but Audrey and I, joined by the Hawkins, once again stood in the amphitheatre under the national colours and the Ric-A-Dam-Doo.

I noted to Jonathan that I am of an age already where I can sometimes only distinguish cadets from active service members by looking at their footwear. Michelle said she reflects on how her oldest child and both of ours are of an age where they could be expected to serve.

Looking at the bronze plaques in front of the memorial listing the regiment's battle honours from places like Passchendaele and Amiens and others, I was once again overwhelmed by the tremendous debt we all owe those who have served, especially those who fought, and most especially those who lost their lives either on the battlefield or succumbing to trauma afterwards.

I thought about how much care my parents took to ensure Remembrance Day was observed properly in Leduc. How taking the girls out each year, regardless of the weather or situation, has been so critical to us since they were born. 

And I missed my Mum.

I wished she could have seen Glory graduate high school and come to Fenya and Bobby's wedding. I wish she was with us every Christmas.

But when I get too maudlin, I can hear her laugh, and her voice telling me to wish in one hand and shit in the other and see which one fills up first.

And even through the tears, I laugh as well.

Listening to the Last Post and Flanders Fields in the November cold brought too many feelings to experience at once: love and respect and pride and fear and grief. And now, hours later, our guests are returned to Camrose and Audrey is on her way to High River to visit her own mum and sister, so I have the house to myself and I can fall apart just a little bit. 

From time to time while writing this blog, Canéla will come and poke my leg with her nose, or try to grab my wrist with her mouth (as she does), and try to pull me away for horseplay. Is this just canine impatience, or can she sense the darkness of my mood? A brief bout of silly bugger does indeed do wonders for my disposition.

And sure, a five year anniversary is going to feel more significant - 2019 was rough in other ways too, with a medical leave from work, Mum's death and my 'redeployment' to the same business area I stared in a decade earlier all occurring within a 12 month period. Probably I shouldn't be looking to blame the Discordians or pentadactyly for the reminder - perhaps I should be thanking them.

I am not revisiting my grief, because it never went away. But I let it step out from the background it resides in most of the time, and acknowledge the presence of hurt in a way I can only hope is cathartic. But not just the hurt - I also recollect the love and support of so, so many people, and it salves. There is indeed balm in Gilead.

Acts of remembrance, both personal and collective, are important. They do not cause hurt, but reveal it, reminding you to recall your past, in service of a better tomorrow.