This newsletter includes writing about cancer, death, and grief. If you’re not in a place to read about that today, feel free to skip down to October’s five things.
I get the phone call from my mother as I am walking home from work along W 10th Avenue. The end of September in Vancouver is damp leaves underfoot and low-hanging stratus clouds. “It’s cancer,” my mother says. I stop, winded. I feel like my knees might buckle, so I stand right where I am, in the middle of the sidewalk. I am ten weeks pregnant. My stepfather Lou has been sick for six months but no one could figure out what was wrong. Now we know.
The grief that courses through my body over the following weeks feels like a virus. I am 4,341 kilometres from home, and I reach for anything that can bring comfort. I dive into my work. I read. I wail at (and on) my partner. I am swimming in waters that are mysterious and dark, previously unknown to me. My stepsister and older sister are also pregnant. The next generation is arriving, holding hands. As if to tell us that time will not be stopped. The generational turn a divine and staggering symphony of death and birth, inward pull and outward force.
When I return to Toronto for the holidays, Lou is in palliative care. Three bursting baby bellies in front of the hospital Christmas tree, my sisters and the rest of our family gather for a holiday meal in the activity room at Bridgepoint. We bring homemade food. My niece runs around the tables we’ve pushed together, squealing. I can’t remember now if we sang carols, but we probably did.
A professional composer and musician for 40+ years, Lou is working on an album. The will and devotion to his art reorients my previously held beliefs about purpose. Witnessing his level of commitment to finishing his album is a staunch reminder of how creativity is life force. He plays me The Concert from his laptop. I’m sat on a chair at the foot of his hospital bed, looking out over the naked trees of the Don Valley. My mom has stepped out of the room to make a phone call. Lou watches me as I’m listening. When the song finishes, tears streaming down my cheeks, Lou says, signature sparkle in his eyes, “I guess you like it, Sash?”
I say goodbye to Lou before flying back to Vancouver at the end of December, and while I know that this will be the last time I see him, he says, “See you soon.”
“I love you,” I say. “I love you.”
Lou dies on March 31st, 2019. It’s two days after my stepsister gives birth to her daughter, three weeks before mine is born, and a month before my sister births her son. My mother flies to Vancouver a few days after L. is born. When I hug her, I feel the fabric of our hearts pushed together, the patchwork and the fray. We’ve lived so much in our time apart. We stand like that for a long time.
“So you see, the grief doesn't get smaller - life just gets bigger,” writes Lucie Brownlee. Now, three and a half years later, I know this to be true. I also know that when grief comes, when the missing feels so acute, and the pain feels unbearable, the only thing to do is let it move. To let it be. Rilke says, “Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.”
The Celts believed that at Samhain the boundary between the worlds of the living and the dead become blurred. I always feel it, and it’s sad and deep. It’s an opportunity to take stock and go inward. I think about all the people who survived so that I could get to be here, and to do this.
It’s dark when I wake up in the morning. Maybe it is when you do, too. The leaves are teaching me how to let go with a bit more ease and grace, and maybe even with a swirling flourish and a colourful outfit.
October’s five things
Learning: about sustaining love on this episode of How to Survive the End of the World, with sisters Autumn Brown and adrienne maree brown.
Listening: all the ways it would change, a playlist for this tender time.
Loving: If you have a young person in your life or if you like picture books, I highly recommend Phoebe Wahl. Little Witch Hazel and Blue House are two current favourites, but my daughter and I read (and love) them all.
Reading: When Things Fall Apart by Pema Chödrön.
Eating: This NYT sheet-pan baked feta, with broccolini, tomato and lemon which can be eaten over greens, grains, pasta or all on it’s own. I like to add chickpeas half-way through and have switched up the broccolini with cauliflower or sweet potato for equally delicious results.
Thank you so much for reading. If you are moved, please share a screenshot of five things on social media (and of course please tag me at @sasharsw); or pass it on to a friend who might also be in a season of grief. ❤️
Rilke always points us in the right direction, doesn't he? - “Let everything happen to you: beauty and terror. Just keep going. No feeling is final.”
The surprise cancer brings. The Letting Go cancer brings. The grief cancer brings. Grief, an old "friend" lurking in the bushes. I can't say "NO" to grief. It just is. I can say "YES" to life. Thank you Sasha for your reflection. A lovely way to start my day. Pat