Author Archives: Bruce

Travelling

Tomorrow morning, my friend Neal and I get on the train in London and head to Toronto.  He’s from B.C. and will likely be going back there in June.  I thought it would be cool to show him the big city before he goes.  I never expected just how cool our visit could be – daytime wind chill tomorrow is supposed to be around -25 degrees Celsius.  Oh my!

These four days will be my treat for Neal.  He deserves my kindness.  He deserves to have his Toronto whims satisfied.  Let’s start with a window seat on the train so he can see Ontario unfold.  Maybe a coffee cart will come rolling by to keep us warm.  Neal will be able to see the secret worlds of backyards and back fields.  He’ll be able to gaze and doze and perhaps dream.

Two hours away is downtown Toronto.  We’re staying at an historic hotel across from the train station – The Royal York.  A grand lobby.  A cozy lounge walled with the darkest wood.  A room with a view.  Even a thick white bathrobe, I hear.

In the evenings, we’re taking the subway to Hugh’s Room, the granddaddy of Canadian folk music clubs.  On Thursday, we’ll listen to Lillebjorn Nilsen, a gentleman who’s apparently a musical icon in his native Denmark.  On Friday, lots of singers and players will favour us with the music of Paul Simon.  And the best may be last.  Saturday night, we get to hear Joanna Chapman-Smith, a Toronto singer-songwriter who fell ill a few years ago and completely lost her voice.  The doctors worried that it would be permanent … but it wasn’t.  Happily for the world, Joanna is singing again.

As for the days, who knows?  We have ideas … the Ontario Science Centre, Ripley’s Aquarium, Allan Gardens (acres of greenhouses) and the Art Gallery of Ontario.  Or maybe sit in the lobby and read a book.  Neal’s call.

Friday is my birthday.  66 seems like a nice round number.  My first birthday without Jodiette.  Except that’s not right.  Jody will be with me every step of the way.  The “I am here, Bruce” is now very calm, as is my smiling nod in response.  There are still lots of tears falling from my eyes but Jodiette is here to share it all.  Even with the absence of her body, I am blessed.

No One Left Out

My friend Pat took me out to lunch today at an Italian restaurant in London.  We talked and talked, looking both at the pains and joys of life.  I am truly blessed to have many such friends, people who love me and allow me to say just what I need to say.  They listen and accept.

Earlier, I drove into London to see my doctor.  Julie is another one of those marvelous friends.

And then there were the two hours between.  I knew that I wanted to be around people, even if I didn’t know any of them.  So I went to my favourite branch library, an intimate space with a huge snow-covered skylight.  People milled around the shelves, picking out treasures.  A mom and her son were having an animated discussion in the kids’ section.  Older gentlemen were sitting in plush chairs, absorbing the daily newspaper.  Another older gentleman (me!) sat on a comfy couch and pulled out my book.  I enjoyed watching the symphony of humanity between paragraphs.

And then there was the woman returning patrons’ books to their spots on the shelves.  She walked stiffly and had a concerned look on her face.  Her clothes were not fashionable.  And I knew she was mine.  I knew that today I was going to make a contribution to her life … I just didn’t know how.

I needed to take my medication and I didn’t know if there was a water fountain in the library.  So I walked up to my pre-friend and asked.  No, there wasn’t.  She suggested I approach one of the staff members at the desk.  “They know more.”  The woman seemed really nervous.

Eventually, I discovered that there was a fountain in the food court, so the med got swallowed.  As I returned to the library, I saw my friend shoving a book into Adult Non-Fiction.  I turned down her aisle and smiled.  “Thank you for helping me.  I found a water fountain by the food court.”  And I received an absolutely brilliant smile in return.  “You’re welcome.”

Enough done.  Enough said.

King Kong

It’s always been one of my favourite movies (the version with Naomi Watts as Ann Darrow) and I watched it again last night.  I knew why.

It wasn’t because of the rip-roaring adventure, nor the special effects.  It’s because of the love between Ann and Kong.  Pure and simple.  First she’s terrified, of course, and he’s playing the he man.  But little by little, the look in her eyes and his softens, the gazes linger, and it matters not that one is a human and the other is a giant ape.

When Kong extends his open hand to her, and she climbs aboard, I melted.  When he’s leaping from rock to rock, and holding her so gently, I smiled.  When he slips off the top of the Empire State Building, I cried.

It doesn’t matter who or what the love is between.  Time stops.  Hearts open.  Hands hold.  What more could there be in life?

Illness and Light

Nausea has come and gone and come again for nearly a week now.  I thought it was food poisoning.  Finally, yesterday morning, I went to Emergency to figure things out.  (Turns out it was a bacterial infection.  I now have antibiotics.)

I waited in the triage chairs for my turn to be seen.  Those seats are right beside a sliding door that kept admitting the cold as people came and went.

No.

Overhead, a TV was blaring out a news channel, complete with on-the-spot reporting and brassy commercials.

No.

After I was registered, I sat back down in the waiting room at the far end, away from shivering and blare.  A couple sat down on triage chairs, her head slumping away from him, his hand on her shoulder.  He continued to comfort her as they waited to be seen.

Yes.

The vague nausea swept over me again.  Such a sense of not being present in my life’s moments.  Harder to reach Jody, to talk to her.  (“Bruce, I am here with you, even if it’s hard to sense me right now.  I’ll always be here with you.”)  But I can’t hear these words.  Jodiette, where are you?

No.

I wonder if I will get to the point in life where I’m totally accepting of what the world sends my way.  Where there’s no sharp demarcation between this being good and that being bad.  Maybe.  Maybe not.

Anyway, time to be ushered into the inner sanctum of Emergency.  I was in a long room which had been divided off into five curtained spaces.  I lay on my back, zipped up my parka and pulled on my mitts.  So cold.  And there I lay, comforted by the fact that I was no longer alone.  Someone would help me.

I heard voices from elsewhere in the room – doctors advising their patients, nurses coming and going, family members being with their loved ones.  I heard stories of not just nausea, but major vomiting.  And I felt small.  Here I was, not having vomited once in my week of discomfort, on the edge of feeling sorry for myself.  I decided to let the smallness go.  I deserved better.

And then I hear a woman tell her husband, “I left the meds list at home.  Stupid me!”  And I started crying.  Silently: “No!  You’re not stupid.  Please don’t say that.”  I was weeping for someone other than Jody.  And my wife was happy.  “You care so much, Bruce, about all these people.  I’m so glad you’re my husband.”

And now I’m crying for my darling wife Jodiette again.  “You are here, Jody.  I feel you.  Oh, my wife.  My darling wife.  We will be together in body again.”  “Yes, Bruce.  We will.  As for now and the rest of your life, I am with you always.  Every moment.  In sickness and in health.  In joy and in sorrow.  When you’re alone and when you’re surrounded by friends.  Always.”

I love you, Jodiette.

I love you, Bruce.

 

 

Out on the Town

I decided to go out to a New Year’s Eve dance.  After all, I do need to be around people, don’t I?  I signed up as a single for a rock and roll party at the London Music Club, a gorgeous old brick building near downtown London.

Parking was at the high school nearby and I decided to walk three blocks to Victoria Park before going into the club.  There was skating, hot chocolate and lots of singers huddled in the heated bandshell.  What wasn’t heated was me!  It was so cold last night, complete with a healthy wind chill.  Seems that a side effect of the food poisoning that has recently graced my body is being cold a lot.

Anyway, there I was walking towards the park – toque, scarf, parka and mitts.  I wanted to see all the Christmas lights strung on the big coniferous trees.  I drove by the night before and Jody told me very clearly once again, “I am all trees, Bruce.  I welcome you everywhere.”  Then she added, “I shine for you, Bruce.”

And despite the nip on my nose, and on every other conceivable body part, Jody was shining last night.  Strings of multicoloured lights wavered in the wind.  “Can’t you see that I’m waving at you?”

My first destination was clear: the heated public washroom.  I told a guy in there “I just have to convince the powers-that-be that I need to pee for two hours straight.”  We laughed.

Then it was out into the breeze again.  Jody was everywhere in those trees, smiling at me.  Thank you, Jodiette.  I lined up at the Salvation Army trailer for a cup of hot chocolate (Yum, with a glowing face handing me down the good stuff) and then was off to the bandshell to hear some songs.  A young woman kept crooning “I’m 22.  How about you?”  I was tempted to yell back “I’m just off by a decade or two,” but I was too discreet.

One song was all I could handle.  Back into the washroom.

Now totally bundled up, I decided to circumnavigate the park to say hello to more Jody trees.  I bowed to several of them.  I bowed to my dear wife.  But bowings were brief.  I set out for the club with all the low energy I could muster.  As I left the park, I caught the lovely voice of a woman from the bandshell, telling me “I want to know what love is.  I want you to show me.”  Thank you, my dearest Jodiette, for showing me so much about love … You’re very welcome, husband.  The feeling is indeed mutual.

What a delicious feeling it was to be reaching for the door, knowing that I soon would be warm.  Ahhh.  Hanging up my coat and moving into the small party room, where I was placed at a round table with several singles and doubles.  Hi to you and you and you.

And then I started to fade …

I sat down next to a woman, unaware that her husband was at the bar getting drinks.  When he returned, he looked at me and said goodnaturedly, “So, moving in on my wife, are you?”  Oh, my.  Before Jody died, I loved such repartee, and would no doubt have had a nifty comebacker for him.  But last night?  No.  After a few minutes, I told him that my wife died last month and I was sorry if I had been rude to him.  He understood and we shook hands.

For the next fifteen minutes, however, the gentleman talked to me, with his back to his wife.  I became very sad.  She deserved so much more.  Finally, I said, “May I make a suggestion? … You’ve talked to me for so long.  Please talk to your wife.”  And, graciously, he did.

Then the music started.  All those happy couples on the dance floor, swirling each other around.  I saw Jody’s smiling face from the past, and remembered how very much we loved to dance.  Sad some more.  What was I doing here?  I had no interest in small talk, no interest in asking someone to dance, just no interest.  And from inside me came the voice … “It’s okay, Bruce.  This is not for you tonight.  Go home.”

After the first set ended, I asked for people’s attention at our table and said, “This is not about any of you, but I want to go home.  I just can’t handle this.”  I smiled, wished them all a Happy New Year, and waved them goodnight.  Lost, a little bit.  Not wanting to pollute the space.  Found, quite a lot.

I armed myself for the winter winds and set off into the night.  A block later, I was in Hugo, and soon was driving along Dundas St., still fully clothed, heater cranked to the max.  A girl ran across the street, wearing a jean jacket and a mini-skirt.  How strange life is.

 

 

 

I Dream of You

I woke up this morning with the most vivid dream in my mind.  You were in my mind, my dear Jodiette.

I seemed to be at a world’s fair, lots of pavilions and shops scattered over rounded green hills.  Exquisite.  But I had lost my shoes.  I searched through lots of them at store entrances … but nothing.  I was sad.  Strangely uprooted.

But there was a beautiful girl with me.  (I do believe that her name was Jody!)  She smiled at me so warmly.  Our eyes met for so long.  She didn’t care that I was shoeless.  It didn’t diminish me at all in her eyes.  I was Bruce, and that was just fine.  We held hands in the shops and we meandered from display to display.  Sometimes, in a big store, Jody went one way and I went another.  Just as in “real” life, I was happy, knowing that Jody was somewhere in here and sooner or later I would round a corner and there would smile my beloved.

As we roamed the aisles of one shop together, I reached over to examine some article.  I turned to Jody … and she was gone.  I searched the whole place.  Still gone.  And the neighbouring shops.  Still gone.  Such horrible sadness to lose my beloved.

Still wandering, I came upon a tight space.  It was a dead end, surrounded by rough wooden walls.  And then I was face to face with a bearded gatekeeper.  He was a gruff guy who started lecturing me about the need to invigorate.  Huh?  And then he let me pass.

***

Awakened.  Unexpectedly happy.  After all, I had just lost my wife in L.L. Bean or some such place.  I lay there in bed, knowing that I had only lost the physical form of my dear girl.  The gatekeeper had let me pass through … to where?  Some realm, I know, where Jody and I are together – right now and always.  A realm where I don’t even need any shoes.  For I’m walking on air.

Goodnight, Jodiette.

From We to I and Back to We

I just sat a spell in my hot tub, watching the alpenglow on the bare trees at the end of day.  Except that something’s wrong with that sentence.  How can it now be “my” hot tub?  It’s always been “our” – for our home, for our family room, for our bedroom.

For countless years, when we turned off Sunset Road onto Bostwick,  I would say “Home road, Jodiette.”  To which my lovely wife would reply, “Home road, Mr. Kerr.”  And we continue that nice little conversation after Jody’s death.  May we ever say these words to each other.  They’re ours.

I’ve thought of our e-mail address: jodyandbruce@rogers.com.  Should I change it?  And the answer comes back swiftly … no.  Jody is very much still with me, just not in a physical form.  People who write to me also write to her.

Since I was introduced to the Buddha, I haven’t liked “my, me and mine”.  It just doesn’t seem right.  I share this world with so many others.  It is truly “ours”.  And the prime person with whom I share the joys and sorrows of existence is my darling girl.

And now I’m crying again.  It’s okay.  Jody’s fine with it.  She just keeps reminding me, “I am here, Bruce.”  It is our life to explore … still.

Woe

Just a few days ago, I threw an ice cream cone into the air.  And now I am overwhelmingly sad.  I ache for my Jodiette.

Last night, I watched a movie called “Unfinished Song”.  It’s the story of a vibrant woman named Marion who dies of cancer.  So close to home.  I saw her husband Arthur cradling her, bringing her food, caring deeply for his beloved … and it was Jody and me.

For supper, I ate some fetuccini alfredo that was past due, and nausea crept up on me.  As Arthur sang a song to his dear one near the end of the film, I cried and cried.  And felt like I was going to throw up.  Sorrow and nausea showered down upon me and I was deeply depressed.  Later, sleep wouldn’t come.  Thinking that I was going to vomit on the bed, I put my housecoat on, a coat and toque, and walked down the driveway.  I hoped that the cool air would lift the physical pain, and it did help a bit.  I was able to sleep some.

I had made arrangements to go for a walk with my neighbours Linda and Tony this morning.  I went over but they were busy preparing a holiday meal.  Time had dribbled away for them and now they were in deadline mode.  I talked, I cried, I ached.  No joy in Mudville.  And little ability to talk to Jody and to hear her love.  Such desolation.  Feeling so alone.

Tony and Linda didn’t know what to say and neither did I.  I wept for Jody.  I told them about Cuba.  We talked about going for a walk tonight after they return from their dinner.  I don’t want my grief and sickness to intrude upon their evening.  But I don’t want to be alone.  Oh, how I wish I could talk to Jody right now, but it’s so hard.  My stomach is overwhelming my soul.

These are the moments when I need to be kind to whomever comes my way.  It’s easy to be kind when the world is rolling along tickety boo.  But now?  How amazing it would be.  I need to reach out to my fellow man, no matter how I feel.  I need to do it now.

And so I write a few e-mails to friends.  They deserve my best.

 

I Am Here, Bruce

I cry every day for my beloved wife Jodiette.  Several times a day.  As one friend  mentioned, it’s an “ocean of grief” that pours through when I’m alone – in our bedroom, in the car, on a walk.  Then the crying stops, and I walk further through my day.  But the sea returns and I let go once more.

Jody talks to me just about all the time.  Others will think what they think, but this is so.  My wife wants to speak and listen.  May we always do so.

I am here, Bruce.  Right here, right now.  I am in your heart and there I stay.  [And my hands cover my heart.]  I love you so much, dear husband.  You’ve always been so kind to me.  Don’t worry about what other people think.  They don’t think it’s possible for us to talk like this.  It’s not just possible.  It’s happening right now!  I’m here, Bruce.  Listen, my man.  Let go of your own doubts.  Let go of any defenses you might erect to this truth.  Let go.  Just listen.  You are not talkng to yourself.  I am here, husband.  And I will be here for the rest of your life, whether you’re crying, laughing, at peace or in pain.  I’m not going anywhere.  I love you so much.  Someday our bodies will be together again.  You can hold my hand again.  You can rub my feet again.  I know we both miss this touch.

I’m happy, Bruce.  I’m not in any pain.  But you are.  And I will comfort you, shelter you, caress you, for as long as you live.  I wish you could see things from my side.  I wish you could see that there’s no distance between you and me.  I’m right here beside you, Bruce.  Just as you’re typing away.  And I’m deep within your heart.  Plus I am every single tree you see on your travels.  As I said, “I welcome you everywhere,” and I do.  There is no place on earth you can go without me.  I know you’re going to Costco this afternoon to have a photo of a Cuban tree plaked.  I heard you standing in front of that tree in Cuba and loving me.  I saw you caressing the branches.  I saw you cry.  Do you have any idea how very deeply I love you, Brucio?  I dearly hope you do.  I am here with you always.  And that means right now!  Feel me here with you.  It’s no illusion.  It’s as real as the tears on your cheek.  Drive safely, Bruce.  It’s a beautiful tree.

And so I will drive safely.  I do what my wife tells me.  What a privilege to still have Jody in my life.  I love you, my dear.

Up in the Air

“Some days are diamonds.”  So sang John Denver.  And I had one of those days just before Christmas.  It all happened at Costco.

I walked in feeling light and left the same way.  It’s such a mystery why this happens.  Mostly my life has been heavy lately, crying and crying for my wife Jody.  But then …

I walked over to the photo department, hoping to bug my friend Tara.  But she wasn’t working that day.  Instead I said hi to Melissa, a woman I hadn’t met before.  I was carrying my trusty chocolate waffle cone, and licking copious amounts of the good stuff.  Suddenly, with no thought involved, I threw the cone into the air,  I watched it peak at maybe twelve feet and come plummeting down … into my right hand.  Nice catch.  Part of the cone shattered and the ice cream flowed down my hand.  Another employee got a paper towel and offered me the use of their sink.  I just stood there, though, marvelling at what had happened.  I’m not interested in knowing why I did it.  I’m just happy that I did.  As for Melissa, she seemed fascinated with the moment.

Earlier I had been sitting at the snack bar, enjoying a hot dog and Diet Coke.  A woman sat at the next table, with her three young granddaughters.  After a few minutes of conversation,  I asked the older girls if they’d heard of the poem “Twas the Night Before Christmas”.  They said yes.  “Would you like me to recite it to you?”  Yes again.  I told them that I had learned to recite it really fast.  “Fast or slow?”  “Fast.”  And so I launched into Santa’s story.  My record is one minute and twenty-eight seconds.  The girls’ faces were full of antonishment, but nowhere near as much as grandma’s.  After a rip-roarin’ “And to all a good night”, it was smiles all around.  I’ve said the poem to thousands of kids and they always loved Speedy Twas.

Sooner rather than later, it was time to leave my blessed Costco.  There was a woman sitting at the front, collecting money for the Salvation Army, I think.  I made a contribution and got talking to her.  From out of the blue, a question poured from my mouth:  “Would you like to sing ‘O Canada’?”   She said yes.  So we serenaded the incoming and outgoing shoppers with our national anthem.  As I remember, no one smiled … except us!

And then it was off into the twilight, humming along.  An hour of ease and fun.  Would that all my days be so.