Celebrating Jody

Dear friends,

I hope that you’ll come to Jody’s Celebration of Life on Saturday, January 31 at 11:00 am. It will be held at the Bellamere Winery in northwest London. The best way to find Bellamere is to get yourself to the intersection of Wonderland Road North and Gainsborough Road. The Sherwood Forest Mall is on the southwest corner. Turn left if you’re coming from the south and head west on Gainsborough. Keep going past Hyde Park Road and you’ll find Bellamere about a kilometre along on your left. There’s been major construction on Hyde Park, so I wouldn’t go that way.

From the 401 westbound, take the 402 where it splits off the 401 and exit at Wonderland Road. Head north for quite awhile until you get to the Sherwood Forest Mall.

There’s free parking at Bellamere. You’ll see two buildings. Walk towards the right one. Under the portico, go in the double doors on your right. If you’re in a wheelchair, there’s a ramp in front of the single door that’s to the left of the double one.

There! Directions handled.

Please sign the guest book on the long table as you go in. After Jody’s celebration, I hope you’ll stay for a light lunch.

May our time together be a marvelous sharing of stories … of Jody’s smile, her humour and her love. My darling wife touched so many people. I hope that I’ll be laughing a lot. Most likely I’ll also be crying a lot. Both are just fine.

May you have the courage to come to the front and tell us about Jody and you. We can paint pictures of how Jody moved through life. I certainly have a few fun experiences to share. Jody knew fun. If you can’t imagine speaking in front of potentially a lot of people, please send me an e-mail of what you want to say, and I’ll read it to the group.

No doubt, there will be a lot of love in the room. There’ll also be a lot of music … some of Jody’s favourite songs.

***

The past few weeks have helped me remember the beauty of my lovely wife that she showed as her life moved towards a close. In September, Jody wanted to bake me a loaf of French pepper crackling bread, our Christmas tradition, but she wasn’t strong enough to do it. So she coached Linda, one of our personal support workers, in the baking of this wonder. There was Jody in her wheelchair, telling Linda this and telling Linda that. And a couple of hours later … Voila! My bread awaiteth. And it was delicious, just as it’s been for twenty years or more.

Only weeks after Jody’s death did I realize that she wanted me to have one more loaf of our love bread, and that she knew she wouldn’t be around at Christmas for this blessed tradition. Jodiette loved me quadruple oodles, and she still does.

For the last two months of Jody’s life, she wanted to wear all the rings that I had given her … and so she did. Seven in all. My favourite is the heart-shaped golden ring, with three little blue stones, that I gave to Jodiette as I asked her to marry me on English Bay Beach in Vancouver. That was in September, 1986. So many lovings ago.

My life has been changed by the time I got to spend with Jody Anita Kerr in this lifetime. She gave me all she had. Jody made sure I ate well, looked good and was happy. Her song for me has always been “(Everything I Do) I Do It for You”.

Search your heart and your soul
You can’t tell it’s not worth dying for
I’ll be there
I’d walk the fire for you
I’d die for you

On February 24, Jody and I will be in Budweiser Gardens, listening to Bryan Adams sing to us. I only bought one ticket. That’s all we need. We’ll sing along.

I love you all,

Bruce

Another Celebration

Two weeks from now, Jody’s Celebration of Life will be held at Bellamere Winery in London. This afternoon, I went to another one, honouring Kathy, an occupational therapist colleague of Jody’s.

I didn’t know how hard it would be for me. As I walked in, I recognized person after person. First of all, Jody’s former boss from many years ago. Last January, she had dropped off gifts at our house, but I hadn’t seen her. The best of the lot was a sculpted fabric seat to give me some lower back support as I sat with Jody. I’ve used it many times but never found out the woman’s address to thank her. Today I did, mixed with sorrow and embarrassment. She wasn’t fazed at all. Just me.

I started talking to a friend of Jody’s who retired from Parkwood last month. Soon, though, I was pulled away to say hello to another workmate of Jody’s. A dangling conversation. Made me sad.

As I bounced from person to person, I got scared. We were here for Kathy, not Jody. Except that I’m always here for Jody. And people wanted to give me a hug. So let them, Bruce.

A few minutes into Kathy’s Celebration of Life, it was time for the first musical number, sung and played by a mellow male guitarist. Oh, no. It was “Annie’s Song” by John Denver, a piece I had sung to Jody for years. I tried to stop the tears but they pooled in my eyes. “It’s not about you, Bruce. It’s about Kathy.” I thought about staring into Jody’s eyes all those times as I’d sung “Come let me love you. Let me give my life to you.” Oh, Jodiette. How I miss you, my dear wife.

Later, the musician favoured us with “Bridge Over Troubled Water”.

When you’re weary, feeling small
When tears are in your eyes
I will dry them all

Oh, Jody. Will you dry my tears, dear one? They seem to go on forever.

Family and friends came to the front and talked about Kathy’s life, and how kind she was to everyone. She was truly a wonderful person who had always treated me royally. My focus moved to Kathy from Jody. And I could breathe again. But near the end of the ceremony, the master of ceremonies mentioned the good people who Parkwood had recently lost … “Kathy, Jody and Rob.” And my tears came once more.

How will I ever cope two weeks from now, when maybe 200 loved ones will show up at Bellamere, and I’m the master of ceremonies? I don’t know. Jody, please be with me then. Help me draw forth the love that’s already in the room.

I’m always with you, Bruce
I will shelter you
I will protect you
Love them all

Crying for Kindness

A few days ago, I was watching a commercial on TV and started crying. Deep sobs. Afterwards I couldn’t remember what they were selling. All I retained was Person A criticizing someone who wasn’t there and Person B agreeing. Then that scene was repeated twice. On the fourth viewing, Person B responded to Person A by saying something kind about the absent someone.

I’ve been crying for Jody every day and I figured that my response to the commercial had something to do with my vulnerability. But it still seemed a mystery. And then I stopped analyzing it … the why and wherefore just floated away.

Tonight I was watching a CNN report about a terrorist attack being prevented in Belgium. It was time for “a message from our sponsors”:

(Scene: two employees chatting in the office)

Person A: I hear she’s still depressed and on sick leave.

Person B: We could both use a vacation too.

(Repeat twice)

(Fourth time)

Person A: I hear she’s still depressed and on sick leave.

Person B: I’m going to swing by with Mary and see how she’s doing.

(Person A thinks … and nods)

And Bruce cries again, weeping uncontrollably for a minute or two.

Then I used the “rewind live TV” function on my PVR and watched it again. There was a single message at the end:

Be kind
1 of the 5 ways you can end
the stigma around mental illness

The advertiser? Bell – a large Canadian company providing TV and phone service.

Lovely to behold
Cry on, Bruce

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.

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.

The Fire Burns and the Embers Glow

Last night I sat down to watch one of my favourite movies: The Lion, The Witch and the Wardrobe. As Lucy Pevensie hid in a wardrobe during a game of hide-and-seek, and then emerged out the back into a world of fir trees laden with snow, of fawns and beavers and witches and lions, the wonder on her face said it all. Since Jody has died, there have been many vivid moments for me as well, moments of incredible intensity … crying, laughing, dancing, despairing. Last night was another.

Lucy was magical. She welcomed every newcomer with a smile that could light the world. As she wandered through Narnia, the fire grew in me, right beside her. The pinched nerve exploded in my left arm, in spasms that rocked me big. Lucy, shooting pain, Lucy, pain …

And then Jody, talking to me:

I am here with you, Bruce. I am always here with you, whether you are crying or laughing. We will be together always.

I felt my hands move over my heart. The agonized crying of hours before was gone, replaced by a peaceful communion with my beloved. And a sureness that indeed Jody is always right next to me, holding me, loving me. The peace permeated the pain and Lucy’s marvelous innocence. They all twirled together.

You don’t have to look for me, Brucio. I am here. I love you dearly.

Don’t worry about what other people think, Bruce. Don’t worry about what you may think about life after death. I am here. Love them all, dear one. Light the world.

I know that there will be many times of sobbing in the future. I welcome them too. But the peace is pretty special. Always with me. My lovely wife.

Love Him or Leave Him

Cuba was vividly alive … the people, the flowers, the ocean, and also the experiences that came my way. Sometimes the contrasts were huge, and took my breath away.

One day I went on a catamaran trip. On the outward leg, there I was in my Speedo, watching the waves and talking to a delightful woman. All was good. I had developed a pinched nerve in my neck a week before flying, but big drugs seemed to be doing the job. I had a delicious lobster lunch with another woman and her daughter, and then settled in for the return trip.

Then the pain. Starting in my left shoulder and then blasting down my arm. On the scale of pain, where 0 is nothing and 10 is excruciating, mine started at 5. No sweat. Half an hour later, it was steady at 7 with bursts to 8. Up and down my arm. My face was a grimace. I just about crushed my upper left arm with my right hand. I moaned inside. And I rocked forward and back.

The depth of these moments was the fact that no one except the captain came over to see how I was. None of the folks I had talked to. No couples. No pretty girls. No friendly senior citizen. No one. Within the physical pain was a horrible loneliness, an abandonment. I knew that there really was nothing medicinal that anyone could do. I just had to wait the rest of the four hours between allowed medication consumption. But I needed a friend, someone to touch me, hold me, talk to me.

Could it be that everyone was so tied up in their own world, so engaged with their loved ones, that no one noticed my agony? I don’t know. I guess that’s possible but I don’t believe it. That sunny Cuban afternoon I lost some faith in my fellow man. And I was so sad because of that. To feel such sorrow that could outstrip my 8 out of 10 was remarkable. Stunning. Moments somehow to cherish.

Day two. The meds had done their job. It was evening. And there was a street carnival in the village beside my hotel. Maybe 200 of us dancing and getting soaked by the foam machine. My newfound Sudbury friends were there, and we boogied. One precious woman, Liz, was trying to rein in my dancing. Such fun. I tend to close my eyes and throw my body parts every which way. Liz would take the first two fingers of her right hand and point them at her eyes … a gesture to get me to open the lids. Again and again, she pointed. I kept my eyes open for awhile. I’d close my eyes. Liz would say “Bruce” and start pointing again. Then she’d gesture to have me contain my wild flailings, to dance like a normal human being. Such a great person, that Liz.

After the festivities wound down, it was time to walk home and I set off. I had had just one drink but I was tired. In the village square, I had a few steps to climb. It was dark and I missed a step – my toe hit the riser and I flew forward, schmucking my head, elbow and hip. For a few seconds, I lay on the cement, stunned. I saw blood. As I tried to come out of the swirl in my head, I heard for the first time in my life my name yelled: “Bruce!” It was Amy, another lovely Sudbury friend. The next thing I knew, hands were under my arms, dragging me to my feet. I slumped to a bench. And then Amy, Angel and Tristan were right beside me. They were going to walk me home to my hotel bungalow.

Amy held my left hand in her right one and I stumbled along the path to my bungalow. The pain and the wooziness opened me to my sorrow, and I cried for Jody. Sob after sob. My loved one was no longer touching me. I was alone. And yet these new friends buoyed me up. They loved me. They would not let me fall. They saw who I was.

Eventually we reached my bungalow and climbed the steps to my room. Amy, Angel and Tristan sat me on my bed and said they wouldn’t leave until they were sure I was all right. Amy got some toilet paper for the cut on my hand. I hugged each of them. “Thank you for helping me.” I think they all smiled. And then they were gone … but their kindness lingered for hours.

So there you have it. Two days in the life of this tiny human being. Loved and lost. Life displayed in rich colours. Both days to be cherished.

Thank you, Cuba.

Crying for Jody

Dearest friends,

When do I stop crying for my lovely wife Jodiette? I don’t know. I cried nearly every day in Cuba and now at home. I’m crying right now. I miss Jody so much. She lets me know all the time that she’s beside me, and I feel her there. But if only I could touch her, hold her hand, rub her feet. I love you, Jodiette.

Part of me thinks that I should have dried up by now, but a wiser part respects a far deeper timing of love. Oh my goodness, how can I write this e-mail? But then, how can I not? Oh life wife! How I miss you. It’s not that I need you beside you to make me whole and complete. I’m just so sad that you’re not sharing the physical joys of this planet with me anymore.

(Long pause for tears)

Oh my dear.

I got home on Friday evening with really swollen legs. When I left for Cuba, I weighed 165. Once home, it was 185. I sure didn’t eat that much food! I went to Emergency in St. Thomas yesterday morning to get some relief and to rule out the nastiness of a new blood clot. And I’m fine.

As I waited behind my curtained cubicle, attired in a resplendent back-to-front hospital gown, I broke down in sobs. When the doctor came in to see me, she placed her hand on my back as I cried. And cried. She didn’t have to say a thing right then. It was a precious moment.

(I’ve stopped crying now)

(Starting again)

How can I love another human being so very much? It’s easy. It’s natural. It feels good. And Jody deserves it.

One evening in Cuba, there was a street carnival. Maybe 200 folks showed up to dance. I enjoyed meeting up with some newfound friends from Sudbury, who were on Cayo Santa Maria for a wedding. I also enjoyed getting deluged with foam. It helped the legs slip slide away on the cement street. After the festivities, I started walking home to the hotel. In the dark, I missed a step and went flying forward, hitting my head, elbow and hip. I lay there stunned for a few seconds. The next thing I knew, Amy, Angel and Tristan were helping me get home. As Amy supported me, holding my left hand in her right, I tottered down the road. And then I exploded in sorrow for my wife. Sobs upon sobs. Being loved by Sudburians and loving my Jodiette … how marvelous. Despite my pain and wooziness, the trip home to my room was an experience that I will remember for the rest of my life. The Beatles were right … love is all there is.

***

Jody had a lot to say to me on the beach. I expect that some of you believe that I’m just talking to myself, and it’s fine if you think that. But that is not my experience. Here are some words from my darling:

But I am with you, dear husband. I’m holding you as you speak. You so much deserve all the beauty of your resort. I’m marvelously happy for you. My blessings, dear one.

(More crying)

***

Don’t worry. I’m not farther away from you compared to the first few days after my death. It’s just different. You’ve largely stopped crying. And that’s okay. You don’t love me a smidgeon less than before.

I’m interested in your meditation retreats coming up, especially the three month one. What will that do for you? It’s miraculous to even think about it.

[Yes, I’m going on an 84-day silent meditation retreat from September 12 till December 5, 2015. I also wonder what I will be like at the end of it.]

***

How I miss you, my darling! Your touch, your smile, your company. I know you’re in some fine place, watching over me.

I am indeed, dear husband. I am with you always. I caress you while you sleep. I kiss your mouth. How I love you, Brucio!

***

We will never be apart, Bruce. And someday our physical bodies will touch again. Go love the world, Bruce … Go dance on the beach.

***

And so I did dance on the beach. And had many conversations with people from all over.

This e-mail, along with a few others over the last month, has gone to two audiences: you wonderful folks who have prayed for Jody and me since November, 2013; and the people who read my blog at brucearcherkerr.com. There’s much more that I want to say about my time in Cuba, but that’s appropriately said on the blog. Listen in if you like.

For you local friends, I hope that you’ll come to Jody’s Celebration of Life on January 31, 2015. I’ll e-mail you before then with directions and no doubt a few more thoughts about my beloved wife.

I was disappointed that the announcement of Jody’s celebration didn’t appear in the newspaper as scheduled on Saturday, December 6. It did show up on December 9 and 10. Oh well.

I’m not crying now, but I know that the tears will return. I love Jodiette too much for them not to.

Merry Christmas and Happy Hanukkah. May you and your loved ones be bathed in peace and love.