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Keeping The Conversation Going

November 14, 2014 By

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When Robin Williams committed suicide back in August, a friend predicted that everyone would post obsessively about depression awareness for a week before forgetting about it and moving on. Apart from the duration – the posts lasted for two weeks – her prediction was dead-on.

Three months after the death of Mr. Williams, Facebook and Twitter posts about mental illness had all but disappeared. Then a woman named Brittany Maynard started trending on social media when she chose assisted suicide over a horrible death from cancer.

Reactions to her death have been all over the place. There are those who believe Brittany’s decision showed courage and strength of character, and there are those who are convinced that she is burning in hell because of her selfishness and disobedience of God.

I want to make it clear that I am in no way equating the deaths of Robin Williams and Brittany Maynard. Robin Williams fought a long battle with depression. He felt desperate and hopeless, and when he looked into the future all he could see was a bleak, desolate landscape. Brittany Maynard was not suffering from depression, and she did not want to die. She simply knew that her death was both inevitable and imminent, and she wanted to spare herself and her family the ravages of brain cancer.

The only thing the two deaths have in common is that both individuals chose to take their own lives.

Whether or not terminally ill people are obligated to see their diseases through to the bitter end is a matter of personal opinion, and that’s another debate for another day. The thing that I took issue with after Brittany died was a comment posted by one of my Facebook contacts on a link to the story.

“Anyone who commits suicide is selfish.”

I was certain that I had seen the commenter’s name crop up in one of the discussions following the death of Robin Williams, so I started digging around in the bowels of her newsfeed. It took a while, but I found it: a statement to the effect that people really shouldn’t judge those to take their own lives without walking a mile in a depressed person’s shoes.

I’m not usually one to start a fight, but one thing I cannot stand is hypocrisy, and as an advocate for mental health awareness, I couldn’t just let it go. So I went back to the Brittany Maynard discussion and replied to her comment, reminding her of what she had said when Robin Williams died. She didn’t respond. Unfortunately, her comment about suicide being selfish was far from isolated.

I am left feeling somewhat disheartened. Did we learn nothing from the Robin Williams tragedy? If, three months later, people are spouting those cruel stereotypes that they previously vowed to help fight, how are we ever going to move forward? Will we ever be able to continue the discussions, or are we going to keep having to start the same discussions over and over again?

I don’t expect everyone to start posting endlessly about mental illness, but I would love to see it consistently treated with the same respect that is given to physical illness. I would love for people to feel able to talk about their experiences with mental illness without fear of embarrassment or shame. I would love to see the judgments and blame replaced with understanding and support.

And I would love to see more meaningful conversations that are not triggered by tragedy.

This is an original post by Kirsten Doyle. Photo credit: Victor. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.

Filed Under: Awareness, Conversations, Death, Depression, Mental Health, Mental Illness, Suicide, Tragedy Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , , ,
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Robin Williams And The Tragedy Of Depression

August 12, 2014 By

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Last night, for the first time ever, I cried over a celebrity’s death. My tears had nothing to do with the loss of such an immense talent – although I have been a Robin Williams fan for decades – and everything to do with the fact that another life has been lost to mental illness.

I suspect that I am not alone. I suspect that right now, people all over the globe are relating to the drowning feeling of depression that drove Robin Williams to seek such a desperate escape. Several times since this tragic news broke, I have seen variations of one overriding question on my social media feeds: if a man with the financial resources of a celebrity could not find the help that he needed, what hope is there for the rest of us?

The truth is that while money can buy therapy, it does not buy the understanding of those around us. I started seeing my therapist four years ago, and although it has undoubtedly helped me, the benefits I have gained have been severely restricted by the stigmas and misconceptions that surround mental illness to this day. A number of conditions have to be met in order for therapy to truly work. The right therapist is one. Adequate support and understanding in your daily life is another.

It’s not to say that people don’t care – it’s just that many of them don’t understand. If I had a dollar for the number of times I’ve been told that depression is not a “real” illness, I’d had enough for an entire team of therapists.

I’ve written about the misconceptions surrounding depression before, but they are worth repeating, especially now that Robin Williams has put such a focus on it by taking his own life.

* When I am in the grip of depression, I cannot “snap out of it”. Asking someone to snap out of depression is like asking them to snap out of a heart attack.

* Depression is not to be equated with sadness. It cannot even be regarded as a severe form of sadness. Depression and sadness are two completely different things, in the same way that asthma and the common cold are two completely different things.

* Suicide is not a selfish, cowardly act. It is the act of someone who is desperate to get away from a terrible, desolate, frightening situation, and who sees no other escape route.

* Contrary to a popular Facebook meme, people with depression are not “focused on the past”, and they will not magically cure themselves by living in the present.

* Sometimes, for some people, the right medication can lead to dramatic improvements in quality of life, but it’s not for everybody. Someone who refuses medication is not being stubborn. They might be afraid, or they might have learned from experience that it doesn’t work for them.

* A person with depression is capable of smiling, laughing at jokes and having a good time with friends. If you see a picture of someone smiling, don’t say that they “can’t be that depressed”. Robin Williams himself is a perfect illustration of that.

This list is a drop in the bucket, but if we can shift peoples’ understanding on these few points, that will be a good start. If you suffer from depression, don’t be afraid to talk about it and ask for help. It’s really nothing to be ashamed of. If you know someone with depression, be there for them. One of the scariest things for a person with depression is the feeling of being alone in the world.

The death of Robin Williams is a great tragedy. It will be an even greater tragedy if we don’t learn something from it. If his death leads to greater awareness and understanding, and saves just one person from suicide – well, I think he would like that.

This is an original post by Kirsten Doyle. Photo credit: BagoGames. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.

Filed Under: Celebrities, Death, Depression, Loss, Mental Illness, Myths, Suicide Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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2013: Memorable Moments

December 26, 2013 By

With just a few days left in 2013, this seems like a good time for me to take a look at some highlights of the last twelve months. The word “highlights” is a bit of a misnomer, though – a large portion of the year was filled with the most mind-bending stress. To be completely honest, I am ready for the year to be done. I am ready to wake up on January 1, 2014 looking forward to a year of new beginnings.

Not a lot happened in the first three months of the year. I was working overtime on a massive project, so for a while I didn’t really have a life. From time to time I went running, and that was going great until the day I gave myself an injury by doing a long run at race pace on icy sidewalks. As far as common sense goes, that was not one of my shining moments. I had to pull out of a half-marathon that I had registered for – not the greatest start to my season.

In April I ran a ten-mile race that can only be described as my worst race ever. It took place on a golf course, which was very scenic but had a scary number of hills. If the weather had been nice it might not have been so bad, but it was cold and windy, and it was raining. Instead of feeling down about my dismal finishing time, though, I was surprisingly upbeat. I had run this brutally hard race in terrible weather, and I had crossed the finish line. It was a testament to my determination. The hard-earned finisher’s medal I got that day is one of my favourites, just because of how hard I had to work to earn it.

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In May, my life kind of spiralled out of control a little. Things were going reasonably well at the time: my running was back on track and my big project was a whisker away from being closed after a successful implementation. A few days from the end of that month, I got the shock of my life when I was called into a little office in the HR department and informed that I no longer had a job. I had seen it coming – much change was afoot at my place of work and they had been downsizing people for a while.

Something else happened in May that shook my foundations quite badly. One of my best friends, who I had known for seventeen years, passed away after a lifelong battle with Cystic Fibrosis. Fran was just shy of her 41st birthday when she died, and years of knowing that I would in all likelihood lose her did not make it easier when it happened. I have so memories that include Fran, including her first race and my wedding. Seven months on, I’m still having trouble adapting to a world that she no longer inhabits.

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In June, my family and I went away to Niagara Falls for a few days. It was a break I desperately needed, and it included the Niagara Falls Women’s Half-Marathon. I had a fantastic race – although it was not my best-ever performance, my finishing time was respectable enough. The race was a perfect opportunity for me to run off a bit of stress.

July kind of passed without me noticing. I was worn out from stress and grief, and I was fighting what felt like a losing battle with depression. I applied for jobs without getting any responses, and my spirits sank lower and lower with each passing day. Ultimately, what got me through was running.

August started off on a note of terrible tragedy, when a friend’s seven-year-old son drowned in a river. He hung on in hospital for a couple of days, but in the end, his mother had to make the heartbreaking decision to let him go. I felt the kind of sadness that threatens to engulf you, like a heavy blanket that suffocates. I started worrying a lot – about my kids, about the twists and turns of fate that we have no control over, about friendship and whether I was doing enough for the people in my life, including the bereaved mother.

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In September, I was supposed to travel to Ottawa to take part in the Army Run, a majestic half-marathon in the nation’s capital city. Due to illness and circumstance, the trip had to be canceled at the last minute. The disappointment was excruciating. In the grand scheme of things, it wasn’t a big deal, especially when looked at beside all of the other stuff that had been going on, but at that point my coping skills had been eroded to the point of nothingness. I turned to my trusty method of stress relief and threw myself into my running.

A month later, my training paid off when I ran my main race of the season: the Scotiabank Toronto Waterfront half-marathon. For the fifth consecutive year, I ran the race to raise funds for the Geneva Centre for Autism. Inspired by my son George, I ran my way to a personal best time. It was a truly fantastic race, and that day marks the point at which I finally started to claw my way back from the terrible depression that I had been going through.

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In November I signed up for a novel-writing challenge called NaNoWriMo. I decided that what I really needed was a goal, and writing a book in thirty days seemed like a reasonable one. Every day when I woke up, I sat at my laptop and hammered out two thousand words, and by the time the end of November rolled around, I had a completed manuscript of almost 60,000 words. It was a first draft, meaning I would need to do a whole lot of work to make it fit for public consumption, but I had done it. That achievement did wonders for my confidence.

December has, for the most part, been kind to me. Yes, we had a pesky ice storm that cut out power for a few days and left a mess of fallen trees and broken branches all over the neighbourhood, but we got through it. Although there was the obligatory family drama, we enjoyed Christmas. We even got a picture of Santa that involved a lot of fun and no autism meltdowns.

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Over the next few days, I will be setting some goals for 2014. I have lofty plans that include running a 30K race and getting my book published. For now, though, I am enjoying time with my family, and in spite of the more stressful things that have happened this year, I am feeling grateful for what I have.

This is an original post by Kirsten Doyle. Photo credit for the Scotiabank Toronto Waterfront Half-marathon picture: www.marathon-photos.com. Photo credit for all other images: Kirsten Doyle.

 

Filed Under: 2013 Year In Review, Christmas, Death, Depression, family, Friendship, Job Loss, running, Stress, Writing Tagged With: , , , , , , , , , , ,
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Part Of The Family

August 13, 2013 By

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When my father-in-law died a little more than ten years ago, things were a little overwhelming. I was almost four months pregnant with my older son and my brain was in a fog. On top of that, I found myself meeting most of my husband’s extended family for the first time, en masse, at the funeral.

In most families, this would mean a few cousins, uncles and aunts, and maybe the odd niece or nephew. But while my husband’s immediate family is small (he is one of two boys), there are several aunts and uncles, and dozens of first, second and third cousins, plus their respective husbands and wives, boyfriends and girlfriends. There are so many of them that it took several weddings, funerals and christenings before I could remember all of their names.

At this particular gathering – my father-in-law’s funeral – it was all too much. Don’t get me wrong, my husband’s family are lovely people, as are their families. But in my pregnant, emotional state, it was overwhelming to meet so many new people at an already stressful event, and to try and fit in as the newest member-by-marriage of the family.

This was exacerbated by the fact that we also announced my pregnancy to most of the family that day.

You know how it goes. “Hi, I’m Kirsten. By the way, I’m popping out a baby a few months from now.”

OK, it wasn’t exactly like that, but you get the picture.

At the post-funeral shindig at my mother-in-law’s house, the alcohol flowed freely. This is an Irish family, after all. You can’t give a beloved Irish patriarch a decent send-off without drinking a few toasts in celebration of his life. I so badly wanted to grab a bottle of red and retreat to the nearest corner, but I didn’t think my unborn child would appreciate that. I halfheartedly drank some orange juice and then wandered through the crowds to the dining room, where the food had been laid out. I might not have been able to drink, but I could sure as hell eat. As soon as the morning sickness wore off, there was no end to my appetite.

The food looked lovely. My mother-in-law and her sisters had made some appetizers and heated up lasagna, and there was food that looked as if it had come straight from the catalog for Subway sandwich platters – which wouldn’t have been a bad idea, given the number of people there.

Sadly though, I couldn’t eat it. In spite of the variety, the beautiful presentation, and the fact that the table was virtually collapsing under the weight of all the platters and salad bowls and casserole dishes, there was absolutely nothing there that I wanted to eat. Contrarily, all I wanted was Taco Bell, which was strange because when I was in a non-pregnant state, Taco Bell food had always made me gag.

In spite of the snow, I went outside. There was nothing else for me to do. I couldn’t drink, I couldn’t eat, and I was all peopled out. Standing by myself in the snow was just what I needed.

The crisp cold air must have done something to clear my head, because after a few minutes, I suddenly felt OK. I went back inside, ate some of the food that just minutes before had turned my stomach, and spent time with the family, my family, the village who would become a part of raising my child.

This is an original post by Kirsten Doyle, published in accordance with my disclosure policy.

Photo credit to ellieward90. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.

Filed Under: Death, family, First Impressions, Pregnancy Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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What Do You Tell A Child When Another Child Dies?

August 11, 2013 By

 

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Last weekend, I received word that a friend’s seven-year-old son, Luke, was in ICU after a near-drowning incident. I kept near-constant vigil at my computer during my waking hours, anxiously waiting for updates, and when I got the news that Luke had died, I took it very hard. As a human being, as a parent, as the mother of a seven-year-old boy – this tragedy hit very close to home.

As I have tried to make sense of the emotions that have been swilling around in my head all week, I have grappled with the question of what to tell my younger son, James.

The concept of death is not new to James. He got a rude introduction to it in Kindergarten, when his teacher died of pneumonia. The teacher had been very popular among the kids; James had absolutely adored him, and had a hard time understanding that he’d never see him again.

In the three years since then, he has developed a reasonably healthy attitude to the fact that people die. He asks about his grandfathers and how they died, and he talks about angels and souls and stuff like that. He is sad when people close to us die, but he accepts that it is part of the circle of life.

This is different, though. Old people dying is part of the circle of life. Children dying is an idea that just doesn’t fit. The mere thought of it has a jarring effect, as if you’re listening to soft classical music and hear a sudden blast of ear-splitting heavy metal. I wasn’t sure if James was ready to be introduced to this concept, especially since he had never met Luke.

Just as I had decided not to tell him, he came up to me as I was looking at a picture of Luke that his mother had posted on her Facebook wall. He asked me about the little boy in the picture, and I found myself telling him that Luke was now an angel. This led to a discussion that was hard for both of us.

For all his bull-in-a-china-shop approach to life, James is a sensitive child with a natural sense of empathy, and he was genuinely sad as he looked at Luke’s picture. He talked about how he’d never get to play with Luke, and he expressed concern for Luke’s mother.

“She must be so sad,” he said. “Is she going to be OK?”

I told him that yes, Luke’s mother was very sad, and I assured him that she had lots of people around her who would make sure she was OK.

There was a pause, and then he said, “Mommy, if I died, would you be OK?”

I couldn’t answer him. I was too busy trying to hold my rapidly dissolving composure. I just held him as close to me as I possibly could.

A few minutes later, his little voice piped up again.

“Mommy, I’m scared. Kids can die, and there are so many ways to die.”

This was a tough one. How was I going to strike the balance between realism and reassurance? I couldn’t say, “Don’t worry, it won’t happen to you or your brother”, especially since this whole discussion had arisen from an unexpected tragedy. And I couldn’t say, “Yes, accidents can happen at any time”, because that would freak the poor child out and make him afraid of leaving the house.

And so I decided to focus on probabilities. If we only cross the street when the pedestrian light is green, there’s far less chance of being hit by a car. If we don’t answer the door to strangers, they won’t kidnap us. If we eat the right foods and run around in the back yard every day, we will get sick less often and we’ll get better faster.

In other words, staying safe and healthy does not guarantee that something won’t happen, but it does vastly improve our chances. It’s good to be cautious and mindful of potential danger, but we have to live our lives.

As I spoke to James, his fears seemed to ease. Since then, he has returned to the topic a few times, and as hard as it is, I am glad that the original discussion opened a door for him to talk about a subject that is important.

Later on that day, James came up to me and said, “Mommy, I’m still sad for Luke’s mommy, but I’m not so worried about her anymore.”

“Why is that?” I asked.

“Because Luke is still alive in her heart, and he can hug her from the inside.”

This is an original post by Kirsten Doyle. The picture of Luke is reproduced with the kind permission of Janice Zimmerman.

 

Filed Under: Children, Death, life, Loss, parenting, Tragedy Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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Farewell, My Friend

June 26, 2013 By

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What do you do when you receive word that a friend has died? What do you do with the memories that flood your head and collide with the cruel knowledge that you will never see that person again? How do you stem the endless flow of tears, and how do you deal with the hurt of loss?

When do you start to believe that they are really gone?

My friend Fran had cystic fibrosis. In her almost 41 years, she never experienced the feeling of being healthy. Intravenous antibiotics, nebulizers and hospital stays were a regular part of her life. None of that stopped her from living, though. Fran was not one to let chronic illness slow her down. Life was one big adventure to her.

There are so many things I could say about Fran. I could talk about the fact that she had one of most fascinating jobs I’ve ever heard of (she fixed helicopters). I could talk about the beautiful music she made and how honoured I was that she played the flute at my wedding. Or I could talk about the epic phone conversations we had from opposite ends of the country, and when we got together, the late nights of talking and drinking wine.

Or I could talk about the running.

Yes. I think I will talk about the running.

Fran started running in earnest shortly after she moved to Canada, and I kind of became her running mentor. A few months later, she flew to Toronto for a few days to celebrate Easter with me and my family. During her stay, we ran a race together. This race, a scenic lakeside 5K, was her first. Throughout the run, Fran kept having to slow to a walk to rest her lungs. At times she would have to stop entirely while she had violent coughing fits lasting for several minutes. When she was able to catch her breath, she would grin and start running again.

Fran finished the race in about 45 minutes. She was exhausted and her face was purple, but she had an enormous smile on her face that lit up the space around her. She was glowing with her accomplishment, and I was so proud of her.

Two days later, Fran woke up wanting to go running again. We laced up and I took her around my neighbourhood, letting her set the pace. We stopped often, sometimes because Fran’s lungs would go into spasm, and sometimes just to chat. I don’t remember what we were talking about as we ran the final stretch back to my house, but we were laughing so hard that we had to stop running to prop each other up as we walked towards the driveway.

It was with this image in mind that I went running just three days after learning of Fran’s passing. I hesitated for a minute in the driveway, and then set out, retracing the steps that I had taken with her. It didn’t take long for  the tears to start streaming down my face as I remembered the conversations, the sound of Fran struggling for breath as her lungs constricted, and the special way she had of embracing life so completely.

I shed many tears while I ran, but in the last kilometre, something very strange happened. The music playing from my running playlist abruptly stopped mid-song, and a different song started – a Celine Dion song that’s not even on my running playlist.

Let the rain come down and wash away my tears…

How had this happened? My screen lock was on. How could the music spontaneously change?

Hush now, I see a light in the sky…

Was it really possible for loved ones to send messages from wherever it was they went?

I can’t believe I’ve been touched by an angel with love…

As I ran towards home, a new picture filled my head. I imagined Fran running beside me, healthy and strong, the way I like to think she is running now.

 

Filed Under: Death, Friendship, life, Loss, running Tagged With: , , , , , , , , ,
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A Story About Wine

December 7, 2012 By

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Yesterday, December 6th, was the 8th anniversary of my father’s death, and as always on these anniversaries, I had a glass of wine in his honour. Now, me drinking wine in the evening after the kids are in bed is nothing unusual, but when I’m toasting Dad, I go to a bit of extra effort. Instead of opening any old plonk that happens to be handy, I take the time to find a bottle of nice wine, the kind of wine Dad would enjoy.

In life, Dad had a true appreciation for fine wine, and he had an impressive collection. Where I’m the kind of person who will buy a bottle of wine and promptly drink it, Dad actually collected it. Every bottle he got was meticulously marked with the date of acquisition, and if it was a gift, it would also be marked with the occasion and the name of the person who had given it to him. The wine would then be put into one of the wine cabinets and left to age as appropriate.

Dad belonged to the Wine Of The Month club, and the bottles he received from them were treated to the same attention to detail. His last shipment arrived about three weeks before he died, and as sick and fragile as he was, he waved away offers of help and lovingly made his annotations on each bottle.

A love of wine is just one of the things I shared with Dad. We spent many evenings sitting out on his patio, enjoying the last of the day’s warm South African sun, sipping wine as we discussed the other interests we had in common, like running or books. Even after I moved to Canada, we chatted to each other about what wine we were drinking. It always felt as though I was still drinking wine with him, even though he was on the other side of the world.

And so, the first time I opened a bottle of wine after he died, it felt a little odd. It didn’t feel right, somehow. Dad clearly didn’t think it was right either, because judging from how that particular wine-opening went, he was there and he was trying everything in his power to prevent that wine from being opened.

The scene unfolded two days after Dad’s funeral. My mom, my brother and I were having lunch at my aunt Ann’s house, along with some of my cousins. Lunch at Ann’s house was always a feast. She was – may she rest in peace along with Dad – a master in the kitchen. Her fine food had to be accompanied by fine wine.

While the others sat chatting at the dining room table, I was in the kitchen with Ann. She was transferring food into serving dishes, and I was opening the wine. In those days, most bottles of wine had corks. Not that weird composite plastic stuff you get these days, but real, honest-to-God corks.

I did my thing with the corkscrew, and the cork came partway out of the bottle, and then it just stopped. You know how corks sometimes just get stuck, and no amount maneuvering will get them to budge? This was one of those corks. I was not deterred, though. I had several years as a university student behind me – I was capable of getting any wine out of any bottle, no matter what impediments stood in my way.

I extracted the corkscrew from the cork, grabbed a breadknife, and used it to saw off the bit of cork that was sticking out of the top of the bottle.

I could almost hear Dad spinning in his coffin.

I set about using the corkscrew on the remaining piece of cork. I got it firmly in place and then started the process of getting the cork out.

The corkscrew broke.

So to sum up the situation I had the following: a wine bottle with half a cork in it. Said half-cork had half a corkscrew in it. And most importantly, there was wine inside the bottle that was stubbornly remaining inaccessible to us.

By this stage, Ann and I were in absolute stitches of laughter. Ever the graceful hostess, Ann did a skilful job of politely heading off anyone who tried to come into the kitchen wanting to know what was so funny.

Fortunately, Ann was a great believer in contingency planning, so she had a backup corkscrew which she produced with a flourish, like a magician. Through a series of hit-and-miss stabby attempts, we finally got the cork out.

The good news was that we had freed the wine within the bottle. The bad news was that it was riddled with cork.

No problem.

Ann and I strained the wine into a plastic measuring jug, rinsed the bottle to get rid of any stray bits of cork, and then restored the wine to its rightful receptacle. I mean, we had to. There was no way we could show up to the dinner table bearing a plastic jug full of wine.

That hard-earned wine was some of the best I ever tasted, as if the person whose life we were toasting had sprinkled a little bit of magic into it.

 

Filed Under: dad, Death, family, Humour, Wine Tagged With: , , , ,
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Not All Facebook Shares Are Funny

August 9, 2012 By

I have something to gripe about today. What can I say? I woke up feeling cranky this morning – it seems like the perfect time for me to vent about something that’s actually been bothering me for a few days now.

Unless you’ve been orbiting outer space along with that thing that just landed on Mars, you will know that on July 20th, a man walked into a movie theatre in Aurora, Colorado and opened fire, killing 12 people and wounding 58. Although I know the name of the perpetrator (sorry, alleged perpetrator, to satisfy any legal-minded readers), he will forever remain nameless on my blog. Identifying him by name would feel too much like acknowledging him as a regular person, and I don’t feel inclined to give him that level of respect.

Yes, I know. Innocent until proven guilty and all that. But come on. The guy rigged his apartment with explosives with the intention of killing whoever happened to walk in. I keep hearing talk of possible mental illness, and stories about how everyone including the perpetrator had unrealistic expectations of him and made him snap. So what? Am I supposed to feel sorry for him? Let me just mention something to put that idea into perspective.

12 people dead. 58 people injured. God alone knows how many people who will struggle with heart-wrenching grief and/or PTSD for the rest of their lives.

Anyway. I find myself digressing from my original gripe before I’ve even gotten to it.

The media published pictures of the perpetrator making his first court appearance. We all remember the shot: a dazed-looking man with inexplicable hair seated beside his public defender.

That picture does not bother me. However, the knock-off picture that has started making its lightning-quick rounds on Facebook does. In this picture, the perpetrator is Photoshopped out, and a children’s character with standing-up red hair is Photoshopped in. As troublesome as the picture are all of the “LOL”-type comments that have been added to it.

I’m sorry, is this supposed to be funny?

It probably would be funny if this guy had shoplifted, or been involved in a protest, or been caught driving down the highway at 200 miles an hour.

But he didn’t. He killed people in cold blood.

Here’s the thing about Facebook: just about everyone is on it. It is perfectly reasonable to assume that most of the people who were in the theatre that night have seen that picture. So have friends and family of the deceased.

What goes through their minds when they see what amounts to a caricature of the person responsible for causing such devastation in their lives? How does it make them feel to know that people are seeing said caricature and having a giggle over it? Sure, it could be argued that the laughs are at the expense of the perpetrator, but I wonder if the people affected are capable of seeing it that way.

What do you think of all this? Am I right in thinking that this is all somewhat insensitive to people who have already lost so much? Or do I need to just lighten up a little?

(Photo credit: B.Frahm. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

Filed Under: Aurora, Colorado, Death, Facebook, Insensitivity, Tragedy Tagged With: , , , , , , ,
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The Queen Of The Stage

May 27, 2012 By

I am participating in the 2012 Wordcount Blogathon, which means one post every day for the month of May.

I sit in the darkened theatre, holding my breath with anticipation. I have been waiting for this night for weeks. My husband, who has seen this performance before, has promised me that it will be the theatrical experience of a lifetime. We are not in one of the big-name theatres in London or New York. We are not even in Toronto’s theatre district thirty minutes’ drive from where we live. We are at the Herongate Barn Theatre in the Pickering countryside, and right here, in this gem of comedy and culture, I am going to see a performance like none other. The audience’s collective heartbeat pauses, the curtain is raised… and I am instantly transported into another world.

The performance of Shirley Valentine that I saw that night defied imagination. When Margaret St. John-Francies took the stage in the role of a middle-aged housewife disgruntled with life, I did not feel as if I was sitting in a chair in a theatre. I felt as if I was sitting at Shirley Valentine’s kitchen table while she cooked chips and eggs and wondered aloud what had happened to her life.

It was so real that I wanted to cry. My heart twisted for this woman who felt trapped in an unsatisfying life, and I almost got up to give her a hug before reminding myself that this was just a play.

When the action of the play shifted from the Liverpool kitchen to a beach on a Greek island, I went right along to Greece as well. I could feel the sun on my back and the sand between my toes as the unhappy housewife was transformed into a fulfilled woman with romance in her life and hope for the future.

I wanted to stay on that beach, gossiping about the lover, asking Shirley what she was going to do next. I wanted to tell her not to return to her old life,because she so clearly deserved more. I wanted to be her friend, her confidante.

Instead, the play ended, and I went to the bar with my husband. A few minutes later, Margaret walked in – no longer in her role as Shirley Valentine, but as herself – and that was a different kind of magic.

Margaret graced many theatrical productions with her immense talent, usually alongside her husband Paul. The pair of them were perfectly matched not only on the stage, but in life. We shared many laughs with them in the bar after the shows we saw them perform in.

Margaret could fill a room with her presence. She was larger than life but down to earth. She touched everyone she met with her own special brand of magic.

On April 22nd, surrounded by the love of her family, Margaret passed away. To realize the impact of her death, you only had to look at the number of people at her memorial, which was held at the theatre. People were parking in the driveway because all of the spaces were taken, and extra chairs had to be brought into the room.

The Queen of the Stage has taken her final bow, but the memory of Shirley Valentine will forever remain.

“Don’t cry because it’s over. Smile because it happened.”     ~ Dr. Seuss ~

(All pictures are reproduced with the kind permission of Paul Francies)

Filed Under: 2012 Wordcount Blogathon, Actress, Death, life, Loss, Shirley Valentine, Theatre Tagged With: , , , , , , , ,
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The Transience Of Life

May 4, 2012 By

I am participating in the 2012 Wordcount Blogathon, which means one post every day for the month of May.

As I write this, I am sitting on the subway (having miraculously gotten a seat with enough room to type) on my way to the memorial service for my friend Margaret, who died last week.

Her passing was a big shock to me and my husband. We knew that she had been sick, but we had no idea that her illness was life-threatening. We did not know that she had cancer.

As I prepare to honour Margaret’s memory and offer condolences to her husband, I am still reeling from the very unexpected death of my aunt just three months ago. I find it hard to believe that so recently, I was jetting to the other side of the world to comfort my mom and help scatter the ashes of a woman who had been like a second mother to me.

These events – the deaths of my aunt and my friend – have led me to think almost obsessively about the transience of life. I am very aware that at some point over the next few years, I will lose my mom, who is now the last surviving sibling in her family. In all likelihood, because I am ten years younger than my husband, someday I will be widowed – hopefully a long time from now.

And I think about how I am getting along with everyone in my life, how much they all mean to me, and how much it would devastate me if any of them were to suddenly not be here anymore. I worry about whether I am a good enough mother, wife, sister, daughter, and friend.

I find myself feeling permanently shaken by the idea that at any moment, someone I love could simply and suddenly be gone forever. Arguments and disagreements upset me a great deal more than they used to, because what if I never get a chance to make it up with the other person? What if I never get to say sorry?

Earlier today, I gave one of my best friends a directive that she is not allowed to die. Ever. Not understanding the depth of how I feel about all of this these days, she asked why.

Well, it’s because I value her friendship and although our only communication is via email and Facebook, she is an integral part of my life. And I want her and my other loved ones to be there forever.

I know it’s a simplistic wish – for people to never die – but whenever I lose someone close to me, I feel like a part of me dies with them.

The only bright part of this is that when they die, a part of them stays alive with me – a part of them that I carry with me always, no matter where I go.

My point in all of this is that life is short. There is no time for meaningless disagreements that really don’t matter, and there is no time for people to treat their loved ones in a way that makes them feel unhappy, unwanted, or unworthy.

We need to embrace the people we have, while we still have them.

And when arguments happen, as they invariably do with us humans, there is no better time to patch things up than the present.

(Photo credit: http://www.flickr.com/photos/mikebaird/3036430387/. This picture has a creative commons attribution license.)

Filed Under: 2012 Wordcount Blogathon, Bereavement, Death, life, Loss Tagged With: , , , , , ,
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