a visit

You know what really helps with grief? Writing. It's what I teach. It's what I do.

7 a.m. on yet another bleak, grey, chilly morning, and I sit here in tears. People have been sending the most wonderful notes; so many of my friends are writers, and all of them had met Wayson, so what they send is beautiful and profoundly moving.

Somehow, as well, one death brings up others. I've just heard from May, one of my aunt's best friends in Ottawa, so have been thinking of the recent loss of Do. And then I had a note from Penny in England, younger sister of my childhood pen pal Barbara and now my own friend. Barbara died in 1966 at age 16, a story I've been trying to get out into the world for years, without success so far. Penny and her siblings had just spent the afternoon cleaning the gravesite of their sister, parents, and brother Michael who died at two weeks old, a yearly ritual that brings them together in tribute and love. The stone was designed by their brother Peter, an artist, some of whose ashes they scattered there to help with the roses.

In the bleak council cemetery where stones subside and the grass covers the neighbouring plots where the loved ones of the children we grew up with are buried, Barbara's stone now stands proud, one of the cleanest and brightest. Peter designed it carefully, the text debated each time we laid another to rest and the wording cut by hand. Beneath it Babs, Dad, Mum sleep quietly together with the memory of first born Michael.

Yesterday I sat at the piano to try to start playing again but instead broke down and actually cried, out loud, "How could you leave me?"

It was almost embarrassing; that's the sort of thing a spouse says after the death of a longterm partner. And Wayson was definitely not my spouse. But he was an automatic part of my life, my day, my thoughts. My dinner table. It's a huge hole. Right now, it feels like an open wound.

Marsha Lederman from the Globe called; she'd been told I was a close friend and she's writing an article. The stories poured out; I jabbered, wept, and laughed. The best kind of remembrance.

Monty, a former student who met Wayson several times at classes here, sent me this:
Wayson was a shining example of being in life who you really are, wearing it on your sleeve, with no explanations or apologies, what you see is what you get. If only we could all have Wayson’s strength and courage to be so authentic and real. It was an honour to meet him, to be with him, to listen to him, to be inspired by him. 

Monty also wrote that after his father died when he was young, a friend told him his dad would never die while he, Monty, was alive, because Monty's memories would preserve him. His father would continue to visit in memory, and each visit would be a gift.  And, Beth, I think your gardenia story on your blog may be one of your first “visits” from Wayson. I will leave that for you to decide.

I think he's right.

Old friend from university days Isobel wrote, "I didn't 'know' him except through your blog - how you embraced him as a family member, his quiet, obviously happy presence at moments large and small. How wonderful that your family has your all-welcoming, open-arms approach to life... and that you record it all for posterity. And how magnificent for Wayson to feel that generosity and love -- infused with it all, his spirit shines on."

loss

Still in shock. One dark thought passed through my mind in bed last night: it has begun. The losses of aging and old age - the gradual disappearance of loved ones - it has begun. We expect our parents to die before us. Wayson felt like another generation to me, but he was in fact only 11 years older than I. Except for the terrible losses due to AIDS in the 80's, he's the first of my closest friends to vanish.

I don't want to lose people I love. It will hurt too much. But the only alternative is that I die first, which wouldn't be so much fun either.

The other words that went through my mind were: Someone who loved me is gone. For those of us without a significant other, the loss of the significant others whom we choose is devastating. Wayson loved me and cared about my life, as I did about his. It was a powerful bond that hasn't faltered since we met in 2002 or 3. In the local Goodwill, of course. Junk junkies both.

Friends have been calling and sending beautiful emails of tribute to him and to our friendship, and I thank them. Nick Rice sent this pic he took at the Miles Nadal JCC - I gave a talk there and Wayson was with me to sell my books, hover solicitously, and beam.

Loss. Grief. Last night I found myself in the bathroom, madly cleaning the leaves of the tall gardenia that survived the winter and the renovation, but with dusty leaves. And then I realized - it was a gift from Wayson, years ago, that brings him to me every time it blooms. And it will be blooming soon.

And this I had from him also: Onward.

Uncle Wayson

 The loveliest picture ever - 2012, Eli had just been born

going through junk, as always, as our favourite store, Doubletake

the little aquarium was his Xmas present to Eli

Uncle Wayson

The worst picture of us ever

 his 75th

Wayson spoke to many of my classes, including a home group here

Sam loved to cook for him, and as we all know, Wayson loved to eat

At one of my book launches, with my former student and current friend, fabulous writer Laurel Croza - Wayson blurbed one of her books

 with Jean-Marc and Richard, my birthday party

a quiet moment in the garden - he never went anywhere without a bag full of books, pens, coloured pencils ...

The loveliest picture ever. Feasting joyfully on life, as always.

Wayson Choy: "utterly amazed and happy still"

I came back with Ben this afternoon from a visit to the playground and Riverdale Farm, when Anna, who'd stayed behind with Eli, greeted me at the door. Come into the kitchen with me, Mum, she said, and I knew something was wrong.

It says on Twitter that Wayson died last night, she said, opening her arms as I stood frozen in shock and then began to weep.

Impossible to believe. Not yet. Too soon.

I went over to his place Thursday, and we sat in the kitchen he shared with Karl and Marie. He wanted, as usual, to go out for lunch, but I did not, so we had tea. He was frail and his asthmatic lungs were wheezing, which is why he wasn't supposed to leave the house. But as always, he was full of humour and kindness and wisdom. We hugged, as always, when I left, with promises to see each other soon. He usually came here for dinner on Sundays, but this Sunday, today, my grandkids were coming and I knew they'd be too much for him. He called yesterday, and we made a date for him to come for dinner Thursday.

In hindsight, I think of the call, how insistently he thanked me for everything. I wonder if he felt something coming. Of course, whatever I did for him was a pleasure, he was family; he was ours and we were his. My kids adored him and he them, and my grandsons gave him nearly as much pleasure as they do me. Anna and Sam are devastated too by this loss.

There is much to say about his life and his work, his legacy. My textbook True to Life: 50 steps to help you tell your story is a tribute to him; he is quoted on almost every page. He was an important mentor to many, none more so than I; he taught me so much both as a writer and as a teacher. And in return, I made sure he had a home cooked meal once a week, if possible. It was a good exchange.

I can't believe he's not there. He won't be coming for dinner, we won't be talking nearly every day. But at the same time, I am glad for him that it was a peaceful end and not protracted. He knew he had Alzheimer's, he discussed it openly, though for now he was coping well. But that would not have lasted, and then it could have been terrible for him. It never was. He had it seems as beautiful a death as such a beautiful man deserves.

This was his last email to me, last week, after we'd exchanged words about what was happening to him.

Thank you again for being so understanding, Beth ...  I'm somewhat enjoying the scary bumps on this ride, if it weren't for the mental bruises that are leaving their mark and left me wondering -  but I'm not ever feeling alone or abandoned.   For example, you're pushing ahead and going on and on ... my hero!  

Keep writing - your life is crazy in the right proportions - crazy, yes, but as always crazy-smart and crazy-lucky!    Meanwhile, I'm just 'crazy' ... and utterly amazed and happy still.  

x0 Wayson.

December 2017 - playing pirate boats with Eli

 Dinner here in February - his favourite, steak.

My last shot of my friend, in early April, helping put together a complicated light fixture neither of us could figure out. 

Already missed missed missed. 

cardinal love, coming home

There's a wonderful scene outside: I propped a long mirror against the south wall in the garden, thinking it would go somewhere eventually - and now I see that the cardinal has fallen in love. He's married; Mrs. Cardinal is usually nearby because their nest is in a tree at the bottom of the garden, but he keeps flying down to look at himself in the mirror, hopping back and forth, gazing with fascination.

I will move the mirror later today to keep their marriage safe. But for now, cardinal love is a signal that it's spring at last; the sun is shining, the robins, sparrows, finches, and cardinals are singing full force, nesting, soaring. There's a sweet cover of green on most of the trees and shrubs - the willow is bright yellow - and the gardening helpers are coming tomorrow so we can begin the big job of pruning and clearing away winter detritus.

Like the garden, like the city, your faithful correspondent has come through a long hard winter. After months of panic, exhaustion, and stress, how light I feel. I know, a renovation is not a cancer diagnosis. It's not homelessness; in fact, it's the opposite, it's going through a rigamarole to improve one's home. And let me tell you, though the process was excruciating and I would never do it again - (never say never, girl) - it was worth it. There is light. Things are in their place and they actually have a place to be put in. Things that have never worked in my 33 years in this house are fixed. It's miraculous.

Of course, just saying this is asking for trouble, another sump pump explosion, perhaps; God knows what's in store, as the house has a way of producing nasty surprises. My close neighbours at 306 and 310, for example, did not have a recent infestation of termites, but 308 did. I will be paying for all this for a long time to come.

The house and I went through the fire in August 2005, the complete rebuilding of the basement and main floor which took till spring 2006. Then this felt like a brand new house. A couple of stylish friends came to visit, loved the sparkling modern kitchen and asked to see the rest of the house. I remember the look on their faces upstairs, because that part was completely unchanged. Old floors and windows, a strange jumble of rooms, a skylight stuck in a closet -

But now the glorious skylight is the centre of the house, the ceiling is opened up, the walls are painted, the windows are fixed, the floors are new, I can hardly believe it. And by next week, both the rental suites will be occupied and I can start paying off the debt.

Anna and the boys are on their way over; we'll go to the local playgrounds in the sun and then have a barbecue with Anna's oldest friend Shani, who's moving in Wednesday with her younger son Leo. Anna and Shani have been best friends since we moved here in September 1986, when they met at age 5 in Winchester Public School SK. Something has come full circle, and it makes me want to cry. I'll watch the cardinal admire himself and have a laugh instead.

Just for today, I won't think about the idiots in power, flooding, refugees, the heartbreaking list of injustices and horrors. Today, I celebrate rebirth.