Heroes?

I recently had an email conversation with a friend who is working with an organization that supplies food to third world countries. Jokingly, I called him a ‘hero’. He (kindly) told me that he was uncomfortable with the term ‘hero’. As he sees it, he’s simply doing his job. That made me stop and think. What makes a hero? Who are my own heroes and why? Putting some real thought into it, I realized that I’ve had several heroes in my life and to me, they all deserved the title.

One of my dearest childhood friends is battling cancer right now…and winning. That makes her a hero to me. In Grade 11 I had a wonderful history teacher who was nice, fair and a really good teacher. He made learning fun and I loved his classes. He was a hero for me. When I was very young, my friend’s father was a hero to me. He showed me kindness that I didn’t get at home. He was an adult but treated me kindly. That made him a hero to me.

Not all heroes wear capes and jump buildings in a single bound. I think that the everyday heroes, who do good things, can be personal heroes. And sometimes, that counts more than stopping bullets or flying through the air.

I appreciate all of the people who, throughout the course of my life, have been my heroes. They made and are still making a difference in people’s lives. That counts for much in my books. So maybe they’re not heroes in the traditional sense of the word but they remain my heroes. And I’m grateful to each and every one of them.

Here’s to the everyday heroes who make a difference in our lives.

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The More Things Change...

When I lived in Guelph, I belonged to a wonderful writing group. Each time we met, we would have a different exercise to do. It was a difficult, wonderful, cathartic, time for me. My writing was mostly depressing and always truthful. The others in the group were truly wonderful and supportive people. Leaving the confines of that wonderfully safe environment and publishing this particular post is daring for me.

For some reason, last weekend I took out my book of writings and started reading through it for the first time in years. So much of what I wrote back then, still resonates now. The following is a slightly revised version of an exercise entitle "Work' that I wrote back then. Sadly, it is more true today than it was back then. This is what I wrote many years ago....

All of my life my friends have all had jobs, careers and/or professions, whether inside the home or out. I have not. I have had (for various reason) only a handful of jobs in my whole life.That in no way implies that I have not worked. Indeed, I feel that I have worked harder my whole life than many "professionals". My entire life's work has been a struggle to survive. So far I have, though some days it feels just barely. I have struggled against an abusive father, abusive siblings, rape, a stalker, various failed relationships, and a failed marriage that I truly believed would be bliss until the day I died. (and let's not forget the other 2 marriages) Instead, it ended the day he walked out the door to be with another woman and I got an email telling me that he was "sorry". (turns out he was also a pedophile) I have survived the death of my father and worse, the nursing of my mother to her grave.

Caring for someone you love everyday, knowing that the end comes only when that someone dies, is just about the hardest thing I can think of to wish on a person. In early June, my husband walked out of my life forever and I was devastated. In early September my mother was diagnosed with lung cancer and a brain tumor. Trying to work through the the pain of my husband's betrayal was just about all I could handle - or so I thought. The news about Mum was beyond understanding. It meant ministering to her until the day she died. Which I did. Most of those days I didn't think I'd make it. Other days I knew I wouldn't. Watching a loved one slip away daily is is most definitely hard work and it almost destroyed me. Then the end came. I'm not sure what was expected of me but I do know that the reaction to my mothers death was not what people wanted. Few people seemed to understand that I could be at peace because now Mum was too. People thought I was "abnormal" because I didn't cry more. From the time I was a child I was taught NOT to cry. I couldn't cry. I didn't know how. Just as I didn't cry when my father died. I didn't know how then either.

My life has been a constant struggle to simply keep my head above water and maintain some semblance of what will at least pass for sanity. It is incredibly hard work. Pain has become all I know and when that happens in your life, you learn to work at facades and role playing like you've never worked before. Faking your way through life becomes your life's work. It's not easy to let the world think you're okay when inside you're dying. It's not easy to show the world a smile when the tears threaten every day to tear you apart.

This is the end of the "mostly original writing". The addendum:

Since this was originally written, I have dealt with the death of my brother. I was still living in Guelph when I got the phone call telling me that my eldest brother had died in a hunting accident. I was not welcome at the funeral. (or so I was told) This was as hard, in some ways harder than dealing with my mothers illness and death. Not only was my brother gone so suddenly, but I was denied closure. It's very difficult to mourn someone close to you when no one around you knows that person. I learned that the hard way.I did the best I could and with the help of the same writing group, even had a memorial service of sorts. It was incredibly hard work and at this point, I didn't even want to make it. But, for some reason, I plodded on. Then it got worse. (again) I finally moved home to Dartmouth about 5 years after my brothers' death and found out that the "hunting accident" had never taken place at all. My brother had committed suicide. The way my brother died is most definitely not the issue here. The fact that I was lied to from start to finish about all things surrounding his death,most certainly is. I was not, I discovered, "unwelcome" at the funeral, as I had been told. The amount of work that went into portraying a normal existence through all of this garbage, and having to mourn my brother all over again, was all but crushing.

It's been 10 years since my brothers' death and I still struggle. I struggle with the weight of lies. I struggle with the fact that he is no longer with us. I struggle with the fact that I was excluded from everything that might have brought me closure. Closure that to this day I have not attained.

Even now when someone asks me what I do for a living, I feel shame. Even when I look back on how hard I've worked to stay alive, I feel shame. I work every day at putting a smile on my face for others. I work at being whatever it is others want me to be. You would think that by now I would have this art perfected but it's one of those things that can't be perfected.It just gets more and more difficult. And more and more painful. It's a job that never goes away. And I fear that someday, I won't show up for work.

(For the record, this was an incredibly difficult thing for me to write originally and even more difficult I think to rework. Publishing it in my blog is, for me, one of the scariest things I've done but for some reason, I felt it had to be done. If any one of the few of you who read this can perhaps offer a suggestion as to why I felt it needed to be done, I welcome your suggestions.) .