Thanks to everybody who read my last blog and went to my IG and Facebook pages. And shared my posts.
The viewer numbers have been incredible! Like, wow, big, big numbers.
This ‘making me famous to get my book(s) published’ thing seems to really be working. But we’re just getting started. I haven’t yet pitched my new book. Gotta build some more buzz first. I haven’t hit the stand-up stage again yet, either. Need to try out some more bits of my bit and get some feedback and some rhythm before I do that.
But it’s coming.
Thanks for the publisher advice many of you have shared. Thanks for the new networks most of you have opened up to me. It’s all so cool. Radical, even. Sorry about that, I was just at an 80s retro show and some of the gnarly sayings have stuck.
I’m putting the final touches on the pitch for my new book. I shared some of the details in one of my Reels, but I gotta be careful not to give away too much. There is a pretty cool fight between an angel and my hero. I mentioned the celestial romance, too, right? Some naughty bits there. But enough of that for now.
There’s more to come. In the days ahead you’ll see some new Reels. Please given ‘em a spin and share them. There will be more on my progress. More on the book. And the next bit of my stand up bit. It will include a fart joke. Farts are funny. They just are.
But I was thinking. I’ve got two other books out there. The stroke book seems to require me being famous to publish it, so I’ll put a pin on that for now. But if you happen to be a publisher looking for something that’s making the rounds right now and you don’t wanna miss out, consider Elephant Ropes.
I think I shared a bit of that earlier, but here’s the synopsis – straight from my pitch letter:
Elephant Ropes pits Lee Peters, a dinosaur of a newspaper reporter, against a homophobic, racist, misogynistic man enraged at the world. His fury is fueled by his ex-wife leaving him for a man of colour, being passed over for jobs by ‘the un-deserving’ and a new media that, among other sins, boots a weather forecast that sees him soaked at a classic rock concert.
To avenge these and many other perceived new world wrongs, the man kidnaps the weather ‘girl’ at the city’s top TV station. To go free, she must make five straight accurate weather forecasts just like the man believes old-time weather men used to do. Miss the mark and she’s dead. Feeling Peters is an old-school kindred spirit, the man gives the reporter first crack at telling the story ‘the right way.’ Peters uses this opportunity to attempt to play the man to rekindle his glory days but instead runs afoul of him, the police and his morals.
His troubles with the coppers begins when he breaks the hostage story without informing them – at the man’s insistence and to Peters’ pleasure. This opens up old wounds he’s had with the cops and sparks a battle with his rag’s sister paper. This begins multiple games of cat and mouse between Peters and the police, Peters and the man, and the cops and the man. As this plays out, Peters feels the old juice that comes from having a big story with international attention while the man begins to see himself as a folk hero for the oppressed men whose forefathers ‘made this country.’ And in the background of all of this, the books’ characters are forced to re-think the new face of the media, the death spiral of newspapers, and degrees of prejudice.
It’s pretty cool, I think.
Also bitch’n – there I go with that 80s talk again. Here are a couple of short stories I published.
Meanwhile, I gotta get to work on my new book pitch and practice my Reel. Gonna shoot that Friday and you’ll see it arrive on a device near you next week.
If you’ve been to this space before, it’s been a long, long time – that’s because I’ve had more stops and starts than a New Your City bus during rush hour. But that changes with the offering before you right now. Why? Because it’s part of Timmy’s Big New Plan. A war on creative anonymity that will see me dishing up big laughs on stand-up comedy stages the world over, brewing up big entertainment on a new Reel and ultimately publishing my books – three so far – and launching them on the fast-track to world-wide best seller status.
I just know it. Here’s the deal. After blogs about my stroke, recovery and what not. Blogs about sickness and death. And blogs pitching published short stories and unpublished books I realized something kinda obvious. The lack of focus, the stops and starts — is the focus. And it goes down best with some yuks. So here’s what I’ve done. After an unpublished book about my weird stroke that got positive rejections (we’d publish this sucker if you were famous). And rejections on a pretty cool novel that seemed not to fit any easy-to-sell genres. I’ve written a third book that some writers I know say is uber unique, edgy and just one helluva read. But I can’t just chuck it out there to get ignored and passed over. So, what do I do?
Self-publishing seems to rarely work. Being famous, however, is a fast track to publishing success. So I just gotta get famous.
Committing an explosive, horrific crime is one option to achieve this, given I’m not an actor, musician or politician. No hope for sports fame at this point, unless I can score as a pickle baller and became a star on the as yet not created pickleball pro tour. That’s led me to face fame. This Reel — @timseefeldt — is gonna, with your help, create a fake fame for me. That and hitting the open mike stand-up circuit. But I need your help. Keep reading this, and the next and the next. Share it. Got to the Reel — @timseefeldt — laugh your ass off and send it to a friend. A gazilia friends. Rinse and repeat on the share thing. Then, with the power of my Reel fame and some stand up gigs under my belt, what publisher will be able to ignore my latest novel? And they’ll be fighting over the other one. And the stroke book. This can’t miss. What’s the new novel about? It’s kinda a secret. A writer friend told me to be careful…someone might steal the idea. It’s that cool he said. It does bring together some twisted angles, human manipulators looking to re-write the meaning of life and a washed up newspaper reporter who gets recruited to try to keep the world from becoming unhinged. There are glamourous locations, violence, oh and sex. Ya a forbidden terrestrial/extra terrestrial one. Steamy and sad. You’ll love it. Despite all the weirder stuff, there’s still old fashion fights, treachery and some morality stuff that will be among those things that make you go hmmm. But you’ll never get a chance to read it – and the movie that will no doubt follow it – unless you help make me famous. Ish.
Don’t i look like a guy who should have a book deal or three?
So please share this. Click on to the Reel — @timseefeldt — share it too please. And watch for me on open mike nites. I’ll also give you some previews on the Reels. And when I’m published? Your reward? I couldn’t have done it without you! You’ll always be able to tell folks this. “The writer/reeler Seefeldt? I helped make that cat what he is today. We’re tight.” That’ ll kinda make you a big deal too. Whaddaya say?
Well, hell, August is over and all of the ‘firsts’ following my bride’s passing have come and gone. And now I feel…I don’t know.
It’s very, very weird.
I thought a switch might go off. Anniversary, check. Birthday, check. Christmas – you get the picture But when the one-year anniversary (is that the right word?) of Patricia’s death hit on August 5th and was followed mid-month by the 365th day after her funeral, I was left still feeling numb.
Patricia in one of her favorite places vibing on the energy of the Rocky Mountains
Not sure what I was expecting. A switch to turn off? Or on? A locked door to swing open? “OK, pal, you’ve done your time. Move on.”
But nothing significant changed.
The sun set. Then rose again. Oh, the grass over her grave is thickening up. And there are a surprising number of new neighbors near Patricia’s spot. Younger, older. Various backgrounds. Death is very open minded, it seems. No prejudice or playing favorites.
When it comes to how I feel, though, or how the world feels without her in it, it’s pretty much the same. A little less raw, maybe. But raw enough to sting. I haven’t come up with any great insights on this. Other than I know the world would be a better place with Patricia in it. That’s a no-brainer. But I have to go back to what she said on this front in her final days: “I’m not going to ask why.”
She just wanted to focus on the joys she had in her life.
So do I.
And, in keeping with her advice, to keep embracing the joy in life today. I’ve had a lot of that over the past year. With my girls, my oldest friends, newer ones. Even strangers over drinks in pubs.
The numbness always finds its way back though. And I was dreading what impact it would have on me and my girls on Patricia’s death day.
August started as perfectly as it could have. Such a relief as I had been so anxious about how I would feel. And worse, how my girls would feel as D-day got closer, then hit. I’ve learned over the last year that I can be ready or not, but the emotions churn up the gut every time there is a milestone. Sometimes it feels like a machine agitating butter to make cream. Other times it’s like waves pounding to shore before a hurricane.
There’s no stopping it or dodging it.
That’s why I was thrilled that Anna and Kristina wanted to go on a trip together to mark the day. And I was blown away when they suggested Oregon, home to one of our great family vacations when my girls actually were girls. Patricia planned that early adventure to a tee. She booked a cabin on Cannon Beach. And once in Oregon, we did loads of day trips including one to Portland.
But much of the adventure was getting there from Edmonton. Patricia plotted out a roadie using one of those old school AMA Trip Ticks where we had to actually unfurl real maps. Night one was in Spokane, Washington. Then we spent some time in Seattle before meandering down the coast, making loads of pit stops on the way. She made sure to plan one stop in Astoria, Oregon- the town where they filmed The Goonies. If you haven’t seen that flick, I don’t know what’s wrong with you 😊.
This time around, Kristina, Anna and I flew. The ladies and I stayed at the Woodlark Hotel in the heart of Portland. I arrived about mid-day, Anna and Kristina didn’t get there until early evening. So I spent my time walking around, reacquainting myself with the city.
I love it.
It’s a city of grit, art and soul. In many ways like Edmonton vibe-wise.
Oh, and heart. There are people struggling post – Covid and they are visible. And there are loads of folks lending a hand and welcoming you, keen to fuel whatever interests, whatever you need. There are also loads of places to get a coffee or a beer where people are eager to chat.
But my best conversation came on day one at the Woodlark. After exploring and just ahead of the girl’s arrival, I sat down at the lobby bar. The fella running it was a great conversationalist as many in his trade are. He was something special, though. In the convo he asked what brought me there. I explained Patricia’s death and the reason for the trip. Blurted it out, really. I do that sometimes. It often meets with awkward responses.
Understandable.
Not with my new friend, though. We carried on chin wagging until Anna and Kristina arrived. More talk followed over the coming days. Same thing with everybody else there. A real welcoming bunch. They are in the hospitality biz, so I suppose that makes sense. On the night before we checked out, however, there was a postcard in our room from the team. It explained that they heard why we were there and wished us much love and healing. They peppered that with three ‘Someone in Portland loves you’ fridge magnets.
That choked me up.
The trip was so amazing.
Fantastic dinners, a scotch bar, a ghost tour of an 1800s hotel. On August 5th we hired an Uber driver to bomb us around some wineries and just see the sites. At one, we sat in the sun overlooking a classic vineyard. At Remy Wines, we plunked down on a deck and heard amazing stories from our host over several glasses including their Three Wives rosé. Turns out that this place not only makes grapes but works to promote diversity and inclusion by holding workshops among other things.
Patricia would have strongly approved.
That night we toasted my bride, the girls’ mom, at the Woodlark’s restaurant.
The next day we rented a car and went on a mother of a roadie. First stop, Multnomah Falls. So striking. We climbed past the main viewing area. And on, and on. Up and up. Eventually we were mostly on our own. So gorgeous. Such beautiful air to breathe.
On from there to Cannon Beach.
Not an Interstate Highway drive. Views of the Columbia River, a mountain climb, then that most inviting town we spent so much time in and around – Cannon Beach. We hunted for parking then went for a bite and a beer at the Wayfarer Restaurant right on the beach. A table magically opened up for us with a view of the iconic Haystack Rock.
We walked off the meal on the beach. It was busy but had cooled off a bit so not crazy. We just kinda took it all in. Memories hitting each of us in waves. But these were gentle waves. Healing ones. We spent a lot of time walking, stopping and just drinking it in. People were flying kites, making sandcastles, stuff we might have been doing all of those years ago.
With Patricia.
I’m not going to say she touched my shoulder from the next life, or spoke to me through the breeze. But I sure felt my bride there.
The drive back to Portland was satisfying.
Fittingly, perhaps, we did the ghost tour that evening at what is now Old Town Pizza but was an early bar and hotel. I was open to a tap from Patricia there, too, but, alas, none came. The tour was less about specters and more about Portland’s history and the way some folks in the 1800s were tricked into setting sail to work on board ships. We capped off the evening on a rooftop patio in the Old Town, Tope.
The haunted hotel above and a look at Portland from Tope’s roof-top patio below.
We also managed to fit in a trip to the magnificent Portland Japanese Garden, a tour of an early city founder’s home (the Pittock Mansion) and, of course, time in the massive and wonderful Powell’s City of Books (been there twice now, got the t-shirt).
Then it was all over. Back to Calgary, Edmonton and Toronto the next day. But filled up to full with the memories.
I realized how my bride lives on through Kristina and Anna. It’s not just a cliche . And I see how they are becoming stronger. Both for themselves, for me, and each other. I remember what it was like when my mom died at 58. I was a year older than Anna was, two years younger than Kristina. I worry about them, knowing how hard it was, but then I see how much stronger they are than me at that age. How well-equipped Patricia made them for everything.
The weeks since then have been wonderful, horrible, exciting and frightening. It’s interesting, if infuriating, how fast the switch can flip. Me and Dobby (our mutt) have been on some great walks, including to Elk Island and Banff (joined by Anna) National Parks.
More healing, and fall walks are planned. And Calgary trips. And Toronto. And???
And writing. Another book is pouring out and I continue to hunt publishers for the first two.
I guess I’ll just keep my feed moving, drink in the joy, learn from the pain and share the stories.
Something surprising struck me as the impending one-year mark of my bride’s death pressed down on my chest with the pressure of a beached Blue Whale.
I have no regrets.
Which seems weird as I mourn the essence of Patricia no longer a part of my day-to-day life. The feel of her hand in mine, mine in hers. The different sound of her voice through a range of moods and emotions. The lushness of her hair as I would run my hand through it, exactly as it was the first time I had the courage to touch it during an early kiss.
Me and my ladies — Patricia, Anna and Kristina. Everything.
The sound of her voice. They say this is the first thing you lose after somebody dies. But I purposely haven’t played a recording of my bride – not sure I can take that yet – and still I hear her perfectly in all of her inflections.
OK, this last piece is no longer true. It was when I began writing this, but then a friend of Patricia sent me a video. In it, Patricia records Anna in her then-new apartment in Calgary. Anna had just moved in a few weeks before we rushed my bride to the Royal Alexandra Hospital. In the recording, Patricia pans the lens to show the entire suite while she describes it from top to bottom. You never see Patricia in the video. But her voice is a gem, nuanced, playful, matter-of-fact and clear. And somehow sexy, even as she describes cabinets and lighting fixtures.
The voice is exactly what’s been in my head these last 11 months. I stopped the recording, played it one more time then sat, speechless for maybe a minute. Then I cried harder than I ever remember weeping.
I can’t roll on to her side of the bed. Her night table stands unchanged from the morning she last awoke in our home, a pair of glasses in a holder I bought her for her last Mother’s Day, some jewelry, a photo of the two of us in Mexico.
Yet I can’t muster up regret.
As I miss her, mourn her and deal with fits of rage over her death, regret remains absent. I’m angry that our time together is over so soon. I wish I hadn’t done some things, that I had done others. Regret, though? No. It feels like regret would be counter to the great life that we had together.
Since August 5 of last year at 5:23 pm I’ve spoken to a lot of people whose partner died. Some really do have regret. Those aren’t my stories to share, and I’m so thankful I’m not wearing that on top of everything else.
It’s not me.
Our life was filled with passion, which has many forms. Sometimes it’s messy, often it comes with heart-pounding joy. It’s never boring. And it’s so simple despite seeming so complicated. I don’t regret a moment of it. Life needs spice and some spices can make your eyes water and your skin sting. But it balances out with the sweeter spices to leave a great taste when all is said and done. And when all was said and done with Patricia and me, there were no more words that needed to be said. We were holding hands and I was stroking that luscious hair as she breathed her last breath.
I have no idea how I got so lucky to be that sad. Sad seems like a sad word to describe the end of a long, beautiful marriage and the knowledge that your amazing daughters are being just as broken in different ways. But every other word for sadness that I can think of just doesn’t do the trick. Whatever the word, to feel as horrible as I did – as I do – is a fantastic gift.
Weird, I know.
But it’s like the end of a great book, or trip. It’s over, but, damn, what a ride!
I’ve had a lot of conversations with friends and acquaintances going through divorce. We connect on the grief of loss, but it’s so different when all of the other elements come into play. When something broke apart rather than being ripped away.
To feel is to live. To feel so much pain of so much loss is to have lived incredibly. I’ll take that.
Life is funny in a sometimes-sad way. But it’s still funny. And I’ve turned to humor in a big way to heal.
First of all, I’m not embarrassed to say I’ve been seeing a shrink. One with a sense of humor and who doesn’t mind me calling her a shrink. It’s great to have a pro talk me through the mental bruises and breaks. A session isn’t complete without at least a few tears chased by a laugh or two.
Second, I took some stand-up comedy classes and will do my first show later in the summer. All the best comedians are broken, right? Even if it’s a bomb show, who can hurt me now?
And finally, I’ve turned to the wisdom of comedians to heal. No offense to the great spiritual gurus out there, but I’ve found the words of fellas like Canadian funny man Jim Carrey is just what the doctor ordered.
He talks about faith in ways a lot of Sunday morning preachers could learn a few things from. There is some cool stuff out there on the web with Carrey speaking to a graduating class about life happening for you, not to you. About having faith, asking for and believing in what you want in life and working toward it without worrying about the how. No talk about hunting down converts or any particular kind of religion.
Just taking a chance on faith.
It sounds a lot more like what I’ve read that’s been attributed to Christ and other spiritual gurus than the stuff I’ve heard booming down from pulpits.
I’ve had some folks over these last 11 months suggest that dying ‘before your time’ doesn’t jibe with their brand of faith.
“Didn’t you pray hard enough?” they imply. “Didn’t you believe strongly enough? Don’t you believe in miracles?”
I do. I believe in the miracle that creation gave the world Patricia, and I feel blessed to have had her in my life as long as I did.
Life isn’t measured in hours, it’s measured in quality. That I’m sure of. And Patricia packed in a high measure of quality in her years. That was clear to all who knew her but it was also clear in how she lived her last days: with grace, satisfaction and gratitude.
Zero regret.
Would she have happily taken more time? Of course.
But there was no regret in the life she lived, and she refused to ask “why is this happening to me?”. My love told me this explicitly from her hospital bed at the Royal Alex not long before she left this life. With tubes inserted into her to do the job her body was no longer able to do and not physically strong enough to get up on her own, she said: “I won’t ask why. I’ve loved my life.”
How the hell can I have any regret? I loved – love – my life with her. I have no regret, only gratitude for every millisecond I spent with her on this planet and having her now and forever implanted in my heart.
So, even gone from this earth, Patricia is impacting the way I live here. Because I now realize I don’t regret the things in my life I was sure I regretted. I don’t love everything that’s happened, but I can’t regret them. They’ve shaped me. And can continue to shape me if I just let them.
I just have to listen to my bride. And Jim Carrey.
Today is the 25th anniversary of the best move I ever made.
It marks the day Patricia and I exchanged vows, put rings on each other’s fingers and had a Lutheran preacher read some beautiful words penned by Chief Dan George. All as a small group of friends and family watched on and our young daughters joined us for the walk down the aisle.
Nothing was ordinary or boring with my bride.
So why am I surprised to be alone today in the house we shared, quietly celebrating our life together while she charts her course through the afterlife?
I shouldn’t be.
My mobile keeps buzzing with the many reminders I left myself to ensure I wouldn’t forget to book a table, to arrange the mother of all flower arrangements and to set up a surprise trip to a spot in Mexico that was a slice of heaven to us. I kept forgetting to turn off the next reminder I’d set up so I got multiple alerts to the celebration that wasn’t to be.
And here we are. Or hear I am.
She’s here, too, in the plants I’ve somehow kept alive, the fall colors in our backyard and the presence I feel in every sight, sound and scent in this now castle-feeling four level split. Please don’t feel sorry for me, though. As sad as it is to be without her, it’s that much more beautiful to have had her in my life to miss.
Last Friday was two months since Patricia’s passing by calendar days, Friday to Friday. By date, the two months will be marked tomorrow. She left this life on Friday, August 5th. At 5:23 pm. But who’s counting?
I am.
The first few weeks following Patricia’s passing – after just four weeks from the discovery of the cancer threat to her last breath — I was surrounded by people without effort. There were lots of visitors, planning the funeral, the funeral itself.
Then I got back to work. And my friends and girls have been fantastic calling me, texting and getting together face-to-face. I’ve been in Calgary a bunch scooter-hopping between bars, heading out for meals, and I have trips planned with my buddies and my girls.
It helps to keep the mind busy.
But there’s no avoiding the quiet moments in this house with just the presence of Patricia. And I’ve found it’s all how I frame it that matters. I can let sadness engulf me, or I can embrace the joy that comes with that presence. Whatever you believe or don’t believe about the afterlife, I can tell you the presence is real. Whatever it is.
And it’s heightened my senses to the presence of others I’ve lost, especially my mom and dad.
Oh no, you’re thinking, Seefeldt has lost it. Don’t worry, I wasn’t working with a full deck before, so I should be able to handle a bit more madness. But I’m pretty sure it’s clarity, not crazy, that I’m feeling.
What has started to drive me mad is some of the responses that I didn’t see coming.
99 per cent of the people I’ve dealt with since my bride’s passing have been so fantastic. They’ve lifted me up, cried with me, given my head a shake.
Whatever I needed.
I’m humbled by the folks who’ve reached out from my past and distant acquaintances from my present who’ve offered so much help and support.
But those one per cent?
Wow.
Fights with the blatantly bureaucratic at Motor Vehicles. Self-serving advice about selling things or not selling things from various ‘experts’ who somehow have learned of Patricia’s passing.
Sheesh. I’m still just trying to catch my breath.
They’re actually helping me too, without realizing it, though. Getting fired up helps keep me sharp and, well, alive. Life is for the living after all. And that’s what I intend to do passionately, for my girls, for my friends and for myself.
As for today, I’ll pour two G&Ts, clink glasses with my bride and smile as I think about all of the great times we’ve had.
You just never know what the next tick on the clock will bring. For me, at 5:23 pm on August 5 it brought the end to the time on this earth for my soul mate and true love.
That’s when Patricia Renee Raidt drew her last breath after a gut-wrenching one-month assault from cancer. And my heart will never be the same.
It wasn’t a fair fight.
Pat had a history of cancer attacks and did all the right things. She made great lifestyle choices and had regular screenings and visits to her doctor and specialists. And still…
The last time I blogged – my return to blogging – was to signal my attempts to publish a new novel and the featuring of a short story in a magazine. Now that all seems so, well, meh.
It’s cliqued, but it’s amazing how quickly things can change. Below is an excerpt from my diary on July 31 to show you what I mean:
It’s the last day of July, a month that started with so much promise.
I had two weeks and change off from work, from Canada Day through July 15th. Pat was back home from taking care of her dad in Calgary and we were going to have our first long stretch alone together since she started looking after her parents back in November. First her mom was ill, then her dad was diagnosed with cancer. Kristina was coming home on the 9th and Anna was going to be in town, too.
July 10th was going to be spent hanging out with our girls before they hit the road to Calgary where Kristina would see Anna’s new apartment in the central neighborhood of Eau Claire. They’d do some Stampeding. Pat and I were going to pop down as well. Visit some friends, do some Stampeding of our own, and see more of the girls.
The first week went well. We had a fantastic time together, though Pat’s pain from the hip issue she’d been suffering from – and seeing docs, physio and naturopaths about– limited what we could do. But we were together. Kristina landed on the 9th as planned. I picked her up myself because Pat’s hip was hurting. Back home we had a great reunion. It was the first time seeing each other without a screen between us since Christmas.
The evening ended well.
We’d see Anna in the morning.
Instead, Pat’s pain intensified Sunday morning. Her breathing was tight. Alarmingly so. Kristina called an ambulance.
Today, I sit watching my bride lying on a bed in the Royal Alexandra Hospital’s Robbins Pavilion. She has a beautiful view of downtown Edmonton. If she could get up, she’d see a lovely park that she has no hope of ever visiting.
Pat is dying of cancer that has somehow savaged her entire body. Confoundingly, they tell us this is the work of the cancer she bravely battled –and beat, we thought – seven years ago. That took a hysterectomy, chemo and radiation. But the damn thing came back.
And it rapidly spread. To her left lung, her spine, bones throughout her body, her kidney and on and on. But it seems like it’s the kidney that’s going to get her. Perhaps in days. Maybe weeks. No more they say.
They doubt she’ll make our 25th wedding anniversary on October 4th. I’m holding out hope, if it doesn’t cause her too much pain. Her birthday on November 11th will almost certainly be a Remembrance Day of my time with her. Christmas? There really seems no way.
We’ve been together exactly 30 years. We started dating the same year my mom died of cancer at 58. Now, as my daughters follow in my footsteps at almost exactly the same age, my heart is ripping out from multiple directions.
What helps is my many talks with Pat over the last few days. Her breathing is difficult but through the gasps she exudes a bravery that, when it comes right down to it, seems based on both the simplest and most profound of things.
She’s content with the way she lived her life. Goal number one was to walk, really walk with our girls through their lives. To be there in every sense of the word. Hear them out, share, talk through problems. Really and truly. To go on fieldtrips, to volunteer in every event, be on the sidelines or in the crowd at every concert, competition, and ceremony. To cry with them when they needed to cry – day and night, 24-7. To move them to Toronto, to campus, to Calgary. Help set up apartments and clean them up. To cry and laugh. At the right time. When it was needed, wanted, no questions asked.
Pat did that. And she thanked me this week for helping her do it.
She told me that she won’t ask why this is happening to her. She’d love more time. But she says she’s content. She’s run a good race- a very, very good race. She told me she’s thankful for this and that’s enough. My bride refuses to be bitter. That, I’m sure, will help her into whatever is next.
Pat did this all while being a hell of a bride. She supported me through everything. Everything. Through my career whipsaw, my stroke recovering, and my writing. She was the first editor on my first two, as of yet, unpublished books. Her pen was on my blogs, on feature stories, and short stories that I’ve published.
She consoles me even now, while she’s in her hospital bed dying. She’s still giving advice and support to our girls. She called a counselling session to help her parents cope. She makes silly jokes to console us. Like a play on the old Arnold Schwarzenegger movie Kindergarten Cop. There’s a line Arnie delivers when the kids are driving him crazy and he has a headache. A kindergartener suggests that it may be a tumor. Schwarzenegger says, in his thick Austrian accent: “It’s not a tumower.”
One day, out of the blue, Pat tells me and the girls, with a smile on her face: “It is a tumower.”
And for 30 years, I’ve tried to get her to fist pump me. She always explained that she doesn’t fist pump. But now, seeing the pain and fear in my eyes, she consoled me with regular fist pumps including an added end-of-fist-pump move that included a spreading of her hand and a ‘bowww’ sound.
What a woman.
This was the last day Pat saw Anna. Anna was to start articling at a law firm in Calgary and Pat insisted that she not put it off. She wanted to know, I believe, that before she passed, Anna had moved on to launch her career. Kristina remained with us, on a break from her post in Toronto. Pat now knew that both girls were launched full throttle into their career paths.
By the end of the following day, the love of my life slipped into a coma. I talked her ear off for the next week, as did Kristina and her friend Mary, before she passed away that Friday. It was beautiful that Pat was able to pass with that peace surrounding her. Her hands held; her hair stroked.
I was with her every day, all day from the time she was admitted, over night for the best part of the final two weeks. Before the coma, we had lots of great talks, though they were stilted due to the pain. In a weird way, they were some of the best days of my life. And I’m so happy for the peace she had knowing she’d run a great race and left this world with a great connection to her girls and me.
After submitting my last blog 15 months ago, my brain cramped. It might have been Covid overkill, I don’t know.
But I hit a wall.
Again.
Then I decided to dust off what got me started at the key board way back when. Writing old fashioned stories in a new fashioned way.
First, I polished up my stroke book, found a great editor and am about to pound the pavement looking for a publisher for it. I had some very positive rejections a while back. With the editor’s touch and some advice on better-targeted publishers, I’m optimistic about Where Are My Shoes seeing the light of day at a books store/on-line store near you soon.
Then, I wrote a novel. A pretty good one, too, I think. It’s about a disenchanted old -school newspaper reporter, a TV weather scientist and a racist/misogynist wack job. It’s with that great editor now. When she’s done with it, I’ll have it in front of an agent and then – knock-on-wood — to a publisher.
Finally, I went back to my early days and put together a couple of short stories. The first of these, Whatever Happened to American Standard, is out now in Litbreak Magazine. You can find it hear: https://litbreak.com/
I hope you like it. I’ll let you know when the next one comes out and where to find it. Ditto on any progress with the books. I’m off and running on a second novel, as well.
What’s all of this have to do with Brain Food?
I’m glad you asked.
Recently, through work, I saw a presentation given by a wheel chair-bound stroke survivor who now works to improve accessibility to staff at her government ministry across the board. Ready tools, physical accessibility – everything is fair came. Then I listened to a presentation by librarians around improving access to the reading impaired. Their aim is to make it possible to read anything whether you’re blind and trying to get through a document at work, or have a reading disability and want to check out a book at the library.
After being both inspired and humbled by these presentations, I’ve decided to re re-focus my blogging on reading. Whether that’s being able to read or having access to reading. Because, you know, you can’t taste Brain Food unless you can have access to it in the first place.
The rest of my writing will be focussed on putting out more short stories and books. I’ll share info and updates on this writing here, as well.
So, my next two blogs will be a deeper dive into the interesting work noted above. Hopefully I’ll have some more info to share on my other writing by then, too.
It’s been 76 years since the end of the last time a global catastrophe profoundly impacted every corner of Planet Earth. That was the end of World War II.
For the first time since then, the entire world is under threat. This time, by a common enemy in Covid-19. And this time that foe is attacking every tiny corner of the Third Rock from the Sun.
It’s no wonder so many of us are stressed and fatigued. Never before has it been more important to be mindful of our mental health.
I spoke to Dr. Angela Grace to get her take on this. Dr. Grace is a Calgary-based Registered Psychologist and, like all of her colleagues, she’s been busier than ever during this Covid year.
“There are some times through Covid that I’m a front-line worker for front-line workers and I’m noticing myself getting exhausted,” she said. “We’re all human and we’re meant to go through a range of experiences and a range of emotions, but even myself, this is what I do for work, but I am still impacted.”
If mental health pros feel stress, nobody should be ashamed to accept that they feel it, too. But what to do? And how do you determine if stress is ‘manageable’ or if you are beginning to go to a dark and dangerous place?
“To me, the difference is your ability to bounce back,” said Dr. Grace. “What I do is look at what is the consistency and longevity of the complaints, of the concerns, of the emotions of the feelings. I even watch it in myself. If I had a really crappy day can I have a hot bath and get a good sleep and meditate in the morning and am I going to feel better? Or, am I still feeling terrible about everything?”
Time is key here.
Dr. Grace said she and her colleagues look at length of time when assessing stress levels.
“If it’s a few days or a few days a month when you go into a slump and you know how to pull yourself out of it, that’s emotional resilience, that’s good self care, that’s good honouring of your feelings and experiences,” she said. “But if it goes on and on for a couple weeks, a couple months, if you can’t seem to pull yourself out of the slump or don’t have the resources to help with that, then it’s definitely time to reach out for professional help.”
When I hear Dr. Grace speak, I realize that caring for our mental health is a lot like nurturing a beloved car (only a million times more important, of course :-)). Sometimes your ride needs major work. Most of the time regular tune ups keep it ship shape. And it always needs a little TLC.
We’re no different.
“Sometimes it’s a friend we need, sometimes it’s a colleague we need, sometimes it’s a family member that we need,” she said. “And sometimes it’s somebody completely outside of our lives who we can spill our guts to and have that outside perspective and just know our secrets are safe. And our deeper inner feelings that we’re afraid of being judged on by family and friends are going to be taken care of.
“Sometimes we need that skilled outside observer because we’re too close to the situation. We’re too close to what’s happening. We can’t see things objectively. We can’t hold on to a higher hope. We don’t have the skills to get out of it without that outside voice.”
But too many of us see asking for help – whether from friends or professionals – as a sign of weakness. Others don’t believe that real help is out there.
“There’s still a stigma about mental health that we should be able to ‘snap out of it,’” said Dr. Grace.
That’s a mistake.
Dr. Grace said that caring for our mental health is critical to a complete life.
“We always need to be doing things to boost our mental health, just like with our physical bodies,” she said.
Often, we can do this at the same time.
“One of the known prevention factors for depression and relieving anxiety is a good amount of exercise. So, weightlifting, getting some cardio, getting your body moving,” said Dr. Grace.
This is another way that Covid in combination with the recent cold weather has taken a bite out of us.
“I’m fortunate that I’m a yoga instructor and a dancer. I can dance and do yoga in my house and I’m fine with that,” she said. “But for the people who need that socializing at the gym, who need that routine of getting into the water for a swim, there is none. That is going to take a toll on people.”
That’s why Spring 2021 is going to be so important, literally opening the door for us to get out and active more often. It’s not just getting out, either. It’s getting the suns’ rays shining directly on us.
“We need that light for our circadian rhythm,” said Dr. Grace.
Circadian rhythms are physical, mental, and behavioral changes that follow a 24-hour cycle. These natural processes respond primarily to light and dark and affect most living things, including animals, plants, and microbes. This includes us.
“This is one of the hardest seasons. We’ve just got to get through the next few weeks until the sun comes out again and spring comes,” said Dr. Grace
But there is an option if you can’t get out in the sun and for those long nights and dark days of winter. They are special ‘sun’ lights designed for people with seasonal effectiveness disorder. She shines hers on her first thing in the morning for 20 to 30 minutes.
The other Covid challenge is that many of our outside stress relievers are shut down. This limits all of us and the options that Dr. Grace and her colleagues can suggest to patients. So, we can’t go do that hobby, like making pottery, we can’t go have coffee with a friend to debrief and unwind. These aren’t just ‘nice to haves.’ These activities are key to our on-going mental health, she said.
There’s another thing. Even some of the tools that are helping us get by through Covid are causing us stress.
“There really is such a thing as ‘Zoom fatigue’ where our brains can’t handle that much screen time,” said Dr. Grace. “I actually find it more tiring to do sessions by Zoom that I do in person because you just don’t’ get the same sense.”
She found that she needed to cut back the number of sessions she does a week to counteract this. It’s not just the screen time, either.
“I’ve also felt the stresses of kids home from school, husband working from home, my grandma passed away in November. I’ve got my own stuff to deal with and I can’t get over extended and truly be there for other people in the best way if I’m not well,” said Dr. Grace. “And I know a lot of my colleagues who I’ve spoken to recently have said the same thing. They’re closing the doors to new people for a couple of months because they’re full and overwhelmed. Just like our doctors and our nurses and our front-line workers, we’re not robots. We can’t give, give, give without that replenishment.”
What’s true for the professionals is true for all of us. Balance is always important, but especially now. Pushing ourselves too hard is a mistake.
“One of the biggest things is we need to notice our levels of fatigue and honor our need to rest,” she said.
Dr. Grace suggests trying to use the period as a time of growth.
“How can I turn it around into ‘how can I understand myself and humanity and how the world works just a little bit better,’” she said. “With some more hope, humility, letting go of the things you can’t control and turning it in to something that can be meaningful.”
But this can’t be accomplished by just sitting and meditating and being in a peaceful state. She said that you’ve got to feel the outrage, you can’t be benign with your feelings or try to sugar coat what’s going on around you. Again, working this through with friends and colleagues can help. It can also be great to talk to professionals who are trained to help you unpack your feelings.
For help finding a psychologist you can do what I did for this piece and connect with the Psychologists Association of Alberta. Their website is: www.psychologistsassociation.ab.ca
They have tools on the sight that can help understand what their members’ offer and guide you in choosing the right fit for you.
“It’s always a good idea to have your go-to therapist that knows you and can be that voice that says ‘hey, maybe you are in a real slump right now and we need to get some more resources and help in place,’” said Dr. Grace.
But she notes that not every situation is the same. If how you are feeling seems severe, go to the hospital, they’ll do an assessment there and lead you to the right support.
Back to the idea of finding the positive, the growth opportunity in a time of stress and turmoil, Dr. Grace points to Kazimierz Dabrowski’s theory of positive disintegration.
In 1967, the Polish psychologist, psychiatrist, and physician observed that adults go through a second adolescence. But this time, instead of their bodies going through pain full, dramatic changes and re-emerging as adults, in the second adolescence it is a person’s soul and belief system that have to fall apart to be transformed.
“It’s at this point that we can completely disintegrate and go into severe mental health issues, addictions, destroying families,” said Dr. Grace. “Or, we can turn this into a positive disintegration where we re-evaluate what’s important to us, re-evaluate our values, come into alignment with who we really are and what really gives our life meaning and so the disintegration becomes positive. “
For me, my stroke may have taken me through this disintegration. Looking back, I feel like it did and that I came out of it on the positive side. For many people, Covid may be the trigger for this disintegration.
With all that’s going on these days it’s easy to focus on just keeping your head above water. But keeping it dry isn’t good enough, you need to keep it healthy.
Oh, BTW, I took to yoga after my stroke. It was the first thing I’d found since my karate days that took my head right out of whatever had been stressing it since I’d had to stop practicing karate. Now one of my daughter’s, Kristina, is a certified yoga instructor. If you want ton try an on-line class, check out her website at: https://kristinaseefeldt.cloudstudios.com
Another thing – this coming Monday, March 15, marks 11 years since my brain sizzle. It’s my first strokeversery with a book done and in the can, with the hunt on for a publisher, so that’s cool. I always get some weird vibes on that day, though.
While I’m on about the book, the five publishers who were looking at it in December are still looking. Or, at least they haven’t said that they’ve stopped looking. One additional one asked to take a peek and quickly said ‘no thanks.’ It’s nice to have top publishers interested. I’ve had some good feedback, as well. That eases the sting of a ‘no thanks’.
Who knows, maybe my next blog will lead with details on a new book deal?!
The break turned into a hiatus. The hiatus to an absence. And now, here I am – more than two years since the last helping from the Brainfood Cafe.
The point of the break-hiatus-absence was to focus my writing on finishing my book – the tale of an average fella who one day wakes up dazed and confused with a misfiring melon. As you may recall from past blogs, it turns out that this fella – me – had a stroke, losing the ability to read, write and do arithmetic. My memory was shot and much of my cognitive skills were set back 40 years or so. Not too good as I was 45 when the stroke struck.
Me, my lady & my girls.
I figured finishing the book would take a few weeks. Maybe two or three months.
As well as I’ve recovered from the stroke, my math must still not be too great ‘cause I didn’t put a bow on the book until the summer. This past summer — 2020 COVID-19 Summer.
Why so long?
Because it was damn hard. Re-living the worst months of my existence took an emotional toll and required regular stoppages to reset my mind and rest my soul. And I had to get the writing right. Hemmingway said writing is easy, just sit down at the typewriter and bleed. There’s even more bloodletting when what you’re writing about is so personal. In the book I write about demons that haunted me as I fought to recover. Those demons also struck me as I wrote, making me question my words and my recovery.
But I finished.
And that felt great. My life’s goal was to write books, which is why I became a newspaper reporter way back when. It made sense at the time, but that trade left me with a lot of good ideas and partially thought-out beginnings. After career changes and years of starts and stops with my writing, along came the stroke, wiping away my ability to read and write and presumably putting a definitive end to my dream.
But now the dream is reality (I hate when cliches fit).
I’ll never forget the morning early this past June when I stopped typing, re-read what I’d just finished and realized that this was it with the book. I’d tied the yarn together, it was complete. At least complete enough to get it out in front of other sets of eyeballs. My bride, Patricia, had a final read for me with some suggestions. Then I reached out to writer friends of mine about agents and advice on the path to publishing. I got some great feedback and advice.
Edmonton writer Wayne Arthurson (The Traitors of Camp 133, Fall From Grace, The Red Chesterfield) gave my yarn a spin and suggested an epilogue. That was a brilliant idea. Then it turned out that Wayne is also working as a successful agent. We shook hands electronically and Wayne is now shopping my book around.
I’ve been warned about how hard it is to get a book published. Told not to get my hopes up. Cautioned how difficult it is even to get a good publisher to just read a synopsis. But so far, Wayne has managed to get these folks to take notice. I’ve even had the most inspiring rejection that I could ever imagine from a major publisher.
“Tim writes with poise and emotion (not surprising given the ordeal he’s been through!) and I feel he has a good voice here, and a sense of what he wants to convey.”
This publisher feels that my book isn’t the right fit for his company, but also believes that it is worthy of seeing the light of day in book stores. I’ll take that – for now.
At last count, five publishers are considering my yarn. It really feels like this thing will be hitting store shelves and e-readers sooner or later.
So, with that happening, I figured, the extended Brainfood hiatus is over. I can take you all on the journey with me as I wait for news on a publisher, write about the talks I’m preparing to start giving again and share with you the new writing I’m working on. Oh, and you’ll also get the scoop when a publishing deal is (is, not if it is) struck.
The other inspiration for getting back on the blog horse is the milestone I hit while we were all dealing with the new Covid-19 realities. March 15 marked 10 years since my mind was sizzled by the stroke. My plan had been to celebrate that day with a book on store shelves and an incredible trip somewhere. I didn’t finish writing in time for that and the Coronavirus killed the dream of sipping Corona beer on a warm beach, in any case.
So, while I put all that on hold, I want to get back to writing stories that inspire stroke survivors, and the people who love them. Stories about different paths to recovery and to great new normals that can be even better than before. Like, for instance, writing a book after a stroke wiped out your ability to read and right 😊.
I also want to write more about the big beautiful brains we all have and explore with readers how to get the most out of them, how to treat them with the love and kindness that will keep them firing on all cylinders. And that can maybe coax just a bit more brain power out of ‘em, too.
All of this is what you can expect in future helpings of Brainfood.
It’s amazing what you can forget, spin and avoid altogether.
Post my great brain buzz of 2010 I did plenty of each. It’s all about self-defense.
I purposely – and sometimes subconsciously – forgot many things. When I was told I may not read again, relearn functional math or hold a steady job, I’d choose to forget and ignore. My faulty memory helped a lot with this in the earliest days.
Anna, me, Patricia & Kristina
When I’d be told that it could be a year or longer before I could think about getting back to work I’d spin the message as acknowledgment that I would get back to work.
“No, Tim, there’s no guarantee that you’ll get back to work,” the experts would clarify. “But if you do, it could take…”
“Na, na, na, na,” I’d retort back with my fingers plugging my ears. “I can’t hear you.”
Maybe it was my history as a reporter and a spin doctor, but if there was one thing that stayed strong during my early weeks and months of stroke recovery it was my ability to spin the truth and selectively forget.
As years past, I used my selective memory to focus on not forgetting what me and my family had been through. It motivated me to stay in shape, to arm myself against another sizzle. It motivated me to spread the stroke awareness gospel, talking to individuals and groups – anybody who’d listen — about ways of living to avoid a stroke, recognizing the signs if it does strike and motivating victims to make their best recovery.
This has always been a healthy thing for me. Sometimes it’s emotionally draining to think and talk about the brain buzz experience. But it feeds more than it bleeds. And it helps motivate me to deal with the remaining scars I’m left with.
But there are some bits of what the stroke did that I chose not to remember and – in some cases – made a very conscious decision not to know.
One of those things is exactly what my kids were going through in real time in the moments they watched their blubbering, confused dad being carted out of their home by paramedics. And the hours and days that followed before I next saw them.
Then, following last weeks’ Brain Food, Kristina, my oldest, penned a new entry in her blog, West Meets East.
In response to my entry she shared my brain buzz through the eyes of her and her kid sister, Anna. They were 13 and 16 at the time.
Here’s a bit from Kristina’s blog:
Eight years ago today, I was waiting for my dad to die. Hoping, praying, and pleading that he wouldn’t, but waiting for that phone call all the same.
It was early in the morning, and 16 year old me was getting ready for school. Something felt ‘off’; not immediately, but the feeling was gaining traction steadily. I went into my parent’s bedroom to say good morning, and my dad was sitting on the edge of the bed. His head was in his hands, and he was clearly agitated. Asking him what was wrong, he made some brusque reply, clearly not wanting me to worry, but also clearly worried about his well-being. He stood up, momentarily paced, and literally ran downstairs to shower. Looking back, I know he was trying to attach himself to some feeling of normalcy to distract himself from the multitude of sensations he was experiencing.
I looked at my mom: “he’s having a stroke.”
I had recently completed my lifeguard training. There are two situations taught in lifeguard training where, unless you’re a doctor with a plethora of medical resources at your disposal, you’re truly fucked (besides calling 911 and treating for shock). Those two situations are heart attacks and strokes.
I ran after my dad and tried to convince him to sit down so I could treat him for shock before the ambulance arrived. He refused. I remember sitting on a chair in the living room, looking at my mom and saying, “he won’t let me help him.” We looked at each other for a brief moment, but that moment expressed every fear we had. I can’t quite summarize that instant. My mom ran after my dad.
Madness. That’s how my dad describes how he felt from the moment he woke up that morning. We wouldn’t have the conversation about how he felt that morning for months because he lost most of his ability to speak. After what seemed an eternity, the ambulance arrived, and my little sister and I were left to our own devices.
My sister was 13, and being the protective person I am, I tried to maintain my composure for her sake. What do you do after you see your parents at one of the most vulnerable moments of their lives? Anna and I just looked at each other, and commenced our longest Sims marathon to date (12 hours straight, if you’re curious). When I look back on this day, I think of three things: helplessness, endless hours of waiting, and playing The Sims.
Eventually, Anna and I learned that Dad was still alive, but even learning this offered little comfort. How would Dad be able to recover from a stroke, if at all? At the time he was in his early 40s. Would his age help him? Mom was a stay-at-home mom…how would Dad be able to continue working? There were so many questions, so little information, and no answers.
Ouch. Wow. I did that to them? That doesn’t feel real good.
Pre Kristina Tim never really saw himself as a dad. But when Kristina and Anna came around, I took to the ‘protect at any cost’ thing pretty naturally. Then I stroked out and put them through that? Sheesh.
I’m going to have to mull on this a bit. (Is that how you spell ‘mull’ as in, to ponder? Damn stroke played tricks on my already so-so spelling skills:-))
brain food cafe 