This is a time that requires the very best of us…to give of ourselves to those caught between the sorrow of their loss and the joy of the season. I encourage you to make a list of anyone you know who has suffered a loss this past year. If they live locally, make an effort to connect, even if just over coffee, for a chat in the next weeks. If they live afar, commit to making a phone call instead of relying on email or Face Book. This is a time for low tech, high touch!

And if it’s you…reach out to family and dear friends. Share your memories, and rejoice in the time you had together.

“For what is this Season of Light about? It is tenderness for the past, courage for the present, hope for the future. It is my fervent wish that every cup overflows with blessings rich and eternal, and that every path may lead to peace.” Agnes M. Pharo

Dad’s home, like all the homes on this street, was built in the early 1900’s. There is a white picket fence with an inviting arbor entry that almost hides the touchpad that, with its secret codes, allows the door to unlock. There is always one or two of the sixteen residents that gather at the door to welcome those coming to visit. Dad, for the last six months, is the only man in residence. The owner is Christine, a beautiful energetic woman with whom Dad has a somewhat difficult relationship. You see, as his ability to control his life has diminished with progressive dementia and physical frailty, the ego has devised a scheme to appease the anguish. Dad thinks he is the manager of the home. He gives his opinions and orders to Christine with great authority, dismissing her as merely a pretty woman who can’t possibly know how to run a business. Christine is very kind, and very patient; however there have been times, at the advice of the psychiatrist treating Dad, she has had to be very firm with him.

Well, today that is all behind us.

The big parlor of the B & B is very Englishy, a hodge-podge of furnishings and artwork, cabinets filled with old tea services, beautiful mahogany woodwork, untidy bookshelves, tapestries, a Grandfather clock, and still some Christmas cards displayed on the high moldings. The adjacent breakfast room is bright and airy. Jim and his wife don’t live here; they own the house next door. I haven’t yet seen any other guests. So now, as I get ready to cross the street to Dad, I am alone. Can’t I just stay in this cozy place, and hold vigil here? After all, I can see into his room. The lamp in the corner is on.

I make my way into Dad’s home, smile and greet the residents gathered in the front hall, waiting to be called in to lunch. One, I think her name is Emily, invites me to sit beside her at lunch.

In Dad’s room, I find him very anxious. Even under morphine, he appears to be in pain, even though I know it is not physical pain. He tries to open eyes that just won’t open, and he is trying to speak, but no words come. His arms flail, his fists clench. I kiss his forehead; it is clammy and cool. I tell him he is dying, and I have come to stay with him and that Katharine will be here soon, and that we love him and he is safe. I have asked for a CD player, but the one found is broken. Christine’s husband is called, and a short time later, arrives with their boombox from home. I light a candle and wrap my prayer beads around it. It comforts me to know the candle will burn, at my request, all through the days and nights. I put some music on and try to settle into reading.

Carolyn is the day shift RN. She is wonderful, so good with Dad, talking reassuringly and lovingly with him as she shifts him to another position. Later in the evening, Christine comes in and asks my permission to speak with Dad. She takes his hand, and kisses it. She talks to him about forgiveness, of himself and others, including herself, and she lets him know she forgives him for the times he was unkind to her. She tells him he is dying to this earthly life, leaving a body that no longer serves him, and that it is good. She ends with a prayer. I silently weep.

I arise to the most spectacular spring day. Showers and gusty wind and rainbows, pink whirls of blossoms from the cherry tree raining down. All over Victoria the cherry trees and forsythia are in bloom. The oaks are yet to green up, their starkness providing a lovely balance to the riotous color of flowers and blossoms. I am filled with love for this little city of my childhood. At 6:30 I go over to check on Dad; he seems much quieter this morning. The doctor was by last evening while I was out to dinner, and upped the morphine dose. I return to the B & B to shower and have breakfast. Breakfast is amazing. Real Scottish oatmeal with heavy cream and brown sugar, scrambled eggs with sautéed mushrooms and toast. Comfort food.

Dad’s breathing is shallow now, with more space between the breaths. Carolyn has just come in to put on the nitro patch. Later in the early afternoon I go for a walk, in search of a glass of red wine. Jim has referred me to a pub nearby. On the way back, I pick a little twig, all green with new life, a little forsythia and some other small yellow flower. A pretty touch for the altar. I decide to look for an aromatherapy shop for some oil to anoint Dad’s forehead with. I trip on a crack in the sidewalk. Down I go, skinning both knees and the heel of my left hand. The teenagers at the bus stop just look at me, as I pick myself up and continue on, the tears beginning to sting more than the knees. I stop in a candle shop looking for oil, and the shop girls look strangely at me. I realize what a mess I am, and head back to Dad’s. Still crying, I allow Carolyn to take care of my knees.

Katharine arrives from Vancouver around six. She is very fragile emotionally as she put her little cat, Lucy, to sleep last week and just yesterday buried her, along with the ashes of her cat Ricky. I realize just how much loss this family has experienced in such a short time: Ricky in December 2002, my cat Kitty two days later, and then our mother in January of 2003. The next month, my cat Mary and my daughter’s little dog Joe. Now, barely one year later, Lucy…and Dad.

Carolyn tells Katharine she feels Dad needs to hear from her that he provided well for us, and that we will be ok when he leaves. She speaks softly to him. We stay til about 10.

It’s Friday morning the 26^th of March. The day arrives quietly. Not a trace of the wildness of yesterday. Not even the smallest leaf is fluttering. Stillness. At breakfast, I glance across the street to Dad’s window. The lamp in the corner is on.

Dad’s breathing heavily this morning, and his body twitches. It feels like today is the day. Two of the aides that no longer work in the home arrive just to say goodbye. They are beautiful young Filipino girls, all glowing soft skin and shiny dark eyes. They press their young cheeks close to his and both cry. They tell him and us how much they love him. We later leave for a 1 o’clock appointment with the Funeral Home.

Back by 1:30 (no place is very far away in Victoria), we watch Dad as he becomes more and more agitated. We talk to him and Katharine strokes his forehead while I hold his hand. He quiets down. We leave at 2:30 for a quick bite to eat, and when we arrive back less than an hour later, Christine rushes to meet us at the door. Dad died at 3:08. Did he wait for us to leave? Perhaps. We sit with him, in silence, I in prayer. Later, we leave and take a very long walk, maybe a couple of hours. We walk through the gardens at Government House. The ducks with their ducklings waddle up to us looking for food. The gardens are so beautiful. I can smell the moist earth and rosemary as we pass the herb garden, and lavender too, and we have a magnificent view of the water. We are quiet, and when we talk, it is to say how grateful we are to have each other. Later, at dinner, we give a toast to our father, and, as the sky darkens, we watch the lights of the Inner Harbor begin to twinkle. We drive back to Dad’s the long way, around the waterfront, to pack up the few things remaining. The room is empty and dark. The lamp in the corner is off.

This was written just after my father died, in the lovely drawing room of the B&B I was staying in.

Eyes open, I see my sleeping cats: the oh-so-narcissistic Rocky and sweet, blue-eyed Sky. I smile. And yet I know someday they, too, will move out of my life.

We who choose to live with other sentient beings are blessed. We get to experience a deep connection with another species (to the extent we are open to it) and in doing so, expand our capacity to give and receive love.

With the death of a cherished pet, some of us find ourselves flooded with a grief that overwhelms us with its intensity. Following are a few insights and suggestions to assist you during this time.

Allow. Honor yourself and your beloved friend by allowing the expression of feelings. Give yourself permission to fully grieve, even if it feels scary. It may mean some restless nights, exhaustion, and/or taking some time off your regular routine to just be. As much as is possible, give yourself this time.

Ask. Reach out to trusted family and friends and let yourself be supported. If for any reason this is not possible, there are resources available in the form of books, counselors and pet bereavement sites on the Internet. This applies also if your pet is still living but going through a terminal illness. It is crucial to be supported at this confusing and painful time that can bring up doubts about what is the right thing to do, and asks so much of you as a caregiver holding the high watch over your pet.

Action. Find a way to express your feelings. Write a letter to your animal companion, make a painting or photo collage, or arrange a memorial service or ritual to honor your pet. It could be a simple gathering of others who knew and loved your pet, with stories and remembrances to celebrate her life.

Above all, remember it is okay to grieve. A pet’s death is significant. This is a being you have had daily contact with, whose essence is clearly imprinted on every aspect of your home and heart. This is a being that has loved and known you. A family member.

The passing of a pet can often be a child’s first experience with death. This gives parents an opportunity to assist their child through the grieving process. Unresolved grief from childhood can often have a negative effect on personal growth and development later in life. There are some wonderful books written for children on the death of a pet, and many resources on the Internet  to assist you in understanding how children perceive death at different ages.

As I write this, Rocky sits patiently watching the robins . . .

This was written before Rocky died. Sky and I have since welcomed a very fun boy named Lenny into our hearts.

One of Canada’s oldest and still surviving Victorian cemeteries is Ross Bay. When I was a kid, many stories were told about ghost sightings and spooky activity on dark nights. Even now, Victoria is reputed to be a place where paranormal activity occurs. People have reported sightings of the spirit of Isabella Ross, the woman who owned the land where the cemetery was built. Other reports include the eerie vision of a lady in white, the ghosts of a couple, and a distressed woman looking for a lost child.

One could not think up a more perfect setting for hauntings! Huge old headstones and ornate mausoleums, tall pillars and monuments of angels with wide outspread wings, tall trees bending in the wind…all fueled our imaginations!

Ross Bay Cemetery is located directly alongside Dallas Road, and was named after the bay that is across from it. In the early days, the cemetery actually extended all the way to the beach, and during heavy weather, the waves would crash right into the cemetery. Stories are told of coffins floating out to sea, and the bones of the dead being found on the beach. Eventually, Dallas Road was extended and a sea wall was built. However, I remember some stormy days when the waves crashed over the seawall, flooding Dallas Road, and threatening to flood the cemetery.

Many of British Columbia’s Premiers and famous citizens are laid to rest at Ross Bay: Sir James Douglas the founder of Fort Victoria and chief factor of the Hudson’s Bay Company, and one of my heroines, artist and writer Emily Carr amongst them.

One of the last times I visited my home town, I joined some of my classmates from Oak Bay High’s 1960 graduation class for a long walk. We cut through the cemetery to reach our lunch destination. As I walked through the well-travelled winding pathways and green spaces, I experienced Ross Bay Cemetery in a whole new way. I marveled at the absolute beauty of the Victorian monuments and statuary, the many mature trees and ever-changing blooms, and the spectacular setting looking south over the bay to the Olympic Mountains. To my eyes now, it is a place of restfulness and history. A true Victoria treasure.

This beautiful new gravestone was erected on Emily Carr’s gravesite in Ross Bay Cemetery in September 2001, and honors Emily Carr using her own words. The stone reads:

Dear Mother Earth!
I think I have always specially belonged to you. I have loved from babyhood to roll upon you, to lie with my face pressed right down on to you in my sorrows. I love the look of you and the smell of you and the feel of you. When I die, I should like to be in you uncoffined, unshrouded, the petals of flowers against my flesh, and you covering me up.

Bretta grew up with many animal friends (and they were indeed friends.) Looking over photos from her childhood, most picture a widely smiling little girl with her arm flung around the neck of a horse, or with a bunny, dog or cat in her lap or close by.

She loved Irish step dancing, country music, 80’s music from her teen years, Halloween (her little home was always decked out), St. Patrick’s Day, Dancing With the Stars, and anything Disney.

She was yet to take an airplane flight when she died, in fact she never travelled very far from her home area. She loved her work, her animals, her friends and family and kept close to them and kept them close to her.

Only 33 at death, the one word that describes Bretta is kind. Bretta was kind. Such an old-fashioned word that says so much and encompasses so many other qualities- loyalty, generosity, non-judgmentalness, compassion and belief in “do unto others”. This is her legacy. She is forever Bretta in the hearts of those who love her, and will forever be missed.

When I close my eyes and allow visions of my childhood animal companions to arise, I see my little dog Bitsy playing in the yard, my cat Silky dressed up in doll clothes with my little sister pushing her around in a buggy, and, from my teen years, my cat Elvis lazing in a sun patch. Fast forward to early adulthood, and my three dachshunds appear in my vision: Schultzy, who liked to sleep with his nose buried under my arm; Sarah, who hardly had a chance to grow beyond puppy-hood; and Leroy, a rescue, who became my daughters’ touchstone during difficult times (a major move, a divorce). Later, my three felines: the beautiful and proud Kitty, dear placid Mary and the amazing orange wonder Tommy. All gone now. My memories bring smiles.

Eyes open, I see my sleeping cats: the oh-so  narcissistic Rocky and sweet blue-eyed Sky. I smile. And yet I know someday they too will move out of my life.

We who choose to live with other sentient beings are blessed. We get to experience a deep connection with another species (to the extent we are open to it) and in doing so, expand our capacity to give and receive love.

With the death of a cherished pet, some of us find ourselves flooded with a grief that suprises and overwhelms us with its intensity. Following are a few insights and suggestions to assist you during this time.

Allow: Honor yourself and your beloved friend by allowing the expression of feelings. Give yourself permission to fully grieve, even if it feels scary. It may mean some restless nights, exhaustion, and/or taking some time off your regular routine to just be. As much as possible, give yourself this time.

Ask: Reach out to trusted family and friends and let yourself be supported. If for any reason this is not possible, there are resources available in the forms of books, counselors, and pet bereavement sites on the internet. This applies also if your pet is still living but going through a terminal illness. It is crucial to be supported at this confusing and painful time that can bring up doubts about what is the right thing to do, and asks so much of you as a caregiver holding the high watch over your pet.

Action: Find a way to express your feelings. Write a letter to your animal companion, make a painting or photo collage, or arrange a memorial service or ritual to honor your pet. It could be a simple gathering of others who knew and loved your pet, with stories and remembrances to celebrate her life.

Above all, remember it is okay to grieve. An animal companion’s death is significant. This is a being you have had daily contact with, whose essence is clearly imprinted on every aspect of your home and your heart. This is a being that has loved and known you. A family member.

The passing of a pet can often be a child’s first experience with death. This gives parents an opportunity to assist their child through the grieving process. Unresolved grief from childhood often can have a negative effect on personal growth and development later in life. There are some wonderful books written for children on the death of a pet, and many resources on the internet to assist you in understanding how children perceive death at different ages.

As I write this, Rocky sits patiently watching the robins…

This was written before Rocky died on  May 30th 2008. Sky and I have since welcomed a very fun boy named Lenny into our home and hearts. Below is a photo of Rocky in his favorite place.