Former Mistreatment is Outdated.

"Give it a fucking rest. You don't have to remind everyone of the date and time of Greg's death. You fucking Facebooked it and less than 6 months later, you're fucking someone else. Saying pretty words doesn't change that shit."

 

This comment was left for me by an anonymous source. Of course it was. I wouldn't want to be accountable for this statement either. But I do think it has some merit and wanted to address it. I'm pretty sure whoever wrote this (and I have my suspicions) is not the only one who has assumed the worst of my behaviour in this regard.

When Greg died, I had the impression that a lot of people expected my grief to somehow equal the amount of love we shared, as if that's even possible. People judge how people should behave all the time, but it is an interesting thing when someone dies. There is weird protocol that is laid out but never divulged. Everyone wants you to feel & act a certain way. People gauge your mourning period like it somehow validates how you cared for the deceased. Some don't want you to be happy until they feel you should be, because otherwise you must not have valued your loved one enough.

Enough. It is impossible to be enough for some people.

 

Some expected me not to get out of bed for months. Some expected me not to laugh for weeks. Some thought I would obviously be alone for the rest of my life, eventually dying of heartbreak.

This could have happened. I could have allowed myself to do exactly what I felt like doing and let my life and my soul just waste away. But I have said it before and I mean it: Greg would never have allowed himself to be with me if he didn't know that I was strong enough to make it without him. In fact, we discussed whether or not he would want me to date/marry/fall in love if he passed away. He was astonished I would have even asked such a question. 

 

"I would want you to be happy."

And that is what I have been striving for. Not just for me- for us. For the Sheena and Greg that still exists and is still very real to me. The Greg and Sheena that still have beer at the Druid and laugh and make jokes at our own expense. The Sheena and Greg that embrace even the abhorrent and turn it into appreciation. We were greater than the sum of our parts. And this will be a fiber of my being until I die.

I will be Sheena and Greg for the rest of my life.

But beside that, I am still me. I am still the girl that makes off coloured jokes and says shit you should never say at funerals and dinner parties. I am still the one who cries at pictures of baby meerkats. I am still the girl that burns grilled cheese sandwiches. I am still the girl who can't fall asleep without noise. I am still the girl that tweets like it's going out of style and makes friends and thinks people are the most amazing things ever.

I'm still the girl that loves. Often. Liberally. With abandon.

And I will continue to. I will continue to love men. And women. And affection. And sex. And this may upset people that can not understand how I can exhibit such behaviour after six short months. People may not understand how I can be happy with another after the relationship that I had with Greg. They have even expressed that they don't understand how I can adore one and mourn the other.

Let me assure you, I can. And do.

People do not have to appreciate or respect my fumbling attempt at normalcy. But people are also in the fortunate position to not have to feel the void and longing that sits like a vacuum inside of me every fucking minute I am not asleep or ensconced in the love and support of my friends and family. I am still aching. I am tired of my own voice. I am still in healing and may never not be. But certain things lighten the load of this weight. And the love and affection and beauty of people are invaluable to me.

So, while I do not feel the need to justify my behaviour, let alone to someone unwilling to even sign their name to such a vile and insipid comment, I do understand that death is a muddled emotional area and insight is valuable. People want to know that Greg's name and memory has not been disavowed. They want to know that he is still as big to me in death as he was in life. People want me to honour him the way he so deserved.

And I just wanted to assure you all that if he were able, he would ease your minds. He would tell you he is just as loved and brilliant in my life as he was the first day I ever met him.

And then he'd tell you to see the new Star Trek trailer. It's awesome.

To Be Grateful.

This year will go down in my history as the hardest of my entire life. Learning what it means to have a part of yourself die with the last breath of the most important person to create the world as you now know it is a lesson I will never master.

While I carry an ache now all too familiar and constant, I am filled with gratitude that is immeasurable. The support and love I have felt has been stunning & overwhelming. Recalling the battalion of lovable misfit brats that Greg & I have amassed over these last four years reaffirms that our love was bigger than we ever were.

"I don't know how I am going to do this..."

"With an army behind you."

This Thanksgiving, I am grateful for you.
For your texts. For your messages. For your calls. For your time spent. For your tears. For your music. For your arms. For your poetry. For your laughter. For your talents. For your sincerity. For your care. For your words. For your generosity. For your brilliance.

For loving us.

I would not be who I am today without you all.



I love you.

Interview With Sheena: Chapter 1.

"So, what gets you up in the morning?"

"Worry. That is the simplest and most clear answer I can give you. Worry about whether it will be another wasted day. Worry about the things I am ignoring that will be of detriment to the future me that, unless I quit life, will be forced to deal with my fears. Worry that I will slip into the depression everyone expects of me. Worry for my family. Worry that I am creating, out of a good intention that I told Greg on his deathbed, a lie: that I would be okay."

"What are you excited for?"

"Not much. Initial excitement soon gives way to terror as the rest of my life unfolds like a map that has been rammed haphazardly into the glove compartment. And as anyone who knows me can attest, I am not good with direction at the best of times."

"Any events coming up?"

"Music shows. Amanda Palmer at the 29th of this month in Vancouver. Matt Anderson. Dan Mangan. Gaslight Anthem with Hotwater Music. A best friend's wedding. Football games with my dad and pub nights with friends..."

"So...?"

"Oh, my dad just set me up with a therapist. That is something to be both terrified and excited about. Like any relationship."

"None of this sounds like you are planning your next move in life."

"That is not an accident."

"You're not?"

"No."

"Not to judge, but what is stopping you? What is the hardest part?"

"Fear makes my decisions for me right now. Not making a decision is making a decision. So, not checking the mail/ phone calls/ voicemail makes a lot of decisions for me. Not checking the bank account keeps the laughter around a bit longer. Hiding creates a cocoon. My next life is a horrifying endeavor. Imagine the strength most people need to clean out a storage closet. I need to clean out my life."

"What do you miss most about Greg?"

"I can't answer that. Their is no hierarchy of love, nor pain. Heightened emotion creates action, and action builds the elements of your life. My entire life is absent from a huge life force that helped to design the blueprints of a building now crumbled to the ground, with all of the architectural plans disintegrating with it."

"That sounds brutal."

"It ain't easy."

"How are you feeling? Does anyone ask that? Is that a stupid question?"

"It's not a stupid question, though it is an idealistic one. It assumes I have an answer or, even less likely, will be able to articulate it. I am numb. Or distracted. Or hidden. Or destroyed. I am only sad alone, though. Very very few people see me at my worst. It is not a natural role for me."

"What is your natural role?"

"Life of the party. Fun beam. Cockeyed optimist. Love addict. Inspirational speaker and motivational role model. Okay, those last things are kind of a joke, but only kind of. My brother used to refer to me as a muse. He said my talent was making others better people."

"And you are not this now?
"I am not comfortable being a source of inspiration for people, as I am not confident I am a role model for anyone. Being "strong" or "inspiring" to people now seems to mean that I am not suicidal or a drug addict or a cutter. The intention is the same, but the filter through which I communicate has changed. There is a prism of sadness, and grief, and regret, and pity that changes my intent. It is not my current strength, let's leave it at that."

"So you don't make people feel better anymore?"

"Usually it is by being the emotional barometer of the room. At the funeral, the wake, pub nights... if I am able to look like I am okay, maybe everyone can believe it WILL be okay, and thus, they can be okay, too."

"Do people still come to you with their problems?"

"Often. Sometimes too much. Sometimes selfishly, saying things like 'We are totally sharing in our grief...' when I assure you we are not."

"You are not sharing the grief?"

"No. Not being able to see a guy that you saw at punk rock shows 6 times a year by accident is not something that can be shared with a woman who had her entire life pulled out from under her and has spent the last few months hiding under it."

"It does seems a bit insensitive."

"You have no idea."

"Examples?"

"No names, but I have had a girl say that her pain was paramount because I was prepared, where as she was SHOCKED. I had another compare the death of her 15 year old boyfriend to Greg's death because she also considered him the love of her life. As though a 15 year old and a 35 year old would have the first fucking thing in common when it comes to love, let alone the destruction of a life build on plans and dreams and hope. Hope means something different at 15 than 35. Trust me. I was 15."

"Ouch."

"The cake was probably a girl telling me that they know how I must feel because they, too, understand my despondence due to working in a warehouse/trade with men who don't believe in the plight of the female tradeswomen."

"They compared the death of your fiance to their male dominated job environment?"

"It's ongoing, dude. Some days I have to defend my absurd tweets with the hashtag #widowtweets because people believe they have a more depressing story. Like the traffic ticket they got that day."

"I don't have words. I just... that is nuts."

"They say the stages of death include anger. I am in no way angry at Greg, or 'God', or the care of the medical team at the UofA, or Life, or any of that shit. What I am angry at is the insensitive and narcissistic characters I am coerced into dealing with about this tragedy."

"Have you gone off on them?"

"Not yet."

"Yet?"

"Yet."

"I would be excited to witness that."

"A few close friends who have been present for many of these situations have shared in your enthusiasm. They feel I am long overdue."

"Can we continue this later? I have a feeling you are getting sleepy."

"I am. But I would like that."

"Thanks, Sheena."

"Thank you."

"Life is Slippery. Here, Take My Hand."

If I put this entry off any longer, I will never write it.

I still don't really know what story I want to tell here. The one about the love I had with Greg, the one that tells the tale of his last days, or the one that describes how it is getting harder to get out of bed every day rather than easier. I feel I may run out of words. Or will.

So this will be part one. The days leading up to his death. The technicalities. Some of the answers to the questions such as 'how did it happen?' and 'how did he go so quickly, he was doing so well?' The moment of his death is a chapter all its own, and I will do my best to summon the emotional strength to delve into that pool one more time for you.

On Monday the 11th he was having a lot of trouble breathing. After seeing his doctors, they upped his anti-rejection meds and steroids and the line between his sickness and his side effects started to blur. It was a hard week. He barely slept. He had to sit down from breathlessness from just going to the washroom. He didn't eat. He was miserable and uncomfortable all the time.
"I have a follow up appointment on Tuesday, Mee. Let's just give it the weekend for the meds to do their thing..."
So we did.

The last photo he ever took with the caption "Good morning sunshine #nofilter #rejection?"
http://ink361.com/#/users/1125425/photos

On Saturday evening while he was sitting at our kitchen table, I caught an expression on his face. One I had never seen before.
"Baby, are you scared?" I asked him.
He started to tear up and he nodded.
"I just don't want to leave you."
Leave me. Not die. He was never afraid to die. But this was the first time I had ever seen him afraid that he might not make it. And it terrified me.

On Monday I came home from work at 10am. He was having what I can only describe as an escalating panic attack from not being able to catch his breath. I called the ambulance. Once they came I packed his overnight bag, as I always did when he had to stay at the hospital, and went to meet him in Emergency. On the 15 minute drive to the hospital I saw three dead animals on the road. I started to cry.

When we got in to see him, there was something not quite right. He was agitated. He wasn't faintly smiling like he always did. He looked worried. These are things Greg almost never expressed when he was in the hospital. It was always much more important for him to feign casual comfort for the emotional stability of his family. He would always fake a smile, crack a joke, anything just to see me smile, too. And he could barely look at me.
"It's just because he hasn't gotten any sleep and he has been miserable this entire week," James said. I nodded.
But that wasn't it.

By the next morning the doctor decided it would be best to sedate him while the body healed. This is also known as putting someone in a medically induced coma. It was for the best, they said. It will just be for a couple of days, they said.

This was the last text I ever received from him.

That was the last time I saw him awake. The last time I told him I loved him and knew he could hear me. The last time I felt him squeeze my hand back.

In lieu of telling the same minutia of medical and emotional drama that followed the next 2 weeks, I will share with you excerpts of the Evernote I was sharing with Greg titled "The Hospital Diaries." My plan was to document life as he slept so when he awoke he would have stories and something to fill in a few of the blanks he may have. Excuse the typos. I have left it unedited for posterity.

Note: The Evernote audio files are usually just me singing our silly songs to him and telling him I love him through muffled tears and outright sobs until I compose myself and apologize and tell him I will try to do this again tomorrow. It always ended up the same way.

Note: I still have the plastic piece. I sits on a statue of Thor with a lock of his hair. It took me a week to move it from the floor after he died.

And that was as far as I got before it started to become much too scary for me for carry on. I couldn't conceive of documenting anything as just getting through the day was a feat. There were complications, "set backs", improvements, and the unexpected. It was a fucking ridiculous roller coaster and every day became a bit more grim than the last.
Until the Friday when they said that his prognosis had stabilized and his oxygen was excellent. They took the dialysis machine off of him, they had quit his plasmapheresis and it looked like they could start taking him off sedation by Saturday. The family was so excited we went to the Tymofichuk's for a celebratory barbecue. We raised our glasses for Greg and my heart felt lighter than it had in weeks.

And then James got off the phone with the hospital.

"Greg had a stroke."

By the time we got there, the doctors explained that the stroke may have been bleeding for days. The damage was "extensive." They couldn't guarantee that he would have the brain function to keep himself alive on his own.

I recall standing beside Greg's bed, reading Tina Fey's Bossypants to him and laughing, when the devastating reality was explained to us. Behind me, I heard Marie collapse in wails. I heard Randy, the rock of the family, reduced to tears. I heard James start repeating "no... no..." until they, too, became ruined sobs. I rested my head beside Greg and stroked his hair, softly telling him that I loved him and that I would be okay and that he could go. I didn't even believe that I would be okay, but I knew that the only thing that would keep Greg clinging to this life was his desperation to stay with me and take care of me. I was so intent on making sure he knew he could move on that I don't even think I remembered to cry myself.

"You have to make a decision..." the doctor said. We knew what she was talking about.

As soon as it became clear that the Greg we knew had already slipped through our fingers, we left for a sleepness night only to return in the morning with a unanimous decision.

"I would love that man if the only part of him that remained alive was his left foot but I would never do that to him."
The family agreed.

We were all together the next morning; Randy, Marie, James, Anne, and his best friend Nathan. The shock and sadness was trumped only by the overwhelming love and support everyone had in that room for each other. And for Greg.

"Leave it to Greg to wait until we could all be together before he passed..." I said.
"He was always so fucking considerate."

It was good to hear everyone laugh.
It would be awhile before we would do it again.



cont...

The Last Hurrah.

So, our friend Marko has sold his beloved pub. We have been frequentling that little place every week, sometimes four times a week, for years. Greg has been going there since his first year of college. Greg and I met there. Our first date was there. We would joke about getting married there. So many of our friends met each other there, including couples like Boyle and Lindsay. Our friends Ritchie and Tiffany got engaged there. Greg's birthday and CF fundraiser pirate party was there. Every year. So many of our friends are in bands that started playing at the Crown. There was never a time that we weren't welcome there. In pajamas, in bad moods, broke, exhausted, in sickness, in health. It was our place. It was a lot of people's "our place."

We got a chance for one last hurrah on Sunday during a friend's fundraiser in memory of his father. And it was everything we wanted it to be.

Vangie and her sexy ass.

Karly is the greatest thing and pulls off a denim vest like whoa.

The pub, complete with Angelica and her sass.

Angelica and her beau.

Marko and Doreen.

Who's the guy on the left? I can't remember. Fred and Marko, making shit happen.

Fred went all out this year, and he hit his $5000 goal. So fantastic.

Vangie. Making metal out of me.

Marko. Confused by my camera case that looks like a bible.

Feeling the love.

Who is the new waitress again? Anyway, she is beautiful and good to us.

"How do you not love these sexy faces?", featuring Lindsay & Greg.

Speaking of sexy, well played Chad.

Tyler and a pretty lady I am unaware of.

Tyler has the kind of smile that makes everything okay.

The classic Chris Boyle, Lindsay, and Greg who is making a weird face.

Rebecca and I, but this time I was taking the pictures. And that is why they are so shitty.

Lindsay #17. There are so many Lindsays but this one is one of the sweetest.

Chad, being coy.

I don't recall this photo, nor do I know what the hell is happening.

I can only assume Rush was playing.

Bros.

Such a pretty shot of Lindsay.

I had such a good night.

Free Elliott, one last show.

Mark and Bobby and Philip, and a steaming pile of rock & roll.

Philip on drums.

Bobby, making bass & bartending look easy.

The back office and show posters... some of which was Greg's best work.

Cean and the boys, making the best fucking wings in the city.

Philip and I, being adorable.

Mark and I, being menacing.

Mark and I , trying again.

Philip does more for this city's local art scene than anyone I know.
Keep your eyes on the Artery.

The boys and Ajay- one of the best huggers.

We were there from 5pm until 1 in the morning. And we left too soon.

Now we wait. Wait to see what the new owners will do to the place. Wait until Kelly's opens up again in April. Wait to bump into so many people from the Crown that we never seemed to see anywhere else. Thanks again, Marko.

Cue Toby Keith's "I love this bar."