Open The Door and Kick Out The Elephant

Monday, January 30, 2012



On the afternoon of January 19th, 2012 my life and the lives of Dr. Jon Fistler’s children were forever changed and we were thrown to the wolves with unanswered questions and regret and unspeakable grief at the misunderstanding that followed his suicide.

I have discovered that I hate the word suicide. It is bitter and sour and razor-sharp and as I now understand it to be true—also is the biggest elephant in the room after someone dies at his or her own hand. 


In my last column of December 2011 I wrote the following:




I understand that no matter how life may saddle me, I am exactly where I am supposed to be. “Whether or not it is clear to you, no doubt the Universe is unfolding as it should,” (taken from the “Desiderata”) says it best.
And while there are bound to be many future times when I will frown on that outlook, especially when life stinks, I will still believe it to be true.
That belief keeps me approachable to learning more the why and what of this fascinating and multi-layered world and the importance of my part in it. 


Oh how little did I know when I wrote that.
Well, if the Universe is unfolding as it should and I am to keep approachable to learning the importance of my part in this world—which, to say the least, is a  &%$#@! big pill to swallow right now—then I am opening the door and telling the elephant to “Get Out.” 


The shroud of secrecy and the stigma surrounding suicide following major depression must be exposed. There is no shame here. Major depression is a disease like cancer and we must give it the recognition it deserves. 


So here I am joining the ranks of the “left behind.” I have a very long road ahead to recovery from what has happened here and there are three precious and beautiful adult children of Jon’s who also now have to find their way back from the darkness created by this heartbreaking tragedy. We are helping each other. Their support of me and mine of them is the grace to come out of all of this. 


I had a wonderful experience of the miracle of love with Jon in Canada where he was realizing a long time dream of practicing veterinarian medicine in the Rainy River District. His life was so very full of promise,
God Bless him for sharing an all too brief 403 days of his life with me. I know in my heart our love for each other was a wonderful respite of peace and serenity for Jon, especially in those recent times when depression and darkness crept in to his mind. 


I know this much to be true. Jon was a tender soul. Maybe some tender souls just cannot carry the burden on this earth and need to go to a softer gentler place more quickly than others. Jon’s spirit now is free to work miracles from the other side. May he come into the peace of wild things that do not tax their lives with forethought of despair.


I also know for sure that those of us who are left behind in our heartache and our unknowing about major depression have a big job ahead of us. 


There is a German proverb that says: “To bury grief, plant a seed.”


So I’m asking everyone who knew Jon or has known someone who has committed suicide to first plant a seed of gratitude. 


Say “Thank You” out loud a lot for his or her life, even if you’re not sure to whom or to what you are saying it -- say it anyway, especially when grief is about to swallow you up. 


Plant a seed of no regrets in your soul. Those of us who were closest to Jon, let us feel no guilt, and we should not and cannot carry his pain or his burden. He would not want that and we need to be free to heal.


Plant a seed of communication. Talk about your feelings with someone who will listen, talk about depression, learn about depression and suicide and speak its name. Plant a seed. Grow awareness. Please.


I carry your heart Jon. I carry it in my heart.
Thank you. Thank you. Thank you. 

I Cannot Deny It Is What It Is

Monday, January 16, 2012

This is one of those weeks when I have nothing better to write about than some of the things that I can’t deny. 


I can’t deny myself the Dairy Milk chocolate bar I found in a flat storage container under my bed. I swear I’m getting rid of it in the quickest way I know how—one square at a time. 


On a similar scope, I can’t deny that my resolve to exercise more is meeting with hurdles. I was sick this past week (and not from too much Chocolate thank you very much) and I’m finding it really difficult to get back on the treadmill after seven days of rain. 


I can’t deny that I’m really not sure my dogs would save my life in a time of crisis should a wolf confront me during our daily walks on the frozen creek bed. 
I have deduced this theory because of a fire log that Cash had in his mouth when we started on our walk one day and which he dropped on the trail when he figured out it was too heavy to carry. 
On the way back home we rounded the last creek corner and he spotted the wooden thing lying motionless ahead of us. 


All chaos broke loose. 


The hair between the dog’s shoulder blades stood on end and he jumped around like the “Chester the Terrier” from the “Loonie Tunes” cartoons.
Cash howled at the menacing object, while Dot stood in place barking her own frenzy and pawing the ground like a raging bull in an arena full of red capes. 


Neither one of them dared go near the log. These mutts should not quit their day job to become bodyguards.
Henceforth, I can’t deny that on my walk I should carry a big stick for self-defence. 


I can’t deny that in as much as I love screaming down the snow hill here at high speed on a Krazy Karpet on my stomach with my arms outstretched one minute and behind my back the next so that I am streamlined in loge precision, my rotator cuffs think that was a stupid thing to do. 

I can’t deny that I am still learning to sail my “relation” ship with the past. 


I know this for sure because when I was standing at the burn barrel a couple of days ago watching the flames blacken the edges of some love letters I’d found from during my years of marriage to Peter, I was rushed back to sadness, pulled into perplexity at the folly of it all, jabbed with bitterness and bits of unresolved closure. 


I still am learning to sail away from that ship almost two years later, with clarity and dignity. 


I can’t deny the Karma of this very moment. Just now the phone rang and a twangy-sounding saleswoman trying to sell me carpet cleaning said “Hello, Mrs. Suppa?” 
I paused and said, “not any more,” and hung up. I can’t deny that made me feel awesome. 


And finally I can’t deny that while I was born in the arms of a wonderful imagination, all of this is true.

Granny's House Is Where It's At

Monday, January 9, 2012

I lay prostrate on my bed. Withered by the events of the day I read from “The Book of Ages” in hopes of regenerating myself by living vicariously through the lives of others my age.

“Pffft.” Big mistake.

According to the book of miscellany by Eric Hanson, at the age of 51 the late Fred Astaire was kicking up dust on the dance floor with Jane Powell in the musical “Royal Wedding.” In the movie, he also danced on the ceiling, danced with dumbbells, a coat rack, a framed photograph, and a chandelier.

In my neck of the woods I needed three tablespoons of pure white sugar and a cup of strong coffee to get my carcass off the bed and over to the closet to get my housecoat.

I am 51 years old and worn out by a mere overnighter with my 18-month-old grandson.

How did I ever manage to raise three children all those years ago? Oh yes, I forgot. I had girls.

Taking care of this little jalapeno is akin to nailing Jell-O to a tree. He has enough spitfire to be his own billiard game.

On Friday evening at 5 p.m., I walked through the door with the little gaffer and his overnight bag; let Charlie out of my arms and “BLAMMO!” he scattered in 15 different directions at once. 

I never stopped chasing Charlie for the next three hours. My arms and legs moved independently of my brain, which wandered adrift in nursery rhymes that some chump had written centuries ago about little boys being made of puppy-dog tails and snails.

No sir. Little boys are made of Mexican jumping beans, monkeys, red squirrels, elastic bands, and slingshots.

I was reminded again why all those years ago my baby brother was habitually encapsulated in a large, locked playpen. Mind you, now he has a strange attraction to skeleton keys—but that’s another story.

How did I ever manage to raise my own children with going mad? Oh yes, I forgot. I had girls.

If I wasn’t blocking Charlie’s finger poke shots at the plastic insulation on my windows, I was running defense for the blinking lights on my ‘Apple TV’ monitor and DVD player both of which I found rearranged on different shelves of my entertainment unit when I raced back to the living room after a lightening-fast trip to the bathroom.

At snack time, I thought I had a reprieve of sorts when I gave Charlie a little dish of Cheerios and raisins. He toddled off to the couch to watch a television episode of “Max and Ruby.”

In a few minutes, he came back to me at the kitchen sink where I was inhaling the last piece of Christmas chocolate and asked for more “Some?”

I smiled and motioned for the little dish from his hand. He looked up at me and three raisins fell out of his right nostril. The rest of his snack was divided between the couch cushions and the front of his pants.

When I put him to bed at 8:30 that night, I’m not sure who was more pooped out, he or I. I snuck around on tiptoe until I was sure he was asleep and then jumped into a shower hot enough to cook a bird and then stayed up too late eating potato chips and watching mindless television.

A 3 a.m. my sleeping skeleton was stirred from a dream date with George Clooney by the cries of my small fry.

I opened the door to Charlie’s room and was hit by the smelling salts of a fermented gift that had leaked well beyond the elastic legs of his diaper.

At 8 a.m. when Charlie’s rejuvenated and audible spirit had roused both dogs and the cat into a spat, I opened one eyelid to the piercing reality of the morning.

“I feel like I have been dragged down the street by two Great Danes,” I mumbled out loud. Hugh Jackman had said that in a television interview.

Uh huh. I understood the feeling.

But—and this is a big But—the monkey, chipmunk, red squirrel and jumping bean, and the busy, busy havoc of my little jalapeno pepper and his 3 a.m. poopy diaper are trumped by the look on the little boy’s face when at morning I open the door to his room and he stands there with his stuffed animal in his crib.

He faces lights up and so does mine.

Grandmothers (and Grandfathers too) are important in the life of child. My grandparents taught me that and it’s why I’ll do this again and again.

There's Something Wrong With This Picture

Monday, January 2, 2012

I wasn’t going to make a New Year’s resolution because I figured that any day of the year I could make a change for the better, so why limit myself to one in 365 days for a personal decree.

But at 11:55 p.m. on New Year’s Eve I became aware of the need to adjust my thinking as my right hand stalked the last chocolate toffee triangle on the plate while my left hand reached for a gooey butter tart. All I could think about was which piece of lovely I would shove in my mouth first.

I could blame my extremities for having minds of their own but that would be stupid.

Clearly I have a real soft spot for sweets. In fact my soft spot has grown to twice the size it was before I started my Christmas baking frenzy on December 17^th which threw a big wedgy into my plan to wear the new jeans I bought for myself. 

So right then and there 15 minutes before the clock struck midnight, I vowed out loud to three witnesses in the room that my New Year’s resolution was to stay away from goodies.

I lasted until New Year’s Day at 6 p.m. when I was looking through my coat for a grocery list and found an individually wrapped “Turtle” candy in one of my zipper pockets.

Toasted pecans, soft caramel, and smooth chocolate never tasted so good together. I shrugged off waves of guilt, popped it in and hummed the song “Start Again” in my Alfie Zappacosta singing voice.

Then at 7:30 p.m., starving to death, I opened the fridge door to look for supper leftovers and found a bag of homemade peanut brittle my daughter had given me over the holidays.

I could market myself as the human vacuum cleaner. The waves of guilt lapped at my waistline as I took a handful and crunched it down. I shrugged at my screaming conscious and chanted, “We just start again . . .”

I repeated this lovely melody for a third time later that first evening of 2012 when I remembered there were three homemade chocolate truffles left and that I should polish them off.

“Out of sight out of mind,” I reasoned to myself as I leaned over my soft spot at the bake board table in the kitchen, bit into the creamy centers, and hummed my mantra while reviewing photos on my iPhone that had been taken over the holidays.

I stopped mid-song and muttered; “There is something wrong with this picture.”

Less than 24 hours earlier I had done two things. I had made a resolution to keep my hands off sweets, and had had a riveting conversation around the supper table with Jon and another couple about the chicken neck syndrome that suddenly happens when you turn 50 years old.

Mine was swaying gently to and fro as my jaws chewed up the final truffle when I came upon a photo that I must have accidently taken at some point while looking down at the iPhone screen.  

For a moment I wasn’t exactly sure who it was I was looking at, and then I recognized the loose skin under her chin. 

I don’t think a cattle prod could have produced more get up and go than seeing what gravity does to a budding chicken neck.

From now on I resolve to take a whole new position in life—on my back and looking up.