It happened while they were away. I think that's why it never truly seemed real. I think that's why, to this day, I can't look in an open casket.
I remember the phone call. I remember waiting for the phone call. I remember when they went away. I remember the moment he got up from the table and we knew something was wrong.
Hospitals smell so different based on why your there. The maternity ward is an odd mix of baby powder (which no one uses anymore but you can still smell), baby lotion, poo and sour breast milk. But it's a happy smell. A surgical ward smells like toast and orange juice, blood, poo, unwashed bodies and sometimes perfume. Though that is rarer as more people develop heightened sensitivities. But for me, hospitals smell sad. Even though having a baby is a joyous thing, part of me still laments that women have to go to hospitals to have their babies (and yes I know we now have mid-wives in Alberta, and yes I know that survival rates suggest hospital births etc., but still, I'm sad). Most people in hospitals are sick with something, some are often dying from something, and the staff are often helpless to do much but comfort or are faced with the frustration of a patient who refuses to value themselves enough to take proper care. Sad. Maybe because my first true memory of a hospital, even though I'm not sure I went, is sad.
Ten years of magic. Ten years of conflict. Ten years of love. Ten years of real Christmas, of hugs and kisses, spankings, hair cuts, Hallowe'en, Indian aunts and uncles, smoking grannies, a new baby sister, a mom who smiled and laughed and looked beautiful. Ten years of magic.
I remember wanting to go to Vancouver all the time so I could walk the streets looking for him, sure he'd abandoned us. How could we deserve him, really. I remember dreaming of following him in a beige suit down the streets of downtown Vancouver, calling his name, begging him to turn around.
I remember sitting in the front row of the funeral home. Smiling as all the people said amazing things. Looking over my shoulder and seeing people packed to the rafters. Not sure truly what was real and what I think I remember. Of it being almost my birthday, and drunk relatives showering me with cash shoved in a pocket because they didn't know how to cope with my serious grief at almost thirteen.
I don't know how people go through life without the assurance. Without the comfort. The prodigal son is one of my most favourite stories. In the end God just wants us all to come home. To come back to communion. To walk with us again in the Garden. I recently read Eve: A Novel of the First Woman by Elissa Elliott. The most beautiful parts were Yahweh walking and talking with Adam and Eve in the Garden. My faith makes me stronger. I truly believe this. But I am thankful for the assurance it brings me too.
One day I will walk hand in hand with John Scragg again. Because he believed too. And that is more important than ever as I potentially face it all again.
