4th December, 2019

We quietly marked the anniversary of Nick’s death on September 29^th with some homemade pizza.  The first year anniversary has come and gone and we are now almost 14 months into it with no signs that anything is getting any better.  The second year is proving to be worse as our cold reality cements itself more firmly.  Matthew is back at work, teaching 2 out of 3 classes, which appears to be a welcome distraction, and he plays in several bands, rehearsing a few nights a week which is also a necessary distraction.  Here is a clip of one of the gigs that he performed with his band Tell It To Sweeney at the London Music Hall, opening for David Wilcox in front of a jam-packed crowd. By the way, this band was just shortlisted as one of the finalists to play on New Years Eve in Victoria Park.  Come out and see them for the semi-finals on Friday, December 6 at Call the Office.

Tell It To Sweeney -- The Countess Live at London Music Hall

But, when the gig is over and we come back home, the bleak reality of our lives is even more pronounced.  The emptiness and quiet is deafening.  Turning into the driveway to look up at Nick’s darkened room, with a single note left for him from his wife Alex sitting in the window, usually brings us to tears or, if not tears, deep sighs, a huge sense of despair and an overwhelming feeling of “What is the fuckin’ point?”.  The music and school are good distractions, but nothing more than that. There is no joy.

Now that it is the beginning of December grim reality is even more odious, especially when we used to be such Christmas freaks:  the Griswald-like Christmas tree, the obscene number of presents, decorations, food that would feed a small country, quantities of alcohol that would have wasted a team of elephants, music blasting, people coming in and out, the ski trips planned.  This is all over.  Christmas is no more.  There is nothing to look forward to. We’re headed to Vermont this year to hide from all the seasonal hoopla. At least he'll get to use the nice snowboard we bought for Nick several years ago, which has been sitting untouched in our basement. 

In the meantime, Matthew is also dealing with his aging dad, who moved from Sudbury a year ago into an apartment in London, but recently relocated to a retirement home and is now is in the process of finding and moving into a long-term care facility.  Not that he's really an active agent in any of these actions. Rather, he's declined precipitously both physically and mentally in the past year, and is now unsafe to live on his own. Most recently, he's in the hospital with a bad UTI, which has rendered him delerious and unable to walk. This will most likely force the issue in terms of locating a long-term care bed in a more timely manner than otherwise.

In the past three years we have lost my uncle Herman (a Dutch-Canadian Don Cherry if ever there was one), my well-loved step-dad Michael (another larger than life figure), my very well-loved dad (who gave enormous amounts of his time helping us raise our kids), my son, my dog George and now Matthew is suffering the living, piece-by-piece loss of his father. This doesn’t include all the other deaths of friends and acquaintances, too many to count, that have happened all at the same time and which we have not even processed. No wonder we’re so burned out.  Adding to all this tragedy is watching Nick’s friends advance in their careers, cut record deals, go on band tours, get engaged, get married, continue school, have kids.  We don’t begrudge them this, but it sure is a painful reminder of all that has been robbed from us, but, more importantly, from Nick.

Perhaps Love is a wonderful song introduced to me by my dad, so I include it here in memory of him.

 Perhaps Love- John Denver and Placido Domingo

Vinnie was supposed to have returned to school this September, but flaked out on that, opting to stay in bed, party, smoke more dope and do short shifts at McDonald’s.  We managed to get his university scholarship deferred for one more year, but, at this point, it still appears unlikely that he will return.  He’s not the same kid and doesn’t want the same things anymore.  No shit.  We aren’t the same either.

I recently met with a disability specialist who will try and transition me back to work, but I made it very clear that I have no intention of returning as a classroom teacher.  I do not have the joy necessary to perform and conduct three separate English classes a day, all of which entail tour de force performances, happiness, a whirlwind level of energy and a dedication to the cause, all of which have been crushed right out of me.  Although teaching can be a very meaningful job, and it certainly was meaningful to me when both my kids were alive, it seems so trivial now, especially in light of the banality of the students’ complaints, their lack of resilience, their obsession with their phones etc. etc. etc.  I’ve put 25 years into this already, don’t need to it again; I did it, was good at it, but enough is enough.  While Nick was going through years of debilitating treatment without a word of complaint, I would often be confronted by some wingeing teenager or some ludicrous, overbearing parent.  Sometimes, the whining was so petty in nature, I would unprofessionally tell the kids to go talk to someone who gave a shit, or, in the case of some parents, one of whom accused me of abandoning my students when Nick had to get cancer treatment, slam the phone down after telling them to go fuck themselves.  Now that Nick is dead, I have even less empathy, if that’s even possible, but, according to my disability specialist, a lack of empathy for and intolerance of the seemingly inconsequential problems of others is a very common feeling among bereaved parents.  No one wants to see me end up on the blue pages (where disciplinary hearings are related) of the Ontario College of Teachers or, maybe they do.  It might be entertaining. I have empathy, just not for bullshit.  My point?  I need to work in the school system in another capacity, not because I want to, but because I can’t be around teens or other entitled teachers and because, quite simply and crassly, I need the pension.  That’s it.

I’m not finished with my efforts to keep Nick’s memory alive.  I’ve completed the rough manuscript of my memoir, provisionally titled Squirrel at my Throat, which I am trying to get published.  If anyone has any ideas about how to go about doing this, I’m all ears.  I still want to continue with my fundraisers and I would love to set up a foundation in Nick’s memory to support research into less barbaric treatments for his type of cancer and hopefully lead to an actual cure to save the 1 in 20 men who die of this disease.  I’m working on all of this, but it's been very frustrating so far, as individuals, agencies and foundations I try to contact don't return my calls.

I despise books like Option B written by Sheryl Sandburg, a filthy rich executive at Facebook, who wrote this self-help guide after her husband died suddenly in his forties and she was looking for answers.  She claims that sure there is tragedy in life and we would do anything to have our life the way it was again, but there is always another option to find meaning.  Bullshit.  In some cases, there may be viable options, but "Options B" are not universally available. Option implies choice.  Sure, I could choose between setting up fundraisers for my son instead of shooting heroin or drinking myself to death, but none are real choices because I don’t want to do any of them.  Bereaved parents are cornered animals who do what is necessary for survival.  There is no free will involved.  Losing a child is not a part of life’s journey; it is a curse, a mark, a scar that I have no choice but to live with.

I also got frustrated reading The Subtle art of Not Giving a Fuck, not because the guy doesn’t make some legitimate points, but he is too young to understand certain things.  When people say that it isn’t the cards that you are dealt, but your reaction to them that is important, and, that that reaction is a choice, I would totally agree up until a point.  When a parent loses a child, there is no choice in your reactions and even if you choose to do something positive in the face of this tragedy, it isn’t the result of choice, but because you don’t know what else to fucking do.  You could go on to raise millions of dollars for cancer, but that doesn’t change your feelings, it doesn’t make you happy or make up for the loss of that child.  I’m sure anyone who has lost a child would say that they would give up all the good they might have done as the result of their child’s tragic loss just to have them with them for five more minutes. The childless 35 year old author of the aforementioned book doesn’t agree.  Hopefully, he’ll never have to find out for himself.

I have been going to therapy and attending grief workshops over the past couple of months, all of which have a very refreshing approach to our otherwise sanitized perspective on death and loss in our society.  The overriding message of both workshops is that today’s society is terrified of dealing with the horror of death, especially the death of a child.  People are desperate for happiness and feel that happiness, no matter how superficial, should be the overall goal of life and anyone who does not present as happy makes them deeply uncomfortable.  I’m sure many grieving people will tell you that most want you to just move on – to get on with life, so that you can be the same person that you always were and so you won’t make them feel uncomfortable in your presence.  Current grief experts point out the incredible folly of this attitude, that the reality is that life is filled with sorrow and to be in denial of this is to deny our own humanity, the beauty in paying tribute to someone who is so deeply loved and that to externally repress one’s sadness is a sure fire way to prolong grief and suffering, potentially leading to both physical and potentially more debilitating mental health issues.  Grief is something an individual experiences internally whereas mourning is an external expression of grief and, in order to grieve in a healthy manner, one must mourn.  Mourning includes tears, posting pictures, putting out objects that connect you with the deceased, writing about it, setting up fundraisers or scholarships or plaques or what-have-you.

During his packed lecture in Strathroy, Dr. Alan Wolfelt, an American grief expert who runs the Centre for Loss and Life Transition in the States, pointed out that it isn’t enough to just show up for the funeral; supporters of the grief-stricken need to understand that grief gets even more intense in the 18 – 36 month mark.  Making an appearance at the visitation is just the tip of the iceberg of what the bereaved individual requires to feel supported.  And, in the case of the loss of a child, the greatest loss of all, this time period is even more true.

Over the past 7, now going on 8 years of dealing with suffering, grief and loss, Matthew, Vincent and I have really learned a lot about the people we thought who had our backs.  Some of our closest friends have distanced themselves from us because of the loss of Nick.  Those very people we thought were on our side have disappeared and the people who were mere acquaintances have become our greatest allies.  I have confronted some of these close friends and asked how they would feel if their child died, if they had to watch their kid lying in a casket or lowered to the ground; such people recoil in abhorrence and say that it is an unfair question or that I’m taking things too far.  My response to them is to observe that they can’t handle even imagining something which is my actual reality every day.  I think the question is more than fair.  These people are so terrified that our reality will become theirs that they lash out at us, saying we have the problem, that we are in the wrong for being so angry or so sad, that we can behave differently.  They shift the blame to the victim and then justify abandoning the victim. I wonder what they will do if their charmed lives are ever disrupted with such tragedy.  At Nick’s Celebration of Life, Vinnie conceded to his own cowardice by pointing out that Nick had the courage to undergo a suffering that Vinnie himself didn’t even have the courage to watch.

It is also very difficult to relate to people who are unwilling to talk about Nick; his death is the elephant in the room; it is all that matters.  If you can’t face this reality honestly and would prefer to ignore it by talking instead about how to grow pot or about your latest physics projects, I don’t think we can have room for you in our lives. Some people tell me not to compare my problems to others.  Talk about impossible!  We’re not all living on the same playing field.  Telling me that their pool liner ripped or they lost their grandfather or their child didn’t get into the university of their choice or they feel a family will is unfair or that their child is struggling in school, that any of these problems are in any way comparable to my own is not only grossly insulting and ignorant, it is simply not true.  All the aforementioned problems are either trivial, part of the natural processes of life, a life lesson or are in some way fixable. I don’t have the patience for those who choose to make a mess of their lives like becoming drug addicts, cheating on their spouses, abdicating their responsibilities as parents by giving their kids technology rather than interacting with them etc. etc. etc.  How can I not compare?  Don’t even bother talking to me unless you acknowledge this is true or if you genuinely have an equivalent problem, like you lost your own child or if you had to flee a wartorn country and had to watch your family die.  I just don’t want to hear it!  If you don’t get it, you can continue to ignore us, and you can keep going to Costco, leading a life of blind consumerism and mindless superficiality.

At the moment we are waiting to hear if anyone has been selected for the Nicholas Greeson Memorial Scholarship.  When we find out we will definitely let you know.  We once again thank everyone who contributed to this and to all those who have patiently stood by us during this time merely by being present and bearing witness to our suffering.

Here is a video that we took in December, 2012, just a few days that Nick was diagnosed.

Christmas Video 2012