Bright Star

By Pam Hadder

A few days ago I said goodbye to you, my friend, after your eighteen month battle with cancer.  Although I knew you were very sick, I always thought you would make it –any other outcome seemed implausible.  You were so full of potential, spontaneity, intelligence, creativity and humour – to consider a world without you in it was like imagining a dystopian future for the planet; surely this dark oblivion would never come to pass.

I should mention that my work has been extraordinarily stressful and all-consuming – it is a complex mess that keeps on surprising me with its ability to fester and grow roots.  No matter how deftly I apply myself, the mountain of work just grows; each superficial success revealing new decay beneath the surface, and unimaginable human cruelty and spite.  I sleep with my phone by my head, and I watch in semi-paralytic limbo, as the boundaries between work and personal time become indistinct, like waves washing away words etched on the shoreline. 

Yesterday I came across anther tribute video made in your honour.  This one takes the form of an interview, and between head and shoulders shots, the creator pans closely over your fair skin, dappled with blond freckles, like sunlight piercing through foliage to cast soft-edged patterns.  The effect is so intimate and yet respectful; it captures the essence of your gentleness, youthfulness, and irrepressible sense of whimsy. I feel your warmth – I feel like you are right here in the room with me.

 At the time of these interviews, you had accepted death, and were determined to make the passing from life to afterlife a celebration versus a tragedy.  Watching it, I realized my life was like the reverse of your white flame – although blessed by good health and opportunity, I am transfixed and immobilized in a state of mournful disillusionment.  I often feel like my life is one of those torturous dreams where mundane, infuriating elements loop and overlap in a bizarre blandness that can only be the definition of a living hell, and I long to wake up and know it was just confused conjuring of my resting brain. Then, across the membrane of time and space and impossibility, I hear your advice for life in my ear: “Wear lipstick and expensive perfume.”  And I remember your fashion advice: “Everything goes with everything.” And I hear your raucous laughter, and the pop of a champagne cork midweek and midday.  “I love you,” you offer with a bright smile.  And, oh my God, I feel like that last person to get the memo; I finally get it – the window is crystal clear and the morbidity has lifted. You were trying so hard for so many months to get through to all of us – so many just like me, living the zombie life like we have no expiration date – and I wanted to reel you back, shush the “negativity” and to beg you to choose life.  But I now recognize that it was you who chose life, and it is I who has chosen death – a dire extended death state of my own creation, versus the full-frontal connection of eternal life in motion.

  

Sweet beautiful friend – I love you and miss you in this space and time.  I am so grateful that I witnessed your brilliant comet, blazing across the dark sky.  I needed to be shown what matters, and I needed a kick in the ass so that I might hope to live with authenticity and fire and audacity.  When this body loses its war with time and genetics, I will endeavor to burn fiercely; illuminating the path for those who have become mired in shadows.  Your approach to death and dying has made me realize that I am witnessing the slow unraveling of my joy; the erosion of my life force.  You, on the other hand, were a supernova, burning at maximum strength, uncompromising in your demands, and unwilling to allow a petty detail such as terminal cancer to dilute your brilliance. You lived large – you were brazen and brave, and it scared me much of the time.

Dearest one, you have taught me that there are worse fates than death and dying – it is far more tragic to live in fear, denial and paralysis. All we have to do is shine. In the video you talk about your dream of having another life; one that lasted only a few hours – if I consider my years, I am sure my reflection back upon them would  fill less time than that.  Thank you, bright star, it is time to up my game – “just live a glamorous life...”

The Way I Roll

by Pam Hadder

It's that time of year.  March is this pot hole in the road of life; a seriously deep axle breaker on a seemingly endless stretch of rough, blah, bleak and ugh.  At least that's the case here in the heart of Canada! And if you live here, or have visited Winnipeg in the spring, your teeth and bones will ache at the memory of our pitted and pocked streets and roads!

My dearest FC calls March "high recall time. "Why "high recall?"  Well, it seems like this is the time of year when a lot of people pass on.  Personally, I lost both my Dad and my young niece in March, and it seems appropriate somehow, that this month is devoid of beauty - a sullen, slow-moving lunk, it lurks and sulks, unable to express any joy and threatening to steal our moments of happiness. This year March has been marked by the death of Canadian folk music icon, Stompin' Tom Connors - his honesty and kindness and patriotism always touched my heart.  He was like this uncle, a favourite that could always make you see the bright side of things, and who would steer you toward what really mattered in life.  A good man.

A dreamer, I  get through March by over-compensating, by stoking the brilliant coloured fires of my fantasy world. I am restless, yet drowsy; thirsty for the outdoors, and yet languid; lounging like I am hospitalized.  Bright colour, new tastes and textures; the sensory and the sensual - these are my cure; my self-prescribed course of treatment.  My senses are all set on high to filter every molecule of goodness and beauty out of the stark, cold, grey landscape of mourning. My mind is jumping, antsy, sparking -I am building, making plans; analyzing - I can close my eyes and smell the snow melting and I hear the first rain storm rumbling in the distance.  I have wings, I am rising, I am dancing on the ashes of March - bright brush strokes of azure, pink, violet.