Statistics and Algorithms

K.B. Sterling, circa 1980

I've already done two retrospective posts on Facebook, and now, here I am, about to do one here on the blog. I'm not going to apologize, however, because I find these periods of looking back to be informative and comforting.

The interesting thing is that the automatically-generated memes don't really allow for much thought or explanation. For example, my Facebook slideshow didn't make much of one of the major events of my year: the premature and unexpected death of my friend K.B.

True Love

Chris and K.B., May 25, 2013

A year ago I was absolutely thrilled to squeeze in a trip to Regina, SK, so I could be at my friend K.B.'s wedding. Mere months later, I hopped on another plane to attend her funeral service. Today, I am crying for her husband.

Conundrum

Have I mentioned the website that we've created in memory of my friend K.B. who died in January 2014? Actually, it was her husband who got it rolling. He started it as a way of encouraging the sort of generosity that typified K.B.'s life.

But we've run into a bit of a conundrum: how to gather stories about random acts of kindness from people who are too modest to "boast."

Joy and Sorrow

This picture brought me to tears today.



Just a picture of a baby asleep on her grandfather's shoulder. Not just any baby, to be sure. It's Kelle Hampton's precious daughter Nella.

Do you see that absolute trust? She just melts into him. And do you see his love? It shows in his stillness, his relaxed, unfocused eyes, his continuing to hold her after she has fallen soundly asleep and he could easily lift her to her bed. He treasures her. He cherishes her.

It makes my heart ache for my own father.

Dad holding my niece Diane and talking with my Aunt Anne.
You can see my skinny blue-and-white-striped tushy just behind Diane's little feet.

He died almost a year to the day after he retired from a lifetime of blue-collar work in mining and construction, when I was only 27 years old.

That dark tan? He worked twelve-hour days through the summer months. He would get so dark that we swore there was some Mediterranean or north African blood in his gene pool. (Of course, Diane's congenital paleness makes him look even darker, by contrast.)

And he loved me. Oh, I know, I always knew and never doubted, that he loved me. Even when I was a careless teen and stayed out till all hours not thinking that he was worried about all the evil, dangerous, deadly people out there.

(I didn't know that one afternoon the flickering lights of his construction vehicle caused a rapist (who thought the lights were police lights) to release his victim. She ran half naked from the woods to my father, who wrapped her in his plaid jacket. Years later I found his deposition for the trial.)

My dad could be an asshole. A bigot, a racist, a loud-mouthed schnook, he and Archie Bunker would have seen eye to eye. He had a temper: at more than one big family dinner (Christmas, Easter, Thanksgiving), he threw down the carving knife and meat fork and stormed out of the house. [Was it more than once, or was it just such a terrible occasion that it echoes and repeats?] He was not a great husband; I used to pull a pillow over my head to drown out the noises of my parents fighting, things being thrown.

A hug before we head to the church on my wedding day.
As Aunt Winkie said of this picture, "It speaks volumes."

But do you see? He loved me. I loved him. It's as simple as that.

And he loved my little girl, Katie, but she was too young to remember him. He never knew my three younger children.

So that picture up top, that's what I've lost. And it always strikes me at Christmas, as these things do.

I miss him, and I wish my children could have a small taste of that love. I hope I've trickled down at least some of it.

Relationship Status: It's Complicated

My mother, as a delicate young woman

Anyone who knows me knows that my relationship with my mother is ... complicated.

About 15 years ago we had a falling out, an estrangement. It was my decision to cut off contact, and I think I broke her heart. Maybe that's what I wanted then - to punish her. But, as with any dysfunctional relationship, the hurting went both ways.

Several years after my father's death, my mother married a man who had molested a pre-teen girl. My mother knew this before she married him. She accepted his remorse and believed she could be vigilant enough to protect her 11 grandchildren.

I knew otherwise: when I was a pre-teen my mother's father, my grandfather, molested me. She knew about this.

Feeling twice betrayed, I slammed the door shut. I was not going to let her hurt me again, and I sure as hell was not going to let her choice put my children in harm's way. [Yes, there is still a little residual anger there.]

So, as you might imagine, Mother's Day is a little complicated for me.

A Product of Silence

The following is a work of fiction. (I know. Such a stretch for me. I'm dreading it, even before I start writing.) I'm doing it because Kristine at Wait in the Van (a truly HI-larious blog) has a monthly-or-so meme where she stretches her writing muscles. It is, she writes, "an exercise, one of discovery and confidence-building."

Her latest prompt is "depression." Since I have a well known interest in mental health and a personal history of depression, I figure I should take up the challenge. Who knows where it will go? Wish me luck! 

---

The Long Dark of Night

Jim's snoring filled the room comfortingly as Cheryl, lying beside him, curled into a fetal position and sobbed quietly. A refrain of "Make it stop" was running through her mind. She moved closer to Jim and, without fully waking, he curled himself around her, grunting, "Mm-hm," as his hand cupped her breast and he drifted back to a light snore.

She let her tears fall onto her pillow. Why isn't this enough? she thought. Why isn't his love enough to lift the darkness that drags me down?

Part of her wished he would sense her crying and wake up to comfort her. It was that magical thinking again, the wishing that someone - anyone - would just know that something was wrong and would reach out and make everything better.

Cheryl remembered sitting in class one day and trying to telepathically communicate to the teacher that she, Cheryl, was hopeless and helpless, that she was failing the course because her mind was consumed by depression. She tried to make her eyes as pathetic as possible.

What a crock. It's the distorted thinking of mental illness, she thought, that supremely self-centred thinking. Psychotic, really: out of touch with reality, highly distorted.

But then, while it was unrealistic to expect her teacher to sense her telepathic messages, Jim had no such impediment. She'd told him how she was feeling. So how could he just sleep peacefully while she struggled? She became angry at him; it felt like rejection. She shrugged him off of her.

For a moment, the anger stopped her tears, but then they resumed as she felt the impotence of her anger: there was nothing she could do about it, or with it.

And perhaps that was the essential struggle of this depression: she was trapped in it. Even if she ran away (and where was there to go, after all?), the depression would stay with her like a blood-borne disease. It was part of her, a parasite sucking her life, her joy, turning everything grey.

Source

Grabbing her pillow, Cheryl got out of bed and walked toward her cramped closet. On the floor, a stack of blankets formed a nest. She stepped inside and, pulling the door almost closed, curled into that soft cloud.

There, she was a child again. She pictured her small self: a needy waif ready to be loved, crying over a lost toy or a bruised knee. She reached out and lifted the weightless girl. She imagined herself spooning the youngster. Her breathing slowed, the tears stopped, and she slept.

Mystery solved!

These nine pairs of shoes had gone missing.

Shortly before I started my new job, I realized that most of my work shoes had gone missing. I was sure I'd unpacked them, but they were nowhere to be found.

You will be happy to know that, today, while looking for a power adaptor, I found the shoes - in the bottom of a drawer, of all places! Originally, I thought only five pairs of shoes were missing, but it turns out there were nine.

In any case, I'm happy. It's a good way to start the new year. I figure I just saved close to $1,000. (I don't buy cheap shoes.)

A loss

Our Lady of the Wayside, Ireland [Photo copyright Wynn Anne Sibbald]

Have you ever noticed that, the more profound your feelings are, the more trite your sentiments sound when you try to put them into words?