CISM blogging: public therapy for private demons.

NOTE: There are some graphic descriptions in this post that may disturb some readers.

I've been thinking about this all weekend, knowing that there are people out there waiting to read my blog. I don't know why it surprises me, that people actually read my blog; I guess the Internet is a mighty powerful tool! Well, my last post spoke about the importance of Critical Incident Stress Management (CISM), and all week I've been reflecting about events in my life and career that would fall under this category.

A couple of things came up, and before I spilled my guts, opened my heart, and exposed my vulnerabilities to the world, I wanted to talk things over with a confidante that has helped my put many of life's questions into perspective. If you are one of my good friends reading this, you will know that I did not call you, and you also know that one of my biggest weaknesses is simply not dealing with extremely stressful or devastating events in my life... my M.O. is to keep a full and hectic schedule, take on incredibly large or complex projects, and generally keep so busy so I don't have to deal with the tough stuff. Sound familiar? Not only that, but I am of the personality to not want to burden anyone with my problems; I am usually the stable rock, the shoulder to cry on, the one you can call at 3am, no questions asked. Well, my confidante, who is a military Padre and an expert in CISM debriefing and defusing, as well as dealing with Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD), lent an open ear and gave me some great advice. So let's start.

When I think of the stressful incidents I have dealt with over the years, there is no particular common theme. During my years as a police officer, I can vividly recall numerous horrific motor vehicle accidents (MVAs), Sudden Deaths, and being the bearer of bad news on next-of-kin notifications. Those really sucked, because you know you are about to walk into someone's home and change their lives forever... and not for the good. It's a heavy burden. A few times, during big incidents, we had a CISM team come in for a debriefing or defusing, and even though not a lot was said, it was nice to have that resource available.

One incident stands out, an MVA on New Year's Day, involving a stolen vehicle running a red light and smashing into a minivan with an innocent family inside. My partner and I were first on scene, and there were bodies everywhere. So much happened all at once, I don't even remember the details, but what has always stayed with me was the fact that I attended the most seriously wounded, a woman with a large head wound who was lying on the ground with foamy blood coming out of her mouth. Her daughter lay on the ground a few feet away. The mother was floating in and out of consciousness, and I felt absolutely powerless. I wanted so badly to help and to fix her, but at that time, I had no formal training in first aid of any kind. Instinctively I told her to keep still, and I took off my jacket to lay over top of her and keep her warm in the freezing cold. I kept on telling her to hold on, the ambulance was on its way, and that her daughter was right over there and needed her mother to stay awake. I remember their names to this day. The rest is a blur, all I know is that I went to the hospital after my shift to check up on her, something that was not really encouraged by the department but I had to see if she was ok. She was surrounded by family, alive, but in critical condition. At least she survived the night. The next day, there was a picture of me attending to that woman at the crash scene, on Page 3 of The Province. I had no idea the media were there that night. To this day, however, I still wonder what happened to her, and it haunts me that I couldn't do more.

Another event that affected me, but not to the degree that I thought it would, was when I was attacked on Skytrain last year. During that incident I sustained some bumps, bruises, and a broken foot. Instead of recounting the whole event, click HERE for an article I wrote for the Georgia Straight. The short-term effects from that incident were not debilitating, but for a few weeks after, I admit I was skittish taking public transit, and was constantly looking for my attackers in the sea of faces waiting to board the trains. But time has healed those wounds, and it's nothing but a memory now.

But the biggest one of all, the most devastating event that will never go away, was the untimely death of my mother. It was July 2, 2003, three days before my birthday, and I recall clearly that I was supposed to be at BC Place Stadium, working for CBC Television News helping to cover the announcement of the host city for the 2010 Winter Games. Instead, I was at Royal Columbian Hospital, praying for a miracle.

It started on the Thursday prior. Mom went to our family doctor complaining of dizziness and other symptoms. Doc looked at her blood stuff (I'm not very technical with these kinds of things) and told her she needed to get to the hospital for a blood transfusion – her red cell count was dangerously low, in fact he didn't even know how she was still standing. So off to the hospital she went, and underwent a battery of tests to try and find out what the heck was going on. But of course, it was the Canada Day long weekend, and the technicians and equipment were low staffed, so results didn't come in right away. More tests, and some tumours were discovered in her lungs. Huh? Mom used to smoke, decades ago, but had quit cold turkey. They thought maybe the damage had been done. More tests. More tumours, this time in her stomach, and other parts. Time to call in the specialists. Test after test after test; she was bleeding internally, and they didn't know why. Slowly the reality came down upon us. Cancer, oh yes, but where it started from was still yet to be determined. What was non-negotiable, though, was the devastating news that she probably only had up to a year to live. WHAT?? How? Why? She just had a full medical that came clean! We needed answers, but we were still waiting for results. And still trying to find the source of the bleed so they could stop it, then think about treatment. If it was "just" lung cancer in one lung, they could take out a lung, right? Or, maybe take out her stomach if it was there? How about the pancreas? No, it had spread too much. Through it all, Mom was a rock. She was always the strongest, never wanted to let anyone see her hurt, physically or emotionally. I guess I know where I got that from. She was always in good spirits, cheering us up, telling us she felt good. Meanwhile, I was dying inside. More than anything, I wanted to be able to give her a grandchild right then, something that realistically could not happen, even if she lived for a year. A moment that is a snapshot in time, for me, is when my childhood friend and sister-I-never-had Bridgit brought her 3-month-old daughter Maiya to visit. As my mother held her in her arms, I will never forget the look on my mom's face, I can't even describe it, but I knew we both knew that this would be the closest she would ever come to holding a granddaughter. To this day, whenever I look at Maiya, I think of the joy she brought to my mother during her last days.

At 3am Wednesday morning, on July 2, we got a phone call from the hospital to come quick, mom wasn't doing too well, and we should be there... a phone call we dreaded, but welcomed so that we could be there. We rushed over, but turns out they stabilized her, and she was in good care. We stayed the night, I curled up on her bed near her feet, my (ex) husband Rafael, and brother Tony in chairs and other uncomfortable hospital furniture. Close to noon she shooed us away, saying she was good, to at least go get lunch and have a shower. So we did, and came back in the afternoon. Just as my husband and I were parking the truck and walking towards the hospital entrance, I get a frantic call from my cousin – get here NOW, things are going bad... – We're in the parking lot, I told him, we'll be there ASAP.
When we get there, we don't even need to go to her room. She's been taken out to a different area, curtained off, and when I go over to see what's going on, I feel like I've walked on set to any number of hospital shows. There were doctors and nurses everywhere, instruments, machines, noises... and the blood. There was so much blood, it looked like someone had been murdered. I knew it wasn't good, but the ex-cop in me took over as I sorted out what to do. First I told my cousin not to let my 80 year-old grandmother anywhere near the room because I didn't want her to see the blood and frantic-ness of the situation. Next I had to find out what the heck was going on. Basically, she started bleeding again, heavy this time, and they needed to transport her to the Cancer Clinic in Surrey to radiate whatever's bleeding. Ok, when do we leave, I said. Oh, no, they said, you can't go in the ambulance. Using everything I had to maintain composure, I explained I was an ex-cop, I could handle it, not interfere or freak out... and that my mom needed me. If she wasn't going to make it, I needed to be there. By a small miracle, they let me ride shotgun in the ambulance while they worked on her in the back. Didn't know where to have the family meet, either RCH or Surrey Memorial, so I just told them all to go back to my brother's in Coquitlam and wait for me to call and let them know where we'd be.

That was the longest ambulance ride in history. As a cop, I've gone Code 3 (lights and siren) many times, and had dealt with clueless drivers that failed to yield. But when it's your mother in the back of the ambulance, "sense of urgency" just doesn't cut it when drivers fail to yield to emergency vehicles. Again, that helpless feeling as we weaved in and out of traffic, precious minutes wasted as drivers nonchalantly toodled about their business. "Get out of the way!" I screamed to no effect. Finally we arrived. They hauled out the stretcher, and I told my mom she was doing well. Hang on, we're here, I told her. They wheeled her into the hallway right outside the room with the machine. There was a small army of hospital personnel waiting to leap into action. What's going on, I asked. They need to stabilize her before putting her on the machine, they said. Well, what's the delay, I asked. She's losing blood faster than we can replace it, they said. Meanwhile, the hospital staff are working furiously to stabilize her, and my mother in all her dignity is still worried about her hospital gown falling open, and having to throw up, even though she's had no food. Everything that's coming out of her is blood, and she's apologizing for making a mess. That's my mom. All this time, I'm at her side, talking to her, trying to keep her awake. She's in and out of consciousness, fading in, fading out. I'm holding her hand, and she's looking at me... then she looks through me, and closes her eyes one last time. Mom? Mom!! MOM!! I'm screaming at her now, as if louder is better and she will be able to snap out of it. MOM!!!! She doesn't open her eyes, but I can see her breathing, short gasps.
"I love you, Mom".

And she's gone.

I know it, because that's when everyone stops fussing, and I can tell by the way they are looking at me. They don't need to say anything. They let me be, they allow me to cry in the hallway, on the gurney, a few feet from the machine that could have saved her life... or at least bought us more time. When I come up for air, they take control. They take my mom to clean her up, and let me gather my thoughts before I have to make that dreaded phone call. Oh no. What am I going to say? How do I find the words? N.O.K. notifications sucked when I wasn a cop and it was for strangers, but this is my entire family I'm about to devastate. But I couldn't put it off, they were waiting. So I called my brother, and I think I said something to the effect that she was really strong and put up a good fight, and that the docs tried everything they could to stabilize her... but she was gone. "WHAT?" screamed my brother. "Mom died", I think I said. Then I could hear everyone in the background lose it, crying, hugging, and I felt like shit because I had to do it over the phone. They all came to Surrey Memorial, and said goodbye. I'm glad that when they saw her, she was clean, and looking like she was sleeping.

The funeral had to be perfect. I know it's not custom for immediate family to speak, but it was my Mom, and I had to say exactly what I wanted everyone to hear about my mom and how much she meant to me, to us, her family. So I wrote her a letter, and read it out loud. I'll post the content of that letter below. My dad flew in Hawaiian leis, made from all of my mom's favourite flowers. Purple orchids, tuberose, were there gardenias too? It was perfect, she would have loved it.

The days, weeks, months and years following my mother's death have been filled with ups and downs. As usual, I kept busy, but as I mentioned in a previous post, I have found much comfort in dedicating my hula dancing to my mother's memory. I have my moments of complete breakdown, and a good cry is a healthy purge now and then. But what alarmed me the most was the physiological reation I had... to ambulances. I would see an ambulance, and immediately, I felt like someone was squeezing my heart, my throat closed up, and I felt like I'd been punched in the gut. It would pass quickly, but why did it happen? Eventually, the physical symptoms stopped, and now when I see an ambulance I think about my mom, but it's a passing thought. I think choosing to channel my healing through dance has helped. Oh, and it turned out she died from Non-Hodgkin's Lymphoma, a blood cancer. So in 2005 I also trained for and ran the San Diego Rock & Roll Marathon in her memory, as part of Team In Training, for the Leukemia & Lymphoma Society of Canada. I raised just over $7,000.

This has been a much longer post than I had anticipated, and I have to get up in 4 hours. Feel free to comment, but friends, please don't call me to see if I'm ok... I am. And writing this post helps. I encourage any of you who may have gone through a similar situation to find an avenue for healing, or to write things out and express what's bottled up inside. You don't have to make a public statement, even just something for your eyes only may help. Or, talk to a friend. Cry it out. But face it, head on.

Thanks for reading.

Trish

Here's the letter I wrote to my Mom:

Dear Mom,

How do I find the words to say goodbye? You left us so suddenly; we are still bewildered that you are gone. I guess I can start by saying thank you.

Thank you for giving me life. As a mother, you gave Tony and I only the best of yourself. We know and appreciate the sacrifices you willingly made for us, because as your children, we were your world. You gave us anything we wanted, and everything we needed. But you didn’t spoil us. Okay, maybe just a little. But I think we turned out okay. You allowed us to spread our wings, and to learn from our own mistakes. Yet you never interfered in our personal lives as we were growing up. We could always come to you with a problem, and you would always be there to listen, but not to judge. You were the envy of all other moms as we were growing up. And we were, and will always be, proud to call you our Mom.

Thank you for teaching us life’s lessons, not with words, but by example. You showed us what it meant to be patient and kind, and to never say bad things about people. Even though they may have hurt you, you showed us how to be the better person by treating those people with respect, in the same way they should have treated you. What goes around, comes around, and at the end of the day, you were always able to hold your head up high with dignity and grace, knowing your actions were honourable.

You showed us that good things come to those who wait. You were able to find love not once, but twice in your life. You and Dad kept our family together, even though it didn’t work out between the two of you. You were a class act, and you stayed strong for our family. And after many years, you found love again with Ricardo. You showed us that you don’t have to search for happiness, but sometimes it just finds you. And I am so happy that you were able to share another lifetime of joy with Ricardo, while keeping your love and friendship alive with Dad. It meant a lot to us, and we welcome Ricardo into our family with open arms.

You showed us that inner strength can define a person’s character. With the many hardships you faced in your lifetime, you always dealt with them with strength and courage. For that we admire you. Even when you were diagnosed with cancer just over two weeks ago, and they told you that you may have only months to live, you took it like a champ and stayed strong. Mom, we were so scared when we found out, but we drew from your strength and were able to share many special moments before you left us.

Most importantly, you showed us the importance of family. Family is not just a priority, or an occasion when relatives get together for holidays or dinner. It is a living thing that needs to be nurtured with love. Family is here for you when the going gets rough. They share the highs and the lows. Life’s troubles don’t seem to be as big when you know you have a family that loves you. Thank you, Mom, for showing us the importance of family.

I don’t feel any bitterness that you’re gone, just sadness for the things you will miss. I’m sad that you never got the chance to meet Raf’s family, who accepted me as a daughter from the first time I met them. I’m sad that I won’t get to see the look of happiness on your face when you watch Tony say his wedding vows to the woman of his dreams when he gets married. And I’m sad that I won’t be able see you smile as you hold your first grandchild in your arms. I know you will be there in spirit, but we will all miss your presence on those special occasions when we are together as a family. We will miss you terribly, and my heart aches for you now.

But I’m not angry that you’re gone. Maybe that’s because you never showed anger when things went wrong in your life. You lived by the Serenity Prayer – God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, courage to change the things I can, and wisdom to know the difference. I take solace in knowing I was at your side during the last moments of your life, and I am comforted in knowing that the last words you heard as you slipped away were, “I love you, Mom.”

Drawing from your strength and your courage, Mom, we as a family will pull together, dry our tears, and celebrate your life. You made such an incredible impact on us all, especially on Tony and me. We couldn’t have asked for a more loving Mom, and for that, we will miss you more than words can describe. But know in your heart just how much we love you, and now that you are an angel in Heaven, we know you will be watching over us. So I guess I won’t say “goodbye”, but “until we meet again”, I love you Mom.

With all my love,

Your daughter Tricia.