What's a funeral without gastroenteritis 5 days later?

Currently, in this house our physical health matches our internal turmoil. There's a word for that, but I can't remember what it is. I want to say onomatapoeia and not type it because then I'll have to doublecheck its spelling and it's wrong.

Younger daughter was stricken last night and elder daughter is contorting over the commode every 20 minutes or so. Poor thing.

So, in addition to sadness and compassion, a little dose of gastro-bug was given during the visitation and funeral for my husband's brother. Normally, this kind of sickness makes me angry, but I've already been dealing with monumental anger issues since Simon died.

I've surrendered to the vomiting.

Nothing keeps one as grounded as vomit. So, my grief-stricken-zombie state has been replaced with frantic mopping, head holding and frequent "poor, poor baby". My poor older sickling is now producing only water and bile and I would do anything to spare her. I can't, so I think of mothers all over the world who watch over their seriously (cholera or typhoid) sick children and I send them my compassion. I'll try and keep the gastroenteritis to myself though.

Taking care of my stricken sicklings has me hopping and motivated. Motivated to clean all the toilets in the house, especially the one off the master bedroom.

I figure that in the next 24 to 48 hours, when I'm kneeling at the porcelain altar myself, I don't want to be contemplating the shit stains. Know what I'm saying? And that thought made me smile. Shit is also quite grounding.

Time to get out of Dodge -- and I don't mean my Caravan

I'm still knee-deep in anger and self-pity. But I often think of my beloved Aunt Kathy, who always said, "No one gets a free pass through life."

She would know. She was a palliative care nurse in Sudbury--one of the best. She and her colleague were killed by a transport truck while en route to their patients in 2001. She was a beautiful person and is still so sorely missed.

I thought about Aunt Kathy a lot this past hellish week when we had to go and identify my brother in law at the hospital after his fatal snowmobile crash. Every step of this awful journey I've thought of Aunt Kathy's husband, children, mother, brother and sister (my mother), and what they went through eight and a half years ago.

I think my uncle knew that and that's why he and his youngest son came to Ottawa for the funeral to be with us. And why his daughter sent me gourmet homemade lasagna and his friend made my favourite cookies and fudge and why my parents and sister and her family came and supported us so completely.

The kindness of others is humbling. I feel so grateful for that kindness, but it makes me cry.

And then I get angry again. I know it's irrational and many people have it much worse, but right now, all I can think is that Ottawa has done us no favours. It's just been a litany of bullshit, sickness and now, death.

If I were Jewish, I would think all this hardship was a divine message to move to the Holy Land. But I'm not. I'm not religious at all. I wish I were, but I can't suspend my disbelief.

I’m thinking the message here is that “it’s time to get out of Dodge.” This is what's known as "seeking the geographical cure".

But my mother says that you can’t outrun tragedy. It always finds you. I wish tragedy was blind, deaf and crippled, so I could stand half a chance on the run from it.

Where would we go? Sudbury. That’s where my people are. But we won’t. Lack of employment opportunities “up North”, better medical care in Ottawa, and my husband's parents and some pretty terrific friends are what hold us here.

Loss

Are you looking for advice on how to cope with loss? If so, have you found any? Because you're not going to find it here.

Right now, I'm in the "FURY" stage of loss and this is what's sustaining me. I know I'll pay for this rage later, but now it's a fire in my gut that propels me through the planning stages.

Monday night, my husband and I learned that his brother was in a fatal snowmobile crash. Simon was the "fatal" part of that collision. I'm furious at the waste of it all.

The investigation into the crash is ongoing and I hate to think of my loved one undergoing an autopsy, but in accidents you don't have much choice.

When Simon heard his snow machine engine roar and felt the wind buffeting his helmet, he couldn't know what was in store for him and the other party when he chose that time and place to ride. He couldn't know the profound pain to which he was exposing the hearts of those who loved him. He was probably thinking that it was a lovely evening for a ride on the river.

I don't know what he was thinking. But you know what I'm thinking? I'm thinking that I'm never going to forget the sight and sound of my husband weeping over his brother's body in that Shawville, Quebec hospital. Or the sound of his mother's scream through the phone when she heard the news.

I'm thinking of how tanned Simon's skin was from his recent trip to Mexico and how he looked like he was sleeping. I'm thinking of how the only injury I could see was the scab on his giant callused hand he got from doing some sort of engine repair. In fact, I remember him gingerly washing that hand when he was over for dinner the week before.

I'm thinking that when my daughters learn about the pain of loss, it should be the loss of a very elderly relative whose time had come and not their beloved Uncle Si.

I'm thinking of how much my husband loves his brother.

I'm thinking of his mother and father and how outliving a child is the worse thing that can happen to a person. Ever.

I'm thinking of the 10-year-old boy who witnessed the crash, his father's and Simon's injuries and went for help.

But you know what I really want to think? I want to think that in his final moments, Simon knew how much he was loved and how much we would miss him.

Two faces of endurance

I used to consider myself an endurance athlete, but I don't make the grade now when I look around at all these adventurers and ultra-marathoners like Meagan McGrath and Ray Zahab.

I'm more of a lunch-time warrior these days, but I've been doing distance events since I was 14 years old: road races, cross-country ski races and "tours", and bike commuting with the very occasional "century ride" thrown in (usually the metric one).

The adventures of McGrath, a woman from my native land, Sudbury, Ontario caught my eye. Recently, she skied 1,1oo km solo to reach the South Pole, battling a chest infection and suffering from bruises sustained from tumbling into a crevasse. This is just one of her many epic journeys. The world's five tallest peaks are next on her list.

It's important for women to achieve in the physical and intellectual realms.

We should challenge the stereotypes that we are slaves to PMS or menopause, hate our bodies and are terrible at math. Women like McGrath are proof that we are capable of great feats of strength, endurance and single mindedness (beyond owning the latest Prada handbag).

Now, I'm going to risk condemnation and present to you another, more traditional face of endurance of the more stereotypical female variety.

That face is my mother. She is now retired, but you never retire from motherhood. She had four children. I'm the eldest. Her youngest daughter, my sister Liz, has a constellation of physical, cognitive and mental health problems that are covered under a catch-all medical term called 22q11 and she's at the severe end of the spectrum. My dad, while a good man, was largely absent through much of our childhood and battled his own demons. My parents eventually divorced.

My mother would be the first to tell you that she had a great support system in her parents, sister and brother and their families. She also took great pleasure from the simple things in life like the perfect ice cream cone on a hot day, or a good book on a quiet night, or her waterbed with wave control and heat massage (remember the 80s?).

But she carried tremendous burdens. She taught high school, took care of us and listened to our trite little tales of childhood woe with close attention, while acting as my sister's case manager and cheerleader. Her "free time" was a cup of coffee between 6 a.m. and 6:30 a.m. and 20 minutes of reading before bed.

Mom made Liz's home-time physical and speech therapy a game for all of us. We'd take turns rolling Liz on the exercise ball to get her to lift her head, holding up cue cards to teach her to read, and later, maintaining a phonetic dictionary on her computer so her voice synthesizer would pronounce words properly. Interestingly enough, the voice she often picked for herself was called "Justin", who spoke with a plummy British accent.

But the toll all this has taken on my mother's own health is apparent. The exhaustion sneaks up on her and can knock her flat from time to time.

I won't lie and say that having a child in my life like Liz is completely wonderful and inspirational. From what I saw, it was crushing, frightening and exhausting. But when you live with someone like Liz for whom the most mundane task takes a world of effort, the word "can't" doesn't mean very much. If you can walk, why not run? If you can work, then work freaking hard.

In some ways, living with Liz made me compassionate toward others and in other ways, it made me more callous. Liz struggled and struggled until she "got it". Often, I see others giving many excuses for not following through. I'll listen once or twice, but after that I tune out. This is how I see it: Figure out what you want to do, make a plan and then do it. Just shut up and do it. Or just shut up.

Mom never had much time for herself and I wonder about the life she might have lived, if she had more opportunities to pursue her own interests. For her, it always seemed to be "nose to the grindstone".

In my less-than-charitable moments (and I had plenty of those) when I saw another opportunity pass her by, I'd often say to my mother, "No one likes martrys; that's why they're dead."

Sometimes while growing up and even now, I'd get resentful because my mother couldn't spend much time with me or her grandchildren because the needs of her child were so great.

But now that I have children of my own, I often wonder if my decisions would have been any different if faced with similar circumstances.

Sure you can do prenatal screening and terminate if tests revealed disabilities that you didn't want to deal with. And believe me, I took every test that was offered. But what about those cases where children have strokes, suffer horrible accidents or suffer from terrible diseases after they're born? You'd step up, wouldn't you? I'd like to think so, but I don't think I'd handle the problems with as much kindness and strength as my mother did.

Now 30, my sister's health and function is declining and her care is too much for my mother. I'm not willing to take that burden on. Liz is in a home for adults with disabilities, but her care is always on my mother's mind. Mom and Dad visit Liz as much as possible and Mom tries to make Liz's home visits enjoyable.

I wouldn't call my mother a saint because she hates that. To her, she was just doing what had to be done. This is your child and how could you not take care of her?

She got worn down and worn out, but kindness and laughter are what I think about most when I think of my mother. Mom might not be able to catch me on the run, on a bike or on a pair of skis, but she's a far better mother than I'll ever be.

These days, when I read about epic feats like Meghan McGrath's or Ray Zahab's, I can't help but think that sometimes the toughest journey is not skiing 1,000 kilometres across a frozen tundra, pulling a sled, it's staying put for a thousand weeks and doing what needs to be done.