Thirty three years ago today, a man entered a mechanical engineering classroom at Montreal’s Ecole Polytechnique and killed 14 women because of their gender. This horrific event rocked Canada.

Thirty three years today my husband had a liver transplant. I spent the day and night in a waiting room in University Hospital, London, Ontario, waiting for word on the surgery outcome. I was able to pop into the ICU the next morning to see Jim breathing yet still “sleeping” under the effects of anesthesia. With good prognosis from his surgeon I headed home to see our children and get some sleep. During the hour drive home I kept hearing alarming reports on the radio centered around some demented soul shooting women because he was “fighting feminism”. What on earth was going on? By the time I got home I had pieced the story together and remember sitting in the car for a bit crying that so many young women had died.

Then I went on about my life centered on getting kids to school, visiting the hospital and encouraging my husband to beat the hospital transplant release record. (He did it!) While the shooting event continued to be in the news, it was very much in the background of my life.

Thinking about this today, I understand my tunnel vision and self focus. It also reminds me we are not alone in this world and how, particularly now, as an up and coming Elder, I have a responsibility to speak out against injustice. By remembering and relating tales of misogyny, weapons abuse and other incomprehensible behaviours my own little world can make more sense. I can hold up the need to remember, and to demonstrate compassion and generosity to others.

Many of us in the retirement community have the time, wherewithal and wisdom to speak out and influence others. Our impact may be small, but we can lead by example.

So, I will always link these two events together. Both significant to me and highlighting the importance of sharing in community.  The world community grieving for these young women, confused by horrific actions of one man. My hometown community who rallied around me and my family to support us through our own confusing time. We had a happy outcome. Other families, and the world these women were headed into, suffered a huge loss.

Peace be with them.

 

I wrote this many years ago and continue to be very touched by the memory:

A few days following the death of my husband, and having to tell my children they would never see their father again, I decided to restore some normalcy into our lives by leaving work in the middle of the day and putting up the Christmas tree so we could all decorate it that evening.

I got out the step ladder and hauled my lackluster self into the attic of our old house to get the tree and decorations. Once that struggle ended I found myself sitting on the floor in the living room trying to reconnoiter the pieces into something that would resemble a tree. The paint was worn from all the stems so I had no idea how to put it together. As I stuck the branches in the post that was supposed to be the tree trunk my creation shape shifted before my eyes encouraging me to keep removing branches to try other configurations.

This went on long enough for me to decide trees in the house were really a stupid tradition anyway. With that notion I threw the tree across the living room–which wasn’t a big room but time has made it bigger.  When I finished my tantrum I put the pieces of green back into the box and went back to work.

I must have told someone about the ordeal, but I really don’t really remember. My next memory is walking into my house and seeing the most splendid Christmas tree, completely assembled and standing straight and tall in front of the bay window of my now normal sized living room. There were two angels standing with it with radiating love and warmth, care and concern, despite having just lost their son and not knowing any better than their daughter-in-law how to deal with the new reality.

That night after we had finished decorating a whole choir of angels visited our house.  My three kids and I stood together in the hall while the head angel greeted us and then began singing a Christmas Carol. I don’t know which carol, I choose Silent Night when I put sound to the memory, but I see as clear as if they were in front of me now, a sea of smiling, caring faces, crowding close to our front door to sing their love and concern.

Those two events have impacted my life more than I could ever have imagined. They are for me the torch bearers for the outpouring of love and concern from so many angels that assured me I had countless blessings in my life after Jim’s death. Every Christmas for the last 12 years when I put up the Christmas tree I see Glenda and John’s smiling faces standing beside it. When I hear carols I often recall Ted VanMiddlekoop and the Carolers from Bothwell Baptist Church.

I was at a local nursery in Guelph last night looking at Christmas greens and discovered the Christmas trees there were from Sloan’s Tree Farm. Because of the obvious connection I am wondering if it will be okay to replace my 12 year old tree with a real one that grew in Bothwell soil—with all the angels.