Shattered

By Jacqueline Meeks

Book Summary
Grief, loss and ritual are central themes as Jacqueline recounts the pain and suffering of losing a parent, child and spouse. As she decorates the Christmas tree Jacqueline remembers the stories associated with each ornament in her collection endearing you to her family and drawing you into her experience. The story, based on true events, aspires to build compassion and understanding for individuals coping with the aftermath of grief, loss and trauma. A true Humpty Dumpty, once a pregnant widow and bereaved mom, left at the altar, shattered beyond repair, Jacqueline takes you with her on her journey of grief.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: May 16, 2013
• ISBN: 9781479796588

Jacqueline Meeks

Jacqueline Meeks is a mother, teacher and counsellor residing in Airdrie, Alberta, Canada. She can often be found wearing a cape and mask or in the midst of a lightsaber battle. Having survived crisis and trauma as a loss of a parent, being herself a bereaved parent and pregnant widow as well as other traumatic life experiences it is the author’s intent to facilitate conversations and build a compassionate community of supporters for individuals struggling through bereavement. The author, in consortium with the artists involved in this novel is developing several children’s stories to help in the discussion of grief, compassion and other issues.

Book preview

Copyright © 2013 by Jacqueline Meeks.

Illustrated by Lucille Codd

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

Rev. date: 05/13/2013

To order additional copies of this book, contact:

Xlibris Corporation

1-888-795-4274

www.Xlibris.com

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Contents

Acknowledgements

Foreword

Preface

Part One

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Chapter 34

Chapter 35

Chapter 36

Chapter 37

Chapter 38

Chapter 39

Chapter 40

Chapter 41

Chapter 42

Chapter 43

Chapter 44

Chapter 45

Part Two

Chapter 46

Chapter 47

Chapter 48

Chapter 49

Chapter 50

Chapter 51

Chapter 52

Chapter 53

Chapter 54

Chapter 55

Chapter 56

Chapter 57

Chapter 58

Chapter 59

Chapter 60

Epilogue

Interior Artist Bio

Cover Artist Bio

Once you have been a black swan—not just seen one but lived and faced death as one—it becomes easier to imagine another one on the horizon.

Malcolm Gladwell

This novel is written in recognition of black swans.

To all the men who I have loved and lost, my angels watching over me, unseen but ever present, blue butterflies against a blue sky.

Acknowledgements

I would like to give thanks to all of those involved in the writing process. Shawna Ellis read what was a fragmented set of ideas and offered gentle but honest criticism to help me let go of some parts of my story while expanding on others. She forced me to confront my beliefs and perspectives and do some healing and letting go. It was some of the greatest counselling I have received. The editor at the other end of this process Katie Thieme also played an important role in getting this book into physical form rather than remaining a file on a computer screen.

For adding an artistic touch Yanna Papadopolous, always a beautiful friend, who volunteered her amazing artwork for the cover and who taught my most fantastic illustrator Lucille Codd. Lucille was the kind of student who either drew you in or pushed you away and I am so grateful she drew me in and that she agreed to be a part of this project. We are so proud of our former student, her accomplishments in school, motherhood and art, thank-you for letting me witness you blossom.

The easier job went to Lindsay Senger who got to play grammar police while picking up real police. Thank-you Lindsay, for crying over my story, empowering me to take a huge risk, encouraging me to release this book into the world and assuring me that it will make a difference. I truly hope in some minor way it causes a shift in everyone who reads it. If that shift is greater compassion, knowledge you are not alone or recognition of your inner strength than it has all been worth it. If this book causes you to confront your beliefs and perceptions I hope it can be a part of your discovery and healing process and I thank-you for allowing me to be a part of that in some small way.

Foreword

T his is a fictionalized story based on real events. The names of those involved have been changed as have some of the supporting details. The goal of this work is to begin a compassionate conversation of taboo subjects from a unique perspective.

Grief, loss and abortion are emotional topics that often the window of compassion and understanding is brief. However, perhaps this novel will initiate a conversation and cultivate deeper compassion and understanding for individuals struggling with a huge burden and weakened support system.

For those who have suffered grief, loss, crisis and trauma, you are not alone. We are not on the same journey but we can offer one another compassion because we are all struggling under a weight no one else can bare for us. We can stop comparing our burdens and instead see the efforts and strides we are making. Let’s create a community of survivors of crisis and trauma helping each other and new victims toward peace, tranquility, joy and serenity.

Preface

T he texts are flying through my phone so fast the beeps sound like a Morse code message. I am scrambling to get caught up on three weeks of late assignments, on hold with the dean trying to convince my professor to mark the first two weeks of assignments I have busted my ass to catch up on, while waiting for the plaster to dry and fill the hole where the towel rack has been ripped from the wall. A call has been made to have the garage door repaired; my mom is on her way over with a step ladder to read the model number and head to Home Depot to grab a new garage door opener. The plumber is on his way and slowly like a five-hundred-thousand piece three-dimensional puzzle I am trying to put my life back together, AGAIN.

This isn’t the first time my whole world had crumbled, nor will it likely be the last but each time it happens it gets harder to get back on my feet. It’s like the manager at the side of the ring is yelling at me to get up, get back in the fight but my body just wants to stay down, afraid of taking one more blow, content, to just lay there, broken.

My new glasses arrived the day after we returned from Panama; it was enough to start the wheels of transformation in motion. I called to cancel my home phone, one less way for him to contact me. Mom put on the kettle and over the next few weeks I drank tea constantly, it heals the soul. There is something about warm water.

Today, January nineteenth, my tea is chamomile with a teaspoon of the sweetest unpasteurized honey. It tastes like everything our life and love should taste like. It lets me escape for a moment from the cold, emptiness of a house, the anger of a three year old and my fury over being left at the altar a week ago.

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Part One

The Backstory

Chapter 1

I walked through the door at half-past two in the morning dragging my luggage. The Christmas tree still stood by the front window the lights all a twinkle even though it is January twelfth. A giant poster hung on the far wall, a reminder of my broken heart and broken family, a comic book style cover, four feet wide and five feet tall proclaiming this house belongs to The Prasads. I wanted to smash it. It stabbed at my eyes and stabbed at my heart. I turned around to return to the car to retrieve Christopher and the last of our belongings, the image of the happily married couple, babe in arms, glowing transparent floating in front of me as if etched on my glasses. The car emptied, Christopher tucked in bed, a sigh the first sound she’d made in an hour escaped my mother’s lips.

Can you help me take this down? I asked motioning, but not looking at the enormous poster. Without a word I lifted it from the wall, she grabbed one corner and I the other and I led her downstairs.

Where? She asked.

There, I motioned to the space under the stairs where the memories of life had piled up, with the junk and left over building materials that were here when I bought the house. Behind that door, facing the wall, I motioned to a white hollow wood door lying on its side against some pink foam insulation. We pulled the door back, lifted the heavy poster to clear it and slide it in behind. It protruded above the door but the picture faced the wall and I wouldn’t be faced by it daily, it would do, at least for now.

Thank-you.

Where should I sleep? There was not emotion in her voice or mine.

My room, I’ll sleep with Christopher.

The morning came and I didn’t want to get out of bed but Christopher spied his dog as he climbed on top of me for a morning kiss and immediately perked up, dove onto the floor and snuggled up to her curled up body. I missed you, did you miss me? He chirps in a voice too high for a three year old, trying to mimic question intonation.

I force myself out of bed and into the living room, dining room, kitchen area, the blank wall where the poster hung just hours before and where just weeks before that my wedding picture had hung closed in on me forcing me to steady myself against a chair for balance. The Christmas decorations bring back so many memories, I have to get out of the house.

I leave my mom asleep and Christopher and I walk to my doctor’s office. I check in as a walk-in not having an appointment and they call me back almost immediately.

What is this about? The nurse asked.

I need a letter to be off work. I say as steady as I could tears welling in my eyes.

Dr. Armand has an opening and it’s better to see your family doctor about these things, let’s go to room two.

I break down when she enters and tell her everything. Her face softens as I tell her through my sobs how not even a week ago on what was to be my wedding day my fiancé called off the wedding while his sister screamed at me and how I had then attempted suicide.

Why? You were so good together. She asked, not waiting for an answer, instead approaching me quickly and wrapping me in a loving embrace. Really I didn’t have an answer. She rubs her hand across the back of my shoulders and silently wheels her chair to her computer.

How long do you think you need off work?

I don’t know, maybe, um, a month? I whisper unsure.

Ok. I think some antidepressants are a good idea. I’ll start you on a low dose but, given your condition I want to see you back here in a week. She hands me some papers, shakes her head and leaves the room.

When we get home mom is awake. She takes me for groceries and when we return a box with my new glasses is sitting on the step. I head for the shower and dye my hair while mom unloads the car. A deep mahogany, selected from the bottom shelf in the personal care aisle at the grocery store while picking up milk, eggs and bread, all the things that expired during our two weeks in Panama. A drastic change from the bleached blonde and sun kissed locks I wore home.

I emerge wrapped in a towel to her boxing up my Christmas decorations and a warm cup of tea on the counter. I want to collapse, this is all too familiar. I know I am two weeks behind on my Masters of Counseling program that had begun while we were in Panama but I am trapped in a reverie, paralyzed, watching my mom pack up the broken pieces of the puzzle of my life.

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I hate puzzles and it just felt like my puzzle of a heart kept getting smashed into smaller and smaller pieces. First, when my dad died and my family fell apart. That was an easy twenty-five piece puzzle and though it took a few months to put together, I’m a bit of a procrastinator but I did it. Then, my son died and it was a five-hundred piece puzzle and instead of putting it together I laid all the pieces out, and banged them with a hammer until they stuck together in a heart like shape. I convinced my husband to get me pregnant and moved on. Then he died and it was a one thousand piece puzzle. Now I was crumpled on my living room floor in front of a white three-dimensional puzzle with no idea where to start and no picture to tell me how to put the pieces together. The world melts away and time reverses and it is Christmas 2008.

Chapter 2

W e’ve all heard the adage the only thing constant is change and we’ve all heard the metaphor of change being a metamorphosis, a caterpillar becoming a butterfly. But, I wonder, how many of the people who have used that metaphor have watched the transformation? A caterpillar becoming a butterfly is a painful, long, bloody process, gruesome and complicated. In relation to the size of the insect the blood in the terrarium when they emerge from their chrysalis appears as the aftermath of a massacre after spending twenty percent of its life in this torturous state of change. Only the end result is beautiful and graceful and then, only sometimes. Of the five butterflies we are releasing only four take wing. You know, come to think of it, this a great metaphor for grief and loss, and thus begins my reverie.

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*     *     *

It is Christmas Eve and the tree stands undecorated in the living room window of our new home. Christopher gurgles and coos as he plays on the floor in his Santa sleeper near the four small gifts under our tree. I sit on the couch sobbing, camera in hand, ready to take Christopher’s first Christmas pictures. I set the camera down and stare through my tears at the tree.

It has been six months and sixteen days since my best friend and husband passed away and one year, three months and six days since our first born, Nathen, passed away when he was just four months and three days old. My family of four, never having been a family of four, is now just the two of us.

Holidays are hard, but Christmas is the worst of all and as I sob on the couch for the loss of my family, I catch a glimpse of Christopher smiling and playing carefree on the floor and I sob even harder for ruining his first Christmas. I pick up Christopher, hug him tight to steel my heart, put on a big smile, and stand him up on my legs. He smiles at me and starts to giggle. As I kiss him on the mouth I hold back the tears and through quivering lips whisper Merry Christmas baby.

As I go through the motions of decorating the tree I am drawn back, reliving a life that now seems more dream than reality. I can see it so clear, it now seems so surreal it must not have really happened, I must have dreamed the last four years.

After putting the lights on the tree, I reach over and find an ornament my sister Mary had given us each the Christmas after Dad died, a ceramic angel frame. The ornament held a picture of our dad taken at some significant event in our childhood. Mine was my fourth birthday. The house already decorated for Christmas, I sat on my dad’s knee, my mother to our right and the cake alight in front of me coated in white and blue icing. It’s big and heavy and weighs down the branch of my little artificial tree, bowing it down through the ring of lower branches, within reach of little Christopher while I begin to reminisce about my dad.

I was in my mother’s basement, having come home to the farm, seven miles east of Beiseker, for the holidays. It was 2004 and the worst experience of my life had been losing my father. My Dad was my hero. He had charisma and charm. He had this amazing power of forgiveness and everyone who met him loved him. The lynchpin of our family and embodiment of everything good and right, that was my dad. I had walked in on my mother, much as I am now, rocked with sadness, loneliness and despair in her eyes. It had been almost two years since Dad passed away, she did not speak of him but, she would sit silent with a glass of his homemade wine in her hand and I saw now she was mourning not only the loss of a friend and husband but the dissolution of a family.

Dad was a survivor. He had an almost mythical quality. He had been born ill, the third child of my grandfather, Christian, on his third marriage after losing his first wife in childbirth, marrying her sister, losing her and a child to lockjaw and finally meeting my grandmother. My grandfather had travelled all over the country and down into the United States seeking out every doctor, quack and medicine man to save my father. Dad willingly endured all types of treatments and medicines having heard the doctor’s prognosis that he would not live to see his fifth birthday.

Polio couldn’t kill him and neither could thrombosis. He settled into a life at the Children’s hospital. When he was allowed to return home his hospital bed filled the small kitchen of the already crowded two bedroom home which still sits on the farm where I grew up. He fought the odds and by grade eight he was back on the farm. He became an amateur boxer, a trucker, a jack of all trades. There was nowhere I could go my dad hadn’t already been.

As a farmer, he saw us off to school each morning and picked me up from the bus each night. My mom had stayed home until I began school but once I started school Mom returned to nursing and Dad and I grew close. Being handicapped, Dad walked with a limp and used a cane instead of his feet to drive all the machinery on the farm. I rode for hours with him, opening gates and talking. He taught me everything. He was the foreman telling me what to do but unable to help other than to instruct. I learned so much.

I idolized my dad. In my eyes he was invincible. He was always successful at whatever he tried. He had begun to make wine, from fruit not from a kit. Everyone had told him it was not possible, the way he was going about it. His wine developed a reputation as one of the best wines around. It was powerful stuff. I was his helper and the only one privy to his secrets.

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The day Dad died we were no longer a family. We began drifting apart like a solar system that had lost its sun. Dad had been our sun and without his gravity to hold us together we were now spinning off course colliding on occasion in joy and sorrow and anger but we would never again be the family we once were. I did not want that for my Christopher.

It was Dad’s wine that led to my marriage and my beautiful little redhead. I remember that faithful night as I hang a gnome ornament on a low branch of the tree. One night, shortly after Dad’s death and taking coping lessons from my mother I had resorted to alcohol to dull the pain, Dad’s strawberry rhubarb wine, two bottles. Desperately needing an escape I turned to the only one available to a woman too inebriated to drive and too far from town to walk, Travelocity.

I had made myself a promise after returning from Korea, I would go somewhere new every year. On the deals page were trips to Atlanta and without stopping to blink I had made reservations and paid for a trip leaving in less than a week. I stumbled upstairs and flopped into bed.

The light of day came streaming through the window bright and screaming. My head pounded as I made my way to the kitchen for a cup of coffee. The first sip of the thick black tar hit me at the same time the previous night’s escapades began to come into focus. Shit! I ran downstairs, logged onto my computer and into my email. There was my confirmation from Travelocity, my flight to Atlanta departed in five days.

I called my friend Matt. Can you drive me to the airport on Thursday?

Sure, why? He asks a little concerned.

Apparently, I am going to Atlanta. I respond chuckling nervously.

You do know Deep South does not mean deep thinker right? Matt cajoles.

It was on this trip, drawn to a small town, Savanna, by a novel I had read years earlier, where destiny would find me. I fell in love not only with a place and a culture but with a boy. We met on a dolphin watch. He had taken to pointing out different sites and talking history and politics. He was young, innocent and charming. We were engrossed in our conversation when a girl guide about thirteen years old asked us to recite for her camera We’re having fun in Savannah, Georgia. and tell her where we are from. She was shocked we weren’t a couple and said we were cute together and should go to dinner. Using the girl’s suggestion as an opening he asked Would you like to? I nodded and off we went. I spent the evening lost in the song of crickets breaking through the thick humid air and thick syrupy sweet southern accents.

*     *     *

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He was several, ok eight years, my junior. I could not have imagined, as I sat on the floor packing, that almost four and a half years after that first spontaneous trip that I would be drawn back to Georgia a second time by that sweet southern accent on the other end of a long distance phone call, the first in over two years. It had happened just a few months earlier in March, when I heard his voice on the other end of the line, my heart raced.

How did you get my number?

"I just read my email; I haven’t checked it in months. I read the one you sent to everyone, about your new job. Congratulations on your Masters. So, how do you like