The Plan to Move Home - Chapter 13

There were a lot of factors that lead me to the decision to move back to my home town, not the least of which was that I desperately missed all the places I had loved for over 25 years of my life while I had been on my extended stay in the prairies. I knew things and people would have changed but I still had a few friends on the Island who had known me all or most of my life. And it had been those people who, at the demise of my marriage and the resulting exodus of many (seemingly) good friends, had not only stuck by me, supported and encouraged me, but had reminded me of the person I used to be. Of the person I still was. I had been feeling a tremendous pull to move home since 2011. I had thought that my frequent trips to the Island would satisfy that pull. I told myself that I could travel back to Vancouver Island any time I wanted but the last 4 trips, in just over a year, had done just the opposite. Every time I left I would spend my last day on the Island in tears  and the first week back in the prairies marked with depression. I simply did not want to be there. It was not just that I was alone and lonely in Regina (which I was).  It was not just that the pain of having my kids and grandkids so close and yet they were not within my grasp. It was not just the incredible bone chilling temperatures and the snow. I just didn’t feel like I belonged there and I never had. As wonderful as my job was - as supportive as my co-workers were - as loving and amazing as my church was - I did not belong in that city. I had no peace there.   

The decision to move made no sense to people particularly since I had just found my father. I finally had this miraculous relationship - how could I leave? I struggled with this but at the end of the day, I knew that I had lived most of my life making choices  based on what other people wanted or required from me. What I wanted or needed was never a top consideration - most often it was not considered at all. It all came into focus for me one evening that I was out with my dad.  

He had invited me to a Prairie Grass meeting - an evening presentation with photos of... well, prairie grasses, followed by a reception. I know, right?  Sounds fascinating (you read my sarcasm, yes?). A few years earlier I had  taken a firearm safety course and one evening we were graced with a special speaker - a wildlife conservation officer. He was dressed all in beige. His presentation matched his outfit.  It was one of the dullest couple of hours I had ever spent. I imagined that this prairie grass presentation would be similar. All beige. Incredibly dull. However, this was a topic that my dad was quite passionate about and it was an evening to be spent with him so despite having no interest in the subject matter, I accepted his invitation. The venue was the Royal Saskatchewan Museum in Regina and I expected attendance of 40 people, tops. Likely less.  To my surprise there were easily 180 people packed into one of the theatre venues in the Museum. There were indeed a couple of photos, but what we had both thought would be a photographic essay set to music was in fact, a “call to arms”.  I won’t bore you with the details, but let’s just say, there is some issue with who is controlling the prairie grasslands and it’s (feared) ultimate demise. The theatre was full of people who were upset and wanted to do something about it. I coined the phrase “Activist Meeting” after it was over (it did, in fact, include a nasty letter to the Premier of the province for all to sign). There was plenty of discussion from the audience with many urgent and heart-felt questions posed to the organizers of the event. To my surprise - as well as my dad’s - he was called up on stage at one point to answer people’s questions. He was the reigning expert it would seem. Completely unprepared, he went up and took the stage. I have no idea what he said that night, but I sat back and watched him (with great pride, I might add), graciously yet expertly and easily answer people’s questions. This Q&A continued into the reception where he was approached over and over by people wanting to mine his knowledge and ask his opinion on all manner of issues and policy. It was clear that his opinion was respected. For the first time, I watched my dad in his element. The answers just flowed from him. He was speaking to something that he not only knew a great deal about; a topic he loved, but it was something that was a part of him.  And it was at that moment I knew - in the same way that the prairie was part of the undeniable fabric of who my dad was - the coastline and forests of Vancouver Island were a core part of who I was. It was where I belonged. Where I felt comfortable and at ease. I never felt like I belonged in the prairies because I didn’t. My time in Saskatchewan was supposed to be temporary. My husband had coerced me to move there with the promise that it would only be 4 years. It had turned into 26. It was well past the time for me to go home.  

One other thing started to become clear to me. I had never been normal. I had tried all my life to take “normal” down off the shelf and cram my life into it. It was all too clear that it had not served me well. I was unique. Different. And instead of that realization making me feel bad about myself, I decided it was time I started to embrace it. Lean into God’s chest and learn to love the person He made me to be. I found a great deal of freedom and rest in that realization. So, like a salmon swimming upstream against the current of normality and popular opinion, I changed my direction and started the process of moving home.  

I was filled with a great deal of fear and anxiety about my decision. I knew it was right for me, but no one wanted me to go. When I told my dad and Norma, they tried to convince me to stay. So did Lizzy.  As did my boss, colleagues, and some people at church. I felt the lifelong urge to please people and bow to what they wanted wrestle mightily with my decision to finally do what my heart longed for. Norma was like a dog with a bone - not wanting to give up the idea of keeping me close to them - and trying to convince me to stay in all manner of ways, including marrying some rich ranchers! Yeah....no. Undeterred, I made the first steps:  giving my notice at work (well in advance) and booking myself a small furnished, 1 bedroom cabin in Kye Bay, on the beach, for the winter. I spent the summer packing and sorting and re-packing. I sold a lot of my possessions...why pay to have them moved and stored?  

The hard part was telling my kids of my plans. As expected, both my boys accepted my decision with cool matter of factness. I invited them both to visit me. One of them declined outright. I told them I would be back to visit. The last person I would notify was my daughter.  She was the hardest one to tell as she had not spoken to me in 14 months and the conversations we had previous to that had left me feeling shamed and bereft. But I had come a long way in those 14 months so I picked up the phone and called her. She did not answer, but I got her voice mail so I left her a message to call me back. To my surprise, she did. When she called me I calmly told her of my plans. She didn’t say too much except to acknowledge my news. I figured I had nothing to lose so I asked if we could meet for coffee prior to my leaving. I was shocked when she said yes. We made a date for a time and place. I was excited and nervous - cautiously so.  I told my dad and Norma, as well as Lizzy and we all thought her willingness to a) answer my call and b) accept my invitation to coffee was a good sign. I prayed about that coffee date.  So did Lizzy.  

It did not go well.

I was calm, open and honest throughout the whole thing but she had not changed her mind about me.  She had always blamed me for the divorce and held some strong religious beliefs about what I was doing and the circumstances that would have to take place to ever be received back into her family. Her stance on me had not softened. It had, in fact, become even more entrenched. I left that meeting, drove home and in increments, over the following weeks, allowed the impact of what she had said, and how she had said it, wash over me. Her words were like a steamroller - they didn’t pound me into submission or batter me about - they slowly and efficiently flattened me. Then when I thought she was finished, she slowly backed up over me one more time.  

I nearly lost my footing at this point. I had felt shamed by her words and innuendo and I could not bring myself to tell anyone - not even Lizzy - about it. And as was my usual M.O., when I get to that place of emotional exhaustion - when I hit that wall - I retreat. One morning, I got an email from my dad at work. He wanted to know if I was OK since they hadn’t heard from me in a long time. I couldn’t bring myself to answer his email. I was mustering everything I had not to cry at work and even attempting a reply to that email brought me to tears. I could not respond. I walked to the park at lunch and tried to compose a response to his email but couldn’t. Then I got a text.
  

“Are you OK?  I haven’t heard from you.”

I texted my reply: “I’m sorry to worry you. I’ve been struggling and feeling exhausted. I’m trying to find my way out of it.”  

Not even 30 seconds later, my phone rang. It was him.  

“You sound sad” he said.  

I sat down on a park bench and the tears finally found their release. I told him I was just done in. All the stress of planning my move, the car trouble I had been having, the delays in the divorce, my workload, and then the emotional overload that I had been left with after talking with my daughter...it was all caving in on me. 

“I can’t be there tonight but I will come tomorrow” he said.

“You don’t have to come all the way here - I’ll be OK” I told him.  

But he insisted. He told me that he likely couldn’t solve any of my problems but that he would listen. I thanked him, dried my tears and walked back to work.  By the time I got home that evening I had two emails from my sisters and they made me laugh.  There were no more secrets in this family! And for the first time I saw, that when one of us had a crisis, the family unit came together. It had been the first time in my life that anyone had circled the wagons for me.  

My dad and Norma rolled in the next afternoon and after work, I met them at a restaurant where I spilled all the things that were stressing me out and causing me hurt, fear and anxiety. In particular, I told them about the fears that had been assailing me that summer - specifically with respect to my daughter and my integration into my dad’s family. I was afraid I would never be reconciled with my kids. Or that I would ever see my grandkids again. I feared that since I didn’t know how to be a daughter or a sister that I would screw up these new relationships too. I feared that my half-sisters would begin to resent my appearance on the scene.  I feared that since I had messed up my family that my father-in-law was right - I didn’t belong in a family. We talked long into the night and my dad was right - he could not solve all my problems, but his ability to listen and offer suggestions, comfort, or affirm made a world of difference.  

The summer passed quickly. I was determined, as was my dad and Norma, to pack in as much time together before my move. Having finalized the details of my move, I was scheduled to fly out on September 8, 2014.  

I celebrated another of my dad’s birthday and another Father’s Day rolled around too. I remembered the confusion I had felt one year ago; the tears I had spilled over it. But this year would be a celebration. For both of us. He had indeed earned the honour of being my dad. As I reviewed the last year I was amazed and filled with overwhelming gratitude. I searched for the perfect card then decided on the quintessential gift - the gift every kid gives their dad for Father’s Day.  A tie.  I found him a Michael Kors that I knew he could wear with his blue suits or his black one. I also made him a replica of the Father’s Day craft that I made back in grade school. The paper tie that I had given to Grandad. I cut out the tie shaped paper, glued it together, bought myself some crayons and set about to label each piece of paper with coupons that he could redeem. I laughed as I put it together and noted - printing neatly with crayons is hard! I hoped he wouldn’t judge my penmanship. He received all of it with great humour. The next morning he wore my tie to a meeting that was promising to be fractious. But instead, the contribution he made to the meeting was met with agreement. Thereafter, he called my gift “his lucky tie”.  

We spent another day together in Regina, touring Government House then dinner at a bistro where my dad and I each had a glass of wine. Over dinner, conversation turned to my move. He commented that there were things we needed to do before I left.  One of them being, hearing me sing and play piano at church. I told him, that if he came, he could not tell me in advance as I would be too nervous.  He wrote down the dates that I was scheduled to play and we left it at that. 

Norma told me that Don would be sad when I left.  I told him, “Please don’t be sad”.  

“I’m already sad” he replied.  “I will miss you”

The tears rushed to my eyes and I assured him I would try to be better at phoning and staying in touch. I told him that one day I hoped he would visit me, and in the same way that he had showed me around his prairie, I would show him around the beaches and forests, as well as the house I grew up in and the schools and neighborhood where I lived.  He seemed to like that idea and I could not wait to share my home with him one day. 

The summer was coming to a close and soon, I would be starting my new life, back home.