Bev’s Lost Year

Her mother’s passing had been hard on her. She was in a funk for some time, but I suppose losing one’s parent can have that sort of an affect on you. I’ve yet to experience that.

When I was suggesting vacation options with Bev, she was disinterested. Of course she was; she was grieving. It probably felt like a betrayal to even consider heading out and having fun. That’s the reason why she didn’t go with me to New Orleans and New York. I was rather oblivious to the depth of her pain. Like I said, I’ve never lost a parent and had no idea how deeply it affected her. And I had no idea how long it would take her to push through her funk and pain and come through the other side.

Bev tells me that she was extremely depressed during that year of her life. She hid it well, focusing on work mostly. When she cried, she did so alone. She’s a very private person, not given to lavish displays of affection. She’s like a man in that aspect; you have to look for the signs, like her doing little things for you, routing out the lost, patiently sussing out what might be the problem with electronic devices, keeping track of utilities and personal taxes and dog grooming. She’s very much like her mother in that regard.

Her mother passed in March of 2009. She grieved, but somehow made it through our trip to New Brunswick without falling apart, not that she would fall apart; she’s not that sort. If she did, she’d do it privately, and in her own time, inside her head, where no one else could see.

She had work to occupy her. Then we went on our annual “big” trip. She didn’t have a quiet time between, not really. When things did get quiet, she got busy: she went to Manitoulin in August to convalesce. I was not invited. Neither were the dogs. “I need some time to myself for a little while,” she said. I understood. Sometimes you just have to go on a vision quest or some such thing to come to terms with yourself. If not a vision quest (I really don’t see the point of such things; you’ll only find yourself in the end), then certainly a walkabout. That I can wrap my head around. Put one foot ahead of the other. You’ll find yourself walking beside yourself the whole way.

She packed up for her walkabout. I fussed in the way I can, asking her if she had everything she needed for a week by herself, reminding her that she’d be able to get whatever she might have forgotten in Gore Bay or Little Current, and barring that, most certainly in Espanola. She left on her “Bev’s Big Adventure,” as she called it, the first time she’d ever actually ventured out on her own. Manitoulin was as good a place as any. Better than most. She knew it like the back of her hand. It held a cherished place in her memory, years of summer trips piled up, one on top of the other. It was a safe place. A good place to go and try to center herself.

She called a few times, to set me at ease and to give me updates on how she was and what she’d done. But, for the most part, she spent it with herself, cherishing the quiet and her memories and her newfound freedom.

But it was not enough. She was still sad, still depressed, still in need of time to heal.

Bev was working at the Mine for a while through this, subcontracted by Ross Pope to set up a cost accounting routine for D-Mine at Kidd. While there, one of the girls mentioned a Woman’s Wellness Weekend Retreat being held at Cedar Meadows in the spring of 2010. Bev mentioned the upcoming retreat to her friend Lynn who thought it a great reason to come up, so Bev and Lynn enrolled and set to room together while there.

I remained to hold down the fort and take care of the dogs in her absence. This is not to say that I did not hold down the fort or care for the dogs when she was around, just that I was to have the roost to myself while she went off and did what women do at such things, ridding themselves of their men for a time. Maybe that’s just the point, to be rid of us for a short time.

While there, Angel, the woman who’d mentioned the Retreat to Bev, put another bug in Bev’s ear. They should go to Vegas. The girls were on board, Bev said, naming a few who were. I spoke to one or two and found that they were not.

Time passed. Long story short, the Vegas week didn’t happen in September as planned. The girls backed out, one at a time, and the trip was downgraded to a weekend in Cochrane, or more specifically, a cottage just outside of Cochrane.

Lynn came up for that too, I suppose so that Bev wouldn’t be spending time “alone” with strangers. They bunked together again.

Bev began to come to terms with her mother’s passing. I can’t say how many times she cried; she never did in my presence, not really; I happened by a couple times as her composure was breaking down after seeing something of her mother’s; like I said, she’s a very private person; but what I can say as that she became her old self again, little by little, until she broke through and left her heavy grief and debilitating funk behind.

Would that have happened anyway, those times spent alone and in the company of women notwithstanding? Maybe. Probably? Who’s to say?

But her mother’s passing had prepared her for her father’s passing, still a few years away. She picked up pamphlets about palliative care and grieving and what to expect. These lessons served her well then.
But that’s just like Bev. It’s just like her mother too. Plan, make lists, be prepared.

Alma was a pragmatic woman.
Her daughter is much the same.
As they say, the apple doesn’t fall too far from the tree.