What To Do When People Disappear

Searched high and low to find an image of this pen. Just as I searched 40 years ago to find the one that disappeared.

Never found that multi-cartridge pen that my uncle brought back from his stint in the United States. Just as I could not find an imagine of it today on the WorldWide Web.

What has not disappeared is the memory of it or the "back siding" my mother gave me.

I was warned not to take the pen to school but which child would listen to that when they possessed the very thing that could make them the centre of attraction?

When I discovered that it had disappeared, I searched every crevice along the paths I had taken that day. Not finding it and knowing the hell and powder house that was going to occur when my mother found out, I ran away. Well not quite. I hightailed to my father's family house, a place that I might have visited twice before. That is another story, my infrequent visits to the Esterines.

As night fell, my half brother took me home promising to plead on my behalf. We held high hopes that his pleas would soften my mother's hardening heart as he had done so before. That too is another story.

He failed and I was severely whipped and chastised.

In that incident, I learned my first lesson in disappearing possessions. It would pave the way for how I dealt with disappearing people and problem solving for a couple more decades.

"Hang on to things, people, anything that has material and emotional value or are status symbols with your dear life - or get an ass whipping!"

So I hung on! For dear life I gripped:

• Every relationship or friendship even if the other party did not want to relate to me any longer
• Pieces of papers that said I had earned certification, a degree, experience even though I had suffered through the course, job, etc and hated every second

If it disappeared, I would hunt and tie it down so tightly, rathering it dying than allow it to "leave" me. That is exactly what I did when a long-term relationship started dying in its 9th year.

Seven years later when it finally gave up the ghost and up and disappeared - literally and metaphorically - I started to learn the real lesson in disappearing acts.

Let them go.

In Jamaica we have a saying: "What a fi yuh can't be un-fi-yuh." Translation: What is yours is yours.

It would take me six more years to earn my degree in "Goodbye Psychology." My professor, Life, was patient and allowed me to repeat classes and courses, gave me extra lessons and set for me the most rigorous examinations.

I graduated when I was truly ready to let everything, everyone and every situation disappear once they had fulfill their purpose in my life.

Today is my first anniversary at my current place of enjoyment. It is a proud moment for me not because I will receive a fat bonus cheque or something. My pride stems from the fact that this "Enjoyment Employment" is one of the several rewards that my professor, Life, has given to me.

My certification in "Goodbye" means that, finally I was ready to:

1. Work with an organization not for money but for the richness of service
2. Cherish friendships for their heart value rather than popularity ranking
3. Allow my most precious gift, my daughter, to be who she wants to be
4. Love wastefully anyone even those who piss me off
5. Release easily anything and anyone

Now, my remaining class through which I will receive a doctorate in "Goodbye' is in "The Joys of a Fully Free and Totally Unconditional Intimate Relationship."

If you would like to borrow my notes from previous courses or be my study partner in this class on "What a Fi Yuh..." do write to me, visit my page and join my list to get updates.

Be blessed and be ready to accept that what disappears is no longer yours!

Namaste

P. S.: Check out yesterday's essay before you go: "Your Expectations Are Running Your Life!"

 
Some photo source: pinterest.com

You Win Some Or You Get Life Lessons!

Claudette Esterine

Managing people tends to be, at least in my experience, a lot more about working with varying, conflicting and when you are lucky, complementary personalities.

Some time ago, one of my DOS Sistahs sent me a message in which she shared her admiration of my skill to keep our Group together with all of our foibles, quirks, perspectives, etc. I was humbled by her remark as it was affirmation of my lessons and the fact that I was not doing a bad just applying the wisdom of them.

Very often in the past, I have said to my daughter that it would be great if she would learn from her grandmother’s and my own mistakes and make some new ones. Well, some days I see evidence that she heard me and is very busy taking some new life classes. Other days, I am challenged to believe that she heard a word that I said much less realised that the mistake she is about to make was long ago made by me.

Tempted as I am to protect her, my lesson now is in keeping my mouth shut. Why? Simple - “Sometimes we win; sometimes we learn.”

Growing up most of us heard a different ending to that fabulous quote and title of his book from Dr. John Maxwell. We were told sometimes you lose. Looking over my own life, I have to say that it was erroneous for adults to have told me that. They actually tried and succeeded to some extent to make me into a coward – afraid to make mistakes, scared to take a chance.

Thankfully, that lasted for only sixteen years of my life. Possibly less, as I became a true risk taker.

Now after 40+ years, my journey is full of lessons learnt. Almost halfway through my time on Earth, if you believe that a century is the new average time limit, I am so excited about the new missteps that are ahead.

“I sometimes react to making a mistake as if I have betrayed myself. My fear of making a mistake seems to be based on the hidden assumption that I am potentially perfect and that if I can just be very careful, I will not fall from heaven. But a mistake is a declaration of the way I am, a jolt to the way I intend, a reminder that I am not dealing with facts. When I have listened to my mistakes, I have grown.” Hugh Prather

Here are a few of my losses and the learnings that I received:

Loss:  Parent (Mother) could not afford to keep me in High School after Grade 11 as most of my class mates, so I had to drop out at that level and find a job.

Learning:  Got a part time job using my basic secretarial training in high school, paid my way through night classes for Business Administration courses; upon graduation got a job as a junior legal secretary and volunteered at a local political party office, where I gained lots of experience in data entry, typing and started to learn basic speech writing and communications skills. Through this connection, I obtained a full scholarship to University in Eastern Europe.

Loss:  Separated from the man who I thought was the love of my life, my country and all that was familiar to me. Arrived in a place where the colour of my skin placed me at a grave disadvantage and my gender and age made me vulnerable.

Learning: Survival skills kicked in and turned up to heights I never knew I was capable of. Obtained a Master’s degree, travelled extensively across Europe, became fluent in Russian, met people from all over the world, political knowledge and savvy increased, got married and divorced for the first time, and best of all, had my beautiful daughter.

Loss:  The most meaningful intimate relationship of my life ended after 16 years.

Learning: That I am truly a survivor and able to thrive under any circumstance.

Those are just three of the seemingly big losses of my life. I could have given up or given in on all occasions, thrown pity parties – and in fact I attempted to do both but Something stopped or halted me.  These three examples held the seeds of some of my greatest learnings/lessons.

Today’s focus is on intimate relationships and the last example above is my best of my repertoire of loss in love and lesson in life.  What I was blessed by ex with through this loss was confirmation of my will to survive and thrive. Yes, my life looks differently in many ways today – I am happier, more free, more Me.

“Those who profit from adversity possess a spirit of humility and are therefore inclined to make the necessary changes needed to learn from their mistakes, failures, and losses. … When we are focused too much on ourselves, we lose perspective. Humility allows us to regain perspective and see the big picture. … Humility allows us to let go of perfection and keep trying.” John Maxwell

I certainly did “profit” from my losses in love – I grew! What about you? Did you profit from your divorce, separation and heartbreaks or are you still wallowing in self-pity, blame and/or bitterness? Wherever you are – it is okay. The first step to healing is acknowledging and that is what I invite you to do – acknowledge where you are exactly. You can do so here or through our Facebook page. You could also message me privately.

Looking forward to hearing about your learnings and do enjoy the rest of the evening.

Namaste

The Three Blessings of Loss

Claudette Esterine

Have you ever ‘lost’ so much that you felt that there is nothing else for you to lose and this is it?

Well I have. Over and over again; and on one occasion almost eight years ago, I lost myself, temporarily.

Loss is one of those words that gives me trouble or gets me in trouble with others. How? Simply because I have come to learn that there really is no “loss” so to speak. Some of my friends do not understand that and feel I am either in denial or cold.

I am neither.

Life has knocked me over so many times – and I have gotten up and stronger. The lessons I learned from these KO’s have been some of the greatest ones – so why would I call them losses? Yes, relationships ended, money flew out the window, people walked away, loved ones showed their real intentions and on and on it goes.

In and through all of this, I gained:

1. A sense of self beyond imagination
2. Strength to grow through just about any ‘adversity’
3. Wisdom to know and do better

The greatest insight, however, that I have gained from my KO’s is vulnerability! 

Shame is not something that stymies me. I will cry, laugh, wet my pants wherever, whenever and for whatever reason that I feel moved to so do!

“What happens when people open their hearts?"...
"They get better.”  Haruki Murakami, Norwegian Wood

Through all of my adversities, my heart has opened more widely. With each crack, more light has entered and brightened my soul. Does that mean nothing is hard or challenging for me? If that is what you think, you would be very wrong. Only today, for example, tears flowed as I discussed my granddaughter and one woman’s coldness towards me as others chose to share in the immense joy that this little girl has brought into my life.

Do I let such people or situations cause me to give up? No. Those of us who have had bouts with clinical depression and even have attempted or contemplated suicide live every day the “visitations” of this very “friendly” condition. Depression is an insidious dis-ease and visitor who hates to leave.

In my own experience, whenever challenged by persons and/or situations such as uncaring or insensitive people, I turn into – you guessed it – Me. If possible, I go to a mirror and do my work. I talk to myself, reminding the strong black woman looking back at me of who and Whose I really am.

Life goes on – whether I chose to stay on the ride; and a ride it is indeed.

What about you? Have you ever felt like giving up? To whom do you turn for support? Please know we are always here to listen and direct you to local supports.

Do have a great evening!

Pregnancy, Prenatal Care and Parenting - The Test of Mettle

Claudette Esterine

On April 26, 1986, the Chernobyl Nuclear Power Plant catastrophe occurred. Although we were living only 100 kilometres away, in Kiev, we only had official confirmation about two weeks after the incident.  

Fellow students, who were in medical school and interns in various hospitals across Kiev, reported seeing badly burned people being quietly whisked into their facilities. The minimal access some had to international media broadcasts were either totally blacked out or could only be heard sporadically. The news was too big, however, and too many students were travelling outside of the country for information of the disaster to be kept on the “down low,” for much longer.

I was pregnant with my first child and was one of the first to get out of the country. Months later, when my child – a boy – was born, dead, a still birth, I blamed the Soviet Government for my loss. The stress of being in the country for months after the accident and eating and drinking polluted food and water, if not the actual effects of the nuclear substances (??) that wafted across Kiev, were thought to be in some measure responsible for my loss.

Twenty eight years later, I am wondering how true that really was as I sat in the waiting room of the Royal Alexandria Hospital in Edmonton, Canada.

On July 1, 2014 at 1:40 in the morning, my first grandchild, a girl, was born. Her arrival was unexpected by the medical professionals but something told me she was going to get here earlier than her August 4 due date. When my daughter sent me the picture from her first ultrasound I was still in Jamaica on an extended visit. After offering congratulations and the usual questions such as when, what the sex, etc., I remarked to her “Your baby is going to get here by mid-July." I just knew.

Returning to Canada in April was not my first choice. I really wanted to remain in Jamaica, the land of my birth, but the actualities on the ground were not what I had hoped they would be and something was telling me it was time to leave. News of a grandchild determined where my destination in Canada would be.

Abigail

Looking at my daughter, doing my own assessment of her pregnancy and her physical movement, I repeated to her, possibly more often than she cared to hear, that the baby was going to be here early. Approaching the end of June, I noticed bodily changes in her that took me straight back to Kiev, 1986. They also took me back to October 1987 - when she was born and I was experiencing exactly what she was.

That was when it slowly dawned on me that the stillbirth of my first child was not necessarily due to the Chernobyl accident but my own health deficiencies and the poor medical care that I was receiving as a severely anemic woman. My daughter is too.

On June 30, Abi, my daughter called me at work around 5:00 p.m. to say she was still feeling poorly and suffering severe leg and lower back pain. Without a second thought I told her to get dressed, we are going to the hospital. We arrived around 6:00 p.m. and an Intern examined her around 8:30. His diagnosis was that back pain was “a regular occurrence in pregnant women" and he was going to send her home with some Tylenol!

Those who know me, and my daughter does, know that I can and will become dangerously annoyed when my loved ones are threatened. My looks will kill when my intelligence is questioned. The Intern found out as well.

After schooling him on the shared condition between my daughter and I; how it presents itself and what her medical professional since the pregnancy has not done, he ordered a battery of tests and requested a specialist, senior obstetrician/surgeon consult.

Said Senior Doctor confirmed what my Spirit was telling me and what Mahalia, my Kitten and granddaughter, was desperately trying to communicate all day. It was time to get her out.

Mahalia on the NICU a week ago

Slumped on the floor outside of the Operating Room, weeping after seeing my granddaughter – all 4lbs 1 ounce of her for the first time – all I wanted was to go see my daughter in recovery. She was wheeled out almost an hour later and her first words to me were “Did you see the baby?”

This morning as I changed her diaper as she fussed (she hates being changed), my heart sang. The cycle has broken.

Death is not something I fear. Not anymore. The death of my first child and the many transitions that I have had the honour of being present for in two hospitals in Alberta have taught me that this is a circle – the circle of Life.

Mahalia at almost two weeks old

She is not completely out of the woods but our Mahalia is a fighter, surpassing every target set for her as a preemie and was released from the hospital one week and a day after her birth. The prayers but more the Love that has encircled her has been more than I could have imagined. Mahalia has brought healing to many relationships in my and her mother’s life.

Funny side story: My daughter did not know about her baby’s namesake – Mahalia Jackson – when she chose the name. When I told her she said, “Well you will have to teach her about her!”I most certainly will tell her about the Queen of Gospel but also that her name means “tenderness,” and that is what she is – tender and precious.

Do you have a story to share about your child’s or grandchild’s birth? We want to hear so leave a comment here or visit our Facebook page and share it with us.

Namaste

Life After Death?

Claudette Esterine 

Standing on a footstool, I looked into his chest cavity for close to eight hours.

Those eight hours taught me that there is no death.

As far back as I can recall, death terrified me. In preschool, throughout my primary school and high school years the mere mention of the word "death," would cause my body to spasm.

My first acquaintance with death was in my 10th or so year when two people who were fairly well known to me met their "untimely" death. One was a boy of my age, and with whom I would romp the school grounds and the streets of our neighborhood - Pembroke Hall. He was crushed to death one evening by a truck going too fast through the community.

The second was a quite popular Rastafarian man, who was something of a jock and who loved to "dally" on his motorbike. Think we called him 'Bull' and one day, he zipped once too often between vehicles on the same drive where my school mate was killed.

Both 'men' died swiftly and their blood splattered and smeared Pembroke Hall Drive for weeks. Every day that I had to walk pass the spots, although revolted by the sight of the blood, I was nonetheless curious about their souls. My feet would linger long enough for my eyes to search for them in the shadows of the nearby trees. Folklore had it that they both had been seen there but I dared not go by at night.

I never saw them. Neither did I see the soul of the patient who had been wheeled in for a triple bypass.

My fear of death was being challenged by my residency as a hospital chaplain. If you know me, then you would understand that backing down from a 'challenge' is not what I do. When our supervisor instructed us to choose a topic to write a major reflection paper on - I decided to go in search of the soul.

It was the first time a resident-chaplain had elected to observe a surgery in this hospital. Maybe that explains the surgeon's decision to test my mettle. Little did he know that I would not back down or run out of the operating theatre screaming.

Had I known beforehand that my "observation" point was not from an enclosed glass viewing room overlooking the surgery, maybe I would have. When I arrived at the hospital's surgical ward just before 4:00a.m. and was led directly to the theatre area and was told to scrub in, my knees buckled.

Image: hollywoodanesthesia.com

"Scrub in? Why?"

The news that I was to actually be right beside the surgeon, his instruction, shocked but provoked my sense of adventure. The scrubbing in process in itself was exhilarating and quite technical, particularly for someone like me who eats over her computer - my operating table.

Patient X was wheeled in for what should have been a triple bypass, duration of which was anticipated to be between five to six hours. My guest supervisor, the surgeon, wanted to ensure that I had the full experience.  He must have been amused about my quest.

For eight hours, I watched as Patient X was anaesthetized, blood vessel removed from his leg, his chest opened, his heart removed and placed on ice while some was packed into his chest cavity. The surgeon and his assistants got to work repairing Patient X's heart, declaring that it was worse than they thought.

Image: news.discovery.com

I was moved from the foot of the surgical table to the side then my guest supervisor invited me to come stand on the footstool above Patient X's head, looking straight into his chest cavity. I did not back down.

Neither did I see his soul.

Eight hours later, heart returned to his body and the machinery that was pumping his blood switched off, my search for the soul ended as Patient X's heart took over its job.

Unable to sleep, I stayed awake for 24 more hours and wrote my reflection paper. Crying, no weeping, as I wrote, my conclusion was that there must be life after death OR that there really is no death.

Eight years, one failed marriage, career change, unemployment, near homelessness and one high risk relationship later and I now am convinced that Life and Death, Beginning and End are one.

I love what Meg Rosoff wrote about death, endings and beginnings:

"I am almost a hundred years old; waiting for the end, and thinking about the beginning. 

There are things I need to tell you, but would you listen if I told you how quickly time passes?
I know you are unable to imagine this.

Nevertheless, I can tell you that you will awake someday to find that your life has rushed by at a speed at once impossible and cruel. The most intense moments will seem to have occurred only yesterday and nothing will have erased the pain and pleasure, the impossible intensity of love and its dog-leaping happiness, the bleak blackness of passions unrequited, or unexpressed, or unresolved."

Do enjoy the rest of the day. Leave a comment here, or on our Facebook page sharing with us your thoughts on this topic. You may also follow us on Twitter.

Namaste


Claudette Esterine is the Founder of Daughters of Sheba Foundation and Editor of our blog. She is a Jamaican-Canadian and a Free Spirit.