The Good Stuff ~ Music

I have learned the roughness of grief, is something that can have its pointy edges smoothed... by the calming melodies of song.  If I feel inundated with anguish, the first thing I reach for is a CD to bring solace back into my often chaotic world.

Last night, I attended -along with my partner- a concert. I am passionate about music as I am about my writing. Prior to Shayla’s death, our presence at a multitude of shows was  something I treasured. From country to rock, pop to folk infused with the blues, music uplifted me in many ways. My scrapbooks are filled with a variety of ticket stubs that displays my eclectic blend of artists I listen to.

Going to a concert with Shayla was like having your own one-woman powerhouse show, beside you. She would belt the lyrics out-loud, shake and shimmy, while woo-hoo’s were yelled out to the stage. Over the years, we made posters together to hold up and one night, my daughter’s dream of meeting a performer came true. We were seeing Jann Arden perform, with Shayla all revved up for the show. As Jann cracked jokes and eased the audience into a level of comfort that she was well- known for, she spotted my daughter, holding up a poster. Jann then called Shayla on stage and I thought my babygirl was going to trip, as she bolted front and centre. Jann engaged in friendly banter with my daughter and later signed a poster for her. Many locals saw Shayla and she was delighted when someone would say: “Hey, aren’t you the girl who met Jann Arden?”

 Over the years, we started a tradition that saw us connect, even when we were not together at a concert. Each one of us would ring up the other person and play a popular tune by the artist. I received random calls once in awhile, where all I could hear was screaming and distorted music in the background. I would then be reminded that Shayla was somewhere at a concert, singing her heart out and thinking of her momma.

Two days before she passed away, I was watching STING perform his endless hits. I could not get a hold of her, so I recorded parts of “Every Breath You Take and Roxanne, on my cell phone.” These were both of Shayla’s favourites.  I smiled, knowing that in only 2 weeks, I would see her in person and play the songs to her.

Life sometimes has a twisted way of taking something you revered and turning it into a catalyst of pain.  After Shayla passed away, I found these short clips on my phone and had a meltdown. She would never see or hear the words of stuff that mattered to us.

The first concert after she was gone, I found myself instantly reaching for my phone to call her. A lump seemed to be caught in my throat and then a sinking feeling overcame me. I had been robbed of these special moments, stripped of a bond between mother and child. It would take months for me to realize that I needed to focus on what I had with my beloved daughter and not spend wasteless time on what was no longer.

Yesterday, when I was at the Snow Patrol / Noel Gallagher concert, I closed my eyes a lot…I traded seeing the concert in order to “feel” it. Suddenly, the hit Chasing Cars began and I purposely grabbed my cell phone and started to record. I knew it would never be the same, as it was with Shayla. Yet, I seized the opportunity to do something in the present that still connected me to my past; to continue a tradition that evoked joy for Shayla and me.

One of the new songs I had not heard was called: “This Isn’t Everything You Are.” As Snow Patrol sang the words, I let the melody settle in to me. I was blown away by how it reminded me of my own unknown grief journey. The parts of losing time and there are strangers everywhere struck a chord. When Shayla died, people of authority had evaded my personal space. Strangers were standing in MY home, whispering amongst themselves or offering assistance. All I wanted to do was “keel over” and how one moment in time had imploded my world from the inside out. Yet, the possibility of help right at my fingertips was something I yearned for. On December 12, 2011, there was a woman Police Officer who said some private, heartfelt words that I continue to cherish.  While everyone else was standing over me, hovering, she kneeled by my side and her friendly face was also covered in tears. Offering her hand and a moment of compassion; made all of the difference when my heart was shattered into fragments.

With music, the beauty of endless meanings interrelates to those who listen to it. When I first heard this song last night, it was as if that very Officer was trying to let me know… “This Isn’t Everything You Are.” This meant that although this tragedy would forever be a part of my existence, death could not ever steal away, what Shayla and I shared.

By T L. Alton

“This Isn’t Everything You Are” By Snow Patrol

You’ve been up all night, and the night before

You’ve lost count of drinks and time

And your friends keep calling, worried sick

And there are strangers everywhere…

Don’t keel over now

Don’t keel over

And in one little moment

It all implodes

But this isn’t everything you are

Breathe deeply in the silence

No sudden moves

This isn’t everything you are

Just take the hand that’s offered

And hold on tight

This isn’t everything you are

There’s joy not far from here, right

I know there is

This isn’t everything you are…

Between the Sand and Stone

Grief is an unusual companion to take with you on a vacation in paradise; yet in February of this year, I found myself on a trip to Maui, with sorrow as my guide.

Embarking on a solo journey that was meant for two is like winning the lottery and finding out you have a terminal illness at the same time. Death threatened to further inflict pain by thrusting me into a vacation from hell. How could I possibly go to a place where it was our dream as mother and daughter to travel together and be without the other half of my soul?

On the plane, there was no room for my weary body to rest; if for one moment I gave into the notion of relaxation then I knew a meltdown would ensue. I forced myself to stay awake and struck up a conversation with another Canadian couple, bound for tropical bliss.  I had with me a bear created by Shayla at buildabearville.com that she made for me years earlier. It had a pink ballerina dress on and my daughter had placed a plastic red heart inside. When you squeeze the left paw, it activates a recorder with Shayla’s voice tenderly saying to me: “I love you shoobie woop woop do woop.” This sentiment is something we shared ever since she learned to talk. As I spoke to this couple, the woman inquired about the bear. It led me to tell the personal grief journey of my daughter’s life and her tragic death.

I have learned in Grief Group that sharing is part of the healing process. For me, it really is not so much the need to heal, but to express that this person existed in this world and their legacy carries on. It is a two-fold process in which I have become a storyteller of Shayla’s existence. It has become my quest to weave a tapestry of words into tales of epic adventures we shared, her compassionate heart, and how this young woman of 21 yrs seized every opportunity life granted her.

I told these vacationers about The Heart Pebble Movement, while teardrops fell upon the teddy bear Shayla named, “Babygirl,” – my nickname for her.  I told these strangers sitting beside me, how this precious child changed my life in ways so extraordinary, that I had always felt she was an angel here on earth. My daughter’s waves of love came in forms of notes she would write for me on napkins, the lids of her finished yogurt and even scrawled on to the back of grocery lists. In January, upon packing her unfinished life, I found more of these sentiments, and became overwhelmed with emotions. Slumping against the wall, I tried to scream out the remnants of her death, but only silence clung to my fragmented heart.  For me, it is a necessity to express my grieving journey, as revelations of her untimely passing, had to be freed. I did not want to wear the mask of normalcy when the reality was my world was being tossed upside down. When explaining the pebble movement, I could sense this couple truly cared about the cause.  I told them of my plans to release over a half dozen of stones all over Maui, in honour and memory of Shayla. I expressed my hurt that this would be the first birthday in 22 years that I would not be sharing with her. Upon landing in Maui and leaving the plane, I knew my daughter’s imprint had been left behind.

This solo trip would find me facing many challenges; one being I am a directionally-challenged person and get lost in a parking lot. Now all alone on an island, I had to walk the path by myself, get on board shuttle buses and find my hotel. Yet, the minute I arrived surrounded by colorful lei’s and beams of sunshine, the first thing I did was breathe. I allowed the salty atmosphere to inhabit my fatigued body; a reminder that I was encircled by the stunning beauty of Hawaii.  

Checking into my Hotel, I threw everything down and changed into my bathing suit and a cover-up. Suddenly, my cheeks were wet once again from my tears…how could I have been in England only 4 days earlier with my partner and now I was in all alone in Maui? I went to the bathroom and splashed my face with water. Turning around, I knew I could not remain in the room, by myself…at least not yet.

Once outside, I checked the pool area and thought it may be a good idea to lounge around and relax. If anything I have learned since Shayla’s death is that an idle mind is not a good thing. I tried to focus on the how the rays of sun were lighting up my tired frame. Moments later, flashes of the hospital, cleaning out my daughters smashed vehicle and her Celebration of Life, were thrust to the forefront of my mind. I lingered for only 10 more minutes, jumped into the pool and decided to go for a walk. As I neared the beach, I was greeted with an exceptional view of nature’s wand spreading hues of lavender, yellows and tints of blue, across the skyline. I took off my sandals and let my feet dig into the sand that felt like a warm hug for your toes. I watched as the colour danced a waltz of fusion, spread across a Maui horizon. Soon, a wall of people had gathered and I would learn this was a nightly event; a free show of brilliance delivered in the sky we gazed upon.

Once the sun had set, I decided to walk. Much like Forrest Gump, I travelled miles-without a sense of purpose-I strolled over the main beach, then onto the next one and so on. Along the way, I saw couples wrapped around each other, where one person ended, the next one began immersed in rapture. There were children, full of glee as the waves tickled their feet and they chased after a next wave. I saw an old weathered man, leaning against a tree-seemingly not a care in the world. As I carried on, I searched for pebbles for my own collection. I found round, smooth ones, volcanic rocks and even an inuksuk, signifying “Someone was here.” As out of place I had felt, now amongst the sand and stones…I felt welcomed. As if the island had brought me here to be part of this incredibly painful journey, to participate in things that would alter my world in a healing way.

For those who have suffered the loss of a child, it is the discovery of grace and nature’s remedy, which can inspire comforting strength.  I would come to realize in my 9 days in Maui, the courage I needed to survive myself and this trip, would be found on the ocean floor of the Pacific.

By T L. Alton