Santa is a Murderer

Unlike most children, I was probably the only kid in the world who wasn't at all disappointed to find out that Santa did not exist. In fact, if anything, I was a little relieved.

I never truly understood how, on one hand, our parents could ingrain the fear of God into us for talking to strangers, and yet, on the other, they'd force us to sit on some old man's lap while he promised us toys in exchange for telling him if we'd been good little boys or girls. Hmmm? Just how extensive is the background check on someone applying for the position of Mall-Santa? I think this warrants serious consideration because, let's face it, "Mall-Santa" would be a pedophile's dream job.

It wasn't my aversion to the obligatory Santa-photo that made me despise him. My deep-seated hatred for this old man developed at the age of five, when I learned a very unfortunate lesson: that which Santa giveth, he can easily taketh away. 

Terrace, B.C. 

I became privy to this lesson while my family and I were living in a remote area of northwestern British Columbia. Our modest house was enveloped by thick forest and was bordered by mountainous terrain. We were pretty much in the middle of nowhere, and had it not been for Rudolph's shiny, luminous nose, I doubt Santa would have ever stood a chance in hell of finding us. This was, after all, long before Google Maps and GPS even existed. 

In the week preceding Christmas, my parents surprised my siblings and me with the best gift ever imaginable: a horse.  Of course, it was understood that this horse was a gift from Santa, even though it came one week early. 

This is how I remember her...

In keeping with the festive spirit, we named this majestic beauty "Holly." She was white with grey spots and was enormous compared to the four little children who danced excitedly around her shiny, black hooves. 

This is probably a more accurate
 representation of what she looked like.

Looking back, I am willing to bet that my parents purchased Holly on a whim. You didn't have to be a financial adviser to see that Holly wasn't their wisest investment. First of all, our property, though remote and rustic, was not conducive to raising anything larger than chickens and rabbits. And secondly, aside from a chicken coop, we had nothing capable of providing safe haven for Holly. Yep, I can pretty much guarantee that Holly was a few gallops away from the glue factory, and had it not been for my parents and the modest fee they paid for her, we would have probably made her acquaintance on an arts and crafts table instead of meeting her for the first time in our front yard.  

My dad, whose vocation was to construct things, set out to build Holly a stable. What started off as a "small project" for my father, the construction worker of yore, ended up taking a whole week of back-breaking labor. As fate should have it, Holly's stable was finally completed on Christmas Eve. 

Fat fucking sack of murder!!

We all watched with eager anticipation as Dad lead Holly into her own little home for the first time. Had it not been for our excitement about Santa's visit that night, we would have all slept more peacefully knowing that Holly was safe and sound in her stable, especially since large snowflakes were beginning to fall from the ominous winter sky...

and these large snowflakes continued to fall while my parents wrestled us into bed... 

they fell while my parents hurried to wrap the last of the gifts...

and they fell...

and fell...

and fell...

..until we all awoke on Christmas morn to what looked like a Thomas Kinkade painting. Outside our window was a pristine winter wonderland. Everything was buried under a thick blanket of snow, and nothing could be identified if you hadn't made a mental note of where it stood the night before.

Needless to say—visually—it was the picture-perfect Christmas morning. In reality, however, it was far from perfect. In fact, it would soon unravel to be the worst Christmas ever experienced by a child living in a developed nation. 

While we were busy unwrapping our gifts, Dad went out to check on Holly. Shortly after, he returned and summoned my mother into the kitchen. A great deal of time had passed before they both came out to the living room, each of them sporting a somber look.

"Ahem," my dad cleared his throat in a manner that suggested he was about to have a breakdown. 

"Kids, we have something we need to tell you," said he, the man who went on to build tall skyscrapers for a living. 

This announcement didn't have enough punch to distract us from our gifts. 

"Ummm, kids...it appears as though Holly has gone to Heaven." All eight eyeballs were now fixed firmly upon him.

This evoked a battery of questions from four very confused children...

"Why? Didn't she like living with us?"...."Is she coming back?"...."Where's Heaven? Can we go see her?"..."Didn't she like her stable?"

And then came the one question that I am sure they were hoping to avoid...

"What happened? How did she die?" Of course, this question came from my older sister, Andrea, who actually understood that in order to get into Heaven, you first must die.  

In unison the rest of us asked, "She's dead???? How did she die???"  Again, the question they were trying so desperately to avoid. 

"Well," answered my father, hoping that my mom would chime in to answer; she did not. "Unfortunately, kids, the snow storm made it very difficult for Santa to land his sleigh."  

We all listened attentively, our eyes welling up with tears. 

"Santa misjudged his landing, and instead of landing on the house, he accidently landed on Holly's stable. The stable could not handle the weight of Santa and his reindeer, and it collapsed, killing Holly." And with that, the flood gates opened with a vengeance. 

This tragic event pretty much ruined the rest of the day. We'd each have moments— between consoling one another—when we'd play with our new toys, but it was difficult to appreciate a gift that was given to you by the man who had just flattened your horse. 

Thankfully, I only had a few more years of believing in Santa. But with the knowledge that he did not exist, so came the knowledge that my parents had lied about the details of Holly's death.

Dad helped build the Calgary Tower

For years I had to deal with the fact that our horse's stable—the one which my father had so carefully crafted—had really collapsed under the weight of the snow. This may not seem like a big deal, but later in life, when we would drive around Calgary, and my father would proudly point out all the high-rises he had played a huge part in building, I had no other choice but to pray that these buildings were built on sounder foundations than the one on which he had built Holly's stable. 

It has taken me a long time, but I have since forgiven my parents. As for Santa? That murdering dirt-bag is dead to me. 

Snow people make great friends. They melt.

Thanksgiving Dinner

I wrote this last year when I was home for Canadian Thanksgiving. People here in the States are always baffled when they hear Canada has a Thanksgiving. They wonder what it is we are thankful for, so I tell them we're just grateful we didn't become the 51st state. Of course, they know I'm kidding because I am proud to live here, and I'm thankful for all the awesome Americans I have in my life. You know who you are;)

For the first time, I have cooked the entire turkey dinner by myself, except for the brussel sprouts, which Mom prepared. After a long day in the kitchen— a room in which, up until today, I've spent very little time— I join my family at the dinner table.  Before they can enjoy the fruits of my labor, Terry, my stepfather, says grace. He is interrupted by my brother, Cam, who can't contain his laughter. Apparently, the spread of assorted dishes has my brother busting a gut.

We begin our binge, or what I hope will be a binge, when, after only two bites, Mom gets up from the table to retreat to the bedroom, where she remains in a supine position with a cold, wet towel draped across her forehead. She swears it is the cancer and not my cooking that has brought on this acute bout of nausea. 

Cam, still laughing, sits next to his girlfriend, Jen, who is a really slow eater; although, I don't remember her ever eating this slowly. 

Terry is masticating quietly. It's as if he is concentrating on digesting his food so that it won't make a reappearance later on tonight. Cam still looks like he is constipated; the muscles in his face are stiff and his complexion a crimson red. He is trying desperately to contain his amusement but keeps having spurts where spit and snot fly out of his mouth and nose from his inability to suppress his cackle a second longer.

Terry stands up abruptly and declares, "Enough! You are being very rude! Can't you appreciate the amount of time that went in to this meal?" He leaves and takes his plate to the kitchen. I thank him for sticking up for me, and I tell him I am not offended by how rude everyone else is being. At this point, Aimee leans over to whisper that she thinks it was a strategic move on his part. Unfortunately, I realize it's probably true; Terry had only eaten half of what was on his plate, and I can hear him clearing the rest of what's left into to the trash.  

Everyone seems to feel a little guilty right now.  I can tell because, in an effort to make me feel better, each one of them has piped up to tell me how great the brussel sprouts taste. 

Things I've Learned From this Process

I'm forcing myself to stay awake tonight because I'm too scared to go to sleep. I can't stop counting her respirations,* especially when she goes from these deep, rhythmic inhalations to... nothing. Right before I lean over to do a sternal rub on her, she takes a deep breath in, which, thank God, allows me to exhale a deep sigh of relief. Does sternal rub count as a form of resuscitation?

Anyway, to occupy my mind, I've been reflecting back on what these last three weeks have taught me. Sorry, guys, per usual, I am going to be brutally honest. Love me or hate me, whatever.

1) According to my mother, I am not a real nurse. This was brought to my attention a couple of weeks ago while I was bathing her.**

Mom: You are so good at this, Rachel. You should have become a real nurse.

Me: Mom, I am a real nurse, but thanks just the same. 

Mom: Ohhh, that's not what I meant. You should be taking care of sick people. 

I felt it futile to go into detail about how women in labor can be just as demanding (and with good reason) as any sick patient can be. All that matters, though, is that Mom thinks I'm good at this.

2) Time of death, like time of birth, cannot be predicted. We were told by her doctors that she had only "a couple of weeks." That was three and a half weeks ago. I'm not complaining, but with each new day, it is getting more difficult to see her like this.

3) This has been the most difficult patient assignment I have ever been given. Maybe it's because she is not a "patient" and I'm not really her nurse. But as a nurse, and as her daughter, I can't stand back and let anyone else care for her (except for my niece Aimee, who has been incredible, and my sister Andrea). That said, this has also been the most rewarding assignment I have ever encountered... Mom thinks I'm really good at it.

4) This sucks.

5) In the beginning, I underestimated how evil cancer actually is. Mom was doing so well for so long that I actually thought she was going to be a medical miracle and beat it. WRONG!! This evil parasite has reduced my mother to skin and bones. It has eaten away at her body and her spirit. Her eyes are now vacant and her body is slowly withering away into a vessel that, at one time, held her soul. I wouldn't wish this upon my worst enemy.

WOW, THIS SHIT IS GETTING DEEEPRESSING. Let's lighten things up a bit, shall we?

6) After this experience, dying in a plane crash—my biggest fear—seems like a trip to Disneyland... on shrooms (providing you're not the paranoid type).***

7)Vancouver Island is God's garden, which would explain all the rain it gets. But it seems to me that God is too busy watering his flower beds to answer prayers.****Ooops, probably shouldn't have just typed that, but considering anger is part of the grieving process, I think I'm permitted at least one blasphemous comment.

8) I could really get into running again—okay, jogging... okay, shifting my weight from one foot to the other in a pace that is slightly faster than a walk— if it weren't for the feeling that my ass, stomach and breasts are being ripped away from my body with each painful step. Oh, and then there's the weather. Jogging here is pleasant. Jogging in Austin is like running through hell in a snowsuit.

9) In times of need, family can be just what you need... but they can also drive you bat-shit-crazy!

10) If it weren't for all my friends, there is no way in hell I could have ever endured this without pharmacological help, which reminds me...

Last week, Mom encouraged us to start thinking about things of hers we want. I can't really take too much stuff back home due to luggage restrictions, so I'm keeping it simple by only taking things that are really important to me. I've stashed away some of her writing, poems and old photographs of her. She was absolutely stunningly beautiful. Like, movie-star-beautiful!

Oh, yeah, and sibs? Providing there's any left, I've also got dibs on these...

*Imagine that... a nurse actually counting respirations!
**This wasn't a George Costanza sponge bath moment, so get your mind out of the gutter!
***Realizing I still have to get home via air travel, I would like to retract this statement. I am not putting it out in the universe that a plane crash would be fun, and given the next footnote, God is probably pissed at me. 
**** Sorry, God, I didn't mean to offend you. The flowers here are absolutely beautiful. Good job! Too bad my mother looks like she needs some watering and some good nutrients, but whatever!

For My Mom

"What's the matter, love? You scared?" she asks, pulling back the covers and patting the mattress beside her. I am five and I have arrived at her bedside in search of safety from the shadows on my walls that look like ghouls, from the various creeks around the house that sound like intruders, or from any other imaginary thing that threatens my well-being. She welcomes me with open arms, and the minute I curl up next to her, every little fear dissipates. And just like that, I am safe. 

Fast forward 35 years. I am standing next to the bed in my guest room as I watch her sleep. She has retired early after a long day of activities. She and my sister have come down to Texas for a visit. She stirs to the sounds of my sniffles. 

"What's the matter, love? You scared?" She pulls back the covers, and I crawl in next to her. But this time, I am careful not to put too much weight against her; she is frail and I do not want to hurt her. I snuggle in next to her, my head resting against her shoulder. She has her arm wrapped around me and she is stroking my brow with her thumb. 

"Huh? What's wrong, darling?" 

It is a loaded question, and my sobs make it difficult for me to say all the things I want to say. How do I tell her about everything that scares the shit out me without addressing the elephant in the room—that pancreatic cancer, no matter how much treatment or positive thinking, is the Grim Reaper of all cancers. 

- I'm scared that you will never know how much I love you... how when I was young, I hated being away from you... how the affection you gave to us kids set the bar so high that I know I will never feel that kind of love again unless I have children of my own.

-I'm scared that if I ever do have children, they will never have the privilege of knowing you. It will feel so empty without you. 

-I'm scared that I can never convey to you how sorry I am for all the times, especially as a teenager, I tested your spirit and patience. If I could take back all the crap I put you through, I would. 

-I'm scared of how lost I will feel when I want to call you for advice, but you will no longer be there. 

-I'm scared that in the end you will be in pain.

-I'm scared that I am not strong enough to handle "the end." 

-I'm scared that when the end comes, we will not be strong enough to let you go, and you will hold on longer than necessary just to ease our pain.

-I'm scared that this so-called "afterlife" we all hope for is just a facade, and this is the last time we will truly be together. 

-Selfishly, I am scared about my own demise, and how I will never be able to face it with the courage and graciousness with which you have faced yours. 

-But most of all, Mom, I am scared of the day when my fears can not be allayed by your embrace. I am scared of carrying on the rest of my life as me without you...

 as a daughter without her mother.

The Gift

I was approaching the end of Grade Eight, and still... nothing. I prayed to God—much like Margaret did—but, still... nothing. I prematurely lined my undies with maxi pads the size of small decorative pillows in hopes that their super absorbent powers would suck the lining of my uterus right out of me... but...still... nothing.

I was menstrually retarded, and it was a humiliating truth I had to face whether I liked it or not. I was tortured by all my friends coming to school and acting all smug while they waved their sanitary products in my face. While they were getting excused from gym class because of menstrual cramps, I was running to the bathroom between dodgeball sets to see if, by the grace of God, my vagina had finally taken pity on me by giving me the go-ahead to enter womanhood. The dumb bitch was against me. 

I know it's called the curse for a reason—as I would learn in later years—but at the age of thirteen and being the last of my friends to start menstruating, I considered it more of a curse not to have my period. It was like I was excluded from an elite group of girls who, with just one brown stain, had suddenly figured out the meaning of life. In just a couple of cycles, I was left alone in a world where it was assumed that the greatest stress in my day was whether I had authentic adoption papers for my Cabbage Patch Kid®, not whether I should forego wearing white pants to school. This, for me, was devastating. 

Like all things in life, that for which you desire the most—love, a great job, money—comes when you least expect it... 


I was playing Kick-the-Bucket in our cul-de-sac with a bunch of neighborhood kids. I had already made it to home base and was waiting for the rest of the kids to come out of hiding. As I was standing there, all of sudden, I felt it; the warm, slow, thick "blub." At first I thought I had pissed myself, but, no, this was different.

Suspecting my prayers had finally been answered, I ran home and locked myself in our downstairs bathroom. As I pulled down my pants, I kept reciting in my head, "Let it be it. Let it be it. Please, God, let it be it!" Little did I know, I would be uttering these exact words on several different occasions later in my life.

There it was. It...was...IT!

"MOM, come down here! Mooooooooom! HURRY-UP!"  It was a simple request that came out as a shrilling scream due to my overwhelming excitement.

My mom, in a state of sheer panic, came to my beckoning. Within seconds she was outside the bathroom door. The urgency in my voice must have lead her to believe that I had severed my femoral artery while shaving my legs, what with me being a novice groomer, and all. 

The force with which she banged on that door was more suggestive of a mother trying to rescue her children from a burning building than a mother who was about to witness her daughter's first period. 

"What,  Rachel? What is it?" Bang, bang, bang. "Let me in!" Bang, bang, bang. "The door is locked!"

Shit, I locked the door. With my pants and my espresso-colored stained undies around my ankles, I waddled to the door like a Japanese geisha in training.  

Upon opening the door, she entered, out of breath from having raced down our entire staircase in only four swift steps. 

I didn't have to say a word. She just looked at me, saw the look on my face, and then looked down at the evidence I had been so proud to have discovered seconds earlier. 

"Ooooh, darling," she beamed, cupping my face in her hands. "You're a woman!!!"  

And with these words, I started bawling. She thought I was crying over the fact that I thought my vagina, quite possibly, was excreting shit. Little did she know these were tears of joy. 

"There, there, Rachel! Don't cry," she said, trying to console me. "This is normal!"

Like she had to tell me this was normal. I'd been feeling abnormal for months, fearing I'd been afflicted with some sort of syndrome that would render me androgynous. Damn right, this was normal. 

The next day, I went to school feeling proud, mature, and quite confident that all of my friends would know just by looking at me. They did not. I had to tell them. In detail. 

Unfortunately, having had their periods for all of two months, my friends were not the least bit excited by my news. It was, like, "Welcome to the club," *eyes rolling* "How did you do on that math test?" 

It was, to say the least, anticlimactic.  

After school, I went home to find my mother waiting for me. She had a gift for me. 

"This is just a little something to welcome you in to womanhood." 

What could it be? A tennis bracelet? A Swatch watch? A diamond encrusted chastity belt? 

She handed me a Gund® stuffed animal. It was a pig. Named Hamlet. 

This is where the story gets a little confusing for me...

By giving me a stuffed animal, was my mother somehow suggesting that I was on some sort of precipice, in danger of falling out of her reach forever? Was Hamlet her last-ditch effort at holding on to her little girl? 

Or...

Was this gift symbolic? After all, it wasn't so much a stuffed animal, as it was a stuffed animal that was, well... a pig. Was my mother trying to tell me something?

"Here! Here's a pig. Yeah, you might be excited about this monumental moment now, but just you wait until once a month, every month, you feel like you actually morph into a pig. You will bloat up, fat as a pig. You will eat like a pig. You will feel disgusting and dirty like a pig, and people won't want to be around you. Because, guess why? You'll be a pig!"

Was this her way of saying...

"Welcome to womanhood!" 

Hemlet Pink Pig - Gund®

"Oink, oink!"