Thomas and I shared birthday parties for as long as I can remember.

As kids, I’d be enjoying a civilized birthday tea party with the neighbourhood girls, while a handful of boys with super soakers sprinted across the lawn no more than 20 feet away. I suppose it was just the convenience of a two for one, taking advantage of our close birth dates. Or perhaps it was just a way to get the birthday parties over with before our summer at the cottage. But whatever the reason, we celebrated together.

Our joint birthdays took a rather necessary hiatus during our teenage years. While my relationship with my brothers seem somewhat idyllic now, this was not always the case. We were all angsty teenagers at one point or another, labelling our leftovers in the fridge, and sneaking bites anyways. Fighting over radio stations, tv channels, bathroom usage, and heaven forbid a dreaded toilet flush during our showers. (Cue screech: “DON’T RUN ANY WATER!”) Closest in age it seemed almost inevitable that Thomas would become one of my biggest nemesis, before becoming one of my best friends, and all-around favourite human.

Hindsight is always 20-20.

At some point in our early 20’s, someone in our friends group came up with the great idea for Thomas to throw himself a birthday kegger. For one reason or another, Thomas, Mike and I had all returned to Redwillow, and our parents conveniently spent most weekends at the family cottage so securing a location was a breeze. Not to mention we were talking kegs of beer here, so it should come as no surprise that the idea was extremely well received. 

A plan was made, the beer was ordered, and a party would be held the Saturday between our birthdays. Which for me, meant one thing – our joint birthdays were back and I could not have been happier to celebrate with Thomas and his many, many friends. It didn’t matter that most people where there for Thomas, after all, we were all there together. 

To no surprise, the first kegger was a hit, and the tradition carried on for a number of years. Our friend circles quickly merged, and for most of our 20’s we spent every weekend together. Playing beer pong, watching the game, dancing on counters – it never mattered what we did, so long as we were all doing it together.

Whether he was turning 8 or 28, for Thomas his birthday was never about the presents. It was the excuse to gather his favourite people, drench them with a water gun, or slam back a few (nay many) drinks and have a great fucking time. If I’m being honest, everything Thomas did in life was to have a great fucking time. It’s what I’ve always admired the most of my big bro. 

Today, July 8^th 2021 would have marked Thomas’s 35^th birthday. And I’d trade just about anything to celebrate with him in person. To surround myself with that amazing group of guys who went from Thomas’s friends, to my friends, to our chosen family and who made my 20’s unforgettable.

I’m sure kegger parties were not what my parents had hoped for when they left for the cottage every Friday, but I’m eternally grateful for the memories they created and the kegger secrets that cemented a forever friendship with my brothers.

Happy Birthday Thomas.

You may be gone, but today I lift my glass for you anyways.

King of the keggers, life of the party, and just the most amazing brother & friend.

I love you and miss you always.

Cheers my brother, until we meet again ❤

(A very Happy Birthday to my aunt Carolyn and cousin Megan who share Thomas’s Birthday)

It’s been a hot minute since I’ve written for Love and Loss, and without making excuses for myself, it’s mostly because I haven’t known where to even begin. Trapped on this nauseating rollercoaster, COVID-19 has taken me on one hell of a ride.

When we used to hear of major world events through grandparents or history books, it all felt so distanced. Another lifetime, another country, I never thought such a tragedy could happen to me. How could I ever have been so naïve? Now look at where we are. Living history, and eager for the day our children or grandchildren will listen in disbelief to our stories of the months in lockdown, birthdays over video calls, cancelled holidays and who can forget the hoarding. (Face masks, hand sanitizer, Lysol wipes, and toilet paper. The latter of which still leaves me baffled!)

Let me preface this conversation by acknowledging my privilege. The pandemic has been a struggle, but I cannot overlook my position in life that has helped me acquire a safe place to live, free access to healthcare, a savings account, and support from my network of family and friends. There are so many here, and around the world that have felt their suffering magnified by the pandemic. Navigating these choppy waters alone, being pulled down by the tide. Your suffering is not lost on me, I pray you can persevere. 

I’m not sure I can pinpoint the exact moment. But somewhere along the winding road of 2020, crying in the shower felt less about Thomas, or Grammie, Laureen or Grandpa, and felt more about my own confusion, anger, and a dwindling self-worth. As Ontario began to lose its battle against COVID, I began to lose myself. 

It has taken some time, longer than I would’ve liked, to regain my sense of self and continue my evolution. I’m committed to my personal and professional growth, as a friend, daughter, sister, and to furthering my career as a writer. It has not been easy, and sometimes it feels down right impossible, but when I look in the metaphorical mirror – I finally see the reflection I’ve been longing for.

Some days I push, other days I drag, but every day I move forward.

By no means should this piece be interpreted as a cry for help. I am so blessed to have the most wonderful humans holding me up. I could not ask for anything more. But perhaps this is a subtle reminder that we are all just floating along through high tides and lows, thunderstorms and bright sunny skies. Sometimes the journey is heavenly but on other occasions it’s simply hell. 

It may be hard to believe, but my worst days of 2020 happened long before the words COVID, pandemic or lockdown breached my lips. They happened in the first few weeks of the year. The hope of a new beginning and fresh start crushed by the anguish and heartbreak of loved loss. 

Don’t get me wrong, the pandemic most certainly challenged me. I was laid off from work due to the crushing blow to the event industry, became completely dependent on an irregular income, and spent month after month watching endless garbage on the tube while questioning my purpose and value. But in comparison to January, the rest of my year was a breeze.

I’ve written about my Grammie many times before, and am positive she will grace pages of my content forever more for one unchangeable reason – she was my fucking Queen. Who would be absolutely horrified of my use of profanity – but strong women deserve strong words and my Grammie was by far the strongest woman I’ve ever known.

I learned she was in critical care mere moments before my dear Aunt Laureen’s visitation. It had been a day from hell. The long drive to Ottawa made longer with a car breakdown, rental car lineups, and rush hour traffic. By the time we arrived at the hotel, I was tired, I was scared, and I was angry. Then I was hit with the news. Before the month was over, I’d lose my beloved Grammie too.

But this story isn’t about her passing – even as we approach the one year anniversary that wound feels still to raw to expose. Rather this is a story about Christmas.

You see, for me, Christmas was always Grammie. As a young girl my favourite Christmas memory was the Christmas Eve sleepover with my Grammie. We’d snuggle in bed with books, or puzzles, wake up far too early with the excitement of Santa’s visit, snack on cookies at 6am while we played endless games of cards or backgammon to pass the time. Thomas would eventually wake and join us mostly for the cookies, as we camped out in my bedroom waiting for a reasonable hour to wake Mom and Dad, Mike and Matt and dive into presents. 

As the years went by, many of our Christmas traditions adapted. I grew too old and too big to share a bed with my elderly Grammie, so I slept on the floor, then in the next room. I stopped waking up 2 hours too early, but Grammie always came prepared with a tin of overbaked Pillsbury Doughboy cookies, or underbaked brownies, just in case.

I’m not quite sure when I became so adamant that Christmas lights and celebrations should begin no earlier than December 1^st. Likely sometime during my teenage years. It became engrained in my head that any earlier indication of the holiday season simply ruined the excitement of the December countdown. So I waited patiently, changing the channel from that Christmas movie, scoffing at the neighbours with decorations up. A Grinch until the first, when without missing a beat an Advent calendar would arrive from Grammie, signalling the start of my Festive Celebrations.

My November “Grinchiness” was Grammie’s favourite button to push. She’d call every time she passed a house all lit up, or heard a Christmas song play on the radio. “Just calling to say it’s time to celebrate Christmas, there are decorations up all down my street”. I’d laugh and reply; “December 1^st Grammie, we have to wait until December 1^st”.

Aging was not easy for Grammie. She was in constant pain from her arthritis and unable to drive, but I refused to let her give up Christmas. So when Grammie decided it was just too much for her to put up a tree anymore, I dragged her old behind to Lowes, carted off the best tree we could find, lugged it up the flight of stairs to her duplex apartment and set it up single-handedly. 

Christmas was Grammie.

But then this year, there was no Grammie.

If COVID has given me too much time for one thing – it’s given me far too much time to cry. An over-emotional train wreck from the start, it takes little more than a commercial with babies, or dogs to cause a steady stream of tears down my cheek.

I’ve cried about Thomas, Grandpa, Ruth, Laureen, but more than anyone this year I’ve cried about Grammie. 

When October hit, with no bright light at the end of 2020’s tunnel, only bleak promises of a much worse second wave of this devastating virus, I made one drastic decision. All restraints were coming off, the Grinch had left the building,  and Ms. Corey Anne Deeth would celebrate Christmas in November. 

(A special shoutout to Mike – for egging on my insanity and delivering an Advent Calendar to start November 1st)

 New to the concept of Christmas in November, I made sure to dip my toes before my full throttle cannon ball. We started with lights for the balcony, lit scented candles and watched hours (nay DAYS) of cheesy Hallmark movies. The second week we set up our fake tree and started our shopping. By the third week my car radio station was permanently set to Sirius’ “Holly”, our pup Ayva had her brand-new Christmas attire, and I was crossing the last couple names off my Christmas list.

Then a funny thing happened – November was the first month of 2020 I could think of my Grammie without the meltdown. I thought of her looking down on me, certain I was having a complete breakdown. But more than anything I hope she saw I felt freed and happy.

There was no Grammie this year at Christmas and barring nothing short of a Christmas miracle, or divine intervention, she won’t be at the next one either. Luckily she raised a brood of selfless, loving, strong, brilliant and stubborn children/grandchildren and surrounded by this crazy beautiful family of mine I will forever feel her presence.

I know most definitely I will always miss her the most during the holidays, but at least she is in great company.

These next few posts are late. Very late. But like so many others, 2020 has thrown hurdles of all sorts in my direction. I’ve tripped, fallen, persevered, succumbed, laughed, cried and drank. Oh, how I have drunk this year.

It seems almost humorous now, that by the end of January I truly thought this year could not get any worse. I felt loss. Heavy loss. That thinking back on, makes you break into sobs, look skyward and just hope they are up there free and happy.

My Aunt Laureen did not lead an easy life. Riddled with illness from an early age. She was only 4 when she was diagnosed with Kidney disease, and was not expected to live past the age of 12. Rather than birthday parties and sleepovers, she spent her childhood in and out of the hospital. Something you would never have guessed, had you met her later in life, from her infectious smile that could light even the darkest corners of the world.

In 1985, thanks to a perfect kidney match, and the bravery of my Aunt Jacqui (who I will FOREVER be in awe of), Laureen received a transplant, and a second chance at life. I highly doubt she took one day of it for granted. She defeated all odds and had two happy healthy children, Amie and Jacob. Went back to school to get her degree. Had more faith in her little pinky than Sunday mass at St. Peter’s Basilica. And became an influential advocate for Organ Donations in Canada. The walking poster-girl for the gift of life.

Though my heart has always felt so close to my cousin Amie, (despite the distance), I grew closest with Laureen in 2006 – 2007 when an acceptance letter from Ottawa University put us, for once, in the same place at the same time. My capital city confidant, Laureen picked me up from res once every few weeks or so for a little feel of home. Our days together were all different, yet the same. We’d giggle incessantly through an aqua fit class surrounded by wading seniors, followed by a heart to heart as we sweat it out in the sauna. Or we’d head to the mall where we mostly window shopped with my student budget and shared a Cinnabon or lemonade from the food court. The day always ended with a home cooked dinner, shared with Laureen, Ed, and Jacob, and quite often a round of cards or a board game.

I struggled through the second half of my first year. I had just gone through my first “real” breakup, and I was incredibly homesick. Laureen became my ally. Our visits grew more frequent, hugs lasted longer, and I’m not quite sure how I would have gotten through that year without her.

Late 2015, Laureen was diagnosed with cancer. It was a blow to a woman who had already broken through the barriers of health limitations and built such a beautiful life. The family put on a big face. She had overcome before and her strength and faith would help guide her through once more. Not once did she ever allow herself to be defined by her sickness. She was always our Reenie, full of beans and smiling.

As devastating as it was, it was a fight she was not destined to win. And though her battle with cancer lasted 5 strenuous years, in January we said good bye to our beautiful beacon of light Laureen. It pains me to think we will never again share a joyous day at the pool, or sweet treat from the food court. But I’m certain Thomas and Grandpa are grateful for the new company.

She will forever be remembered and missed always.

 

Support Organ Transplants

• Be a hero! Please consider registering your consent for organ and tissue donations. To register online, click here!
• Every year, Laureen proudly participated in a 5k Kidney Walk. This year, with COVID restrictions, the walk is virtual. Please consider joining or sponsoring in memory of Laureen. To join our walk, click here!

 

 

 

 

 

For the Deeth family, Christmas has always been about tradition. A neighbourhood party the Sunday before. The Malcangi’s for dinner Christmas Eve. Cookies and card games with Grammie Christmas morning, waiting for mom and dad to wake up. And of course, Thomas’ last-minute shopping and every moment in between. So one could imagine my surprise when one Christmas, a present addressed for me from Thomas appeared under the tree weeks before the rest of Santa’s haul.

An odd shape of an object, the size of a palm, tightly wrapped nestled under the tree. Nearly invisible to anyone not see, but as clear as day for a sneaky ten-year-old eagerly awaiting Christmas morning. Each morning in December, I would sit in front of the gift, shake it, lift it, listen to it, smell it, anything for a clue as to what was wrapped underneath.

It’s been 20 years at least and I still remember that Christmas morning like it was yesterday. You see, the run for the stockings was perfected over the years in the weeks leading up to the big day. Stairs descended two at a time, grippy socks to avoid a slip and a quick dive onto the family room couch as we all lunged for the stockings.

That Christmas in particular, the stockings meant very little. There was one gift I had my eye on and I couldn’t wait to find out what had been sitting waiting for me under the tree all month long. I got to unwrap the first present that year. Any package of my choosing and I knew just the one. That oddly shaped present from Thomas. Everyone was intrigued. What thoughtful gift had Thomas found so far in advance to his usual last-minute scramble.

I opened that parcel in 2 seconds flat, and low and behold, to everyone’s surprise and Thomas’ delight, a lump of coal fell into my lap.

As you can imagine, everyone erupted immediately in laughter and Thomas sat there, crossed legged no doubt, with the biggest smile I had ever seen. He eventually brought down my real present, a gift I can’t even remember, and that lump of coal went down as one of my favourite Thomas pranks ever.

Tomorrow marks three Christmas’ without Thomas. His stocking won’t hang full of presents on Christmas morning and no gifts will be poorly wrapped, labelled from him. But his lack of presence, not presents will be felt. It’s hard not to get wrapped up in gifts and food and overindulgence of every kind. But try not to forget, its’ your presence that’s the real present this time of the year. I would give every gift, every cookie, every delicious meal, and every other tradition to have my brother back for one more Christmas. To tell him I love him, miss him and think of him every day. To wish him a Merry Christmas in person and feel his arms tighten around me. After all, that’s what Christmas is all about.

So until we celebrate again together one day,

Merry Christmas Thomas, and Happy Birthday Grandpa we love and miss you both.

 

There has never been a doubt in my mind that Thomas was liked. Nay loved. Be it by his plethora of friends, an impression left on acquaintances, or a simple blog created by his measly little sister, his presence was always felt. Which makes his lack of presence feel like a massive hole, impossible to fill.

Two years have come and gone and I still find myself referencing Thomas in a story, laughing at a joke or story we once shared and feeling a heavy heart for no longer having my big brother to create new memories with.

He may have not have had the most elegant way with words. His actions definitely wouldn’t define him as the perfect gentleman. But man, when that boy walked into a room it lit up. You were drawn to his charisma, his carefree demeanour and the party that always followed closely behind.

When Thomas was with us, I used to complain that he was impossible to fight with. Whether he borrowed my headphones and lost them, ate my leftovers in the fridge, bailed last minute on plans, or made a sexist comment like “GET BACK INTO THE KITCHEN HOUSEHOLD!”

A simple sorry Corey and that sly side grin and there was no rebuttal in sight.

Infuriating as hell, but in hindsight a blessing in disguise. I have never felt burdened with memories of fights or disagreements. When I think of Thomas, only happy stories and thoughts fill my mind. A legacy most could only dream to leave behind.

To this day, I still run into old friends, neighbours or acquaintances who share their sympathy, a memory with Thomas and describe the same hole left from his passing. I’m still treated like family amongst his friends, and hugs from family last a little longer and feel a little tighter.

Because we are all just trying to hold on. To each other and to him.

Because losing Thomas wasn’t MY loss, it’s OUR loss.

And because through these memories, he will never die. His legacy will always live on.

It’s been 730 days, but it could have been yesterday. I can play back every second. The call, the drive, the pain, tears, flowers and visitors. The immediate realization that my life had changed forever.

Two years yet I still find myself expecting Thomas to appear at family functions, or a gathering of friends. I can picture him walking through the door at my parents house, steeled toed shoes looking anything but protective. Falling asleep on the couch, mouth open with socks kicked off on the floor. Jamming out to a song with one of his signature dance moves or settling into a Pizza Pizza family meal on a Sunday afternoon.

Thomas was a blessing and a lesson. His smile could light up a room, his laughter lift a heart and his company sooth a soul.

He made the world a better place. He made MY world a better place.

But he is a reminder that life is fleeting and unpredictable. That we take for granted every sunrise, sunset and every memory made in between. A reminder that the relationships we make are far more valuable than the possessions we own. And that we have one shot on this earth to make a difference and to leave your mark.

Thomas did that in 30 years.

Today we remember a man no one could never forget.

Miss you every day,

Our R

A new beginning…

Sometimes people come into your life in such a fleeting fashion you hardly recognize a time in your life without them. Such was the case for Andrew Robichaud. The most gentlemen of gentlemen, the kindest of the kind. When Thomas passed I had known Andrew in passing for a couple years. The first meeting a game of beer pong at the Deeth residence no doubt.

Though I have few memories with Thomas and Andrew, I have few memories since Thomas without Andrew. My loss did not scare nor intimidate. Rather his presence was always felt.

This is a thank you. To you Andrew. For loving my family, marrying one of my oldest friends with so much love in your heart and giving me one of the greatest gifts I have ever been given. Words will never express the gratitude I hold for you in my heart.

And just like that www.loveandloss.cawas born.

Thank you Andrew for believing in me, believing in Thomas, and believing in the words I can only hope express the sentiments of anyone and everyone who has ever lost someone so dear to their heart.

 

xoxo

Household

Today marks the 94^thbirthday of a very special woman. Even at 94 years of age, her strength and beauty are undeniable.

Grammie has always been so proud of her family. Sitting through almost every hockey game of Thomas’, countless dance recitals, soccer games, ultimate frisbee and track meets. Grammie has always been our biggest supporter and number one fan.

But I have always wondered, does she know how proud we are of her?

One summer of my childhood, during a family week at the cottage, the cousins were given a camera and asked to capture what they felt was a true representation of the cottage. Some snapped the ducks or the lake, others the outhouse, but Thomas found a different muse. Grammie. A picture kept in his wallet for the remainder of his days. What better image to represent not only the cottage but our lives. Our matriarch.

A woman so strong she has overcome losing a husband, a daughter-in-law, and a grandson. Who pushed herself out of a “stay at home mom” life to go back to school and get her teaching certificate. (While breast-feeding a baby on her breaks between classes). Worked her way up to the head of the Early Childhood Education for the TDSB, while co-writing a series of children school books. Raised three successful children, 6 grandkids and 2 great grand- children.

What. A. Woman!

Grammie has dealt with more loss and tragedy in her lifetime than she should ever have had to. And handled it all with such poise and grace. A true inspiration.

Her story is one of love, devotion and strength and should never go unnoticed.

They say other things change, but we start and end with family. There could be no better foundation of this family than Margaret Deeth.

She’s my Grammie, my role model, my hero and if I end up half the woman she is, I will be one lucky girl.

So, to my Grammie, you remarkable being you… Wishing you a very Happy Birthday. Thank you for the unconditional, irrevocable love. I hope this next year is full of happiness, love and endless admiration.

Love you until the end of time.

Xoxo

Corey

Today a very special photo popped up in my Facebook memories. My all time favourite picture of me and all my brothers together. It’s hard to look at this image and think another picture will never be taken with all of us together. Not at Mike’s wedding, not at my wedding down the road. Not at birthdays or parties, anniversaries, retirements, births or funerals. It is not fair by any means, but it is something we live with and we will be ok. We will be ok because this picture reminds us of all the love shared between 4 siblings even at such a young age. An age where we undoubtedly argued over the tv remote, or who’s turn it was to do the dishes. Who got to play their music in the car or who was allowed to have friends to the cottage that weekend. I will forever be so blessed that my parents fostered such an amazing relationship between their kids. That amidst raging hormones and testosterone, screaming matches and towel whips, there was still undeniable, irrevocable love.

This picture may mean nothing to you. Or it may bring back the sadness you felt when we lost Thomas almost two years ago. Neither are my intentions. Rather, I hope this picture makes you recognize that blood will always be the closest bond. That your siblings were born to be your best friend and not your worst enemy. Discard any resent of personal or professional success and remember you are YOU because of the relationship you share with your brothers and sisters. It’s the longest relationship you will ever hold, why not work towards making it the best?

The last time I saw Thomas, I told him I loved him. Not out of obligation, or intuition of his fate, but because I wanted to, and I meant it. I always will. So tell your siblings you love them, not only on holidays or special occasions, but as often as you can. One day you may wake up to a phone call, and you’ll have lost your chance forever.

To my brothers, all three of you, thank you for being my best friends, my worst enemies, my toughest competition, and my greatest relationships by far. My life is better because we swim together in the same gene pool.

I’ll love you all forever and always.

I heard you die twice, once when they bury you in the grave.

And the second time is the last time that somebody mentions your name.

Macklemore, “Glorious”

I still speak of Thomas and look down. Look down in the pain and anguish only caused by losing someone so close who was such a huge part of my life. But one of these days I am going to mention him and look up. Look up and see the world, I see in the way he taught us to, no worries, just light, love, happiness, and the next party.

And sport, he would never forget sport.

It wasn’t long after Thomas past, in fact I think it was initially suggested only hours after, by Chris Statten and family, that something should be created in his memory. A tattoo of the letter R on our ass was briefly discussed (and I am not 100% sure that it is off the table), but it was clear the Statten’s meant bigger (insert Deeth ass size joke here).

With the approval and appreciation of my family, Chris and Bill Statten took the Thomas Deeth Bursary to the Don Mills Civitan, the first hockey club Thomas ever dominated, and the project had life.

To be awarded to a gifted athlete, graduating from Senator O’Connor, enrolled in a post-secondary institution. We will be saying Thomas’ name for years to come.

To learn more about this incredible bursary or to make your donations today, please visit: http://www.dmchl.com/leagues/custom_page.cfm?leagueID=21038&clientID=5010&pageID=18889

A special thanks to Chris and Bill Statten, for building something Thomas would be so proud of having his name on, and being such wonderful friends to the Deeth family before and after Thomas’ passing. We’re so appreciative for your love and this incredible gesture.

For my family, this bursary is a reminder, not that we aren’t the only ones missing Thomas, but that we will never be the only ones remembering him.

 

 

 

 

If you knew my brother you knew that no one could make you laugh by a joke, funny story, or a simple expression like he could. He was always up for a laugh and when I think back fondly I often picture him sitting cross-legged on the couch, beer in one hand, slapping his leg with his other mouth wide open with that mid-laugh, shocked expression he had perfected within his 30 years. Or I see him sleeping on the couch, leg up on his side head tilted back, glasses still on and mouth wide open. A scene I must have walked into a thousand times growing up yet only now appreciate. This story combines Thomas in both of his glory poses.

We were much younger than we are now, and admittedly in need of a bit of maturity. As I have boasted about before and will brag about until I meet Thomas again I am the luckiest girl for my relationship with my brothers. This evening was no different. Out on the town celebrating another year of the eldest Matthew remaining the eldest Matthew. Drinks and the game, turned into another round of drinks, punctuated by an unrecalled number of round of shots, chased by another couple of pitchers of beer.

And that marked the end of the night. A tame evening uptown, were a couple of drinks turned into one more than too many, with an approaching morning that would find us in bed till noon nursing separate varying degrees of hangovers… or so we thought.

The night reared a whole new side of ugly roughly around 3am. I, tucked snuggly in my bed awoke to a panicked mother and a houseful of smoke. Mike awoke to the fire alarm, smoke, and a father in his “questionable” pajamas. Matt, not living under the same roof, undoubtedly slept soundly through the night.

And then there was Thomas. Though hit and screamed at remained in his tranquil slumber. Asleep on the couch, leg up on his side head tilted back, glasses still on and mouth wide open.

The story eventually unfolded when Thomas awoke the next morning. He had stumbled home shortly after I had crawled into bed, and decided on making a midnight snack. After a short attempt to reason with him, Mike decided to hit the sack himself, making Thomas promise he would not leave the stove burner unattended. Shortly after that, Thomas broke that promise believing he could leave the room for 2 seconds to find something to watch while consuming his late night meal. Of course, like father like son, Thomas fell asleep. The hot dogs boiling away on the stove, eventually evaporating all the water, leaving just the dogs sizzled down onto the dry pot. Cue fire alarm now.

It took 24 hrs of opened windows and doors, and what felt like a millions scented candles to dissipate the scent of scorched cheap meat.

We were all very fortunate that night that the only two casualties were 3 hot dogs.

The pot still sitting in the cupboard with three hot dog shape imprints seared into the metal.

We’ve chuckled over that ruined pot numerous times since the incident. Though my parents were furious, and rightfully so from our potentially deathly situation, the funny thing about Thomas was you could never stay mad at him. A theory that has been tested and proven numerous times over.

Inevitably it took Thomas a while to be invited back near the stove.

I’m not sure a hot dog has been boiled under the roof of the Deeth Household since.

You heard it here first folks: don’t sleep and boil.

Though I now look back at my childhood and am so thankful for 3 strong big brothers making me the beer drinking, hockey watching, gas passing woman I am today, these sentiments did not always exist. There were a number of years during my childhood and adolescence where I felt side lined by the “boys club” which was my family. I was severely out numbered, and though I loved my goofy stinky brothers, I yearned for a sister to share bunk beds and secrets behind closed doors.

And then I met Nicole. The beautiful, talented, creative, strong Nicole. Even as a 6 year old I saw something so special in this girl – an invitation only she could share to the most spectacular party of the year! Little did 6 year-old me know that 23 years later she would have given me so much more than a great Halloween.

I don’t think a date could be singled out, but eventually I stopped seeing Nicole as a best friend but rather recognized her as my sister. The transition from friend to best friend, to sister was gradual and fluid. (Much like our ever-changing nicknames). But it didn’t take long for me to recognize that I finally had my sister. We had OUR sister. (And a kickass little sister too!)

After my first year of University our whole family dynamic had changed. Thomas and I found our selves back under the same roof, and suddenly it wasn’t so bad. Weekends were spent partying, our group of friends merged, and just as Nicole had transitioned from Best Friend to Sister, Thomas (and Mike) evolved into my best friends.

The three of us shared hundreds of drinks, thousands of memories, and millions of laughs. One of my favourite memories found Nicole, Thomas, Amber and I at the old Triple Crown. We teased that it was “Girls Night Out” but you could tell Thomas would not have wanted to be anywhere else. He was so happy to participate in the girl talk and for once I felt the boys club, which raised me had dissipated. Thank you for helping me blur those lines. Only two nights before Thomas left, he asked us for another Girls Night, I wish we had gotten the chance.

Sitting in that hospital room, the day we lost Thomas you were there first and only person I called. I could barely get out the words. I may have lost my brother that day, but so did you, and it was only right for you to hear that from family. You sat with me, cried with me, and helped pull me up from the rubble.

From Nicole, to Chole, to Nat King Chole, to Chole Slaw, to Slaw, to Slaw Face what didn’t change with your ever-changing nickname was your status in my life.

To say I am grateful for your presence is an understatement, for there is no me without you.

That desperate attempt for a party invitation 23 years ago changed my life forever.

Best. Decision. Ever

Love you to pieces, always.

Xoxo

Household

A year ago today, my world shattered, and heart broke. Very suddenly, my dearest brother Thomas slipped away.

It is hard to believe a full year has passed, that life could and did carry on. But alas, here we are. One year later, tears in our eyes, pain in our hearts, remembering a man so impossible to forget.

I remember the last night we spent together, just a day before you disappeared. We had all gathered back at the parents’ house for post Beerfest festivities. You undoubtedly broke Nicole’s rib (a parting gift perhaps?) and we spent hours goofing with snap chat, talking about the future and planning our next “Girls Night”.

The end of that night found you, Nick and I alone in the kitchen. You gave us that sly side smile and demanded a “selfie with Nick”. Snuggled together in that king sized bed we took our last photo together, the print to be burned in my memory forever.

Leaving the room you muttered an inappropriate comment about leaving an open tampon box in front of my boyfriend, a comment only you could make and get away with. I smiled, and told you I loved you. I had never meant it more. Knowing I was able to tell you that just one last time has brought me great comfort this past year.

I was reminded by a colleague that the first’s are always the hardest when dealing with the loss of a loved one; first Christmas, first New Years, first birthday. Well I suppose today marks the last first. The First Anniversary of your passing. Yet here I am feeling trapped at a crossroad. Wanting so much to be released of the pain of your passing, but unwilling to accept a “second” anything without you.

Thomas, please know:

Every day that passes I am so thankful I had you so closely in my life for 28 years. You were a gifted athlete, a great comic, a beautiful soul, with just the worst dance moves! But most of all you were the greatest brother, and bestest friend.

I hope you always understood how much love and respect I held for you.

Save me space up There big brother, but until then please visit.

“Softly in the morning, you heard a gentle call; you took the hand God offered you and quietly left us all”

Love always,

Xoxo

Household

 

It is hard to believe that this picture was taken 10 years ago to the day. My 19th birthday at the “Philthiest” bar at Yonge and Eglinton. (Pun Intended.) I am sure we had shared a drink together before, but this night seemed to make it more official. Our first birthday celebration, legal, at a bar, I was finally part of the crew and I was soaking up every second of it.

It was not just this night, but rather a multitude of nights, all different yet the same, that grew our relationship from siblings to best friends. Celebrating birthdays turned into celebrating weekends. My group of friends and your group of friends became OUR group of friends. The evolution felt seamless.

Last year I woke up the morning after celebrating my birthday with a massive hangover. One, hit by a truck, never drink again, kind of morning. You sat me down, poured me a glass from the untouched pitcher of Sangria and told me to drink up. You were always unconventional like that. I highly doubt it was the Sangria, but rather your charm that made me feel better that morning. You pledged to finish that 3-4 litres of Sangria that day, and when Nick and I returned home that evening, you had done just that. Even ate the fruit. A man of his word, highly respected by me.

Today is my first birthday of many we won’t celebrate together. And although there is no doubt in my mind you have a glass raised somewhere, it still hurts like crazy to not have you here. You always were my favourite addition to any party.

Until we meet again big brother,

Happy Birthday to me, Cheers.

There has never been a doubt in my mind that you are one of the strongest men I know. You raised 4 children, your work ethic is unparalleled, and your success as a man, Father, and lawyer is undeniable.

Last July your strength was tested.

We all have such different haunting memories of that day, however yours and mine were not far off.

I called you that morning because I knew I could not face that day alone. Within 2 minutes you were there, making sure I wouldn’t have to.

That drive, that phone call, that hospital visit we shared in anguish together.

Thank you for being that pillar of strength for me, in a moment no father should ever have to face. My heart broke twice that day; once for the loss of my brother, and once for the pain and sadness on your face that I could not wipe away.

We left the hospital together, and I will never know how you managed to get us home safe. I could barely see the lines of the highway through my tears.

I will forever be grateful to have had you by my side for easily the worst day of all our lives.

To say that you are the greatest Father ever would be an understatement at best.

Some of my fondest memories as a child were made during our Baseball trips with the Hevey’s. From a young age you fostered a love for the game.

I am so happy you got to spend your Father’s day with the people you love and the game you love.

I am looking forward to your return and celebrating with a pint and a game in person.

 

“Together forever and never apart, Maybe in distance but never in heart”

Love you always,

My Papa Bear

 

 

I woke up this morning with a heavy heart. Memories flooded my head of last Mothers day, all of us together, eating kebabs, laughing around the kitchen table. It is hard to believe so much can change in a year, yet here we are, exactly one year later and all separated by life and space on Mothers day. This post is devoted to my mother, OUR mother. Incomparable, indescribable, and inspiring.

I am not sure there is another soul on this planet who has had more of an emotionally disastrous year.  Losing Thomas felt like being hit by an avalanche. Having to dig our way out from the mountain of snow that engulfed us. But then losing your father such a short period later. You mourned, you wept, but you kept digging. Through it all you have held the hands of your children, your husband, your sisters and your mother. Our primary support system. Our shoulder.

All the while you maintained this flawless composure. Moments of sadness followed by spurts of great strength. I have watched you in awe, since last July, never quite sure of how you were doing it. Amazed, impressed, and oh so proud.

You may, on the occasion, leave a tub of ice cream melting in the fridge, then eat a large scoop of liquified sludge before disposing of the remains.

You may spend half an hour looking for your keys only to find them in your purse, your pocket, or on the kitchen table.

You may drive past the entrance to our destination 95% of the time, claiming you are on auto-pilot. I have never known where that auto-pilot destination would be.

BUT

You ARE the most compassionate, generous, supportive woman I have ever known.

You ARE absolutely beautiful inside and out.

You ARE the reason I strive to do more, dream more, and be more than who I am today.

I wake up every morning so proud and thankful for such a strong role model of a mother. I can only hope that something more than your goofy sense of humour has been passed down to me.

Until I can hug you in person… I love you mom. Thank you for being a wonderful mother. My Mama Bear.

And a best friend.

xoxo

Alas no one can escape the painful reality of death. Such is true yet again for me and my family. Just shy of 9 months since we lost my beloved brother, we are pained with the reality of the oncoming loss of my grandfather.

When back to back losses occur, human nature causes you (or maybe just me?) to look inwards. What have I done to deserve a second loss? Myself, I am far from perfect. I use profanity far too casually, I often enjoy one too many alcoholic beverages on the weekends, and my humour is as filthy as the toilet. To be quite frank, that is just the tip of the iceberg.

Then I think about my mother. What has she done to deserve such major losses of her son and father in such a short period of time. This is a woman who is so pure and close to perfect as humanly possible; beautiful inside and out. Attends church every weekend, refuses to take a side without considering the other, who raised 4 kids while educating thousands of others… Why should she be caused so much pain?

I am not sure I will ever understand the unfortunate timing of death. However this much I am certain of – At birth you are given this beautiful gift of life, but it doesn’t come with the warning it ought to. You may be given 30 years you may be give 85, but at some point that gift expires. There is a huge difference between being alive, and living. I wish nothing but the latter for everyone.

On Sunday I made the decision to take the trip to Belleville with my mom and visit my grandfather one last time. I was scared, more like terrified. Not of what I would see, but of seeing who I was about to lose. A grandfather who engulfed me with the best bear hugs as a child, a father who raised 6 beautiful and strong daughters, and a husband who’s marriage with my nana could inspire the biggest cynic to believe in one true love. As hard and emotional as the day was, I am so grateful to have one last chance to touch his hand and tell him I love him. An opportunity I never received with the passing of Thomas.

So to my handsome grandfather, who lived such a full life and touched so many hearts along the way. I am so proud and honoured to be your granddaughter. This is not a goodbye, this is a see you on the other side. I love you more than words could ever describe. Please pass the same message on to Thomas.

And to my beautiful Nana, and wonderful mother and aunts you are always in my thoughts and heart. Love you forever.

 

Last week was rough for me, my final week at my current job of 3 years. Though there is no doubt I am off to bigger and greater things, I have never been particularly fond of change. I have been known to throw one hell of a tantrum should the Christmas tree be moved across the room from it’s usual setting. I am a creature of habit, and routine, and any change to that terrifies me.

Any hard week always sends me seeking for Thomas. Not that he was particularly full of advices, or the greatest pep talk, but he was my constant. Someone you could always count on to help change a bad day. The only person you wanted to call when you just needed a drink and a laugh, and the warmest hug and brightest smile that could light up your darkest of days.

There are days, on weeks such as last I find myself hunting for the Thomas connection. Scanning face after face on the streets, browsing radio stations looking for songs, the trees, the clouds, anything to tell me he is still with me.

When we first lost Thomas – I felt his presence everywhere. “Only the Good Die Young” comes on my iTunes and my computer crashed; sitting at a family dinner and the power goes out, Buster is sitting and wagging his tail looking at an empty front entrance way. Small signs, that may in fact be fictitious, but have helped me push through some pretty dark days. A subtle reminder of the man I admired, and loved for the past 28 years, and for the rest of my days.

Last Wednesday, training had started on my replacement, the change was sinking in, and on my way back to the office from moving my car I felt myself hunting for Thomas. I took my time on my walk back, scanning condo balconies, listening to the wind howl, when there it was. A young scruffy guy from a few floors up, out for a smoke break, a solid black coffee mug in hand with a large white R on the front. There is no doubt the R to him is a representation of his first name perhaps Ryan or Robert, but to me it was Thomas. No doubt about it, it was my sign, he is still with me.

The remainder of the week was challenging but bearable. I finished off Friday sad that a chapter had ended but excited and ready for the new adventure that lies ahead. Although I wish Thomas were here in person to celebrate the change with me, he will always be here with me in my heart and soul.

Pickles. Perhaps an odd place to start and an unsavory vegetable to some, (Here’s looking at you Slaw), but for me it seems like the perfect word to begin describing Thomas and my relationship. See to most our beloved R was a carefree joker, a characteristic one can only assume was developed after years of yoga practice, granola eating, and mantra chanting lifestyle. Thomas, yea right. His calm cool demeanor came about so naturally. Possibly at birth, as I have zero recollection of my brother without it. Possibly at my birth. As I have always imagined I have that calm cooling effect on those around me.? (Insert laugh track here from all family and friends who know otherwise…)

I have few memories of fighting with Thomas, besides the towel whips and horrific “Sorry Corey” constantly repeated in a poor attempt at a Scottish accent. Although he often made decisions that would aggravate me to my core, he was not a fighter. And there is something ironic about an individual who does stupid things but refuses to fight… They are impossible to fight with. One-sided arguments lasted less than a minute. Tearful rage dissipated with that goofball smile.

Back to the pickles and what was one fun March break day planned at Playdium. You see at the time Thomas was playing competitive hockey. (And ruling, because if you know Thomas you know he was untouchable on ice. Proud sister right here.) He was playing for the Leaside Kings, or Toronto Aeros, and my mom offered to bring a teammate with us on our day excursion to play video games.

We are en route to pick up his teammate, Sean Pickles, mom in the drivers seat, Thomas and I side by side on the middle bench, when out of the blue Thomas whispers in my ear “Pickles” in the most ridiculous cross-cultured (Jamaican/Scottish/British?) accent. Needless to say, being not one to take a goofy word in a crazy accent lightly, I erupted into laughter, filling the car with my obnoxious snorts and squeals. Well this reaction just egged Thomas on. He waited until I had gained at least the tiniest sense of composure then once again quietly whispered “Pickles”. A second wave of laughter rolled over, tears swelling in my eyes. How could one word ever be so funny? During the 10-15 minute drive the word must have been repeated 20 times. All with different intonations, accents, and volume levels.

When we finally arrived and Sean Pickles opened the door to the back seat I struggled to maintain composure. Of course the 11-year-old sister was suddenly invisible to the 13-year-old brother and his friend. So I sat quietly, wiping the remaining tears from my eyes as Thomas and Pickles talked about hockey, video games, and most likely food. Thomas was always talking about food. All the while the word “pickles” tumbled around in my head and I giggled silently at this great sibling moment just shared.

So to Sean Pickles – wherever you may be – Thank you. Thank you for unknowingly creating a Thomas memory for me that will last a life- time. I have never muttered or thought of the word pickle since without an accent or a chuckle.

Just one in a million moments, all different but all greatly the same, as I am not sure there is another girl out there lucky enough to have 3 amazing brothers and best friends. If you knew Thomas, than you know Mike and Matt, the four of us inseparable at weekend parties growing up. Losing Thomas most definitely left a hole, but I am so grateful to still have my Grandpa Schwamps and Adventureman. United we will always stand, in love, strength and one goofball family relationship.

 

It has been just shy of 7 months since my brother and one of my closest friends suddenly passed. No words can ever describe the hole that he has left in my heart.

I have always been quite “vocal” (to put it nicely?) with my feelings, especially in writing, but have felt silenced since his passing. Looking not for pity, or sympathy I have feared that stating my piece would leave me unwillingly vulnerable, to those closest to me who already work non stop to provide me with reason to get out of bed each morning. It has not been easy, no doubt it ever will be, but alas I am 28, only two years younger than Thomas at his end. I have so much life left in me to live, and if not, and my best before date reflects my dearest brothers, I want to know that I lived my life to the fullest. Just like he did, and just like he would be doing if he were still here with us.

So to Thomas, R, thank you for teaching me to love, laugh, and live every day like it was my last. This blog is in your memory. You continue to inspire me in your absence, and I know somehow and someway you are still here beside me calling me “Household” demanding me back into the kitchen while slapping your crossed leg and silently laughing. An act only a fool like me wouldn’t find sexist and offensive. It was always for the laugh, and neither you nor I have ever had a problem with being the butt end of the joke, so long as people were laughing. I miss you dearly my brother.

Lastly, to my friends, family, and those friends close enough to be considered my family, this blog is my Thank You. My thank you for not giving up on me during my dark days, and holding my hand during my bright days, knowing any moment a cloud may cast over my blue skies. Among the 173947594 emotions I feel waking up every morning (98% of those being unpleasant) I feel grateful that I am surrounded by such incredible people, and the love they pour over me.

No doubt there will be days I sit in front of my computer and cry, days I crumple paper after paper in anger, and days I feel too raw to place my feelings online for the world to see. I promise to always do my best to persevere, and to share my memories, and sentiments of one of my greatest loves and my all time biggest loss.