Mourning Has Broken

by Erin Davis

  We always told her—both when she was a teen and later, when she was an adult living on her own—that we truly loved to give her things (especially surprises, like the puppy she received on her seventh birthday), but that we would stop the moment she started to “expect” them. She took that rule to heart. When Lauren moved to another city to start college and eventually her career in radio, Rob and I were comforted, and lucky enough, to be able to provide her with a townhouse to share with her boyfriend at the time, as well as another paying tenant. We wanted her to be safe and renting from us, rather than at the mercy of some stranger as a landlord; we knew Rob could take care of her needs, even if it meant she was Skyping us images of a stove that wasn’t working or a furnace that needed some kind of tweaking. And she was, as always, grateful.

  In 2013, Rob, Phil, Lauren and I were able to pool our efforts and ideas and give Lauren the wedding of her dreams. The fact that we have a long-time family friend who also happens to be an event planner (and just two years later would be called upon to aid with funeral plans) certainly helped.

  In addition to the wedding, we helped Lauren and Phil with the purchase of their new home. All cash wedding gifts (which was what they had requested) were matched by us; that was our promised gift to them. Soon, the young newlyweds were planning on building a future in a small new home on the outskirts of Ottawa, the city where they’d met at college. But with the exception of the wedding money they received, they were intent on making their own way in every sense. Lauren was responsible, thrifty and appreciative of everything that she had, no matter how little or how much.

  We felt no need to hold back with Lauren. Not with money, not with love, not with experiences. Why would we? Everything we’d worked for and possessed would one day go to her anyway, we figured; why not be benevolent when we could all share in the enjoyment of what we’d earned, and see how much of an impact those gifts would have on her life?

  But perhaps there was more to it than just wanting to feel the joy of giving. Did we have a sense, somehow, that there was an expiry date on the time we’d have to share our gifts—whether making possible a trip to the Yukon, about which she’d done a school project and with which she was fascinated, or a pilgrimage to Strawberry Fields in New York City’s Central Park, to leave a guitar pick in memory of John Lennon? As we look back on our twenty-four years together, we consider that maybe we had a premonition that our time with Lauren was going to be limited. Perhaps on some level, she did too.

  Rob and I hadn’t considered that Lauren would want to take on motherhood—at least not right away. She’d never babysat and had never been one of those children who gravitated toward babies or even playing with dolls. She saw them as somewhat perplexing and occasionally nasty little creatures who cried, were disagreeable and needed changing all of the time. In some ways she was right, but when you have your own, it’s a whole different game of crying and stomping and pooping. You love them so much you just don’t care.

  Although the expansion of their little family was obviously not about us, the timing of Lauren’s pregnancy, a year and a half after she and Phil married, came at a sensitive moment in her father’s life: when they told us, Rob was less than a week away from turning sixty, and he was not taking it especially well. A seventeen-year-old goalie trapped in the body of a silver-haired man (who still plays hockey two or three times a week), Rob was already quietly reeling from the gut punch of hitting a new decade when Lauren and Phil sat us down in the living room of the cottage where we’d gathered a huge family group less than two years earlier, on the morning after their wedding. This time, though, they weren’t opening a gift—we were: a small hand-painted frame with BABY on it and a picture of an ultrasound inside.

  I realize now that due to some sort of state of shock and disbelief, we weren’t as outwardly elated about Lauren’s announcement as she and Phil had undoubtedly hoped we’d be. When we figured out what the gift symbolized, my hand flew to my mouth. “Oh!” was all I said. And then, in that split second, I realized there would be no “take two.” Making matters worse, I knew we’d already failed to provide the Hollywood moment that was supposed to be our reaction when they’d announced two years earlier that they were engaged. I still shudder over that misstep on our part and remember it clearly.

  Lauren had called from Ottawa and asked us to go on Skype. But I’d been having trouble with it for a few days and said I’d rather just chat by phone. So she proceeded to tell us that she and Phil were engaged!

  Rob and I stared at each other in silence for what I’m sure was far too long, or at least felt that way to both parties in this conversation. For a great many reasons, most of them having to do with her age and our lofty dreams for her, we had neither expected nor welcomed the idea of Lauren marrying someone she had met such a short time before. But who were we to talk, having gotten engaged (the first time) three weeks after our first date? Fearing I would put my foot in my mouth, I took a breath and said, “Honey, we’re going to have to call you back, okay? This is a big surprise.”

  She said, “Um, well, sure,” clearly disappointed that we weren’t elated.

  We hung up and took a deep breath. It wasn’t that we didn’t approve of her choice of husband—far from it—we were just caught completely off guard. It hadn’t occurred to us that Lauren would want to settle down so quickly, and with just the second man (and, as it turned out, the first straight man) with whom she’d had a romantic relationship. It all seemed so sudden. From where we sat, it felt as if she was rushing into the union after her husband-to-be had comforted her in the aftermath of a nasty breakup with her high-school sweetheart, live-in boyfriend and musical collaborator. Was she sure? Did they really know each other well enough?

  We called Lauren and Phil back within five minutes to congratulate them both with what I hope was enough enthusiasm and sincerity to make up for the fact that we’d cut the first call short. I just wanted to make sure that, in my shock, I didn’t say the wrong thing, or words that would be brought up in heated moments in the years to come. Goodness knows I have a long memory when it comes to things that have been said in the heat of the moment, and I had no doubt Lauren did too. After all, there was my reaction three years earlier to her telling me she’d decided to get a tattoo. We laughed about it later, but it served to underline how careful I learned to be about blurting out an opinion.

  Lauren’s teen years were much like mine in terms of not having a rebellious or “I hate my parents” stage, though that’s not to say she didn’t exercise her independence or push boundaries. Of course she did. But that came when she moved out and decided to do what so many young men and women are doing: she got tattoos. With the first few—Japanese symbols of harmony on her inner forearms and a heart/bass-clef combination on her foot—she would call the day before and tell me what she was getting. When she realized that all I was going to do was try to talk her out of it she stopped asking my opinion, and that’s when I stopped offering it. After all, what would be the point in criticizing her decision after something that permanent had been done? Her tattoos all turned out to be tasteful and discreet, and in the end, they were her choice.

  Now she was sharing with us news that would again deserve a measured and careful response. Don’t get me wrong! We wanted Lauren and Phil to know how very happy we were that they were happy, and that we would support them in any way they wanted. We just needed a little time to get used to the idea, was all. I don’t know what the timeline is to get “on board” with the notion of your only child taking a spouse—and one whom you really hardly know—but I would like to think that we did so without too much delay. We wanted the world for her—just as all parents do for their children.

  Those same thoughts about using carefully chosen words (“be on your best”) were exactly what went through my mind when we were told we were going to become grandparents for the very first time.

  Months earlier, during one of the few occasions upon which we had talked about maternity lea
ves and family planning, I had gently expressed to Lauren my private hope that she and Phil would hold off until they’d had some significant time to really get to know each other. Although I wouldn’t have put it so bluntly to her, I wanted to make sure that this was a union that was going to last. Of course, as I told her, we supported her in her marriage and respected the hard-working, loyal and soft-hearted man she had chosen. We made sure she and Phil had the wedding all four of us wanted her to have, and we did everything we could to show her new husband that he was welcome in our family. We so hope that he felt a part of our tight little unit. I know he understood that she was Rob’s and my world. How do you watch your child step into a huge new chapter of her life with no worries or cares? Still, we knew she’d be fine. They’d be fine.

  With every passing year, our love for and bond with our son-in-law has become stronger. Distance and his demanding work schedule meant that we’d hardly had a chance to get to know him before everything was shattered; this new family arrangement—without the bond of Lauren’s love and understanding cushioning us all—was not how things were supposed to be. Explaining what we meant when we spoke in the code of a language we’d built in love over twenty years with our girl. Unveiling our intentions—always good—when it came to their little family. “You take care of your people and I’ll take care of mine” was Lauren’s philosophy when it came to parents and in-laws. But now we found ourselves trying to communicate directly with someone in a dynamic none of us had signed up for. Fortunately, time has opened more doors—including of communication—between the quiet, thoughtful man Lauren chose and the parents that were chosen for her. We have come to love and understand each other even more than we did in the beginning, sharing in the knowledge that, above all, our deepest affection lies with that sweet little boy that Lauren carried with such care and loved so very much. With a tie that strong, we all know that we can weather everything, and that our bonds will only strengthen with time as we move into the future together. We are thankful every day for little Colin and for the beautiful job Phil is doing in raising him with a steady, loving hand, endless patience and a love and devotion unsurpassed by any father for his child. Come hell and high water—quite literally.

  * * *

  MY other concerns about becoming a grandparent were based in fear instead of reality, and it is with some shame that I share this with you. In Toronto’s youth-conscious business of radio, there were, I believe, no other grandmothers doing morning shows, and I was afraid of suddenly appearing to be aging out of our demographic, even though I was still well within the twenty-five to fifty-four age group that we pursued so diligently. Rather than embrace this as a challenge and opportunity to expand and change minds about what a grandmother looks, sounds and acts like in the twenty-first century, I feared the snide comments and the rampant ageism that pervades the world of women in media. My fears were not without justification: after all, when I’d been let go at forty from my job at the same station (to which I returned joyfully two years later, as you’ll read), the radio industry gossip boards and websites were filled with comments about me being old and “menopausal.” As if what’s happening with someone’s menstrual cycle has anything to do with job performance! Talk about misogyny. Besides, I wasn’t menopausal—although I suspect those making the comments had limited experience with females (perhaps through online porn or video games) upon which to base their assessment. Whatever.

  When I was let go, I’d felt that it was, at least partially, for age-related reasons. That suspicion was seemingly borne out when one of the managers said he was bringing in the new morning team—and I kid you not, this is the word he used, whether ironically or accidentally—to “youthanize” the station. Actually, from a ratings standpoint, what happened next could more accurately be described by the homonym of that word.

  From age forty onward, I believe I was in my prime as a broadcaster—strong enough, finally, to stand up for myself and to defend my opinions. I was fortunate to be able to prove my worth to myself, and anyone signing my paycheque, every day until I decided, at age fifty-four, to step away from my career and the spotlight that had accompanied it. I had always meditated on the universe giving me a sign so that one day, as designer Bill Blass so perfectly put it, I would “know when to leave the party.”

  There were several clues that the party was winding down. Things had changed in my workplace: my close friend and amazing partner of eleven years had left the show to spend time with his wife of over forty years (and childhood sweetheart), who had been diagnosed with cancer. I should take a moment to point out how rare it is for a radio host still to be with his or her first spouse after several decades. Especially when you’re talking about a host like Mike Cooper, who had every temptation thrown at his feet during his years as a hotshot rock jock whose boy-band good looks and deep voice made him a woman-magnet for decades. (With a wink, he’d want to make sure you know that he still gets propositioned in the Home Depot he frequents in small-city Ontario.) After Mike left, work suddenly began to feel like, well, work. The easy ebb and flow, give and take, and laughter were no longer as frequent or as genuine; the trust, compassion and honesty I’d felt from my partner had disappeared with him, and I found myself unable to go in and just have fun. Much of it had to do with where Rob and I found ourselves in our lives: I was just tired. Tired of trying to choreograph and learn new dance steps, tired of donning the happy mask, tired of being tired. Some people listening thought that I was sad (or that I should be, anyway), and so that is what they heard. But they were wrong. I was finding joy in the day-to-day routine and comfort of a radio show. But eventually, even that ran its course.

  The beginning of the end of my time on Toronto radio came on November 9, 2016, the same morning the world was coming to grips with the news that a reality TV show host had, it seemed, been elected US president. That was the day I had to announce that I was leaving CHFI. In no way were the two stories comparable, of course; it was just unfortunate timing, from an emotional point of view. I was already distraught about current affairs and wasn’t quite ready to deal with what I was going to be saying about my own life that depressing morning, but the date had been selected by those above me, who had planned a multi-level public relations operation to coincide with my news. So, things went ahead as planned, and it was announced that my final show would be broadcast on December 15, live from a ballroom in Toronto’s castle-like landmark, Casa Loma.

  Through the hard work of dedicated co-workers and our dear friend and producer Ian, the final show was just as perfect as it could be—even with a nasty snowstorm preventing some faraway guests from making the trek downtown in the wee hours of that Thursday morning. With echoes of our wedding day, for which I rented my dress, I borrowed a gorgeous black ball gown for the event. After all, I reasoned, when was I ever going to need a ball gown again in my new “reWired” life? It was a beautiful send-off, featuring videos from entertainers with whom I’d crossed paths over the years as well as mayors of Toronto and nearby Markham. At the end of the show, after I’d said my goodbyes, the strains of the Beach Boys classic “God Only Knows” filled the room. In a moment inspired by Kristen Wiig’s final appearance as a cast member on Saturday Night Live in 2012, I was danced out of the ballroom by a chuckling Mike Cooper, then our sweet, tearful producer Ian and, finally, by my dear, handsome, tuxedoed Rob. Emerging from the dim ballroom with its regal dark-wood walls into a brightly lit solarium in this elegant castle, I sobbed as the song ended and we stopped dancing. These weren’t tears of sadness prompted by the end of my career; instead, they were, as the saying suggests, an expression of gratitude for the fact that it had happened.

  Getting up at 3:15 in the morning to do something you no longer feel absolute joy in doing is not what you work thirty-five years for. I felt that I’d done what I needed to do: I’d proved that you can survive anything and do it with humour, tears and what I hoped was some form of grace. It was time to let someone else awaken to three alarms and
head off to work each day in the dark, dodging the drunks and skunks and planning every single day around how much sleep you’d get in a nap or at night. It was time for a new dawn, and I planned to sleep through it as often as possible. And it was all made necessary by the events of that one May morning when we thought all we’d have to worry about was the quality of the broadcast going back to Toronto from a beautiful Jamaican hotel.

  One and a half years later, Rob and I had arrived at a place of peace about the changes that lay ahead. The only truly sad note that morning was the feeling of missing the one person whose absence had somehow made all of this change necessary: our Lauren.

  CHAPTER 3

  The End of the Beginning

  Lauren and Phil, summer 2014

  Meaghan Clarke

  THIS LISTENER TRIP WAS STARTING OUT AS SO very many others had: we’d landed safely on Saturday, been transferred smoothly to a beautiful, lush resort on the island paradise of Jamaica and been welcomed like VIPs. By the following night, we had greeted our listeners with cool towels, cocktails and a cake that had Happy Mother’s Day written on it in icing. We had shared time at the microphone introducing ourselves and our staff and expressing our hopes that our guests would join us at six the next morning for the show that was being broadcast back to Toronto.

  As night fell, partner Mike, producer Ian and I felt well prepared for the shows ahead. We’d taped a bit with a bartender—we’d nicknamed him “Dr. Phil”—who had a remedy for every ailment we brought up: rum. Mike (whose wife’s illness had forced him to travel solo this time) joined Rob and me for dinner at a teppanyaki restaurant where the chef splattered me with hot oil while flipping his utensils. It’s funny the things you remember from those benign moments before your life changes forever.