Mourning Has Broken

by Erin Davis

  As Toronto singer-songwriter Amy Sky checked that morning’s news feed, she saw word that Lauren had died. She gasped. Amy and I knew each other from occasions when she’d been on my TV show and our radio station; her daughter, Zoe Sky Jordan, was in a production of Fiddler on the Roof with Lauren when they were both teens. Amy looked up, tears in her eyes, and told her writing partners what had happened. Then she added, “I don’t know what to say to her. What can you say?”

  Amy’s songwriting partners had more than their own share of experience where grief was concerned. Beth Nielsen Chapman’s husband, Ernest, had died at age fifty of cancer, and it was Beth’s achingly beautiful song “Sand and Water” that showed the world just how deeply the loss of her husband had affected her. The other woman in the trio was still grieving the loss of her dear sister, Rona, to brain cancer just two years earlier. Olivia Newton-John answered Amy’s question: “Well, what do you want to say to her?”

  Amy answered in just six words, and immediately the three women pushed back their chairs, got up from the sun-splashed table and moved quickly to the next room, where a piano awaited. The song “My Heart Goes Out to You” flowed forth, its simple but perfect three-part harmonies layering and lifting with every line.

  A year and a half later, Amy reached out to me via email. She wasn’t sure if she should tell me, she said, but there was a song on the new Liv On album that was inspired by Lauren’s passing. I was stunned and most grateful that she had let me know! We agreed to meet in a downtown café to talk about the album and for Amy to give me my own copy.

  It was a chilly fall day and we’d both ordered bone broth. As we sipped from our big cups of comfort, we sat at a banquette, catching up and reconnecting. A steady stream of late-morning businesspeople filtered in and out, heads down, cell phones in hand. We talked, she and I both brushing away tears as our mascara migrated south, and Amy told me of the morning that she, Beth and Olivia had written “My Heart Goes Out to You.” Amy made clear at that moment how she felt Lauren had guided the whole endeavour. And just then, something happened.

  A young woman’s voice on the PA rose above the quiet murmur of the half-filled restaurant. “Lauren . . .,” she said. I stopped what I was saying and asked Amy if she had heard what I heard. Her eyebrows rose as she nodded. I jumped up from the soft leather bench and wove my way through the line of waiting customers to the front counter, where a server stood near a microphone.

  “Excuse me,” I said, “did you just call ‘Lauren’?” She nodded and began to tell me that the order had already been picked up.

  “That’s okay,” I said excitedly. “I just wanted to be sure.”

  I’m sure the young woman, if she gave me a second thought, figured I was nutty. But I knew what I’d heard, and so did Amy. In a restaurant where no other customers’ names had been called since the moment we walked in, suddenly, and at the same moment we were talking about Lauren’s contribution and inspiration for Amy, Beth and Olivia, we heard her name.

  As a side note, Rob and I had the honour of hearing the song being performed live and dedicated to us at a concert in Tacoma, Washington, in early 2017. It was indeed a surreal experience as “My Heart Goes Out to You” began the show, just as it does the album. I trembled as I stood during a Q&A session to explain to the audience what this song meant to our family, and how grateful we were to Amy, Beth and Olivia for their efforts in helping the grieving, and those who work with them, to move forward and heal through their music. Later, when we met up with the trio backstage, we were able to express our gratitude and humility in person. And each one was just as kind and lovely as you would wish them to be.

  And so it is my hope that, just as Lauren may have helped inspire music to aid others in their healing, she has guided me through this book for you. It has been my honour to share with you the story of our family, our lives and especially our daughter. But most of all, it is my deepest and fondest hope that you have seen something in these pages that gives you proof that life can go on after losing someone who means everything to you.

  I know it can be done because we are doing it. Our moments of laughter far outnumber our tears now, and we will continue to try to live our lives in a way that would make our Lauren happy and proud. We visit her son and his parents in Ottawa a minimum of two times a year (and plan to extend an obnoxious number of invitations to them to come west when they feel they want to visit our home in British Columbia), and we’re grateful for the time we spend getting caught up through short videos sent our way and via live computer visits. How lucky we are to live in this age when thousands of miles dissolve with the click of a mouse. It’s not quite as special as having this tall, sweet, brown-haired little boy sitting on our laps while we read to him, but for now it provides some warmth when we’re missing him and his folks so terribly.

  We cherish the memories and videos of the hours we spent with a young Colin during those early months and years of loss for us all. We would take him for walks and to play in the sprawling, well-appointed park near the home where his mother took her last breath; we’d try (sometimes in vain) to keep him from attempting to join a family’s soccer game when he would simply hold on to a ball that had escaped their imaginary pitch. We took this well-mannered little man to family restaurants, to visit a department store Santa at Christmas and to roll on the thick grass on Canada’s Parliament Hill in summer. At the end of our full days, I would rock him in the dark for as long as his careful bedtime regimen would allow, tears falling from my cheeks and landing on his soft warm sleeper as I sang to him the same “You Are My Sunshine” I’d sung softly to his mother just two decades earlier. May you never grow too old to cuddle and to rock, sweet boy. Our futures are brightened by thoughts of theme parks, of long visits, of boat rides and plane rides and more precious memories in the making. It’s all we can hope for.

  Just as Nancy McCartney thought her son, Brennan, would ask how she’d spent the years after his untimely and tragic death, I sometimes imagine an interview where, instead of me posing the questions to Lauren as I did prior to her only Mother’s Day, she might have some for me. And perhaps our exchange would go something like this:

  LAUREN: So, Mom, what did you do with your life?

  ME: We did the best we could with what time was left after losing you. Your dad and I tried to show that life can go on and that there is such a thing as joyful mourning.

  LAUREN: So now you’re stealing my “pure joy” answer?

  ME: Well, not exactly. I don’t know that there’s such a thing as “pure joy” when you’ve lost someone as important and beloved to us as you, but what we could do was not turn our backs on the opportunity, to the idea of being joyful. We continued to find pleasure in the moments and the hours that we spent with your memory, just as we enjoyed the ones where we were being present with each other and taking in a sunset or a full moon or the perfection of a summer day by the ocean or a walk in a late-night snowfall. Best of all, even though I was the one consoled for what seemed like so long through our radio family of listeners and correspondents, I managed to turn things around to the point where I became the one doing the consoling. People would write to me and say that they mourned with me when you died, and then suddenly found themselves in the same unimaginable position, and ask me how I survived. And I actually had answers! It was all for them, just as you said. All of these things—the memories of moments past and the pleasures of the present—plus hopefully helping others move into the future as we made our way there ourselves: these were all our way of honouring you.

  LAUREN: And my son?

  ME: And your son. Just as he knew the strength and love of his father in this day-to-day life, he always felt our arms—and yours—around him, even from a distance. We made sure he had everything in this life that you would have wanted for him. And although we never stopped wishing you were here to be his mother, we knew he’d always be surrounded by all the love he could possibly want. And probably a little more!

  LA
UREN: Then why did you leave him? Why did you live so far apart?

  ME: Your daddy and I made the truly gut-wrenching decision to leave the province and move as far west as we could go in our beautiful country because it just hurt too much to be anywhere near where we’d built our lives with you. If I left radio, which I knew it was time to do, I couldn’t still be in the same city, seeing the same sad eyes and hearing those welcome kind, soft words of condolence. We knew that your son and his father didn’t need us as they had in those early months after you left us, when we were visiting Ottawa every few weeks to try to lend a hand where we could. You chose wisely. Phil did a beautiful job of handling the impossible. But just as Colin and his daddy had continued to grow and to move on in their lives with a new, loving woman that your son calls “Mommy” (and who swears she feels your presence and sometimes asks for your help), we felt we needed a chance to start somewhere new, where we could try to build a different kind of life—one that wasn’t constantly reminding us of how very much we had lost.

  Then we came to awaken (at a much later hour) to the sounds of gulls, the sights of ocean and mountains with deer grazing in our yard and eagles hanging lazily on breezes off our deck, and we came to believe in the power of beauty and nature to heal.

  And so it was with this enveloping and comforting backdrop that we continued to hold you close in our hearts, in our dreams. We spoke often to your little boy and his family, and they knew how much we loved them all. There was never enough time, or visits that were not too short. We cherished each one.

  Loo, we promised to live out our lives in a way that would make you as proud of us as we were, and always would be, of you. And we waited in joyful hope that when these lives were to be done and our missing you finally came to an end, our souls would be reunited, and we would all know pure joy once again.

  LAUREN: I love you.

  ME: Oh, and I love you. So much, honey. So much.

  LAUREN (smiling): I was talking to Daddy.

  POSTSCRIPT

  The Story of “Our” Hummingbird

  YOU’LL NOTICE THAT A HUMMINGBIRD GRACES the cover of this book and several of the pages herein. I wanted you to know the significance of this little bird’s presence.

  In May 2018, to mark the third anniversary of our daughter’s passing, Rob and I decided a change of scenery was in order. Rather than wake up at home on that saddest of days, we boarded a ferry to Friday Harbor, in the San Juan Islands of Washington state, to stay at a quiet inn. Although we could literally see our house from the high points of the island, it was far enough away that we could feel the specialness of the place and its quiet, welcoming charms.

  We awoke the next day to a sundrenched room, and I deliberately dressed in a bright fushia shirt (the brand was Lauren). I wasn’t going to wear black and allow myself to feel any sadder than the date would dictate. I’d even been told by a medium that our daughter wanted me in more vivid hues.

  As we waited to catch the ferry back home, a hummingbird zipped over to me. It hovered in front of my face for what must have been at least five seconds. I didn’t breathe; all I could do was take in the brilliance of its colours. Brightest of all were its neck and breast, a deep pink that mirrored the shade I wore.

  Perhaps that’s what attracted this brilliant little being. Perhaps. But I’d like to believe that on the anniversary of her passing, Lauren made a point of coming by to let me know that she was all right—that she wanted me to find peace in my heart and soul too.

  To some, hummingbirds symbolize a lightness of life, a spirit of joy, of playfulness. It is for that reason—and the visit we received on May 11, 2018—that we asked for this tiny carefree bird to grace Mourning Has Broken. May it serve as a reminder of these gifts to you too.

  Acknowledgements

  THE STORY OF HOW MOURNING HAS BROKEN came to be is one of those “God winks” I’ve heard about since Lauren left us: Iris Tupholme, who is senior vice president and executive publisher of HarperCollins Canada, was in the studio audience of CityLine in downtown Toronto the day that I was marking my final radio broadcast and had been asked to appear as a guest on the popular national TV show. She just happened to be there on a girls’ day out with her sisters and heard me talk with host Tracy Moore about our lives with and after Lauren. Later, when Iris emailed me with the words “I think you’ve got a book in you,” I said she was right. This is that book. Thank you to Iris and the compassionate and patient team of women and men at HarperCollins who guided us, and to the incredible Michael Levine for helping us navigate these unfamiliar waters. Michael, we are so sorry that you personally know our journey as a bereaved parent through your own family tragedy. Our hearts are with yours.

  Dearest Reader (a term I’m sure no author is supposed to say, but since I’m new at this, I’ll be as earnest as I want!), I thank you for sharing our lives—their great joy and deep sorrow—and I hope that this book has made clear that with love, kindness and quiet support, you really can survive anything.

  If you promise to remember that, we will too.

  I cannot imagine where we would be today without the friends and family who have made us laugh, who let us cry with them and who remember Lauren with such fondness. They will always be in our hearts. My long-time friend, confidante and beloved soul sister, Lisa Brandt, and my actual sister Leslie Davis, who walks this path of grief with us, both showed unwavering support when we lost our girl. We thank the brilliant light of our lives who has been there for almost every moment that mattered both in Lauren’s life and ours, Allan Bell. We love you, Ally. Our deepest gratitude goes to Lauren’s beloved “surrogate” grandmother, Helen Moase. To Anita Reynolds MacArthur and her husband, Ian: you and your family will always have a huge place in our hearts, and we cherish the closeness you still experience with Lauren and her many hints to you and daughter Ava Erin MacArthur from beyond.

  To the family members who wrapped their arms around us when we feared we were lost, we are grateful: sweet Meaghan, also a young mom and her late first cousin’s bridesmaid, who felt our loss so acutely; my aunt Laura and uncle Vern and their beautiful family (especially Lauren’s fill-in big sister, Karen); Rob’s siblings, Doug and Lois, but most of all Lauren’s beloved Aunt Susie; and my sisters Heather and Cindy (along with Leslie). To our dad: always know that your daughters are as proud of you as you are of all of us. And Mom—you walk with me daily but I’m grateful you didn’t live to share this pain.

  Thank you again, Phil Shirakawa, for being the caring and tender father Lauren knew you would be and for so lovingly shepherding your beautiful son through these early years of life. He is the only link we have now to our own beloved child, an attachment that you understand in a deeper way with each passing day. We are so thankful to you for your generosity of spirit in allowing us, indeed encouraging us, to continue to play a prominent role in this beautiful, special boy’s life.

  To Brooke Russell Shirakawa, whom I’ll call my daughter-in-law (but for whom there really is no title), thank you for the love and kindness and guidance you show our grandson, Colin, every day. When you say he is your life, we are grateful that Phil and Colin have found someone who can love and care for them and make a broken world bright again. Thank you, dear Brooke. You didn’t have to do this: you could have kept living the life of a young single woman. Instead, you immersed yourself in diapers and sleepless nights, Elmo and school meetings. We adore that you sometimes talk to Lauren and feel her presence; you have earned and will always have our love and respect. You’re a wonderful mother.

  My radio family—intimate and extended—will forever be one I remember with the greatest gratitude, starting, as always, with the listeners who shared our lives through my journal, through the morning show for a quarter-century, and through twenty-four “Christmas Eve at Erin’s” programs on the air with Lauren. You offered such boundless kindness when she died and in the months thereafter—and still do. Thank you, each and every one of you. Rob and I owe you so much.

&nbs
p; Of that radio family, my greatest gratitude goes to Mike Cooper. When the unthinkable happened, you helped walk listeners through the days that followed. You carried the show and did so with the perfect blend of grace, humour and tears. My career’s favourite dance partner found just the right steps, and I will always be so proud of you. For that, and a million other reasons, Rob and I love you and Debbie with all our hearts.

  Also at CHFI, sincerest thanks go to our beloved leaders Julie Adam, Jackie Gilgannon, Wendy Duff and Julie James, Michelle Butterly, Steve Roberts, Gord Rennie, David Lindores and Daisy Yiu and, of course, my dear, sweet friend Ian MacArthur. Thank you also to Steve Winogron and Steve Madely—with whom Lauren and I both had the pleasure of working at CFRA, thirty years apart—and to all of Lauren’s fellow employees in Ottawa, for sharing your love and respect for her with us and your listeners. And to Valerie Geller, always a source of strength, wisdom and encouragement.

  A special note of appreciation and respect goes to our new Vancouver Island friend Nancy Wood, who has offered counsel and kindness when I was feeling adrift, as I have so often in this new western life. As for this book, Nancy was quick with feedback, advice and input. Her compassion, sensitivity and perspective made the rewrites (and rethinks) so very gentle. Thank you to Marianne Kowalski for retouching some of our family photos for this book. We appreciate your talents and the love for Lauren with which you did this work for us.

  To those fellow bereaved mothers who opened their hearts to us and shared their stories here: we so appreciate your helping others who are in pain. Ellen, Nancy, Barbara and again, sister Leslie, may dragonflies, hummingbirds, feathers, dimes and cardinals always bring you messages of hope. Thank you to Marney Thompson and Victoria Hospice for sharing the wisdom behind complicated grief therapy, and to Ellen Wasyl for her help in those early days of our searing grief. Thanks to Laura Abbruzzese for letting us bring to you her blog on grieving via social media.