Thank you Jackpot Time!

Sep 1, 2023

For more than 10 years the community of Jackpot Time in St. Thomas has been creating impact for Bereaved Families of Ontario Southwest along with 86 charities in our region. As is true of many local charities, Bereaved Families does not receive government funding and we rely on our community friends for support. We consider it a great privilege to be a part of Jackpot Time’s community investment program, which has contributed over $14 million dollars in support of local charities since it’s inception. In fact, over 23% of revenue generated at Jackpot Time through bingo and taptix machines is invested right back into our communities!

For Bereaved Families, these contributions are paramount in providing a steady stream of revenue to help make possible our programs for individuals and families who have experienced loss. Truly, we could not do this without the generous support of our friends at Jackpot Time!

Jackpot Time provides a full service entertainment experience including gaming floor, fully licensed diner, and sports lounge. Visit https://st-thomas.jackpottime.ca/ to plan your next day or evening out! To volunteer at Jackpot Time in support of Bereaved Families of Ontario Southwest, please email [email protected] Learn more at https://bfosw.ca/bingo-volunteering/

Holding you

Sep 22, 2022

Janet and her husband, Peter, have been involved with BFO-SW in various ways over the years since their infant son, Ryan, died thirty-two years ago this month. They regularly participated in grief support groups, volunteered their time supporting events, and served on the Board of Directors throughout the 1990’s.

Janet recently shared a tender reflection piece, Holding You, written in honour of their son Ryan, and of her ongoing experience as his mother. She has given us permission to share with you, our BFO-SW community, as we recognize Pregnancy and Infant Loss Awareness Month.

“I realize that, upon reflection, before there can be the birth of a child, there is the birthing of a Mother. Our relationship was deeply intimate and started well before the day of his birth – September 2, 1990. This is a look into the heart of the story of Ryan – his birth, his life, his death, and all the time since then.”

Holding You

by Janet Frood

Holding you – at first as the dream of a child who would anoint me as mother.

Holding you – in the first days of quiet knowing you were a germinating soul deep inside my womb.

Holding you – in my thoughts and words as I wrote my first “Letter to Baby”. Somehow, I knew that I needed to have a record of you before you were born. In retrospect, I’m so grateful that I captured my feelings in these love letters as is extended your beingness beyond birth and death.

Holding you – as my belly grew and your life force took shape. Your emergent self took over my body and invaded my heart with every breath I took.

Holding you – as I dreamed of birthing five black puppies. I’ve never checked the symbolism of this. You lived five weeks – maybe that’s it.

Holding you – for dear life as I spoke my final words of gratitude and love at my father’s celebration of life. You and he are forever intertwined in my mind.

Holding you – as I learned that your heart was not fully formed. My heart sunk; panic flared. It’s at that time our world began to swirl and shake. All I heard was “We can fix it”.

Holding you – as we were told that you would likely be a Down syndrome baby. Your heart and other indicators showed a pattern that predicted this.

Holding you – as I tried to hold on to me and not be swept away. The innocence and dreamy quality of being a first-time pregnant Mom was being sucked away by clinical talk and projections of what might be.

Holding you – as a huge needle entered my body to take amniotic fluid for genetic testing. The goal was to determine if you had Down syndrome. My heart was ready to love you and my head needed to know so I could be ready to parent your special needs.

Holding you – as my body cramped and swelled; infection had taken over. We were only 29 weeks, yet my body had to expel you to get rid of the uterine infection. This was not the dream nor the plan. I was not mentally prepared for you to come early. Everything was in fast motion, nonstop, no control. I was literally swept off my feet.

Holding you – in my gaze once you were born and then they swept you away. It was hours before I really got to see and touch you. It was days before I could hold you in my arms.

Holding you – as my breasts swelled with milk yet I couldn’t feed you. A breast pump became my companion as I pumped for you and made daily milk runs to the hospital. I felt like Elsie the cow yet was proud to have a purpose and could provide for you.

Holding you – as I witnessed one of the truly sweet moments of you nestled in your father’s arms. He so big and you so little. This is a moment that is forever etched in my mind.

Holding you – my first time, in a rocking chair. We sat quietly and I could hardly breathe. The moment so precious I wanted time to stop.

Holding you – in my arms length reach as I stroked your head through an incubator opening. The tactile connection one of the very few things I could do for you.

Holding you – the day we had you baptized because there seemed little hope. It was a moment of ceremony and blessings so you would be protected and forever held. This was when everything started to turn from medical to magical. The planned actions veiled in mystical references indicating that no one thought you would survive.

Holding you – the day when you signaled there was no more will nor way to live. That day, I really held you, off all monitors, out of the unit. My greatest wish to just rock you in a quiet room with no buzzers or alarms. I held you like a normal mother does. In those quiet moments you gently slipped away after a gentle, whispered sigh.

Holding you – I uttered these words “I hope Dad is waiting for Ryan” as it was my only solace knowing that you would leave my arms to go to him in the world beyond.

Holding you – as a doctor said, “He’s with the Lord now”.

Holding you – as I handed you over to a nurse, our final goodbye. My arms and heart never felt emptier.

Holding you – as my body was still wired to care for you. Milk came with relentless persistence.  I continued to pump milk and then pour it down the drain. Every. Single. Time. My. Heart. Broke.

Holding you – in the stories we shared as people gathered to hold us in their arms and surround us with love.

Holding you – as we celebrated your short life. We would never have known the impact that you had then, as it was all too raw and fresh, yet looking back, I now understand the mark you have made beyond our lives.

Holding you – so many nights when I couldn’t sleep, and I felt like you were still inside my womb, occupying space. Many times, my body was shrouded in tingles, and I was convinced you were visiting me.

Holding you – in my heart learning that a broken heart feels acutely and has the capacity to heal, slowly and tenderly.

Holding you – in letters I continued to write as our communication was not meant to be done. I had so much more to give voice to that I could not shut down.

Holding you – after all this time, I thought I was holding you and the truth is you’ve been holding me. Your presence is always with me. You are my guide, my mentor, my teacher…and most importantly my beloved first son.

Janet Frood & Peter Hawke

We all learn from each other

Jun 30, 2022

My brother passed away in 2009; he was my best friend and losing him was devastating. After his passing, I made some changes in my life and began pursuing further education and a career in psychology.

Gradually, as my intense grief eased, I realized I had the energy, compassion, and drive to help others with their mental health and wellbeing. I was no longer emotionally burnt out or depleted from my grief. 

In early 2019, I was looking for peer support volunteer opportunities because I had some prior experience providing peer support in a mental health organization, and I felt it was one of the most rewarding things I’d ever done.

I saw the listing for Bereaved Families of Ontario Southwest peer support volunteer opportunities, and I was drawn to it.

As I considered applying, I questioned my ability to ‘handle it’ because the work could evoke a lot of emotions, but I reminded myself that I am resilient and strong; I’d already been through the worst thing that could happen my life (losing my brother).

I believed the position was an amazing opportunity to do something useful with my lived experience with grief, so I decided to go for it. 

When I went for my interview with the organization, I felt welcomed, and we discussed my interest in providing peer support. I talked about my experience with adult sibling loss, and my wish to provide support for that type of loss.

My brother and I were both adults when he passed away. In my own grief journey, I noticed the lack of support and resources for adult sibling loss, so it has been very important to me that I offer support to other adults who are grieving their siblings.

Since the pandemic began in 2020, I’ve had the opportunity to co-facilitate the virtual Adult Sibling Loss grief support group, even after moving to a different city for graduate school.

I always enjoy the group meetings, as we all discuss and share experiences.

I feel a sense of connection with others during the meetings, and although I am a facilitator, there is a reciprocal relationship; we are all peers, and we all learn from each other.

We are side by side as we navigate grief.  

If you’re thinking about connecting with Bereaved Families, and feel that sharing your experience with grief and loss might help others in their journey, I encourage you to give it a try – you probably have more to offer than you know!

The Inhale and Exhale…

Jun 1, 2022

I contacted Bereaved Families of Ontario in 2019.

The first interactions with the executive director were helpful. She talked of her beloved, baby daughter who had died, and asked me questions that kept me from slipping away. It would have been easy to do.

I attended a few meetings at Bereaved Families with other moms before these in-person meetings ended due to the world-wide pandemic in early 2020. I had merely just begun.

At this same time, and in response to the public health guidelines a mix of outdoor, in-person and online meetings commenced. I found myself both comforted by these moms’ words and presence, and also feeling myself reaching to comfort those in crushing pain.

Somewhere along the line, I realized that I was breathing again.

The inhale and exhale of accepting comfort and offering comfort was indeed a sacred thing.

The ability to do this from my home (I reside in a rural area) and without concern for appearance or state of mind was extremely helpful for me. I once heard someone say that face to face is most helpful and I believe that’s true. I also believe it can be attained through the offerings of modern technology.

These moms’ faces and focused pain are etched in my heart for all time.

After almost two years and many online meetings, community events, a long personal pilgrimage and gained and lost relationships, I came to know that I wanted to assist Bereaved Families in offering space for those who want help for their hurting hearts and minds.

I want to listen to and honour the experiences of loss that I am privileged to witness. If I can, I want to offer insight into strategies / ways of coping, and support for those needing comfort at a time where comfort feels so lost.

I would encourage anyone who is feeling the pull toward this action, no matter how small or humble, to extend your hand. Together we are carving out a space where each of us can bring our broken and beating hearts to the table. Where we can provide, offer and gain support in our personal journeying with grief.

Catherine

If you would be interested in becoming a Peer Support Volunteer for Bereaved Families – Southwest you can click here for more information.