Wallowing
I was listening to a broadcast featuring two brilliant psychologists discussing contemporary issues when one of them said that the worst trauma anyone could face was the murder of their child — and the other agreed.
It caught me off guard. The world went black as I slid into a bottomless pity party.
They were right — it was the worst. But I was now facing another worst. My life, it seemed, had been a collection of “worsts” from the very beginning.
I was born in 1948 — the year Israel became a nation and the so-called “end times” began. My father, fascinated by eschatology, often hosted visiting prophets predicting imminent disaster. I grew up knowing I was a member of the Fig Tree generation. I grew up under a cloud of doomsday prophecies.
It was also the year the fierce Fraser River overflowed its banks. We lived in Greendale — dairy country — when the dike broke and floodwaters covered the entire valley in six feet of manure soup. My mother, pregnant with me, said it couldn’t have been worse: the stench, the chaos of being forced into a flood refugee camp, and caring for two preschoolers while expecting me.
And on top of all that — I was unwanted. My patriarchal father had hoped for a son, and I was his third daughter. My mother often reminded me how disappointed he’d been.
It’s not surprising that I cried for the first two months after my birth. Later, I learned that Jewish babies had also cried constantly during Auschwitz — they could feel their parents’ stress. Perhaps I, too, was carrying secondary stress.
As I grew, sibling rivalry only deepened the ache. My older sister was the clever one — she remembered everything and collected awards like trophies. My second sister was the beautiful one, elegant and admired. I was short, plain, brown-haired, with a peasant body and a Barbra Streisand nose.
And I was creative — a writer at heart — a temperament not exactly celebrated in our practical German culture. In Low German, the word for “artist” is the same as “village fool.”
To make matters worse, I couldn’t sing — imagine that — growing up in a Mennonite church community where music was everything. I mouthed the hymns, pretending to join in.
Work was constant. My summers were spent in the berry fields — strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, blueberries — under a relentless sun. Later, I worked nights at the cannery until two or three in the morning. Being slightly uncoordinated, I was never fast enough, never quite good enough, even there.
When it came time for higher education, I longed to attend university, but my parents sent me instead to a small Bible institute in Saskatchewan. Three years later, I married a Saskatchewan farmer — a man rejected by his own family, whose only dream was to become a pastor. We followed that dream across Canada, but it never took root. We never earned enough to support our three children — all unexpected surprises.
In desperation, I returned to school to study communications — with three children in tow. Just as I graduated — my first real success — my world collapsed completely. Our thirteen-year-old daughter, Candace, was abducted and murdered on her way home from school. And if that wasn’t enough, my gentle, loving husband had to take a lie detector test — the insult of all insults.
After a visit from another parent of a murdered child warning us of the long road ahead, Cliff and I realized how critical our next steps would be. In desperation, we chose forgiveness — privately. But our decision went viral, placing us in the center of a national controversy that never seemed to end. Apparently, eighty percent of Canadians disagreed with our choice.
Because of the seven-week search for Candace, we had invited everyone into our trauma and inadvertently developed a public persona — sustained by the mystery and the ongoing investigation. Twenty-two years later, the man accused of Candace’s death was charged, then acquitted. He now lives free — even suing Manitoba Justice for millions. Justice never arrived; closure never came.
Then, just as we were preparing for retirement, my husband was diagnosed with gallbladder cancer. He died three months later — far too soon.
While caring for him, I realized I had Parkinson’s — the cruelest disease: humiliating, antisocial, relentless. It steals movement, dignity, and confidence.
So, when I heard those psychologists agree that the murder of a child is the worst trauma imaginable, I nodded. I had lived it. It was the worst — but so were all the others. My life had been a cascade of “worsts,” each one heavier than the last.
As I remembered, I could feel myself sinking — descending into what felt like a primeval ocean, slimy and dark, heavy with despair. I let myself wallow and hit rock bottom.
For a whole week, I indulged in a grand self-pity party. Poor me. My life was nearly over, and I was going to end encased in a Parkinson’s body.
Then a friend called and I invited her to my pity party — dress code: sackcloth and ashes.
Actually, I have learned that a there is a healthy way to do a pity party…you invite a friend. – then you sink to the very bottom…. and then you look up.
There are times when we must sink to the bottom of our misery to understand truth, just as we must descend to the bottom of a well to see the stars in broad daylight. Vaclay Havel
It caught me off guard. The world went black as I slid into a bottomless pity party.
They were right — it was the worst. But I was now facing another worst. My life, it seemed, had been a collection of “worsts” from the very beginning.
I was born in 1948 — the year Israel became a nation and the so-called “end times” began. My father, fascinated by eschatology, often hosted visiting prophets predicting imminent disaster. I grew up knowing I was a member of the Fig Tree generation. I grew up under a cloud of doomsday prophecies.
It was also the year the fierce Fraser River overflowed its banks. We lived in Greendale — dairy country — when the dike broke and floodwaters covered the entire valley in six feet of manure soup. My mother, pregnant with me, said it couldn’t have been worse: the stench, the chaos of being forced into a flood refugee camp, and caring for two preschoolers while expecting me.
And on top of all that — I was unwanted. My patriarchal father had hoped for a son, and I was his third daughter. My mother often reminded me how disappointed he’d been.
It’s not surprising that I cried for the first two months after my birth. Later, I learned that Jewish babies had also cried constantly during Auschwitz — they could feel their parents’ stress. Perhaps I, too, was carrying secondary stress.
As I grew, sibling rivalry only deepened the ache. My older sister was the clever one — she remembered everything and collected awards like trophies. My second sister was the beautiful one, elegant and admired. I was short, plain, brown-haired, with a peasant body and a Barbra Streisand nose.
And I was creative — a writer at heart — a temperament not exactly celebrated in our practical German culture. In Low German, the word for “artist” is the same as “village fool.”
To make matters worse, I couldn’t sing — imagine that — growing up in a Mennonite church community where music was everything. I mouthed the hymns, pretending to join in.
Work was constant. My summers were spent in the berry fields — strawberries, raspberries, blackberries, blueberries — under a relentless sun. Later, I worked nights at the cannery until two or three in the morning. Being slightly uncoordinated, I was never fast enough, never quite good enough, even there.
When it came time for higher education, I longed to attend university, but my parents sent me instead to a small Bible institute in Saskatchewan. Three years later, I married a Saskatchewan farmer — a man rejected by his own family, whose only dream was to become a pastor. We followed that dream across Canada, but it never took root. We never earned enough to support our three children — all unexpected surprises.
In desperation, I returned to school to study communications — with three children in tow. Just as I graduated — my first real success — my world collapsed completely. Our thirteen-year-old daughter, Candace, was abducted and murdered on her way home from school. And if that wasn’t enough, my gentle, loving husband had to take a lie detector test — the insult of all insults.
After a visit from another parent of a murdered child warning us of the long road ahead, Cliff and I realized how critical our next steps would be. In desperation, we chose forgiveness — privately. But our decision went viral, placing us in the center of a national controversy that never seemed to end. Apparently, eighty percent of Canadians disagreed with our choice.
Because of the seven-week search for Candace, we had invited everyone into our trauma and inadvertently developed a public persona — sustained by the mystery and the ongoing investigation. Twenty-two years later, the man accused of Candace’s death was charged, then acquitted. He now lives free — even suing Manitoba Justice for millions. Justice never arrived; closure never came.
Then, just as we were preparing for retirement, my husband was diagnosed with gallbladder cancer. He died three months later — far too soon.
While caring for him, I realized I had Parkinson’s — the cruelest disease: humiliating, antisocial, relentless. It steals movement, dignity, and confidence.
So, when I heard those psychologists agree that the murder of a child is the worst trauma imaginable, I nodded. I had lived it. It was the worst — but so were all the others. My life had been a cascade of “worsts,” each one heavier than the last.
As I remembered, I could feel myself sinking — descending into what felt like a primeval ocean, slimy and dark, heavy with despair. I let myself wallow and hit rock bottom.
For a whole week, I indulged in a grand self-pity party. Poor me. My life was nearly over, and I was going to end encased in a Parkinson’s body.
Then a friend called and I invited her to my pity party — dress code: sackcloth and ashes.
Actually, I have learned that a there is a healthy way to do a pity party…you invite a friend. – then you sink to the very bottom…. and then you look up.
There are times when we must sink to the bottom of our misery to understand truth, just as we must descend to the bottom of a well to see the stars in broad daylight. Vaclay Havel
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