​I started a new book last week, Mindset: The New Psychology of Success by Carol S. Dweck, PhD. Mindset. That's one of the new It words these days, isn't it? It's up there with Abundance, Snowflake,  and Kale. Mindset seems to be the theme for most of my readings/musings of late. I did a group hypnosis session last month about a prosperity mindset. T. Harv Eker keeps screaming at me to have a Warrior Mindset. And now, here's Dr. Dweck differentiating the growth from the fixed mindset.
 
 
I have noticed some universal takeaways.
 
 
Let me illustrate with a story I assume will resonate with a lot of you. When I was at school, we used to write our exams in the gym. Rows upon rows of desks and chairs. The scent of fear and I'll shower later was heavy in the air. "You may turn over your exams," the teacher would proclaim. Heads down, pencils up!
 
 
I would work diligently, really getting into my groove, right up until such a time as the teacher would start to do her rounds. I'd stare down at my paper but be watching her, scarcely blinking and really honing my peripheral vision skills. My blood pressure would slowly creep up to the point where I'd almost stroke out as she came up behind me. My breathing would get shallow. I would completely stop writing. All I could do was sit there and wait for her to move on, silently begging her to do so.
 
 
It would take another good ten minutes for my parasympathetic nervous system to get back to baseline and ten more beyond that to my exam-writing rhythm back. And why? Because I was being observed. I didn't need quantum mechanics to tell me that the mere act of being watched affects the observed reality. Every particle of my being felt that!
 
 
Obviously, there was more to it than that. I am human, after all, and my conditioned mind took over. "She's judging you!!!"
 
 
Fight, flight, or freeze.
 
Fight, flight, or freeze.
 
Fight, flight, or freeze.
 
 
Those were my only choices, two of which had been wrested from me by social convention and, most likely, school regulations. I froze. Deer in the headlights. Pupils dilated... "Now she's gonna think you're on drugs!"
 
 
You see how it can spiral.
 
 
The conditioned mind is fed by the lizard brain. The most primitive part of our brains, its only job is to protect us from danger. That was fine for early humans whose days mostly consisted of fending off predators and warriors from other tribes. And hunting, protecting the village's meat supply from predators and other tribes. That is how we evolved. The lizard - and I'm not visualising the Geiko gecko here - comes out hot, spitting and screaming like something out of Jurassic Park. Here's the problem: Mrs. Warren couldn't have been more than five feet tall, and that includes her Caucasian salt and pepper afro. Hardly a charging wildebeest.
 
 
What's my point?

1. We live our lives in fear.
2. Fear exists only in our minds.
3. Our minds are malleable.

 
 
I'm not going to get into the big fears and phobias - those can be addressed in some root cause coaching sessions - I'm talking about the debilitating area of social-anxiety. Yes, it, too, has its origins deep in your past and I believe will keep manifesting in your life until you have healed it, but for those among you who are scared to go don't like digging that deep, I can offer this as a band aid: Embrace a growth mindset. If you're wondering what that looks like:

• Embrace challenges.
• Learn from criticism.
• Don't give up when you hit a roadblock.
• Perfection is unattainable.
• Learn and be inspired by others' success.
• Acknowledge when your efforts pay off.

 
 
 
Mrs. Warren was just doing her job. I wish I could tell her that these days I look forward to taking tests, because they show me areas where I could expand my knowledge. How exciting is that? I could even do some public speaking and convince myself that those butterflies are excitement! Oh, and I don't let my self-worth be determined by how well or how badly I do something. Five or six years ago, I read Deepak Chopra's Golf for Enlightenment. Actually, I read it at the start of every golf season for four years. I always laughed that I would never get to a point where I enjoyed a bad golf shot as much as a good one, but I can now laugh them off, and not throw a raging, turf-damaging tantrum like I might've once.
 
 
Think about all of the successful people that you know, both personally and at a remove – actors, musicians, professional athletes. You hear great stories of ‘overnight success’, but the people being referred to in such a way would tell you a much different story. James Dyson, the vacuum cleaner mogul, endured 5127 failed prototypes before his first successful model. Col Sanders had his recipe of eleven herbs and spices rejected over a thousand times. Harrison Ford had been acting for seven years – and at the time been throwing himself into his carpentry career – before he caught his break in American Graffiti. Steven Spielberg was actually rejected from the University of Southern California School of Theater, Film and Television on three separate occasions. Calgary Flames Captain Mark Giordano wasn’t drafted into the OHL, wasn’t drafted into the NHL, and had to work harder than most to get to where he is today — earning his keep in the AHL, keeping his NHL dream alive by detouring through Russia and the KHL, and improving every detail every season since as a regular with the Flames. He is short-listed to win this year’s Norris Trophy.
 
 
The experts (whomever they may be) say that much of human happiness is driven by the desire to grow. Growth means pushing back against the boundaries of fear and rejection. As Neale Donald Walsch said, "Life begins at the end of your comfort zone."
 
 
If you are content play it safe, to not challenge yourself, and to carry on as you are until your death, go for it! Just make sure to do it with eyes wide open, so you don't die full of regret. But I will also make myself available to you in those moments, ready to help you look at, rewrite, and share your life story. ​

​

​It takes twenty-one days to change a habit. If your mind's habit is predominantly a fixed-mindset, I invite you to purchase my growth-mindset hypnosis recording.
http://www.violetlight.ca/store/p7/Hypnosis_for_a_Growth_Mindset.html It is the first recording I have made available through the website, due to some previous technological issues which affected the quality of my other recordings.
 
 
While the recording is a great tool of suggestion therapy, suitable for most, as with any hypnosis, it is not for people with epilepsy or psychoses. If you have any mental health issues, please consult your physician before using any hypnosis or guided meditation.
 
 
To get to the root cause of your fixed-mindset, or any other issues which you would like addressed before you hand them off to the next generation, please contact me to arrange your complementary phone consultation and to book your sessions. 403-616-6108
​

​
​Recently, I have come across a few parents who are terrified that they are going to damage their children, and I told them what I'm telling you: You will.
 
Parents are human. You are human. You are perfectly imperfect. Some day your rambunctious four-year-old will be getting on your very last nerve, and you will hear your own mother's voice coming out of your mouth. "What is wrong with you?!" And your kid's off to the races.
 
Or maybe it'll be something a little more innocuous, to your mind gentle teasing, but at your child's expense. (Literally at your child's expense; have you seen the price of counselling these days?) "Well, you're never going to be Sidney Crosby, are you?" The child's mind may hear that they're not athletic, or it may drive down their self-esteem in the face of any competitive loss. Kids don't have the capacity to understand the small nuances of humour.
 
Here's where things get tricky. Many of these small scrapes will heal as easily as any physical one. A hug, an I love you, and a sincere apology could be all that’s required. But those emotional traumas - while to you they might just be jokes or small slights, to a young child they are traumatic - will actually stunt the child's emotional growth. That inner child will live with the person forever unless healed. That often shows up as anger in the adult's life. The fear of losing, or the fear of being judged a loser, bumps up against the boundary of their self-esteem and they fly into a rage.
​
Though often credited to Hemingway, there’s a quote floating around on social media that is more likely a misquote of (Canadian legend!) Leonard Cohen. “We are all broken; that’s how the light gets in.” Much as I push back against the word broken, I love that imagery of the quote as well as the emotions it evokes in me. To me, it just shouts, “Vulnerability!” Y’know, as much as vulnerability can shout. It tells me that the broken, damaged, or, as Cohen says, cracked parts of a person can be accessed, that they are open to healing.
 
When I am explaining it to clients, I tell them that emotional traumas are no different than the physical in that they need to be healed. Sure, sometimes a Band-Aid will be adequate, but some wounds go much deeper, and if they’re not healed, they can fester. Over time the infection can get so bad that it poisons the entire system, a system which doesn’t exist in a vacuum. You are like MRSA Patient Zero, spreading it to everyone who’s near to you. 
 
Hmm… Actually, there’s a good chance that you’re not Patient Zero. Hurt people hurt people, right? The cycle of suffering is kept alive from generation to generation. People perpetuate what they’ve been taught. Even the most narcissistic parent didn’t end up that way of their own accord. They developed it as a coping mechanism, a survival technique, a persona they created to get their own caregivers’ attention. No one sets out to deliberately hurt you. They are coming from a place of their own damaged inner child.
 
So, the next time a parent pushes your buttons in that way only a parent can, just take a breath and imagine him or her as a child under age seven (yes, that’s important, but we’ll save it for another time). In your mind call them by their familial child name, whatever their parents might’ve called them at that age, and have compassion for the child within the adult.
 
And when you find yourself angry, look deep inside for your own injured child, call her by her familial child name, show her compassion, and promise to help her heal. The ripple effect through your family will be impactful and long-lasting. You have to be the grown-up figure for your inner child. You’re no longer a victim. Step up to healing.
 
Healed people heal people.

That's a horrible stereotype, isn't it? I try to be as politically correct as the next person - not toxically, though - but sometimes stereotypes persist for a reason. As we age, our beliefs get more firmly ingrained. The mind is an incredible tool; we tend to see things that support our beliefs while those that do not slide by unnoticed. As Anaïs Nin said, "We don't see things as they are; we see them as we are." So, yes, as we get older, our beliefs grow more rigid and our patience wanes. Add to that the dawning knowledge that his time on this planet is running out, and ask yourself if grumpy Grampy is such a surprise.

See how easy it is to shift perspective? Understanding and compassion easily follow.

In all of my years working with a senior clientele, I have only encountered one whose grumpy nature I couldn't penetrate. He was a massage client, and things started out really well for us. His lower back pain had reduced significantly within three treatments. He was even known to flirt with me, much to my delight, because I had heard the rumour that he didn't like anyone. We got down to a maintenance schedule of every four weeks, so that his condition wouldn't slide back to where it had been previously, and something changed. He stopped seeing me, which was obviously his prerogative, but he also started badmouthing me to other Residents in the retirement community. He told them that he had been overbilled and that my treatment was inappropriate. Eventually, word came to me from upper management of what was transpiring. I was furious, as you can imagine. I had been a practicing massage therapist for fifteen years at this point. I was charging my seniors a minimal rate, because it was more important to me that they be treated and taken care of. I didn't put my prices up for over ten years! How dare he! Right?!

*deep breath*

The thing is that I knew his backstory. “John” was raised in war-torn Poland. As a child he was beaten within an inch of his life for climbing his neighbour's fence and taking some apples. John grew up with very little other than a huge mistrust of others. What he saw working with me was that his back was feeling better and yet I still wanted to see him. While I knew that that was for his own good, and that he could have cancelled at any time, the little voices in his head told him a different story. He saw me as a person in authority asking, more likely telling, him to come back in a month. The little voices told him that I was fleecing him. He believed them which further reinforced his belief that people are inherently out for themselves and will take advantage of you, if you let your guard down. So, for the greater good, I took a couple of treatments off of his bill, possibly further reinforcing that belief for him. I don't know. For my part, I felt nothing but understanding and compassion for the child he had been, the hurt child that existed in him still.

The more I worked with people at end-of-life, the more I noticed negative emotions coming to the surface for some. Mistrust, fear, and anger are the three biggies. Since the beginning of my career as a legacy (formerly end-of-life) coach, I've come to understand that those strong emotions show us where we're bumping up against boundaries. And that is where the healing of past emotional traumas can begin.

We are taught to be mistrustful.
We are taught how to be angry.
We are taught to live in fear.
We are taught to build walls.

And we can be retrained.

The deeper I've delved into legacy coaching, the more I stand in awe of the growth and transformation I've seen in people and from people. Anger gives way to forgiveness, fear is erased by a sense of self-worth, and mistrust dissolves into connection. It is incredible to be a part of.

All of that also forced me to ask myself how much better off their lives would have/could have been if they'd made peace with their emotional traumas when they were middle-aged. Or while raising their families. How much of their trauma did they pass on to their kids?

That was the moment when end-of-life coaching became legacy coaching.
​

We use hypnotherapy and goal-setting, uncover limiting beliefs and core values, and incorporate every tool in our coaching toolbox to help you identify and heal your emotional traumas so they don't continue down your family line. 
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Did you know that breaking a promise is the surest way to destroy a relationship? Seems so obvious, right? As I mentioned two weeks ago, until you ask for what you want/need, your expectations from another person exist only in your head. But once that contract is made, your expectations are legitimate.
 
There are some things you can do when someone has a habit of not living up to your expectations; first, you must reassert your needs, then, if nothing changes, you have to decide whether lower your expectations or you walk away. Because ain’t nobody gonna treat you as less than.
 
But what if that person is you?
 
I went looking for fables and parables to illustrate my point –The Boy Who Cried, “Wolf,” maybe – but I decided to share something of me instead, mostly because this topic is especially poignant for me, and that’s exactly the reason I should speak my own truth.
 
This is my third blog since I promised myself I would write one weekly. If my history with opening up about myself is sketchy, my history with internet posting is worse. *deep breath* About six years ago I authored some fanfiction. Oof. It felt good to get that out. The first story almost wrote itself. I got up at four o’clock some mornings to write and research. My stories were set in London, England, so, for accuracy, I got to know the London transit system, highways, and neighbourhoods. I had my characters eating in existing pubs and restaurants whose menus I had not only perused but found reviews of. I even had pages and pages of British vernacular printed out. I don’t throw myself into anything halfway.
 
The second story was better than the first, because, where in the original I was working with the template of the actual show, the sequel saw me flying without a net. The third story is not finished. I told myself that if I began posting chapters, I would have to finish it. Right? It’s about three-quarters done and just sitting there. The worst part is that I know how it ends. I just got stymied at a certain point. True or not, that’s an excuse. I broke that promise to myself. And, like, four other fans of my work.
 
As a result, here’s how beginning to write this blog in earnest (after a two-year absence) sounded in my head:

• “You never finish what you start.”
• “No one wants to read anything you write.”
• “Nothing you have to say is of value.”
• “Why can’t you be normal?”

 
The spiral was on! Those voices gave rise to some even louder ones:

• “I’m an idiot/weirdo/fool.”
• “I’m not worthy.”
• “I can’t be trusted.”
• “I’m a fraud.”
• “I should just disappear.”
• (Oh, this sharing thing is fun.)

 
The point is, every time I break a promise I’ve made to myself, these thoughts bounce around in my brain like Tigger after a double espresso. While none of them is inherently true, my subconscious mind doesn’t know that. It takes them as gospel, reinforcing them with each broken promise, and tearing down my worth.
 
Or they would have done, but I’ve battled through and come to realise that my thoughts aren’t me. My thoughts aren’t me. They are just a part of me, like my knee or that weird recurrent twitch under my eye. Sometimes they hurt for a bit and other times, they almost drive me crazy, but, ultimately, I’m in charge of how bothered I am by them. I am grateful to my own coaches for showing me the tools.
 
When all is said and done, they’re just words, and words can be rewritten.
         

​Sometimes I don’t know where my own writings will end up – it’s fun living in my head; you should try it!  I’m fairly certain that I’ve illustrated how breaking promises you make to yourself is counter-productive, even destructive, but I believe that I’ve also indicated that the mind is strong enough to overcome the negative self-talk. That second bit requires some training. Hypnotherapy can be used to help you figure out whose voice it is and to mend your relationship with that person. Imagine the freedom of not having to carry your limiting beliefs with you forever.

In an ironic twist, I am pushing back my article about how breaking expectations to ourselves can be crippling. No, that’s not what’s happening here. Something more time-sensitive has come to my attention, so I expect that you’ll cut me some slack when I push it back a week. But if you don’t…? That’s on me. :D
 
         ___________________________________________________

     This story was written in honour or Death Awareness Week, May 13-19, 2019.

 
Last summer we celebrated Gran’s one hundredth birthday by having a family reunion at her house in St. Bruno, Quebec. Four generations turned up, the teens even brought dates.

It was chaos.

See, my cousin Charlotte put herself in charge of the whole thing. She sent out invitations and… that was it. “Family Potluck in Bruno July 7 @ noon.” Sweet!

On the day I got the family packed up, threw towels, a lasagne, and the spinach artichoke dip in the back of the hatch, and headed out. After a quick stop for wine, we were headed for the Victoria bridge. The day was stunning, hardly a cloud in the sky. With temperatures forecast to reach the high 20s, I was looking forward to cooling off in the lake.

We got to our family property just after twelve, and there were already forty or more people running around. There were nine spinach and artichoke dips on the picnic table on the back deck. And seven lasagnes. I was beginning to detect a problem.

“Where’s Gran?” I asked Charlotte.

“I dunno. I figured someone would bring her out,” she replied, looking around.

I sent a blast text out to the family to see if my cousin was right. Nope, no one had thought to stop by the retirement home to collect the guest of honour. Fortunately, my brother Jim hadn’t left the city yet. It was going to be cramped in his car, but they’d manage. “Sure," I thought, “that’s exactly how she would have envisioned her last road trip, surrounded by misbehaving kids, the smell of decades-old tobacco smoke leeching from the upholstery into her polyester-wrapped butt.

Meanwhile, back at the homestead, more family members had begun arriving. And more lasagnes. A dozen Caesar salads and seven Crock Pots of meatballs had been added to the, what, mix? Is mix even appropriate in the context of four identical foodstuffs? Did I mention the spinach and artichoke dip? We had enough to spackle-texture every ceiling in the 3500 square foot house. Including the basement!

Crying. Now I hear crying. And not just the fake, Bobby pushed me into a puddle crying of a four year-old. This was wailing. I ran toward the source of the sound and found my third? fourth? maybe second even? cousin Amy, age eight, with blood gushing out of a gash in her forehead. It turned out that the kids, having found nothing better with which to amuse themselves, made a game of Who Can Throw the Rock the Highest? The good news is, Amy’s got a great little arm…
Inside we go to get her cleaned up. Gran was a nurse as is my sister Olivia. I enlisted the younger’s help and she corralled a still-screaming Amy deeper into the house in search of the first aid kit. I turned on my heel to see what other fires needed putting out and immediately stepped into a huge pile of dog s#!t. Perfect! “Who’s watching these animals?!” I screamed internally.

As I was disinfecting my sandal (and foot) in the garage sink, Jim was helping Gran out of his low-slung car. Twenty minutes and a lot of swearing later – I totally get my potty mouth from her! – my sweat-soaked Gran had landed. I went over to her for a hug, stronger than you would ever believe, and asked if her walker was in the back of the car. Jim’s eyes went wide. He left it on the curb outside Gran’s building.

“Chicklet,” my grandmother whispered, addressing me by the pet name she gave me the day I was born, “I’d really like to change out of these smoky clothes. I have a dress in the house.” A day and a half later, I’d gotten her up the seven steps and across the threshold into the living room. “I’ll just have a rest here. Can you look for the dress?” I left her in the chintz-covered chair I’d always known to be hers. I don’t remember anyone else ever sitting in it.

Dress in hand, I returned to the living room. The look on my grandmother’s face was one of disgust. “What the hell is that smell, and what is it doing in my house?” she asked. I sniffed, recognising it instantly. Patchouli. My face likely mirrored Gran’s. In that moment the twentysomething wife of one of my cousins breezed into the room, reeking of the stuff yet rummaging for her bag for another spritz. She pulled out the little brown bottle and, before Gran or I could stop her, had reapplied. She didn’t even pay her respects to the birthday girl before escaping back into the garden.

Dabbing her eyes, Gran said, “I want so badly to leave this room, but I need to sit a bit longer. Be a dear, Chiclet; open the door.” After a second, she added, “And get me a drink.” The only daytime cocktail I’d ever seen Gran drink was a Pimm’s and ginger beer. I went over to the liquor cabinet but couldn’t find any, so I ventured outside. I discovered the cache of wine that had accumulated, but no one thought to bring Pimm’s. Head hung low, I returned to Gran’s side, hoping that a white wine spritzer would do. “My birthday and no Pimm’s?” Her disgust was palpable. She put down the glass. “Maybe I’ll just close my eyes,” she said dismissively and with more than a hint of the passive aggressive.

Outside, things had scarcely gotten more relaxed. There were over twenty kids on the floating dock, diving off of both boards, and nary an adult in sight. Yep. I said nary. This was serious. I looked around for someone who could watch the kids… Julie patchouli! She was in her bathing suit and seemed to be quite sober. And if the essential oils were to wash off in the lake, so much the better. She reluctantly agreed. Me? I had bigger fish to fry…

When I had emerged from the house, I noticed that no one had started eating. I looked around the table on the deck and could find neither plate nor fork, neither knife nor napkin. I jumped into my car and sped off, narrowly missing a yapping spaniel. I made a quick stop at Provigo for disposable dinnerware and another at the SAQ for a bottle of Pimm’s No. 1.

I raced back to the house eager to speak to Charlotte, find out what other gaps there were in the party-planning. It was another three trips into town for me, the last to pick up the birthday cake we ordered two hours before. I sent it in with one of the cousins via the front door so Gran wouldn’t see it and handed the candles to another. “Gather everyone!” I yelled to the group as a whole, before making my way to the living room.

“Three hours.”

What’s that, Gran?”

“I’ve been sat here three hours, staring out this window, watching them all have a great day at the lake, and not one person came in to sit with me, to talk to me, to bring me food, or to wish me a happy birthday.” That rant was more words than Gran had said in a row since she’d been ninety, and it set off a spate of coughing. “Fv@king ingrates.”

“I thought you were going to close your eyes?” I reminded her.

She rolled her eyes so hard, I’m sure she saw brain. “I tried, but as soon as I closed my eyes, there was the most God-awful racket!” It seemed the only person who had any music with them was my fifteen year-old nephew with the nose ring.
​
“Happy birthday to you!” rang out from the masses. At least they’d gotten everyone together. The cake was pushed through to the living room on a rolling kitchen cart. Gran blew out the candles reading ‘100’ and the family cheered.

Getting a whiff of the chocolatey cake, she turned to me and asked, “You know I’m allergic to hazelnuts, right?”

OK, that story never happened but it is the story that many of us live through when our loved ones don’t plan ahead. There’s a lot of confusion, a lot of running around, a lot of people on the sidelines not helping at all because they don’t know what to do. Kids and animals will run amok unless entertained in some way. And, invariably, most of the work gets dumped into the lap of a single person. Sadly, the last person anyone is thinking about is the Guest of Honour. It was Gran’s last farewell, and she deserved better.
​
Please plan ahead, people.
 

          Planning for a peaceful rest of your life starts now. ​

​I have been really delinquent in getting started with this whole blogging thing. That could be because I am a woman of a certain age who doesn’t understand its value, but I think it’s more likely fear that’s been guiding my hand. Or, uh, not guiding it, as it were. I mean, what if I wrote my heart out, poured my soul onto the page, and no one read it? Talk about a kick in the old ego! So, I’ve decided to write for me, no expectations.
 
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
 
You can go to my Who? page http://www.violetlight.ca/who.html and learn about how I came to be an end-of-life coach, but I want to use this space to tell you who I am as a human being and how I’ve come to be her.
 
As many of us do, I wrestled with my inner demons for decades before deciding that I was stronger than them. I did the unthinkable and *gasp* went into counselling. One of the things my counsellor, Michelle, talked about was building a toolbox. Now, me, I tend to throw myself fully into every undertaking (inadvertent end-of-life pun!). Around that time I had begun to discover that real wisdom could be found on Facebook, y’know, between all of the cat videos and backbiting. I started to collect quotes and memes and, weekly, I would print the most poignant among them off on nice, thick paper, something that was gonna last and make a big impression on my subconscious. I made an actual toolbox. OK, I took the cellophane off a Ferrero Rocher eight-pack (the reason I don't have a six-pack!), replaced it with some of my favourite pics and quotes, and started filling up the box with wisdom from the interwebs. I’ll be honest, it felt great! Liberating and empowering (trite, I know, but it’s the only word that fits), it was the beginning of a six year – so far – journey.
 
I also read ebooks and foldy books, and I often use my commute time to listen to audiobooks. This week it was Robin Sharma’s Extraordinary Leadership which is free through Audible. Just because something is free doesn’t mean it doesn’t have value! Robin speaks of his father’s mandate that he read for at least thirty minutes a day every day, because, “One idea in one book (or blog!) may just change your life forever.”
 
I have an epiphanic (huh, I didn’t know that was legitimately a word 😊) moment pretty much weekly, and the trajectory of my thinking changes. It’s exciting and challenging and provides an incredible opportunity for growth.
 
This week my epiphany was this: In the absence of an expressed (social, professional…) contract, the only person responsible when someone doesn’t meet expectations is the person holding those expectations.

The only person responsible when someone doesn’t meet expectations is the person holding those expectations. 
 
As the crux of this week's blog, I figured it was worth repeating. 

A million years ago I was working out of a busy chiropractic clinic. I was under contract which is fancy talk for, “You don’t have a client, you don’t get paid.” But I also knew that the more smoothly the clinic ran, the more likely patients would be to have a good experience and, subsequently, send more patients our way. During the day, when I wasn’t with a client, I would do laundry, pull files, whatever it took to ease the burden. If you think I’m looking for praise, I’m not. The opposite is true, really; I Was Pissed. How was it that I was the only one pitching in?  But my anger toward the others was misguided, and, if I’m honest, didn’t do anything but hurt me. In hindsight I can see that the others had been doing the chicken with their heads cut off thing for the better part of three and a half/four hours. They needed to take that time to sit and chill, grab a glass of water, go for a pee.
 
Another example, one from even deeper in my past, illustrates one final point. My mum, God love her, had a favourite question which was, “Do you like to watch me struggle?!” The response had to be immediate action on my and my brothers’ part, often taking paper grocery bags from her arms. Her frustration stemmed from her unmet expectation of what we would do. How much simpler would it have been for all involved if she had just engaged us in a contract? “Could you guys give me a hand?” would have spared everyone.

 
Takeaways:

1. Ask for what you want/need.
2. Unexpressed expectations exist only in your head.
3. Don’t hold other people to account when your unexpressed expectations aren’t met.
4. Look at things from the other’s perspective.

 

Something to mull over: If someone consistently falls short of your expectations:

1. Lower your expectations.
2. Walk away, if lowering your expectations means settling for less than you deserve.

 

And, finally, you do the greatest harm to yourself when you don’t meet your own expectations. Come by next week and we’ll dig deeper into that.
 

                   __________________________________________
 

All coaching is relationship coaching, even when we are talking about end-of-life. Or maybe especially. Did you know that it’s possible to rewrite your past and repair relationships, past and present, by re-examining your unmet expectations and looking at things from others’ perspectives? My goal as an end-of-life coach is to help people live out the rest of their days with as much peace as they can. It’s never too early to start. Imagine how much peace it would bring to release the weight of others’ expectations and to get a handle on how to best manage your own.  403-616-6108 will get you a free phone consultation.
 
Yours on the journey,
Christie

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​Twenty or so years ago I did something I never imagined for myself; I got a job managing a cinnamon roll shop. I’m not going to mention any names, but it is ubiquitous across North America. Oh, and its logo used to be pink, blue, and white. Of course that was a million years ago. I can’t even find that look on the Google. Not the point. What I remember most about the company was its overarching marketing strategy: Sampling. The smell of cinnamon that permeates the entire mall is a great start – it sets off the notion that they are hungry for the product – but putting a plate of food under the noses of these potential consumers, that’s marketing at its finest.
 
(The only problem that I had with it was the amount of frosting they would require us to put on top of the small sample portion, an amount equal to the size of the cinnamon roll sample itself. It was an effort to upsell you to adding additional frosting cups to your order, but, to my mind, it created an inferior product. “Would you like a coffee to go with that toothache?” But I digress.)
 
In the time since I began my end-of-life coaching business, I have gotten myself onto at least a dozen email lists as a result of watching webinars or downloading other tools to help me serve my clients better. I remember settling in for a weekend online Coaching Bootcamp – there must’ve been ten or twelve speakers – and worrying to a friend that they’d all be trying to sell to me. You know what she said? “Everybody’s selling something.”
 
Wow.
 
Such a simple statement of truth, how had I not understood that before? Just because someone is waving something under your nose doesn’t mean that it’s not worth having. While I know I could do without the thousand calorie cinnamon bun, I will admit that I go into these webinars with a new attitude and I don’t unsubscribe from their mailing lists. Maybe the bit of knowledge they’re offering is exactly what I need to serve my clients and their families. Or someday it will be. I’ve certainly bought some of their programs and I will keep working on myself and my skills so I can better serve.
 
So, if you like one of my posts, I will invite you to like my page. I will invite you to accept my offer to sample my Pre-Death Planning Checklist. I’ll send an email out maybe once or twice a month to remind you that I’m here. You may not need any of my services now, but maybe someday you or someone you know (or the friend of a friend or family member or, well, you get the drift) will be looking for end-of-life coaching services, and you’ll be in a position to find them, to find me, and get the support that that person needs.
 
Until then, I remain yours on the journey,
 
Christie
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​Truth Time: I'm considered pretty odd by some people -- mostly by the members of my own family -- and not just for my death-positive attitude. I wear mismatched socks, go barefoot on the golf course, and have a lanyard of Froot Loops hanging from my car's rear view mirror as the consummate reminder to be a Froot Loop in a world of Cheerios. (Aside: Microsoft Word recognises Cheerios but not Froot. Huh.)
 
What, then, you might ask, have I chosen as my funeral songs? Firstly, let me say that I do not want a staid and somber funeral, but I would like a small service at Hillhurst United Church. "Whoever you are, wherever you're at, join us on the journey." I want them to send me off from this here journey, the first song being Always Look on the Bright Side of Life from Monty Python's Spamalot. I want clapping and singing and general merriment. That song has become my anthem -- one of them, anyway -- and I want to leave it as my legacy.
 
Since I was in grade eleven, I think, I have wanted The Alan Parsons Project's Old and Wise as a funeral song, my way of saying goodbye and letting my people know how much they meant to and impacted me. Check this out, if you’re unfamiliar with the song: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-4HI1_LTWIk I would love to do exactly that, a photo montage of my life. Then, once everyone is all good and sobbing, I want to switch to Terry Jacks’ Seasons in the Sun and I want people to dance and to sing as loudly as they are able.
 
There are a couple more I've chosen. The first is my alma mater's School Hymn, God Be in My Head. It has stuck with me all these years. Short and sweet, here are the lyrics: "God be in my head and in my understanding. God be in mine eyes and in my looking. God be in my mouth and in my speaking. God be in my heart and in my thinking. God be at mine end and at my departing." Now, in spite of the fact that I go to church, I'm not especially religious, but that's gold right there! And the last (as of my writing) is Paul Rumboldt's, How Well Did You Live?, the last line of which is, "How well did you live, how well did you love, and learn to let go?" So, yeah, those are my reminders to look for the joys in life, keep love in your heart, and live the Golden Rule.
 
Let's be frank; once you're dead there's really not much time left to express yourself. Most of us have never even heard of, let alone prepared, an ethical will, so our choice of funeral music can serve as a last glimpse into who you are, what you’ve learned in your life, and, ultimately, what’s important to you.
 
Have you thought about your own funeral songs? What would you like them to be?




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OK, nothing like jumping in with both feet!

First of all I would like to point out that assistance in dying is preferred over the word suicide, the latter of which is unfairly fraught with stigma. There is a similarity aside from the obvious; neither is entered into lightly.  And a significant difference: medical assistance in dying might actually be taking the easy way out. Huh.

MAID has certainly become a hot-button topic in Canada and throughout the world of late and understandably so. It also seems to me that very few of us are on the fence, but feel free correct me if I'm wrong. Advocates don't think we're going far enough, that the exclusions laid down by the Canadian Senate are unfair and almost arbitrary. We've all heard it said that we treat our pets more humanely. 

Opponents of the practice think that any measure that serves to hasten a person's death is one too many. The religious arguments abound, so I really don't think I need to spell them out here. I will ask a question, however. Canadians' life expectancy rose almost 44% between the years 1921 and 2011, from 57 to 82. One could say that God made us smart enough to succeed in our pursuit of medicine. Good for us! My question is simply this: Is it not possible that He also gave us enough smarts to find a way to let our loved ones die? And the compassion to choose to do so?

I wasn't sure if I was going to proclaim which side of the fence I'm on, but I guess that ship has long sailed. I am not advocating physician-assisted dying -- that is as personal a decision as they come -- but I am not afraid of it either. And all I really do know is that if a person has decided that he or she can no longer bear a debilitating disease or ailment and has decided that death is the only thing that will offer relief, a means to that end can be found. I just prefer to leave it to a professional to ensure that it goes smoothly, that the individual dies peacefully without fear that the attempt will fail. 

As with any controversial personal decision, if you don't believe in it -- abortion, same-sex marriage, medical assistance in dying -- then don't do it. 

I, for one, am available to support the people who do just as I would any other client. They are no less deserving of my services. In fact, they may just need me more.

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​That's a little stark, isn't it? Where's the soft language we're supposed to couch that information in? Euphemisms and whatnot? The new western world is far too scared of death to actually call it by name! 

But here's what's wrong with that: If we can't say it, we give it all the power, leaving us without. Now, I don't know about you, but when my time comes, when I am facing death, I'll want to hold onto as much control as I can. And I won't want to feel isolated in my dying because the people around me haven't developed the language to talk to me about it. 

Now, some of you might think me a hypocrite for calling myself an end-of-life rather than death coach, but please allow me to explain. End-of-life is a time of preparation. It can involve funeral decisions, living wills, last will and testaments, advanced directives, among other things. All of these can -- and should -- be taken care of well before any dramatic health changes, but, sadly, that is not always the case. Rather than burdening the family with them when it's too late, an end-of-life coach will step in. The family's presence is needed at the bedside. 

Another component of end-of-life is the dying process itself. At that point the coach will help bring peace to the individual and family by facilitating communication and engaging in ceremony or ritual tailored to the family's own background. I can also offer support in the form of gentle massage, a soothing touch for the dying person, strokes which I can also teach the family. I will also be on hand to give caregivers a well-deserved break.

Right, so that's end-of-life. Death, on the other hand, is -- to my mind -- the transition of an individual's spirit out of their body. Part of the end-of-life process to be sure, but not all of it. And not necessarily the last either. With a natural death there is no law requiring the body to be whisked immediately away. Some families will choose to sit vigil until everyone has found their peace. You may choose a home funeral. Your end-of-life coach will be right there.

Don't waste those last precious moments with your loved one.