Superheroes

In the classic superhero story, someone noted for their distinguished courage and strength is dedicated to protecting people. Known and admired for having extraordinary powers and for doing brave deeds, the courageous superhero is noble and invincible.

I’ve met my share of superheroes. But my superheroes were not invincible, nor were they the world’s strongest and most powerful people. In fact, they couldn’t even fly. Instead, they came to my rescue with sincerity and compassion. Authentic and genuine (heart and soul) help.  

Faced with a terrible tragedy at 13 years old, I intuitively knew I had to find a way to be strong and brave. Heroic. To carry on with life. To look after myself, my father, my grandparents and our cat, Tiger.

Remember, I was young, but I still chose LIFE.

Having made that choice, I discovered my stubborn will to fight for my life, for happiness, for the strength to move beyond the pain.

Determination can be incredibly powerful.

It was not easy. There were many times when the fear and anxiety would take over, smothering and choking me, and I was tempted to give up the fight. Leave the race. Succumb to losing the battle.

That’s when I learned the true definition of a hero.

For me, there was a difference between having to be heroic, and recognizing the heroes in my life. I had to be brave, to find that inner strength to keep on going, but the people who were there for me – they were the true heroes. They were my superheroes.

It’s not the things they did that I remember, it’s how they made me feel – supported, cared about, loved, appreciated, valued – that’s how my heroes protected me. They held me up in those times of darkness, with kindness, support, comfort and unspoken understanding.

Julie was one of my honest-to-goodness heroes.

Back when my mother was pregnant with Wendy, my parents decided that we should have a live-in babysitter so that my mom could go back to work. Julie had answered the ad in the local newspaper, having just arrived in Montreal from St. Lucia.

When Wendy was born, Julie carried her around as if she was her mother. She fed her, burped her, kissed her, hugged her, rocked her. When Wendy was old enough to sit by herself, she let us bring her in the bath with us. When Wendy started to talk, she couldn’t say “Julie” so she called her “Deedee” over and over again.

My mother and Julie were almost the same age and they got along well from the moment they met. My mother adored Julie, and always said that she completely trusted her, and how lucky we were to have her living in our house.

From the moment that Julie moved into our house, she made herself comfortable in the kitchen, preparing and cooking traditional West Indian food. Her stew and “dumplins” were an instant hit and became a regular part of our family’s dinner menu. She also boiled disgustingly smelly fish and, although the odour lingered in the house for days, my parents never said a word to her about it, and never asked her to stop. My sisters and I on the other hand, made a huge deal about it, dramatically holding our noses, moaning about the strong smell and covering our mouths with masks made out of dish towels. Since our complaints were ignored, we gave up on our mission to ban boiled fish. It was a small price to pay for the love Julie so readily doled out.  

Julie was part of our family. If you needed a hug, she wrapped you so tightly in her arms you could barely breathe. She ate with us, did homework with us, got angry if we didn’t listen to her, laughed with us, hugged us, loved us. And we loved her. She didn’t have a bone of nonsense about her. If she didn’t like something or someone, she said what was on her mind. No fuss. No politics. She was just a down to earth, bold and sincere human being.

Julie stayed with us for almost six years and, when Wendy went to school full days, Julie moved out. She found a job in a retail store and lived with a few friends in an apartment, but she missed living with us, and we missed her. She still came to Friday night dinners at my grandparents’ house, and didn’t miss any holiday, birthday or other special occasion. She called us on the phone and dropped by during the week for supper. We went to see her at her apartment, and stopped by the store where she was working. Julie promised Wendy that when she had children, she would move in and help her with her kids. That always made Wendy smile.

A few months after the plane crash, Julie moved back in with us. Thank God. My dad and I couldn’t get to her apartment fast enough to fill his station wagon with her clothes and whatever other items she could fit in the car. I told her that she could boil her smelly fish every single day, I wouldn’t care. I was just relieved to have her back with us. I was hungry for some of that good, old fashioned St. Lucia love that Julie was blessed with giving.

Julie and I have kept in close contact through the years. She will be speaking at the Repairing Rainbows book launch on June 15^th.

There are some people on earth who are true heroes. They come into your life when you need their help, in those times of darkness, carrying you when you need to be held, guiding, comforting, understanding, teaching.

I will never forget the people who threw me a life jacket when I was exhausted from treading water and felt as if I were drowning.

It doesn’t take much to be a hero. Sometimes the smallest thing can have a huge, positive impact on someone who is struggling.