The (not so) Small Miracle of Jenn. A Life Well Lived.

                    “I have never had a day that didn’t sparkle in some way.” Jennifer Dawn Shearer (1974-2023)

Forty-nine years ago, I worked as a teenager among the troubled youth in Ontario housing. I received a call one day that changed my life. It made me grin and dance and tell anyone who would listen. “I have a niece!” My sister had given birth to a baby girl, and I was delighted.

Today, I had to say good-bye to her.

For most of her life, we lived far apart, so my memories are in snapshots of brief times spent together, and letters, emails and Facebook posts. We found a way. Many ways.

Snapshot #1 Jenn is about six, and I am visiting her with a significantly pregnant belly. She looks at me with skepticism and says, “Do you really have a baby in there?” Her look said “Yeah, I know about the tooth fairy and the Easter bunny, so don’t try to fool me.” When my next child came along a few years later, she was wise in the ways of the world and asked no questions.

Snapshot #2 Jenn as a young teen came to visit and went to the corner store for a candy bar. She came home and threw it out after one bite, saying everything from that store tasted like Rug Doctor. The store had an unusual smell and they did rent carpet cleaners, but Rug Doctor? I wanted to ask her if she’d ever tasted Rug Doctor, but decided to keep my own council on that one.

Snapshot #3 Jenn looking gorgeous at her wedding, which occurred during a horrific time of  flooding in Manitoba. I watched her picking her way through the grounds of the church, trying to find a place for pictures without getting her dress soaked or muddied.

Snapshot #4 When I came to visit, Jenn and I binge watched a medical show. Before the days of streaming, we devoured them in the evenings together, commenting on and critiquing the plot. I was leaving that afternoon so we tried to squeeze in one more episode. Her two little girls were playing on the other side of a sofa, not able to see the TV. Suddenly, a little head poked up and said, “That’s in-appwo-pwiate!” Jenn and I gave each other guilty looks, hung our heads, shut off the TV and skulked to the kitchen. Silence hung between us for a minute until we met each other’s eye. Then we exploded into gales of laughter, holding each other and gasping for breath.

Snapshot #5 Disney. We went twice, once with kids and one adult “girls only” trip, so there are many memories, but this is a favourite. We stood in a long lineup, trying to pass the time until we got to the front. I said to her, “Make your Dick Van Dyke face.” This requires some explanation. Dick Van Dyke has an elastic face that he could stretch to unbelievable proportions. In one skit, he was hypnotized to cry whenever the phone rang. When he cried, he looked like the sad drama mask, with every muscle pulled down. Jenn could mimic him perfectly. She made the face and I took a picture. That year for Christmas I received a framed copy of that picture. It sits in my chifforobe, where I look at it every morning and remember the moment. I’m not posting the picture because Jenn might have been horrified. Or she might have laughed. Either way, sorry, the picture is for me.

Snapshot #6 Marathons. So many marathons. Jenn discovered running as an adult and it helped her deal with her body image issues. She brought incredible discipline to the game, and would rise before dawn and run during Manitoba winters so she could be home when her kids woke up. Her eyebrows and other extremities froze, but still, she trained. Each marathon had a purpose. A goal. The one nearest to my heart was when she ran in memory of my late husband.
She had a t-shirt printed with a picture of his hand, with his baby granddaughter’s hand on top of it, and the words FOR BILL across the bottom. She gave me the medal she received.

Snapshot #7 Writing. Jenn thought and felt deeply, and she wrote. We shared that. Dear to her heart was her children’s book called “A Different Duck” about Gertrude and Bertha, two animal friends on the farm where she lived.

Snapshot #8 Family. Oh, how she loved them! She knew her kids were gifts from God, and she loved them ferociously. She and her husband, David, shared a special, unconditional love which rode the waves of the difficult days of her disease. As the ripples of her connections widened, the love only grew stronger. She and her mom were best friends, and she and her brother poked fun, teased and cared deeply all at once. Somewhere on one of the outer rings, sat I, her aunt. But I felt as close and loved and special as all the others. That was Jenn.

Snapshot #9 School. When her youngest was in high school and her older children were finding their way in life, Jenn decided to go back to school to get her ECE II (Early Childhood Education.) She already worked in a daycare and loved it, but further education would give her more options. She started to have some disturbing symptoms at that time, and she graduated sitting in a wheelchair, but graduate she did. In fact, in a courageous move, she stood to receive her certificate. They called her a warrior and gave her a special award.

Snapshot #10 The disease. Because she was young and who knows why else, it took a long time to get a diagnosis. They called it Parkinson’s disease? The question mark is deliberate. It had all the markers of Parkinson’s except it progressed disturbingly quickly. Last year, they changed the diagnosis to Multiple Systems Atrophy, a rare and debilitating neurodegenerative disease. It took her ability to run, then walk, then speak and many more functions. But it couldn’t take Jenn.

In June, I had the opportunity to visit, the first time post-Covid. Despite her twisted body, she looked beautiful, her blonde hair streaming down her shoulders. She saw me and smiled, an action almost impossible for her at that point. We hugged and connected. She was Jenn and we were together. Love bounced all over the place.

Over a year ago, I got the idea to write emails to her. I’m not sure why it took me so long to think of it, but just because she couldn’t communicate with me didn’t mean I couldn’t talk to her. I heard she liked them, and this thin line between us became a lifeline for me. I told her everything. Others may hear about it eventually, but Jenn knew first.

And now as I sit with my thoughts and my memories and my grief, I realize how much I am going to miss those emails.

So, Jenn, here is one last email.

             Dear Jenn, If I had five minutes to tell you something, this would be it.

            You taught me so much. New levels of creativity, acceptance and unconditional love like Jesus loved. How to give gifts that  meant something and cost nothing. Deep caring. And laughter. So much laughter. You taught me to be brave and to care about the things that really matter.

         I never understood the running thing. It’s not in my DNA. But I saw the gifts it gave you, and how you used it to touch lives and serve others. So I loved it, too, and stood at the finish line cheering with the rest.

        So, thank you. My niece, my friend.

        I am standing at the finish line, cheering. Run home, my Jenn. Run to Jesus.

        Run free. 

       ❤️

       Ann

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