Losing a child would be enough to devastate any parent to the point of no return.
That almost happened to Liz Eshkibok.
In 2012, her son, Waaweyeseh Bell, died on his sixth birthday. He drowned while celebrating at a beach in Wikwemikong First Nation on the Manitoulin Island.
“He was really a joyful, funny and inquisitive boy,” Eshkibok said. “He could always make me laugh. No matter how busy I was, he could always make me stop and enjoy the present, and I think that was one of his greatest qualities.”
Waaweyeseh was a regular at powwows across Canada and in the United States, she said. He loved to dance, and even now, people they see at those powwows remember him and speak fondly of him.
“He touched a lot of lives while he was here,” she said.
Eshkibok hasn't always been able to speak so easily of her first born. After his death, she spent the next year in a haze.
“(His birthday) was supposed to be a happy, joyous occasion that turned out to be just horrible,” she said. “We couldn't find him in the water, and when we did, we weren't able to revive him. When the ambulance came, they took him away, but the police wouldn't let me leave until I answered some questions.”
Doctors worked on trying to revive Waaweyeseh for two or three hours, she said.
She refused to take the prescribed anti-depressants because she said she wanted to experience the grief as fully as she could in order to learn to deal with it on her own. She turned to her Aboriginal roots to help her grieve, but it wasn't enough. The pain of Waaweyeseh's memories were so great, that she only found solace in alcohol.
“I tried to numb the pain with alcohol,” she said. “Everything hurt, and I no longer wanted to feel that pain, to have those memories.”
Living in Brantford at that time, the waiting list to receive the help and services she needed was a year long. But, she was struggling with life every minute of every day.
She split up with her boyfriend and moved back to her home community. Her drinking was a problem with her traditional family, and she found herself homeless at one point, then living in a shelter.
She then found out she was pregnant.
“I thought, 'I can barely take care of myself, but there's another little one coming,” she said. “The drinking stopped, and I told myself it was time to reach out for help.”
She found that help in a counsellor who had worked with her in the past.
“It was a huge relief, like a candle in the darkness,” she said. “I was finally going to be able to talk to someone about what I was feeling. And, as simple as it sounds, she taught me how to breathe again, how to handle daily life again, and how to pick up the pieces, make sense of them and move forward.”
She reconciled with her boyfriend, and they moved to Sudbury. She wanted to be close enough to Waaweyeseh's gravesite that she could get there within a few hours.
Shortly afterwards, her second son, Piitoweh-Aanakwat, was born.
“He taught me how to love again, and how to be a mother again,” she said. “When Waaweyeseh passed, being a mother was a huge part of my identity. When he was gone, it left me wondering who I was. Was I still a mom? It was like an identity crisis.”
About a year later, Eshkibok made another life-changing decision. She went back to school.
“I had a diploma from Cambrian College's early childhood education program, and I've worked in classrooms, but I didn't want to be limited to just that job,” she said.
“I enrolled in Laurentian University's Indigenous Social Work program. I just really felt I could relate to the course content. I got accepted, received funding from my band, and started that part of my life.”
The years just started to fly by, she said, and she kept putting one foot in front of the other. It wasn't easy. The course was very demanding. Her main motivation for when times got tough? Waaweyesh.
“When I went back to school in North Bay, he was so excited that we'd be going to school at the same time, and the moment I told him that will forever be etched in my mind. Whenever I wanted to quit, or thought the course was too hard, I just thought of his smiling face and how proud he was that morning.”
Then, in her third year, she found out she was pregnant with her third child. It meant she either had to put her education on hold or find a way to have a newborn and still go to classes.
Fortunately, she found strength and support in her professors and classmates. They encouraged her to bring her new baby girl to class with her every day. And she did.
Shki-Aandseh, who is now eight months old, became a part of everyday life for the students in her program.
“Every day, I packed up my son, brought him to daycare, and packed up my diaper bag, stroller and text books and off we would go,” she said. “We were always late, but at least we were there. Shki-Aandseh was just such a part of our class. My professors all know her and have held her and helped calm her down.
“It was really hard, and I was really exhausted, because she wasn't sleeping through the night. Then I'd have to come home and take care of them, and when they went to bed at 8, I was writing papers or doing research until midnight or 1 a.m.”
Her hard work and determination has paid off. She just received her final grades — all A's — as well as confirmation that she will be graduating June 2. Her father-in-law, Karl Keeshig, even had a graduation gown made for Shki-Aandseh, and she will go up on stage with her mom to get her well-earned degree.
After graduation, she'll be leaving to pursue her master's degree in Aboriginal social work at Wilfred Laurier University in September. In order to do so, she'll be moving, and it's “bitter sweet.”
“It's exciting that we're starting this new chapter, but I'm really sad to leave Sudbury.”
And, while she will always mourn her first born, she said she believes it's that journey that made her tough enough to make it through university with two young children.
She said she hopes other moms who are going through the same thing might find some inspiration in her story, and to let them know it does get better.
