You wouldn’t think they would play “You are my sunshine” at a country concert. Or that it would hit me like that.

There were 3 songs that I sang him. What came into my head quite without thinking. We played For the Beauty of the Earth at his funeral. I heard Hush about a year after he was born, randomly at a concert.  I haven’t heard You are my Sunshine since that night. I haven’t sung it to babies; I sing all sorts of other songs and never that one.

I excused myself immediately, fled into the bathroom and stood there. Gasping. I’d say I wept, and I suppose I cried, but mostly the moment of being right back there, in that room, in those moments, saying hello and goodbye, and it took my breath away.

I have a photo of us in my office. I am singing to him. For years I didn’t like looking at it.  It’s not the pastoral mother singing her baby a lullaby. There is blood, I’m not looking at the camera. IV tubing.I look and indeed am, deathly ill.

And my son is gasping for breath and dying.

All I had to offer is a lullaby. So it’s what I gave him.

I’m sure the song was great. The concert reviews both said it was. My friend seemed to enjoy it.

I wouldn’t know. I was buried in memory. 10 years later it still takes me. 20 years hence it will still be so. He was my sunshine.

Posted in Gabriel | Leave a comment

It was the Fill Valve

My toilet is running.

It’s been running for almost 2 months. I have considered buying a new toilet because I have installed a new toilet. I know how to do that. It is astonishingly easy.

In my head, fixing my toilet was a great feminist feat. Nellie McClung, Indira Ghandi, Rosie the Riveter and me, fixing her toilet with some parts from Home Depot. Fixing the toilet was proof positive that I would be ok on my own. Look at me, remembering to lock the doors, not running out of toilet paper and fixing the toilet.

Except I am not mechanically minded. There are diagrams and I can’t explain it, but I swear that the parts freaking move on the page. All of that plastic fitting together and I just know, in my gut. What I am going to hear is cursing and breaking plastic and running water (some of which will be me crying). I watched the video’s on youtube (I listened to you Aunt Peanuts) and they were talking English, but my brain couldn’t compute.

I went to Home Depot on Wednesday night. The guy pulled something off the shelf, but I’m sorry, he said the word nipple. The 14-year-old boy in me went running past and the adult in me had to go and chase the 14-year-old boy and there just wasn’t anyone left to listen to the guy’s explanation.

Today a friend told me about her handyman. He’s named Ken, he’s a grandfatherly sort of fellow. He reminds me of my Uncle David. I called Ken this morning and he popped by. Petted the dog, laughed at the kitten, took the top off my toilet, told me it was my fill valve. They get old. He’d replaced one that morning, or he would have had one in the truck and could have done it then.

As it is, he’ll be by on Monday morning with a new fill valve and some nibblers to cut a tile to replace a broken one. The whole thing will cost me about $60. I’ll put the tile in while I listen to a webinar for school (you have no idea how easy laying tile is) and then it will be all done.

I’ll give him the $60 and make him some brownies because I’m so grateful. That I can afford the money to fix it, that he can fix it quickly, but also that I learned something. There’s more than one way. Sometimes it really is ok to say that you can fix a problem by finding the trusted professional who knows how to do the job for a price you can afford. The toilet gets fixed either way.

The fate of feminism and my ability to survive on my own don’t rest in my ability to fix my own plumbing.

Posted in Divorce, Feminism | 1 Comment

Narrower Doorways

Ms. Fab came last week while I did my new MS drug infusions. I didn’t ask, she just volunteered. For a week she drove me back and forth, fed me, made me coffee. She told me, in thought, word and deed that it would be ok. That I was loved. That I was not alone. I could not have managed without her.

I think about dying alone. When my son died. When my mother died. When I chose to not have children. And when I left Owen. I am frightened of dying alone. Given my MS, given my temperament, given all the things about me, people might have wondered if I should have just left things as they were. Stayed married. We were not unhappy – not completely. Things were stable. I would not have died alone.

In truth, I don’t know if I will find someone again. Some days it seems like I will, and sometimes I remain fully convinced that I will die alone. I will have no children, no parents, no family and no lover. I will die in a hospital bed, on the floor of my bathroom, elderly, forgotten. Alone. As sure as my personality, as my drive, is the curse of being alone. Sometimes it seems as if I have been alone, unseen, since the day I was born and my parents forgot about me.

I am, in the language of marketers, a niche. Driven, determined, focused. I know what I want, what I offer and what I am worth. Even in my most frightened moments, I tell myself I would rather die alone than be lonely with someone. I tell myself this. Hold it up, console myself. I tell myself everyone dies alone. It’s a narrow doorway.

I learned something last week, with Ms. Fab, with texts from my friends, with all of you. I will not die alone.  All last week I was not alone. Ms. Fab was with me. My friends texted and emailed and checked in. Owen made sure the insurance was settled. The absence of a romantic partner was not felt.

Oh, I will go through the door alone. Just like you will. But before? The life I live up until I cross the threshold? That won’t be alone.


Posted in Divorce, Feats of Wonder | Leave a comment

Take Command

Some years ago I was at a client social event with some software vendors. As so often happened, there were 14 men sitting around drinking, and me. The only woman. The men were talking about their wives. A surprising amount were stay at home mum’s. We mustn’t forget Mr. California’s Malibu barbie wife – doesn’t cook, doesn’t clean, doesn’t work. To be sure it’s no small thing to run a house and keep up with kids when your partner is on the road 40 weeks a year.

And there was me. Still dancing backward in my high heels, kicking ass and taking names. The youngest principal, well respected in her field. I am nobody’s little woman. I stayed quiet. Nothing really to say. The conversation was mercifully short, but it took a surprising turn at the end.

One of the men, a Texan, an internationally respected mountaineer, one of the kindest and smartest men I’ve ever called a friend – he held up his glass of beer.

In his drawl . . . “Now, I’m from Texas and we like our women a little different. We want the ones that dig their heels in, the ones that keep their heads when it all goes sideways. The ones that load the kids and the horses up when trouble comes, that circle the wagons and grab a gun.”

And he leaned over and he looked at me and said “Honey, I know you are from Alberta, but in your heart, you are a Texas gal. Strong and tough. Don’t ever change that.” 

It’s a story worth telling on International Women’s day. We come in all shapes and sizes, all forms and functions. And the world needs all of us.

Here’s to the women.

Posted in Feminism | 1 Comment

And So I Lied

She wasn’t prying. I’m in a medical situation, getting a drug, and she had to ask about my past medical history. Pre-eclampsia, with long-term minor kidney damage and very mild hypertension, the fact they gave me a ton of blood, my platelets crashed, that matters when you are getting a monoclonal therapy.

She’s 21 weeks pregnant.

We went through the history. She asked if my baby is ok now.

I lied.

I told her that he was fine and staying with his dad this week.

There is no need for general confession. It was a lie, I know that. I suppose it was a sin, but it was a kindness too.

All the same, I lied about someone I loved. For all the right reasons.

Forgive me.

Posted in Baby Loss, Grief | 4 Comments

Our Penitence and Our Mortality

I went to Ash Wednesday mass last week. I still don’t know what I feel about the good Lord. I don’t believe what I did. I still like going – I’ve been going to this service for most of my life. It’s quiet, grounding. It reminds me to self-reflect, to be humble and to be contrite. Among other things, this is the point of lent – to focus us on brokenness – within ourselves, within our communities, within the world. Possibly creation groans all the time, but the liturgy asks us to stop and abide with that groaning for 40 days. We are asked to be still and watch and listen. We will be broken anew even as we are made whole in other ways.

The sermon this year was particularly interesting. Instead of focusing on the falling short, the Rector focused on why we help and why we don’t let others help. I’m pretty good at knowing why I help others and I call myself out when my motives are not fantastic.

Letting others help me.


oh. umm.

I’m maybe not good at this.

I’m typing this from a new infusion clinic. Over the next 5 days they will pump $65,000 worth of drugs into me. I feel. . .

Look, I’ll just be blunt. I feel like absolute shit. My head is pounding, every single muscle in my body hurts. There are no words to describe how awful my mouth tastes. I’m running a nasty fever. I’m moving like a 90-year-old.  I’d say I have to barf, but I’m not sure I could muster the energy.

Ms. Fab flew out yesterday to take care of me. I confess, I thought the clinic was fussing at me. I’m pretty independent. My biggest worry was going to be keeping myself busy. I had my textbooks for next semester, a crochet project, some work stuff. I thought I’d manage pretty well.

I’m not going to be independent this week. I’m barely going to make it through. I’m going to need every spare ounce of help.

I felt uncomfortable during the sermon. The rector said it’s can be sinful to reject offers of help because we are rejecting love. We are hindering others from loving us. We are so caught up in our strength and virtue we don’t think we need help. The danger in that is that we become immune to needs, we become arrogant in our independence.

Apparently, this won’t be an issue for me this week.

Posted in Living Deliberately, MS Gets on Your Nerves | 3 Comments

Zen Like

On January 6th I emailed my Neurologist to confirm I wanted to switch my MS Drugs. This morning I got the notification that while the insurance paperwork wasn’t complete, the drug company was covering my drugs anyway.

55 days.

I had a 2-week window that I could do 5 days worth of infusions required. There was no way I could stop work and school, but I could stop work. Ms. Fab arranged to work from my house so that she could take care of me (the side effects can be awful). I started the process 60 days in advance.

For 55 days I have been nagging some combination of a neurologist, an MS nurse, an insurance company and a drug company.  Forms upon forms upon forms. Blood work. An EKG. A TB test. At least a phone call or an email a day. It was 21 days from the time I sent the Neuro the forms until his office sent them to the MS Nurse. Another week of phoning the MS nurse every day. The neurologist sent the insurance forms late and then to the wrong number. My neurologist failed to actually explain why the switch was required – apparently, he felt that “pt needs new drugs” was sufficient justification for $65,000 worth of drugs. Oddly my insurance company disagreed. They asked for more justification (or any justification). It took another week for him to write a 2 sentence letter.

There was the day that I called the MS nurse and my broker. My MS nurse to figure out if I could pay for the drugs on my own and my broker to find out if I had enough money in my RSPs to do it. The MS nurse (who works for the pharmacy and the infusion clinic) was very clear that they would not even tentatively confirm a bed for me to get my infusions until they were very sure that they would be paid for the drugs.

I called the drug company to ask for compassionate coverage. I called the College of Physicians and Surgeons to ask them to help me get my neurologist complete forms more completely, more quickly and send them to the right place the first time.

I’ve lost track of the hours I’ve spent. I have been the single point of contact. The MS nurse (who was supposed to do this) has failed to return phone calls, is rude and unhelpful and has come astonishingly close to lying.

I’ve cried. I’ve cried in a Starbucks, sitting on a train, as yet another medical professional failed to do their job. I’ve found myself unable to breathe – terrified at the thought of what happened if I couldn’t get the infusions when Ms. Fab was here to take care of me. I could afford the cab rides back and forth, but I couldn’t think of anyone who would come and take care of me. If I couldn’t get the infusions during the break, if I had to wait until my next school break, what happens if I had a relapse because I wasn’t on meds?

Our healthcare system is great in Canada, some of the professionals within it are less than patient focused. I wonder, what happens when you can’t speak for yourself? What happens if you don’t have a voice and a job that allows you to spend an hour or two a day making phone calls and following up?

Perhaps more than anything I’m left with a sick feeling. The neuro will never know or care about the panic and stress he caused. The MS nurse will carry on not returning phone calls or explaining the process. I’m the only one who will hold any accountability and that doesn’t help the next patient they fail.

Posted in MS Gets on Your Nerves | 4 Comments

Upon Leaving

This morning I left the house for work. It was moderately cold out and not at all sunny. My neck hurt and I had a busy day ahead of me. I left for work because that’s my job, but it wasn’t exactly a day I bounced out the door.

As I was leaving, I called out.

“Guard the house, eat all the burglars. Have a good day.” 

This is nothing new. I’ve been saying that to my dogs (and I guess cats) for years. This morning I realized – I am the sole source of support for the furries. I’m the only one bringing home the bacon. (Or in the case of Coda, the cocktail shrimp to mix in with his stupidly expensive vet cat food so he doesn’t pee everywhere.)

All of that to say that I wish that at least one animal had at least looked up from their morning nap to acknowledge that I was going to work to ensure their nice, cozy life.

Posted in Dogs, Furry Slugs | 2 Comments


Owen moved out on Saturday morning. The truck was full and he was driving away by 10 am. He was moved into his place by noon. I came home from helping out a bit at his place and I sat in the car.

I stopped. I needed to stop. I remembered Owen carrying me across the threshold when we bought the house. I remembered the friends and family that have come through the door. Carrying Gabriel’s crib in, and all the nursery furniture out. The times we have carried drywall and flooring through that door. My house is a home, part of that home was Owen.

Yesterday when I crossed the threshold the house was just mine.

The dog greeted me. The kitten sat on the newel post, just like he always has. Coda came around the corner. I told them it was ok, that I was home. Nothing had changed, not really. Most of the furniture is still here, I’ve moved books around to fill spaces from Owen’s, swapped out some photos. I moved my bedroom furniture around. Bought new and very feminine bedding. I have throw pillows on my bed (this is ridiculous because I never make my bed.)

I’ll throw a load of laundry in tonight. Shovel the walks. Change the cat litter. Make myself a sandwich for dinner. Do a bunch of studying.

I crossed a threshold in my own home yesterday. It’s still a place filled with love and care and hope. It’s still where I come when I am small and broken; it’s still where I put myself back together again. The house is still home. A different home, but still home.

Posted in Divorce | 2 Comments

Tempus Fugit

As I age, I realize that there are moments when you watch the end of time. Moments when one thing is passing on to the next when something is ending. The time of one thing ends and another begins.

Actually, that’s not what I realize.

I’ve always known when I watched the end of time. When I said goodbye to a childhood friend who was moving away. The first time I sat with a pet as they died. When I broke up with my first boyfriend. Graduated high school. Births, deaths, leave-takings. They are the end of time and I’ve always known that as they happened.

I’m learning what to do at the end of time.

I don’t stand back and let it happen. I try not take myself out of the flow too quickly. To not grasp or try to hold on, keeping myself present. I’ve tried to imagine it as if I were letting time run through my hands. I’m there. I weigh and measure, cradle it, but let it go under its own force.

I suppose you could say my marriage ended on January 4th when I asked for a divorce. Or maybe it ended on February 14th when we signed the separation agreement. Maybe it ends on Saturday when Owen carries the last box out of a moving van and into a new apartment. Maybe they are all endings.

15 years, 6 months, 12 days 

15 years, 7 months, 23 days 

15 years, 8 months, 3 days 

That’s not nothing. That’s an ending.

Tempus fugit.

Posted in Divorce | 3 Comments