Carpe Diem Chris

Food and love... food is love

2009-08-22T19:02:00.008-04:00

Like many people in this part of the world, I have a complicated relationship with food.

Thankfully, it’s not the eating that’s the complicated part.. just the cooking.

It’s not really surprising when I think about it. My mother didn’t learn to cook until she got married (at 39) in an era when it was taken for granted that wives were homemakers and cooks. But she grew up in a house with a cook and a maid and so never needed or had an inclination to learn.

It must have been a shock to suddenly realize that she would have to plan and prepare meals, learn to shop and buy food in a Canadian grocery store where so many of the foods were unfamiliar. Like many housewives of the time, she relied on the only thing that seemed familiar: bad British cooking. My childhood was replete with overcooked meat and boiled canned vegetables. Italian food consisted of macaroni and cheese. Fresh fruits and vegetables were unknown to me.

I did however bask in the delicious glory of my mother’s baking. Where she learned this, I don’t know but it was something that obviously came naturally to her. Most of all I remember her bread. The heavy moist smell of yeast rose up from underneath a damp linen tea towel covering her great stoneware bowl on the kitchen counter. My mother’s energetic punching and kneading of the billowing sticky dough. Loaves upon loaves would come steaming from the oven… brown and earthy, white and soft. Slathered in butter, it was the stuff that golden childhood memories are made of.

She made flaky, buttery pastry which became pies filled with blueberries or chocolate cream or lemon meringue or spicy apples. Tall – albeit often ever so slightly lop-sided – layer cakes swathed in butter cream icing. Crunchy, savoury baked fruit crumbles sparkling with her beloved Barbadian brown sugar.

Meal-times however were increasingly a minefield of barbed comments and marital warfare between my parents. We rarely had company over for dinner and so, rather than finding a natural pleasure in sharing food with friends and family, it became a weapon – its value diluted by quick, cheap fixes.

Thankfully, I’ve never had any qualms about eating, somehow managing to sidestep that horrifying generational legacy of obsession with weight and dieting, the fear and guilt over food that women often impart to their daughters. Aside from a brief, humourless fling with margarine, I enjoy eating food that is prepared with whole, natural ingredients (including sugar, butter, and bacon!) in satisfying quantities.

The problem of course is that I don’t like to cook. It’s not that I’m a bad cook – people tell me I cook quite well. I just can’t be bothered. I know I’m not alone… actually that’s a big part of the problem. Cooking for one is no picnic (pardon the pun but it’s actually quite appropriate given that in the summer I often simply make a sandwich rather than prepare a meal). The idea of flipping through cookbooks to find something appealing, shopping for ingredients (because of course there isn’t much in Mother Hubbard’s cupboard), and preparing a meal to be eaten alone isn’t terribly interesting… and to do that seven days a week!? The lead-up to having friends over for a meal is fraught with anxiety (damn you Martha Stewart and your Food Network cabal!).

And so truth be told, despite the fact that I love eating good food; that I champion whole/slow food cooking; that I love watching good food being prepared; that I revile over-salted, nutritionally-poor, prepared food… I eat it all the time. There, I’ve said it. My freezer is usually filled with a variety of pre-packaged entrees and my fridge rarely contains more than condiments, a few beers or a half-empty bottle of wine, and restaurant left-overs.

Chris would be so disappointed – not surprised, but disappointed nonetheless. He loved to cook. He was fearless and intuitive in the kitchen, somehow everything was ready at the same time and the flavours all complimented but never overwhelmed. I was his willing sous-chef, happy to chop and slice, measure and de-bone at his side. Being in the kitchen with Chris was like dancing – he led and I followed. And so now I stand alone in my preposterously well-equipped kitchen with Chris’ beloved Henckels pots and pans, his Wüsthof knives, his gadgets and cutting boards.

I could force myself to cook – hoping that by simply following a routine, I would eventually slip into a practiced pleasure of creating delicious meals from simple ingredients. Probably a naïve proposition…

I could engage the services of a personal chef or food delivery service. Choosing from a menu of options and having nutritious, ready-to-eat meals at the door or in the fridge – expensive but convenient…

I could eat out at restaurants several nights a week, bridging interim nights with left-overs. No doubt the inventory of worthwhile venues and willing company would quickly be exhausted and the exercise become even more tedious than actually cooking…

I could trek to one of those meal outlet stores where they have ingredients already chopped and prepared – you simply have to assemble what you want and cook it at home. Perhaps a practical solution bridging pre-packaged and healthy meals…

I could keep eating rubbish while watching Big Night, Babette’s Feast, Eat Drink Man Woman, Julie & Julia, or any other foodie movie – closing my eyes and imagining the smells and flavours of real food.

Or I could go to Italy or France for a year and learn what it is to simply enjoy good food as a normal part of every day life – without all the fretting and sub-zero refrigeration.

"The only real stumbling block is fear of failure. In cooking you've got to have a 'What the hell?' attitude." ~ Julia Child
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Video rated R for disturbing content

2009-07-14T09:45:00.003-04:00

awake: a cry of pain in another room
you crumpled to the floor like a
suddenly string-less puppet

screaming, running, 911
blue eyes slide away
blue lips
...this is it… oh god don’t let this be it!!!
mouth-to-mouth, wiping away spittle and vomit
counting on your chest
stillness…

pounding on the door, uniforms pour in
worker bees buzzing
...dialysis, perma-cath in his chest, fistula in his arm, no codeine!
...m’am, would you like to put some clothes on?

address book and a purseful of pills in the elevator
staring out the police car window
...did the siren sound like the screaming in my head?

the video in my head plays on a loop
sometimes in slow motion,
always in colour
the muffled soundtrack echoes

the video in my head plays on a loop
rated R for disturbing content
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How do I love thee... Oh Canada

2009-06-24T23:46:00.007-04:00

Love letters come in many formats.

Sometimes they're compilation CDs. Sometimes they're scratched in the wet sand on a windy beach. Sometimes they're fresh-baked cookies.

The obituary I wrote for Chris was a love letter... for him, to him, of him.

Often we find ourselves thinking of the many things we wanted to tell someone we love when it's too late. "If only I had another chance." "If only I could do it differently this time."

What would you do... if you only had one week to live? What would you do differently?

The film One Week is director Michael McGowan's love letter to Canada. Without revealing any spoilers the basic premise of the film is the story of a young man with a full life and about to get married who is told he has terminal cancer.

What would you do?

He decides to hit the road - partly in flight mode, partly in the hopes of clearing his head and coming to terms with the shattering news he's just been given. Riding his motorcycle westward with no real plan in mind, the arc of his physical journey is also the story of his emotional journey.

Most of the time he's alone with his turbulent thoughts, the ever-changing landscape of Canada as the backdrop. Along the way he meets other people, each on their own journeys, and while these encounters are often fleeting, there are lingering changes that impact in ways great and small. By the time Ben reaches the Pacific ocean one week later his life has changed him... and he has changed his life.

For anyone who's travelled across Canada or lived in different parts of Canada, there are certain touchstones and symbols that need no explanations. But this is no hackneyed travelogue, the moments captured are touching and affectionate and breath-taking and ultimately vibrate deep in that collective Canadian psyche. Despite being a story of a young man facing death, there were many warm waves of laughter that rippled through the audience when I saw it in the theatre. This is an unabashedly Canadian story whose cultural reference may or may not resonate with audiences elsewhere.

Twenty years ago this summer, my university roommate and I loaded up her car Zelda and began a five-day journey to Vancouver. We were young and foolish and broke but life was full of adventure and tree-planting in Northern BC sounded like a great way to spend the summer making gobs of money.

We B&B'd with a Henry Fonda look-alike in the Sault and sang ad jingles along the shores of Lake Superior when the radio wouldn't pick up any signal and stood quietly in the shadow of Terry Fox outside Thunder Bay and took the ring road around Winnipeg and marvelled at tumbling tumbleweed and gazed into the blindingly blue cathedral skies of the Prairies and climbed higher and higher into the monstrous majesty of the Rockies and miraculously convinced a BC highway cop that Qubec didn't use front license plates and finally tumbled down through the great green Fraser River valley into Vancouver.

We didn't make gobs of money and I discovered I was a gardener, not a tree-planter, and I used Raid as hair spray and worked under the protective eye of a trained big game sharp-shooter and watched the sun barely slip below the horizon at 11:30pm and got my first tattoo from a guy with nipple rings and ate too much Baskin Robbins and discovered dim sum and spent my waitressing breaks reading on the beach and tasted bear stew with blueberry sauce and had pizza delivered to us on the Via train and cried tears of homecoming joy at seeing the light beacon atop Place Ville Marie and savoured every bite of Montreal smoked meat at 3am.

In the years since that summer, I've been lucky to have travelled to St. John's, Vancouver, and every provice in between for work and vacations. But of all those trips, it's that road trip which always resurfaces with the strongest emotions and memories. Perhaps because it was my first time seeing other parts of the country; perhaps because it was the company I shared; perhaps because it was our last summer of freedom before graduating into "the real world". It was the first time I really grasped the vastness and beauty of this country and how lucky I was to live here. Everyone should be so lucky!

Happy Canada Day - what are you going to do?
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The valley of my childhood

2009-05-11T14:59:00.005-04:00

This is me and my childhood friend Glenn. We were pretty much inseparable from stroller to school bus. Our parents were good friends and we lived one block away from each other. Lots of holidays and summer days and nothing special days were spent together until we started school – he at the local English Catholic school and me at the local English Protestant one.

We used to go exploring in our neighbourhood, climbing rocks and trees, poking sticks into dark holes; we snuck popsicles from my house and then his on hot summer afternoons; we went tobogganing at the nearby hill; we played board games in our pyjamas; we divvied up our Halloween treats, bartering what we didn’t want.

As is the usual course of life we made new friends once we started school and began to drift apart. There were still birthdays and Christmases but we saw less and less of each other as the years flew by. Glenn and his family moved away when we were about nine or ten. After that we rarely saw each other aside from the occasional visit during summer vacations but by then our devoted childhood friendship had faded into our parents’ photo albums.

I recently found out that Glenn died last summer from complications of a second kidney transplant surgery. I had always known that Glenn had diabetes. He was diagnosed when we were little kids, but I never really knew much about it. I knew he had to have needles – that was about the extent of my awareness. It never occurred to me back then that he could die.

It’s been probably 20… 25 years since I last saw Glenn. My favourite memories of him feature a grinning, mischievous boy with dark unruly curls. I hope he’s still climbing rocks and trees, and exploring, and finding new adventures.

****************

WALKINSHAW, Glenn Kevin 1962-2008

On July 16, 2008 at the Royal Victoria Hospital in Montreal, QC at the age of 46 after complications from transplant surgery, Glenn passed away peacefully with his family by his side.

Glenn is survived by his mother Lorraine (nee Ward) Walkinshaw, predeceased by his father Albert. Beloved brother to Brad Walkinshaw (Mary), of Montreal, QC, and Jill Walkinshaw (Steven) of Orleans. Glenn will be fondly remembered by his nieces and nephews Rini and Amanda of Montreal, QC and Alexandria and Anderson of Orleans.

The family gratefully thanks the Dialysis Unit of the Riverside Hospital of Ottawa for their kindness and nursing care, and also the Royal Victoria Hospital Transplant team and the ICU Medical and Nursing teams for their care of Glenn since May 19, 2008.

A Mass in the presence of the ashes will be held at St. Patrick's Basilica, Kent at Nepean Sts., Ottawa, at 2 p.m. on Tuesday, July 22, 2008 with burial in the Botanical Gardens at Beechwood Cemetery in Ottawa.

In memory of Glenn, please consider the Juvenile Diabetes Association and remember to be kind to everyone. Rest in Peace, dear Glenn. We Miss You. "Live Free and Ride".
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Unexpected visitors

2009-04-28T12:12:00.003-04:00

My mother used to tell the story of time her mother came to visit her. I wish I had paid more attention to the details of that story. As much as I peer into the thick darkness of that memory, I can’t remember when Mom said that Grannie Armstrong came to visit. But I do remember that it was after she had died.

I never met my mother’s mother. She died suddenly from a stroke, at the age of 70 – the year before I was born. When my mother got married and moved to Canada, she never saw my grandmother alive again. They were very close and I don’t think my mother ever got over the shock of that loss. She wrote of it in her diary. I hear the loneliness in her voice, thinking of being so far from ‘home’, trying to be a good wife in a strange, cold country.

My mother was not given to flights of fancy and, despite her struggle with depression, she did not experience hallucinations. She was a creative but also quite a practical person who worried that I was too “airy fairy”, as she often referred to my childhood day-dreaming. When my mother told the story of the night her dead mother visited her, I got goose bumps. Not because I was afraid but because I felt it to be so absolutely real and unarguably true.

My mother said that she awoke in the middle of the night, uncertain of the time. My father was working shift work that night and so she was alone. She described being suddenly wide awake, not struggling to shake off the cobwebby feeling one often has when roused from a deep sleep. Looking up she saw her mother sitting at the foot of the bed, hands folded in her lap. She smiled at my mother and my mother smiled back. They shared a long and loving gaze before my grandmother simply disappeared. My mother said she hadn’t been afraid and I could tell she was deeply comforted by the love and warmth of that singular experience.

I wasn’t able to be with my mother when she died and after she passed away I secretly hoped that I would receive a farewell of some kind from her. I had travelled to visit with her only weeks beforehand and she had rallied from a period of illness. Despite struggling with advanced Alzheimer’s she still knew me at our last visit. I spent hours with her each day, helping her eat, looking at pictures, telling stories. On our second-to-last day together, I remember telling her that I loved her and, being unable to reply in a full sentence, she pointed to me and mumbled “Love” with a smile. Perhaps that was her goodbye. I just wasn’t ready to hear it.

I desperately hoped for a visit from Chris after he died. His sudden and unexpected passing left a huge gash of emptiness inside of me and I thought that if I could see him once more and say goodbye, it might provide some comfort… some closure. Someone he knew had a dream about him soon after his death in which she saw him floating up in the sky with the energy of being free. In her dream he told her that it was so wonderful in the afterlife and that he was pain free and feeling vibrant again but that he was so sad to be away from his beloved Sandra.

I was jealous that she had heard his voice. Why hadn’t I heard from him!? All the irrational, insanity of that time left me questioning my own perceived openness to alternate realities, the depth of my love for Chris, etc, etc. So many painful, questioning nights laying in bed staring at the ceiling, hoping for a vision, a voice, anything that would signify communication from my beloved Chris… I often prayed to awaken from what I had begun to hope was a long nightmare. But the visit never came.

So it was a shock when I did get an unexpected, early morning visit back in January. I remember waking up very suddenly, my eyes literally snapping wide open, and my senses being very sharp as if the volume on my hearing had been turned up. Not more loudly but more crystal clear, the constant hum of life and my own busy mind suddenly quieted. Someone was in the room with me but I wasn’t afraid as I obviously would normally have been. I continued to lay on my side, not turning to look about but simply feeling this intense presence in the room.

No words were spoken. No voice was heard. No touch was felt. An overwhelming sense of comfort and calm filled the room and then, as suddenly as it had quieted, the hum reasserted itself and the visitor left. I don’t know if it was Chris or one of my parents. I don’t know if it was even someone I knew. I do know that I was left feeling more peaceful than I had in a long time.

I remember a couple of months after Chris died, a bitterly comical scenario played out in my imagination: Mom and Dad are hanging out in the afterlife (whatever form that may take) and in walks Chris. “What the hell are you doing here?! You’re supposed to be back there with Sandra! You promised to take care of our little girl!” cried my parents to Chris. He shuffled his feet in embarrassment, chewing his lip, and struggling to find something reasonable – or even witty – to say that would appease them. Nothing came to mind…

I hope they’ve forgiven him.
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When a stranger calls...

2009-04-27T23:47:00.004-04:00

It was the telephone that woke me up, jangling insistently like a rude alarm clock.

I sat up, struggling to find my even keel in the middle-of-the-night darkness. My throat tightened as I hesitantly said hello. Phone calls in the middle of the night are never good news… or so I thought.

“May I please speak with Christopher Dixon?” asked the voice at the other end.
“May I ask who’s calling?” [at such an ungodly hour, asked the voice inside my head.]
“It’s the transplant unit. We have a donor kidney for Christopher.”

I breathed, listening to make sure I remembered that moment.

Chris was a very sound sleeper and I had to literally shake him awake, he hadn’t even heard the phone. “It’s the transplant unit, they have a kidney.” I said – quite calmly in retrospect – before I handed him the phone, making sure he was awake.

We were both wide awake now. I sat on the bed beside Chris and never took my eyes off his face as he answered and asked questions for a few minutes. When he hung up, we looked at each other, our eyes filled with hope, anxiety, nervousness, love.

Surprisingly, you’re not expected to run red lights when you get that call. “Take your time, don’t panic, bring a few things in a small overnight bag… we’ll see you when you get here.” And so we did just that. I packed socks, underwear, pyjama pants, razor, toothbrush/toothpaste, my list of people to call, and a roll of quarters that we had kept in the drawer for just this occasion.

We were out the door in 15 minutes flat. The taxi ride to the hospital was quiet. We held hands as we watched darkened houses rush by our windows.

The hospital was brightly lit but the hallways were empty as we quickly made our way up to the transplant unit.

Things happen pretty quickly once you get there. You’re assigned a room – always private, for fear of infection in immune-suppressed transplant patients. Blood is drawn for last-minute tests. X-rays are done to check for infections. Electrodes are mapped out across the body to monitor heart activity on an EKG machine.

In between tests, you sit and wait. Your mind racing. Your heart racing. The thumping isn’t loud enough to drown out the fears, the excitement, the what if’s. Transplants are not a miracle cure – they’re a therapy, an interim measure. They don’t last forever. The surgery – like any surgery – is risky. Chris and I had had all those conversations many times. So we sat and we waited, wondering which room along the hall sheltered the other anxious kidney recipient. I watched the sky turn indigo and then golden pink as the sun crept up to meet us at the horizon.

I called Chris’ parents to tell them that we were at the hospital, that there was a donor kidney for Chris, that I would call later when I had an update.

I remember the nurse coming in. “I’m sorry, but the kidney isn’t a close enough match.”

Eyes blinking. Empty silence. As suddenly as it began, it was over.

How to put into words that floor-falling-away feeling? The adrenaline and exhaustion suddenly colliding inside your head, your heart, your stomach which minutes before had been churning with anxious elation. Sitting in the patient lounge, our arms limply encircling each other, as the rising sun shot through the drapes and bled down the wall.

We quietly checked out and walked down the hall, leaving ‘our’ kidney to the next candidate on the list. The list really is life…

The rest of that day is a fog in my memory. I know that we both stayed home from work, sleeping a bit, eating a bit. I know I called Chris’ parents to break the news but I don’t remember calling them.

I’ve never had a miscarriage and I can’t pretend that it’s the same feeling but it’s the closest thing I can imagine – coming home empty-handed and empty-hearted instead of joyful. It was a very quiet day, a sad day.

We went for a walk and thought about the person who had died, their family who had consented to organ donation – who were they? We thought of the other people like us who had received long-awaited calls for lungs and heart and liver and corneas and kidneys. Were they in surgery or in recovery by now? Their families waiting anxiously for news of a successful surgery, preparing for the possibly bumpy road to full recovery.

We wondered when the next call might come.
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An unbroken bond

2009-03-24T13:08:00.008-04:00

I just returned from a one-week whirlwind visit with several dear friends. The original timing of my vacation (aside from getting away from my wet basement) was arranged to coincide with the birthdays of two of these aforementioned dear friends who just happen to have been born one day apart. A gathering of the 'clan' was set into motion and a flurry of excited e-mails flew back and forth amongst this group of friends who met [--] years ago in university. We try to all get together at least once a year and, so far, I think we've done pretty well.

We've muddled through life's adventures, lending a shoulder or a hand whenever needed. We've shared a lot of tears but even more laughter. We've been to each others' weddings (but under some unspoken pact, never as bridesmaids - must be the dresses!). Helped each other move (thank god those days are over!) and consoled each other over broken hearts (remember 'I hate men parties'?). We're as different as any group of women could be but we argue and love without question. The bond is taken for granted but not the gratitude or the responsibility it holds.

So it seemed that fate brought us all together again this time, not just for birthday festivities as planned but for other unexpected life-changing events. One of our group received thrilling news of admission to a prestigious graduate program at an Ivy League university. We shared cheers and tears of joy and a bottle of champagne was ordered from the bar! Another of our group experienced the heavy-hearted loss of an elderly relative after a lengthy illness. We shared hugs and consolation and glasses were raised in honour of a passing soul.

And so life goes. Our weekend together was in many ways typical of our long-standing friendships - the celebrations, the losses, many a glass of wine, mugging for the camera, the comfortable mundane catching up on each others' lives late into the night, and the goodbye hugs before returning to our day-to-day adventures... each taking with us the strength of our friendship, topped up for another year.

Thanks for the memories girls, and for all those yet to come!

Happy World Kidney Day!

2009-03-12T00:36:00.004-04:00

Today is World Kidney Day.

Are your kidneys healthy?

Did you know that over 500 million people world-wide have some form of kidney damage?

Did you know that high blood pressure and diabetes (Type 1 and 2) are leading causes of chronic kidney disease in developing countries like Canada?

Did you know that over 1.5 million people worldwide are currently kept alive through either haemo or peritoneal dialysis, or transplantation and that this number is predicted to double within the next 10 years?

Do you have one or more of these risk factors for chronic kidney disease?

high blood pressure or diabetes
family history of kidney disease
history of heart attack, stroke, or other blood vessel disease
over 50 years of age
First Nations or Asian ancestry
obesity
smoking
family history of high blood pressure or diabetes

If so, please speak with a health professional about how to reduce your risk of developing chronic kidney disease. Do it for Chris. Do it for yourself!

The Amazing Kidnerellis!

Your never too important to mock yourself

2009-03-05T18:54:00.019-05:00

In celebration of my purchase of really great floor seats for this summer's Coldplay concert in TO, I hereby present for your amusement Coldplay frontman Chris Martin and the current reigning god of British humour, Ricky Gervais.

If you don't crack up at these videos... well, I dunno - there's something wrong with your funny bone! [Warning - these videos contain irony, mockery, and adult humour! It helps to know that Martin is an outspoken fair trade and human rights advocate, a vegetarian, and is generally acknowledge to be pretty self-effacing.]

Ricky interviews Chris

Chris' appearance on Ricky's TV show "Extras"

Behind the scenes & bloopers from the "Extras" shooting
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2 x 2 = wonderful

2009-02-24T21:35:00.004-05:00

Just in time for Valentine's Day, Canadian Blood Services announced on February 12 that it has officially launched the national Living Donor Paired Exchange Registry.

This is wonderful news for families waiting for kidney transplants. Research has shown that living donor kidneys are often more successful than cadaveric transplants and patients' families and friends are encouraged to be tested for compatibility. Unfortunately, many patients are unable to find compatible donors among family or friends and thus remain on the transplant waiting list, sometimes for many years, until a suitable match becomes available from a deceased donor.

The registry already has 23 pairs of donors/recipients registred through pilot programs in Ontario, Alberta, and BC and other provinces will be added shortly. [It is unclear whether Quebec will be included in the registry. The province maintains an agency called Héma-Québec which operates a parallel but separate blood and human tissue service.]

This national registry will open up a much wider pool of willing and eager donors who can more quickly be matched with closely-matched recipients, it will enable those remaining on the waiting list to receive cadaveric kidneys more quickly, it may offer opportunities for altruistic donors who are not paired with anyone, and will ensure a more equitable access to donor organs across the country.

I had begun the testing process to see if I was a possible donor match for Chris but because of his unstable health, he was withdrawn from the waiting list waiting list (don't ask!). If his health had been stable and I had ultimately been found not to be a match for him, I'm sure that Chris would have consented to us being placed on the Paired Exchange Registry. A pair of strangers somewhere in Canada would have possibly been our match. What a lovely thought... what a wonderful gift to give and to receive!
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Close encounters of the Canuck celebrity kind

2009-02-17T11:10:00.010-05:00

Inspired by a recent rambling conversation with a friend that included a chapter on celebrities* we had met, here's my list (to the best of my recollection):

Jean Beliveau
Ed Broadbent (prompting Chris to exclaim to me "I love you!")
Kim Campbell
Joe Clark (a regular shopper at the bookstore where I worked)
Northrop Frye
Herb Gray
Paul Gross (many years ago during summer stock theatre)
Rick Mercer
Ovide Mercredi
Mila Mulroney (also at the bookstore but an altogether different type of shopping encounter!)
Rex Murphy
Pierre Pettigrew
Joe Schlesinger (another regular at the bookstore)
René Simard (he kissed my cheek & my mother forced me to wash it after four days)
Evan Solomon
George Stroumboulopoulos
Pierre Trudeau
Michael Wilson (by telephone - but that's another story!)

* Readers will notice a preponderance of political and public broadcaster personalities - that's what you get for living in the nation's capital!
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The ghost of Christmas yet to come

2009-02-11T22:59:00.006-05:00

Every once in awhile, you have those moments when you take a deep breath because you know you're about to go through an experience that will stop the world from spinning - if only for that singular moment - and then you exhale.

Sometimes those moments pass and, in retrospect, aren't as life-changing as you think they're going to be. Sometimes they leave you feeling quite differently than you had anticipated. Sometimes they're strange but you're not quite sure what to make of them and so you squirrel them away for future contemplation.

I had one of those moments just before New Year's when I walked through the cemetery to visit Chris' grave. I took a different route than usual and was walking towards his grave from behind when I suddenly saw that his headstone had finally been installed. My breath caught in my throat and my step wavered for a moment for I knew what I was about to see: my own name.

Despite having spent months e-mailing back and forth with the cemetery representative who very patiently indulged my micro-management of endless and minute aesthetic details like font sizes and 'white space' of the headstone that I had designed, I was about to look upon the real thing. The key facts, literally set in stone.

It’s an extraordinary and difficult concept to try and grasp: one’s own mortality. I can’t. Despite having experienced the loss of so many loved ones in recent years, I still can’t really wrap my head around the idea of my own death. I guess that’s a good sign! Obviously it will happen some day. Hopefully I’ll be ready for it – or unaware of it happening. Who knows…

And so there I was. My name cut into the shimmering black granite below Chris’. Waiting patiently, without time, beyond time…

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Boozy librarians & old card catalogues

2009-02-09T13:36:00.007-05:00

Contrary to the long-standing prim image of those in our profession, most of the librarians I went to grad school with were a pretty boozy bunch (yours truly included) and from what I've seen and heard, that trend has continued. Of course having the university's grad students' pub conveniently located a hop, skip, and stumble down the hall from our classrooms might have had something to do with upping the stats!

In tribute to those wonderful albeit fuzzy memories of days - and nights - gone by, here's the perfect gift for the oenophile librarian or the bibliophile wine-lover... a beautiful old card catalogue recycled as a wine cabinet!

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Turning the page...

2009-02-04T22:52:00.007-05:00

As I've mentioned previously, I've been thinking about my writing and this blog and my journal and my journey, and I had a bit of a revelation that's helped me to make a decision.

Last week I finished reading one of the several books I had on the go: The Alchemy of Loss. (It was on my Christmas list but didn't make it under the tree, I guess Santa thought it was a bit grim!) Now before you get all worried because you think I'm reading too many 'widow' books, read on...

This remarkable book was written by a young Canadian woman, Abigail Carter, whose husband Arron died at the World Trade Center on September 11, 2001. She wrote her story as a way to recover, a way through the fog of her widowhood, a remembrance for her young children who will have very faint memories of their father by the time they're old enough to understand what their mother struggled through… As she wryly notes, she wrote the book that she had hoped to find when she was struggling through the early years of her loss.

What especially struck me about Abigail’s story was the raw honesty of her writing. She talks candidly about her ever-changing roller coaster of emotions, ranging from crushing love to raging frustration with her children; gratefulness and anger at her parents; disappointment and eagerness in her eventual albeit tentative re-entry into the dating world; disillusionment and gratitude with her husband’s company legal representative; and so on across the cast of many people who helped her along her journey.

I couldn’t help but wonder what they all thought when reading passages about themselves in this book. Whether Abigail told all these people what she had written or gave them a preview before the book was published is unknown; she does thank many of them in her introduction. But I was impressed by her unflinching honesty. She told her own story – in all its pain and rage and love and helplessness and appreciation and humour and oddness. It was her way forward and she knew that the people who meant most to her would stick by her, for better or for worse.

When I began this blog, I thought it would be a communal place where Chris’ loved ones could bring their stories and we could share our memories and our sadness. But in the end that wasn't really what it was about… it was about me and my journey. Because I knew that many of Chris’ friends and family were reading this blog, I kept many things to myself (or to my counsellor!). But in recent months, I’ve found myself feeling constrained in my writing by the knowledge of who many of my readers are. I didn’t want to upset people or worry them but I’ve grown frustrated by that self-imposed embargo.

I considered abandoning this blog and perhaps beginning another one – anonymously, without notice - where I could express my pain and joy without judgement or fear of causing worry among loved ones. Or I could simply continue self-editing and use my journal – and my counsellor – to breathe… or both… or neither…

But then I read Abigail’s story and I realized that I was tired of worrying about what everyone else thought and that I just wanted to tell my truth. So dear readers, loved ones and strangers, you may read a different shade of me now. You may read things that are upsetting or worrisome. You may also read things that are amusing and deeply personal. If you know me, you'll recognize me - if you don't, you'll get to know me.

Fear not, I’m not falling into a dark pit of despair. Like everyone, I have dark days and light nights interspersed with humdrum errands and busy appointments. You mustn’t fuss and fret. I wouldn’t have thought it possible a year and a half ago but look how far I’ve travelled. I’m making up the roadmap as I go along so let me stretch my legs - I couldn’t have come this far without you.
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Doggie dreams

2009-01-27T12:59:00.008-05:00

I had an odd dream the other night.

I was in a large sunny living room looking out the window when I saw Chris walking towards the building. Beside him was a medium-sized, brown and black dog - sort of a Heinz 57.

In my dream, I knew that Chris was dead so I was elated and overjoyed to see him alive. I rushed to the door but when I opened it, only the dog was there, coming towards me.

I closed the door and went back to the window where, once again, I saw Chris and the dog. Once again, I rushed to the door but again I saw only the dog.

A third time and the same sights appeared to me. Then I woke up.

Anyone who knew Chris and I knew that we longed to adopt a dog. Chris firmly wanted to wait until we had a house and I was - and still am - torn over bringing a new animal into Sprockets' quiet, sunset years. Chris used to tease me that if someone were pushing a baby stroller and walking a dog, I would push the stroller out of the way to coo over the dog. It's an easy way to my heart!

When I read Marley & Me several years ago, I wept my way through the last chapters like a baby. All the while Chris sat rubbing my legs and handing me tissues, gently suggesting that perhaps I should put the book aside since I was taking it so hard. "I c-c-ca-can't stop." I blubbered and then the dam really burst as I closed the book.

I should have known better when I went to see the movie. Obviously I knew I would cry (you'd have to have a heart of stone not to!). But sitting there in the dark watching the heart-breaking ending unleashed a torrent of emotions and memories. All those corny Hollywood images of family-time and crazy doggie antics just made Chris' absence all the more painful. He never did get a dog of his own - our own - a dog to make us a family. And watching Owen Wilson say goodbye to Marley at the clinic just reminded me of saying goodbye to Chris at the hospital.

God I was a mess! I just couldn't stop crying - really sobbing, long after most people had pocketed their tissues and left the theatre. I think Chris' mom and grandma were a bit freaked out, not sure what was going on or what to do. Of course I finally got myself together after hiccuping out all these feelings and memories.

I've been thinking about that dream. It's easy to fill it with symbolism and meaning from beyond the veil. Chris is bringing a dog into my life, telling me to get one; reassuring me that I could do it on my own; reminding me that he's no longer alive but that he will always be looking out for me; I'm looking for something outside of myself to bring my life new meaning; I'm ready to open new doors but perhaps not ready for what I might find there; and so on and so on... The interpretations are as endlessly varied as my moods and one's perspectives. Just like life I guess.

I hope that Chris is happily playing in sunny, wide-open field with his beloved Sasha along with Pippen and Stella and Arbus and Charlie and all the puppies in heaven.

Chris' beloved Sasha

You're sixteen, you're beautiful, and you're mine.

2009-01-17T00:12:00.010-05:00

Belated Happy Sweet 16th Birthday to my
furry four-legged baby girl Sprockets!!

I hope I look this great at 80 !

Thank you for your crazy singular devoted love over the past 15 years - here's to the next 3... 4... 5... or more years together.

With this ring...

2009-01-15T15:47:00.007-05:00

I recently read The Pilot's Wife - not sure why I hadn't read it earlier but whatever. The plot (for those who haven't read it this is not considered spoiler info) centres on a woman who's husband - the Pilot - dies in a dramatic plane crash, along with all the other people on board, and the secrets she discovers about him after his death.

Oddly, the widowhood angle didn't really send up any major warning flags for me before I started reading the book - I just thought it looked like an interesting story. D'OH!! But it was OK - I didn't get all freaked out and ricochet off on some wild emotional roller coaster (hmm, maybe that is weird...). Her reactions and emotions in the aftermath of her husband's death were startlingly real and very well portrayed. I think I read somewhere that the author, Anita Shreve, did do quite a bit of research into grief responses, etc. when writing the book. (Ultimately, I was disappointed by the book - the plot was quite predictable and contrived, it left me bored.)

Anyhow, one scene that struck me was when Kathryn throws her wedding ring into the ocean where her husband's plane crashed. Without getting into plot spoilers, it was interesting to ponder her reasons for doing so. In the book she thinks to herself: To be relieved of love is to give up a terrible burden.

When my mom and dad each died, I buried their wedding rings with their ashes. I didn't really have any interest in keeping their wedding rings for myself (sentimental reasons or whatever) and I have no children to pass them onto so it didn't seem to make sense. I supose I could have had them melted down along with some other pieces and made into something else but I didn't.

I didn't keep Chris' wedding ring either. I had the funeral home place it in the urn with his ashes along with his boyhood dog Sasha's collar tag that he kept on his keychain. (He forgot his keys at home when we went to Barbados and I swear he fretted every day worrying that he had lost Sasha's tag.) I don't know what I would have done with Chris' ring had I kept it - I felt that it belonged with him, it was part of who he was... and it was a part of me that would always be with him. It was sweetly inscribed S loves C.

A friend of mine kept her husband's wedding ring after he died and she wears it on a chain around her neck but she still wears her own. Another widow I know wears her wedding ring on her right hand now. I still wear mine on my 'wedding' finger. I know that some think that it's time for me to stop wearing it but I don't really care. In my heart I still feel married. I'm still in love with Chris. I'm not ready to stop wearing it. Besides, it's a beautiful one-of-a-kind ring that I really like.

Perhaps love is a terrible burden in some ways. Remember the scene from Love Actually when Liam Neeson gently pries into his step-son's worries and laughs upon discovering that the young boy is love: "...I thought it would be something worse." To which Sam replies "Worse than the total agony of being in love?"

I don't feel pain or sadness when I look at my wedding ring. It reminds me that I was once so fortunate to love and be loved - C loves S.
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Hello?

2009-01-13T11:41:00.004-05:00

It's been a long time... not sure who's still out there, waiting, hoping, reading, listening but I'll ramble on a bit.

I've been worried that I'm losing my voice. My writing voice.

It's not that I haven't been writing - I've been scribbling pages and pages - but I've been unsure of how and even whether to set them free on the blog. I spent some time back in December re-reading some of my early postings from the first six months or so. It was an eye-opener. The first thing that struck me was how eloquently I was able to express myself, given that my husband of nine months had just died unexpectedly. I don't mean to sound full of myself but I was honestly quite taken aback at reading some of those entries. I don't know how I did that... or if I still can.

That's when I realized that I was only now beginning to really feel the pain of my loss. The translucent veneer of shock that I've lived in for the last year has begun to crack and shafts of white hot light have begun to uncover my raw heart. I've warily re-visited memories that were too painful to really look at and I'm trying to carefully ponder those experiences. If I have to carry those memories - better to hold them under the light of day and learn from them than to shut them away where they may cause more pain in the long run.

Maybe I'm just wallowing... it's hard to know when you're this close to the heart of the matter.

Or maybe it's just winter blahs...

Or maybe this blog is nearing the end of its purpose... There are lots of ideas that I scribble down - sometimes pages and pages of real stream-of-consciousness stuff, but therein lies my dilemma: do I want to expose my naked brain (and heart) to you, my readers? I would have to trust myself - and you - to let my words and my thoughts simply be. Don't know if I can do that, don't know if I want to do that.

Maybe I'll take a long walk in the snow...
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"Night is the blotting paper for many sorrows."

2008-12-16T00:48:00.005-05:00

It's when I'm lying in bed, after I've put aside my book and turned off the light, after I've nestled into a comfy, warm place under my duvet, after I've let go the busy thoughts of the day just ended and the day to come...

That's the time when I feel Chris' absence most - the time of day when we would talk quietly of our day, of little adventures and grand plans, of trivial disagreements and stubborn holdouts, making up stories to fall asleep by; the time when we would snuggle together and kiss, have tickle fights, make love, and drift into deep dream-filled slumber nestled against each other.

That's the time when the ice-water shock of Chris' death hits me afresh once again; when the horror film video in my mind plays out the memories of the moments of his passing from alive to dead. It still shocks me, lying there in the darkness - remembering, re-living his re-dying. It awes me, to try and grasp the enormity yet the utter minuteness of his heartbeat, his pulse, his breath suddenly stilled - forever - beneath my fingers. And he was gone. So ridiculous, so unreal, and so agonizingly painful.

Like vertigo, I sometimes feel myself being pulled inexorably down into the dark vortex of that morning's memories where Chris is still so close to being alive - where he was living only moments earlier - and the possibility of his recovery still seems real. But that is a painful, futile path that only leads to the past where Chris lives but where I cannot. It's a place I have to pull myself back from, as enticing as it may be.

And so the moment passes and the tears dry on my pillow, and I fall asleep and dream of tomorrow.
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All I want for Christmas...

2008-12-16T00:44:00.003-05:00

...is you.
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Meeting Fríða and ghosts of Iceland past

2008-11-22T16:37:00.008-05:00

As promised (a month ago!), here is another Iceland trip posting - my second to last. It seemed that as our trip wound into its final days we tried to pack more than ever into each one! After a week together, climbing rocky mountain roads and crawling through cloud-cover and fog, we bade farewell to our trusty Škoda Octavia at the airport drop-off before being picked up by a shuttle bus which took us to the Íshestar riding stables on the outskirts of the city.

We had booked a half-day of horseback riding to experience beautiful Icelandic horses up close and personal. They are an internationally recognized breed known for their smaller stature, stamina, friendly nature, and their unique tölt gait. To protect the health of the breed, no other horses can be imported into Iceland – although Icelandic horses can be exported and are bred around the world.

The stable staff got us each properly seated and stirrups adjusted before we set off single-file, heading out beyond the suburban edges of the city. Soon we were looking out across a rocky, scrubby landscape surrounded by hills – the weather was alternately sunny, drizzly, and breezy (pretty typical!). After about an hour we stopped in a grassy clearing to stretch our legs and let the horses graze. On our way back to the stables, we got in some cantering which was exhilarating and surprising for a beginner tour!

Back at the stables, we had lunch with the staff and then wandered out to the corral with some carrots and apples we had brought for the horses. We were immediately surrounded by dozens of velvety, inquisitive faces – supple, muscular lips quickly lapping up juicy treats and greedily pushing their noses into pockets and hands searching for more. We also met Fríða, the lovely but shy Springer Spaniel who lives at the stables – she seemed quite smitten with Mark!

To pamper our now sore buttocks and stiff legs, we spent the afternoon soaking up the decadent and soothing mineral waters of the world famous Blue Lagoon. The spa is a hidden other-worldly gem surrounded by an angry, blackened volcanic landscape. It’s a naturally occurring lagoon which has been developed into a state-of-the-art geothermal spa and power plant! The milky blue mineral-rich waters are high in sulphur and silica and are considered very therapeutic.

Before getting to the main spa building, guests walk down a craggy corridor cut through the volcanic rock. We hadn’t seen a glimpse of anything but black, jagged rock and then suddenly – this beautiful building suddenly rose up in front of us and through the windows the wondrous vision of steaming blue water. We ignored the shops and restaurants, heading directly for the check-in where we received our blue snap-on bracelets which served as our locker keys and tokens of admission – very cool system.

Boys and Girls went their separate ways here and entered the worlds of unabashed European nudity! I’m no prude but when you grow up in North America, your sensibilities are in for a shock when you hit the Blue Lagoon locker rooms! BTW the locker rooms are very nice – forget your memories of high school phys-ed, this is a world-class spa. We had been forewarned about the strict hygiene standards enforced at Icelandic pools and spas – they don’t use chemicals to purify the water and expect everyone to scrub down thoroughly before using the facilities. I wasn’t going to be the one to catch the attention of the stern-looking older woman patrolling the shower area ensuring that everyone upheld these standards.

When you step out onto the wooden deck surrounding the Lagoon, you realize how bloody chilly you are and then you step into the steaming milky blue water… mmmm, ahhhhh. The water is quite hot (40 °C / 104 °F) and it feels sooo good, like a wonderful hot bath. We wandered about in the shoulder-deep water with white silica mud slathered on our faces, peering through the sun-streaked steam to the bizarre landscape of volcanic rock and geothermal power plant towers. The waterfall feature gives a fantastic shoulder massage but make sure those shoulder straps don’t slip ladies! We heard languages from all over – I met a couple and their daughter from Paris who had been to the Saguenay region – the world really is strangely small!

After three superbly relaxing hours lolling in the spa waters we showered and hopped the shuttle bus back to Reykjavik. A surprise awaited us in town – unbeknownst to us, a huge celebration rally had been organized to welcome home the silver Olympic medal winning Icelandic handball team. (To give a sense of the importance of this event, Iceland has won a grand total of four Olympic medals – summer and winter – in its entire history. This was a BIG deal.) Tens of thousands of Icelanders had gathered downtown where a stage had been set up with giant screens. There was music and dignitaries – including the Prime Minister – the entire handball team was on stage, the crowd was euphoric, cheering and clapping. We celebrated by lining up with hundreds of Icelanders to indulge in the national favourite: pylsur and Coke!

As if the day hadn’t been full enough, we then went on the Reykjavík Haunted Walk tour which led us through the city centre telling tales of murder and ghosts and mysterious events. Coincidentally, the tour route passed directly in front of our apartment building leaving us to wonder if there was some gruesome history our landlords had omitted from the listing! The tour ended after dark, deep in the heart of the old cemetery where we saw mystifying and strange sites… you’ll have to take the tour to see for yourself.

To cap off the day we dropped by a nearby club which was one of the sites for the Reykjavík Jazz Festival taking place in the city that week. I quite enjoyed the music of Tepokinn (Teabag) – a young, up-an-coming Icelandic jazz band. The boys were very patient – they lasted a good hour or so before they couldn’t take it anymore and wanted to leave! Although I could have stayed for several more hours to enjoy the music, I was bone tired after a very full day and it was a good thing they dragged me home!
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Lest we forget

2008-11-11T01:16:00.014-05:00

I never used to cry at Remembrance Day ceremonies.

But now, I see my parents reflected in the craggy faces of an ever-dwindling number of elderly WWII veterans who proudly pin on their medals and don their faded armed forces caps on November 11th each year.

Part of the Greatest Generation, they and their contemporaries grew up during the hardship of the Great Depression and then, as young adults, they flocked to conscription offices across the Commonwealth to join up. Their reasons were as varied as they were: to serve King and Country; to find adventure; to escape the boredom of rural farm life; to prove themselves; to see something of the world; and so on and so on.

My dad joined the Alouette Squadron of the Royal Canadian Air Force and shipped off to England from historic Pier 21 in Halifax. He served in the UK and in North Africa and, yes, he found adventure along the way, he saw something of the world, he was awarded several medals, he served King and Country, and he learned to enjoy a good cigar.

My mom joined the Barbados Volunteer Force and, after a whirlwind week in New York City where they joined up with other units, set sail for England on the Queen Mary with Glen Miller and his orchestra. She served in the Royal Corps of Signals at various locations throughout England and, yes, she found adventure along the way, saw something of the world, and locked her Sergeant Major in the washroom on VE Day to go out and celebrate.

....

Soon there will be no more WWII veterans – most are in their mid to late 80’s if not older. For many years, it was difficult for me to identify with ageing seniors until I realized that – like me – they too had been young once, they had loved and laughed, danced and had fun adventures with friends. Suddenly I understood that their youth had not been lived in a stiff, black & white world – that was just the lens through which we saw them.

In turn, our children and grandchildren will probably not see us as we see ourselves until they’re grown adults with children of their own. That is the way of the world. When we’re young we’re busy finding adventure; escaping the boredom of rural life; proving ourselves; seeing something of the world; etc.

But hopefully we can take a little time to listen to stories of adventure and hardship, to look at photos of faraway cities and battlefields, to learn the difficult lessons from past discriminations and hatred, and respect those who have – and continue – to risk their lives for any number of various reasons.

Lest we forget.

The promised land

2008-11-05T00:46:00.006-05:00

I first heard the name Barack Obama several years ago. Chris had been reading about the eloquent and stirring keynote speech he delivered at the 2004 Democratic Convention which sent ripples of excitement through the party and far beyond. He said to me "Watch this guy, he could be President one day."

Today is that day - one that we will look back on as a defining moment in our modern history.

When Barack Obama was born in 1961, most blacks in America were effectively barred from voting. In the short span of his - and my - life time, all that has changed. If you're as moved as I am by today's momentous election results, imagine how it must seem to those of previous generations who never thought that this day would come.

I was born a few months before JFK was assassinated and I was just an unaware child during the turbulent US civil rights movement and subsequent assassinations of Martin Luther King and Bobby Kennedy that sent shock waves around the world. I grew up a wary Gen-Xer in the shadow of the seemingly shattered hopes and dreams of the 1960s. But those were not my burdens to carry. Those were not my lost ideals.

But after witnessing the appalling intellectual vacuum and embarrassing hyuck-hyuck comportment worn with pride by the Bush administration, I watched tonight's election returns with a heart full of hope and inspiration. I'm not American and I'm not black but, like millions of others, I feel drawn to this vision of a new era that President-Elect Obama offers. The promise of what we can be, what we can achieve, if we come together instead of circling the wagons.

Rosa Parks sat so Martin Luther King could walk.
Martin Luther King walked so Obama could run.
Obama's running so we can all fly.
[Singer Jay-Z at a rally in Philadelphia]
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The crowning Perl and a big wax fish

2008-10-26T21:18:00.017-04:00

It’s hard to believe that two months have passed since we were in Iceland! I’ve been lax in my post-travel updates so I’m going to try and do that this week. Just to mix it up I’m going to hop around a little chronologically so bear with me! (Credit for the IKEA & wax fish photos goes to M & D!) Come along as we travel back in time to the land of fire and ice…

Tooling around Reykjavík
After a week of non-stop travelling and sight-seeing we were kind of worn out so we decided to tool around the city and do whatever struck our fancy. And what better way than to visit the IKEA outlet?! Believe it or not this small island nation whose entire population hovers around 320,000 has a gigantic two-level store that would be the envy of… well, frankly London (pop. 350,000)!

My goal was to get an Icelandic IKEA catalogue as a souvenir. We had a quick lunch of the ubiquitous Swedish meatballs with gravy & mashed potatoes and then launched into our cross-cultural shopping expedition. Mark drolly speculated whether the product names would all be English and perhaps the Scandinavian names we were used to seeing at IKEA were just a big joke being played on North Americans!

I noticed that the kitchen appliances were consistently smaller sizes than what we’re used to (no Costco I guess!), shower stalls (instead of tub/showers) and dual-flush toilets were in every bathroom model, and there was a big emphasis on space-saving items and furniture. I ended up buying a lovely set of sheer curtains that were dirt cheap on sale and at the check-out scored my coveted catalogue!

Our next stop was the Perlan, a beautiful but interestingly utilitarian building set on a hilltop overlooking the city airport where we had flown from at the beginning of our trip. Perlan gets its name from the reflective glass dome that crowns the ring of five gigantic water tanks which hold geothermally-heated water used in the city of Reykjavík. The hilltop site features walking/cycling paths and hundreds of trees planted in ongoing efforts to restore forests to Iceland. Outside the main entrance is an exuberant jazz quartet sculpture and I couldn’t resist dancing to their beat!

Inside, the central atrium is lit from all sides by glass walls between the tanks – bizarrely there were several large palm trees huddling in a corner looking very lost and out of place. The atrium is used for receptions of all sorts, there was an art exhibit on display when we visited. We strolled around the wide observation deck that encircles the glass dome at the top of the building where the entire city spread out below us framed by stunning views of distant mountains and fjords.

Downstairs, we visited the Saga Museum which has been created inside one of the de-commissioned water tanks. Told through a series of dioramas populated by startlingly life-like mannequins, we learned about the very bloody and colourful history of the island from when it was first settled. We had a great chat about the building with the museum attendant who had visited Canada.

Tired from our busy day we decided to head home and came upon a couple of evil little hooligans throwing rocks at the birds on Lake Tjörnin near our apartment! The initial effect of my loud angry “NO – STOP!” lasted for less than a minute until they realized that I was just a silly tourist who wouldn’t give them a good verbal thrashing in Icelandic. (I did briefly entertain the idea of throwing stones at them to see how they liked the sensation.)

Our evening ended with yet another delicious meal at a nearby restaurant that had been recommended by several people. It’s housed in a rabbit-warren series of second-floor rooms in an older apartment building. At first glance it feels like you’ve arrived at a great-aunt’s home stuffed with 19^th century antiques and crocheted doilies. To add another element of other-worldliness, the maitre’d was from Montreal! After chatting in French we were seated in one of the four dining rooms – ours featured a large fish carved of wax and mounted on the wall… weird.

There was nothing weird about the food though! I splurged and ordered the scampi. Expecting the usual four or five, I was flabbergasted when presented with a heap of nine large beautifully grilled tails and salad! (Yes, I did eat them all - along with wine and chocolate ganache with crème fraiche & fresh Icelandic blueberries for dessert.)

Stay tuned for a few more updates... coming soon to a computer near you!
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Excuse me, your cone of silence is defective

2008-10-25T15:12:00.008-04:00

I just have to vent some steam! Last night a friend and I went to see Feist in concert. That girl can rock but she can also carry you away on the voice of a nightingale. The show was great – a mix of rock out blistering guitar work, toe-tapping pop tunes, and lilting acoustic solos.

Now you would think that having paid for a ticket (plus possibly dinner, parking, and/or a babysitter) that everyone would be there to listen to Feist and her band. Apparently not... We had the stunning misfortune to be surrounded by not just one but three couples (mid-age adults whom you would think would know better) who seemed to think that they were at home watching a music video in the privacy of their own living room.

They provided a running commentary on everything from how much they liked (or didn’t like) a particular song, the band’s skill (or lack thereof), the stage lighting & screen show, etc, etc. But what stunned – and irritated – me was the absolute lack of effort to lean towards their companion and speak quietly. It didn’t seem to occur to them that a) their ongoing conversations might be disrespectful to the performer and the setting, b) that their conversations might be considered incredibly annoying and disruptive to everyone within earshot, and c) that their ongoing behaviour might be legally defendable grounds for physical assault.

This was the third concert I’ve attended in about a month – luckily the first two experiences were amazing: the music, the venues, the energy, and the rapt appreciation of the audiences. Sadly my very enjoyable memories of the Feist concert are marred by the utter bloody rudeness of these people.

Perhaps we’ve forgotten how to behave in a communal setting. We don’t hold doors open – or even bother looking over our shoulder – anymore; we don’t teach (or show by example) our children to say “please”, “thank you”, and “would you like some help”; we’re so caught up in our me-centred experiences that we seem to have forgotten how to be civil and considerate of each other. Remember that warm, grateful feeling you get when a complete stranger does something nice for you? That’ll only keep happening if we pay it forward and remind each other that we live in a village, not under a cone of silence.

BTW I did finally tap one woman on the shoulder and, pressing my index finger to my lips, gave her the international ‘sshhhh’ gesture followed by a frustrated “Please”. Her outrage at being shushed boiled over when the lights came up and she jabbed me on the shoulder 4-5 times, telling me that she had been enjoying the show until I so rudely interrupted her. Mustering all the withering and dismissive disapproval I could deliver I simply said “You’re so rude.” and walked away. Like me, she’s probably still fuming! :-)
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Back to square one

2008-10-15T12:01:00.005-04:00

So here we are, right back where we started. Was it worth all the money and time and energy? Not to my mind, but I'm just one voter.

I have no representation in federal government. My riding went Conservative and there is little if anything in their leadership, policies or values that speaks to the kind of Canada that I love.

Thankfully the country has managed to avoid a majority Conservative government - I shudder at the possibility. Sadly the downward slide of voter turnout continued. Why don't people vote? Any number of reasons I suspect: apathy, disinterest, frustration, hopelessness, etc. Strategic voting and vote swapping - aided by technology - seem to be gaining ground, but to what end?

I looked at the voter share with interest because it’s often quite a different picture than what ends up filling those seats in Parliament. The final tally stands at Con 143, Lib 76, Bloc 50, NDP 37, independent 2, and Green 0. If Canadians were represented by vote share things would look just a little different: Con 117, Lib 80, NDP 55, Bloc 31, Green 22, and independent 3.

So in reality the voices of Con and Bloc voters are substantially over-represented and those of the NDP and Green voters are substantially under-represented. It’s particularly fascinating how the Bloc with only 9.97% of voter share ends up with 50 MPs in Parliament but the Greens with a slightly smaller vote share of 6.8% end up without a single representative! (Don't assume you know who I voted for...)

Ahhh democracy – mysterious and glorious all at the same time – a work in progress. Still, there are a lot of places where people can’t even speak out, far less vote. I hope everyone earned their right to complain by going out to vote!
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Should I or shouldn't I...

2008-10-14T17:32:00.004-04:00

"Sandra's thinking about caving."

That's what my Facebook profile status would say right now... if I were on Facebook, which I'm not... yet.

Chris was all over that trend - especially given his research interest in social networks and information-seeking behaviour. For many researchers and organizations Facebook has become an invaluable tool and resource if not a research focus in and of itself.

But me, I've been hanging back - partly out of paranoia, partly trying to stay out of the tsunami of sheer overwhelming mass popularity of social networking websites. To be honest, I've been cheating because I'm a bit of a stalker - signing in under Chris' profile and checking in on friends to see what's up.

And that's the allure isn't it? Part of me does want to know what's going on in the 'cool kids' corner; what fun things are being planned and discussed that I might be left out of; looking up old high school and university friends; sharing photos and book suggestions; etc.

But then it can all become so much navel-gazing and self-absorption. I'll be the first to admit that I can talk about myself and my interests for hours (as if this blog isn't evidence enough!). I think that's what holds me back. The whole privacy paranoia can be somewhat mitigated with the settings one chooses and really, if someone wants to find out something about you, they will - I know, I've done it myself (it's fascinating what some people put up on the internet!).

I struggle with all that 'Me' broadcasting - maybe it's being an only child (there I go disclosing personal information again!) and being teased about the stereotype of being spoiled and selfish - something I deliberately try hard not to do. Maybe it's because since Chris' death, I've been undergoing a slow metamorphosis of sorts - I'm just not sure what I'm becoming. I know that I don't want to be pigeon-holed and I've become more guarded about myself when meeting new people who don't know me or my life.

Something to chew on. Any thoughts dear readers?
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Til death do us part...

2008-09-23T15:15:00.009-04:00

Two years ago today, that's what Chris and I promised each other.

It's hard to celebrate - especially if people don't want to bring it up or forget what day it is... I guess they just don't know what to say. "Happy Anniversary" does seem somewhat incongruous given the circumstances. But it was such a beautiful day and the memories are full of love and I guess that's what it's all about. I'd do it all over again in a heartbeat!

Happy Anniversary Chris - wishing you sunshine on the other side of the rainbow. All my love, your Кошенька

Happy birth day

2008-09-12T09:36:00.003-04:00

Today is Chris' birthday. I'm not sure what to do, it seems wrong not to mark the occasion somehow. It's a very special day for me, for his family, for his friends because that was the day he came into the world - on his way towards coming into our lives.

We're all changed in some way because of having Chris in our lives. Just as we are by having each other in our lives. We may not know how much but each tie makes a difference... in how we look at the world, in how we think about the events that transpire around us, in how we treat each other. And in turn we affect others - even those we may not know by name.

In that spirit, a group of us including Chris' family and some close friends will once again be walking in memory of Chris in the Kidney Foundation's annual organ donation awareness campaign on Sunday, September 21.

Last year the walk took place on our first wedding anniversary and our team of 16 (including 2 dogs) raised over $4000 towards this important cause. The weather was perfect and we had a great time, met some really nice people, and enjoyed a BBQ as well!

In honour of Chris' birthday, consider organ donation and - most importantly - talk with your family about your wishes. Many people do not realize that their family's decision will be the final one regardless of what is indicated on their donor card or driver's license.

Please consider making a donation to team Carpe Diem Chris in memory of him and the incredible gift of life that organ donation can offer to the thousands of families still waiting.

Light and whispers

2008-09-09T10:14:00.013-04:00

Now that I'm home, I've had a chance to re-read the travel journal that I kept while in Iceland and I realize that there are some big gaps in my postings. Scribbling on the fly at a public library or dark internet gaming cafe surrounded by teenage boys is not terribly conducive to the creative spirit - a girl needs a room of her own!

I'm going to add bits and pieces about our trip in the coming days and weeks as well as continue to add more photos (I've already added some to my earlier postings) so stay tuned! You can click on any of the photos to see a larger version.

Ísafjörður
One of the most beautiful man-made places we visited was the church in Ísafjörður. It was built in 1995 to replace a much older one on the same site that had burned down. It's a very beautiful modern structure somewhat like an origami cubist version of the iconic Sydney Opera House. The church in Ísafjörður has cascading levels of long narrow windows rising above each building section and one wall is punctuated with small openings that reminded me a lot of the windows in Le Corbusier's church at Ronchamp. (There are almost no stained glass windows in Icelandic churches - probably mostly because of the long dark winters.) The interior is typically spare and light Scandinavian in decor with slate tile floors, white walls, and and a soaring blue ceiling, rows of simple chairs instead of pews, and a magnificent organ.

But it's the altarpiece that takes your breath away - a soaring flock of small clay birds seemingly frozen in mid-flight, so life-like despite their dark orange colour. The birds were each individually created by the people of Ísafjörður under the supervision of artist Ólöf Nordal - it is the embodiment of a true community effort but it's effect as a whole is so inspiring! I am no church-goer but one cannot but feel renewed and inspired in such a beautiful, peaceful place. I lit a single candle for Chris and spent a few quiet moments lost in prayer.

Later that day after we returned from our trip to the island of Vigur, we - of course - popped by the library. We had a great chat with the friendly library staff and she told us about the collection and the building's history. The beautifully restored three-story building used to be the regional hospital. The library is on the main floor, in an inter-connected series of sunny rooms with high ceilings. The regional archives, photography museum, and cultural centre are also in the same building.

"Whispers in the Library"

Just for fun, here is one of the panorama shots I stitched together (click on photo for a larger version). This is the Northwest side of Ísafjörður and the soaring fjord cliffs behind, taken from the harbour.

Knee bone connected to the thigh bone...

2008-09-07T11:27:00.005-04:00

So I found the computer/printer/DSL and managed to set it up all by my lonesome (this was always Chris' area of expertise)... everything works and I don't have any extra cables left over so I guess I did it right!

The move went as well as could be expected after arriving home from Iceland 12 hours earlier + a 4-hour time difference + very little sleep thanks to a whiney, lonely cat who shall remain nameless. BTW I don't recommend this type of intense insanity.

My success with the computer was somewhat undercut by the TV/DVD/VCR (yes I still have one)/cable hook-up. I even took a photo of the wiring connections before I packed everything up in the old apt! Despite three repeated hook-ups and complete rip-outs still nothing but crackling snow, which is charming on a crisp February morning but not so much after the departure of the cable guy. I gave up and called for help, turns out cable guy # 1 didn't actually connect the cable in the basement to anything! Thank you cable guy # 2.

And then there was the stereo (cue choir of angels). This was usually the first thing Chris set up, having always bought a special "moving in to a new place" CD to christian the event, so I was somewhat nervous about figuring out how to set up a "real" stereo system. Aside from the speaker wires being too short for where I want to put them, all is working so far. Pat on the back for me (and the reasonably explicit instructions and pictures in the manuals!).

But of course every move culminates in the unpacking of The Book Collection (only 11 boxes this time). Because I'm a book/library geek and into design porn (no, not porn design) I decided that when I unpacked my books I would try the sort by colour method that's so trendy on the 'net these days. It does however bring back haunting memories of post-BA minimum wage slavery at SmithBooks when I was often asked for some mysterious book that could only be remembered by its jacket cover colour.

Pictured below is the result of my ridiculously time-wasting little project (collection policy: coloured jacket fiction only, organized in the traditional visible spectrum colour range, many black & yellowing jackets left out simply for the sake of artistic vision, small selection of black covers serve as book-ends to frame the colours, single white cover chosen for its ironic title). Feel free to click on the pic below for full-size version to critique and compare (yes these are all my own books and no I haven't read them all... yet). Now this is just temporary and for fun, I'm waaay too anal to leave them like this!

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Sígur Ros and ghosts at the foss

2008-08-28T07:19:00.007-04:00

The whirlwind is beginning to wind down - hard to believe that we will be heading home to London tomorrow. We've had more adventures since my last post and miraculously, the weather although overcast (as is common) has been co-operative and we've managed not to get drenched except while standing near foss (waterfalls). The food continues to be delicious and my pants continue to get tighter!

We had another great road trip out to the "Golden Circle" consisting of Þingvellir (gotta love language-specific keyboards!), Geysir, and Gullfoss. Þingvellar is not only the birthplace of the oldest democratic parliament in the world - 1000 year anniversary was held in 1930 - but it is also the place where the North American and Eurasian tectonic plates are tearing apart at the rate of 2cm per year. Amazing geography/topography as well as a beautiful vista - reminded me of Northern Ontario, somewhat Group of Sevenish. When you think of how old all this history is and that people congregated here over a THOUSAND years ago to elect representatives...

We drove on to Geysir - after which all geysers are named - and met Icelandic capitalism face-to-face. This was probably the most commercial site we have visited so far but compared to North America it was very low-key and tasteful! We bought some souvenirs while the rain poured and when it let up we went out to watch Strokkur spout. Geysir is dormant but the smaller Strokkur is still impressive to watch simmer and blow.

The grand finale of our day - and what felt like a grand finale before our trip winds down - was our visit to Gullfoss, Iceland's best known and possibly most impressive foss. It is very wide and roars as it tumbles over two sets of rocky outcropping. Ridiculously, there is a narrow well-traversed path along side the foss with only a low rope dividing the no-go zones from the path. We walked right up onto the rocky outcropping over the falls - slippery, wet, NO BARRIERS - stunning views, soaked with mist, rainbow!! Incredible experience - all FREE!

But the real gift was awaiting me on the far side of the falls where David pointed out a single white swan resting on the rocky shoreline. Suddenly all the overwhelming emotions of this trip came pouring out and I stood there sobbing in the thunder and mist of this beautiful wild place, missing Chris more than I had at any other point during this trip. He brought us to this place and showed us things that we would never otherwise have seen or thought of visiting. I watched that swan resting by the water and told Chris how much I loved him and thanked him for giving us this singular breath-taking moment.

Our trip home was a quiet one - I think we were all lost in our own thoughts and memories and emotions. Dinner was another decadent gourmet feast at a hidden gem in the resort area of Laugarvatn: reindeer pate (tastes like Christmas according to Mark!), smoked trout, fresh pan-fried trout, grilled lamb, and of course decadent chocolate mousse for dessert!

Oh I forgot to mention - at the outset of our day we dropped by the Sundlaugin studio where Sígur Ros recorded their first four albums and David played the piano there!!!!

A few sight-seeing spots to still hit and some shopping before tomorrow´s departure. :-(

Bless bless (bye bye)! See you soon.
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Becoming the wind and the rain and the sea

2008-08-25T15:48:00.009-04:00

Where to begin!? Apologies to those devoted readers who've been waiting for an update on our trip around Iceland. It´s been an incredible few days since I last posted to the blog.

We're now in Reykjavík, staying at a huge apartment overlooking the "floating" city hall and downtown lake populated by ducks, seagulls, and a pair of swans!! The weather has been alternately windy, rainy, sunny, cold, damp, and refreshing - sometimes all in one hour. We're eating really well and somehow not spending a bloody fortune (tonight we've pledged to try puffin).

When last I wrote, we were headed to the Látrabjarg bird sanctuary where hundreds of thousands of sea birds nest during the spring and summer - including one of the largest puffin colonies in the world. It's also where we decided to scatter Chris' ashes. The place is ridiculously inaccessible - mountainous hairpin turn gravel roads cut into the sides of steep cliffs. But the reward once you get there is truly awe-inspiring (a word I've gotten used to using every day)!

We climbed to the second-highest peak, seeing puffins, guillemots, seagulls, and other birds all along the way. We stopped at a grassy spot with a stunning view out to sea and decided that this was a place where Chris would be free to become the wind and the rain and the sea. The wind whipped up from below the cliff edge and carried his ashes up into the cloud-torn sky where they disappeared. Ironically he probably might not have been able to get up to that place, even with a transplant, and so it was even more significant that he become part of the wild freedom of that beautiful place.

Later that day we took the Baldur Ferry to the little town of Stykkishólmur where we stayed the night at Hótel Breiðafjörður. Arriving too late to eat dinner at any of the restaurants in town I had a pylsur at the local gas station grill - yummmy!

Next day we headed for Snæfellsjökull, pushing our sturdy Skoda Octavia even further than we already had. Up, up, up further and further into the never-ending switch-back turns of the mountain gravel road we finally ended up in clouds, our windows misting with drizzle. The landscape up there was truly lunar, nothing visible beyond about 50ft and only lava rock and acid-green lava moss. Earlier visitors had left many Inukshuk-like rock piles and they sprouted around us like the elves that are reputed to live all around us. The road down to Hellnar was washed out so we had to turn around and drive all the way back!!

The drive to Reykjavík was positively boring in comparison and I actually napped along the way. We arrived to a Happy Anniversary banner and chilled champagne for David & Mark's 4th wedding anniversary (planned weeks ahead with my accomplices at the guesthouse). We lit up the disco ball on our living room ceiling and kicked back thinking that if we left the next day, we would already have had an incredible trip.

Our first full day in Reykjavík coincided with the city marathon AND the annual culture night Menningarnótt which is basically a big city-wide street party celebrating music, painting, theatre, etc. Galleries have open houses, mimes do performance art, painters show kids their techniques, shops offer sidewalk sales, etc, etc, etc. It´s a free-for-all that has something for everyone!

Art installation of front-load washing machines all "vomiting" water down the middle of the street! Just one of the dizzying array of things going on for Culture Night.

Late that night we grabbed some more delicious Icelandic baked goodies and headed down to the harbour along with thousands of other people for the big fireworks - what a show! We just happened to sit down on a little hill and the fireworks were literally set off right in front of us! The sky was clear as a bell but being Iceland it was barely dark even though it was 11pm. We cheered and clapped along with everyone else and afterwards, families and friends wandered along the harbourfront. To celebrate, we popped into one of the many hopping bars along the busy shopping strip and bought beers which we simply walked out onto the street while drinking - when in Rome! The streets were packed with families and merry-makers, laughing and strolling and drinking. What a great energy in the air!

Yesterday we drove along the south-west coast through Selfoss where we visited Bobby Fisher´s grave at a tiny church with a beautiful interior. Then it was on to Hella where we ate our picnic lunch overlooking a river before visiting a craft shop filled with handknit sweaters, ceramics, and hand-carved wooden bowls. We stopped for awhile at Skógafoss where we walked up to the pool at the base of this thundering waterfall - Iceland's highest. We got soaked in the spray and loved it! There is a wonderful museum there as well highlighting Icelandic life up until the 20th century including buildings around the museum grounds that you can walk into and see how people lived as far back as the early settlers in turf/sod houses.

Unbelievably, the day just kept getting better and better despite the driving rain. We decided to take the Lonely Planet suggestion to walk on Sólheimajökull glacier nearby and took the gravel road definitely less travelled by car, walked the last kilometer or so before climbing a rock pile and there lay a glacier before our eyes... It's so hard to put into words that experience - and everything that being there represents - how is this possible, why is it allowed!? We walked across the silt and gravel streams that pour out of the base of the glacier and then actually stepped onto it. There was not a single other person or man-made object as far as the eye could see, we were the only ones there... incredible.

We drove onwards towards the town of Vík and turned off down a country road that led us to a breath-taking view of a long curving black volcano sand beach where the icy cold waves crashed endlessly. Behind us rose a long line of basalt stone columns resembling a huge formidable cathedral organ. Above in the cliffs, hundreds of birds circled - including puffins. In the misty sunlight at the far end of the black beach stood the huge rock formation of Dyrhólaey glowing as if lit from the inside. It reminded me of our famous Percé Rock in the Gaspé region. The entire scene was almost too much to take in.

We left the crashing waves and birds to their ageless cycles to find a delicious dinner of tender marinated lamb in a tiny, bustling pub called Halldórskaffi. The drive back to Reyjavik was a late one but rewarded with a perfect crescent moon sliding out from behind the clouds.

We´ve seen so many incredible things and this snippet doesn´t nearly do it justice but I will continue to scribble and will elaborate when I return home.

Until next time...
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Icelandic poppies and fresh bread

2008-08-19T18:31:00.009-04:00

Greetings from Ísafjörður!

We had a good flight punctuated by several notable things: feather pillows and large fleece blankets for everyone; a yummy, hot dinner (served at the very continental hour of 10:30pm!); and a dizzying array of films, videos, music, and Icelandic travel info at our touch-screen fingertips. The sum total of sleep between the three of us was perhaps 4-5 hours!

We arrived bleary-eyed at 6:30am to a grey drizzly Keflavík airport outside of Reykjavík and took a quick shuttle into the city where we dropped off our bags and wandered about for several hours. Not much was open but we did walk through beautiful downtown gardens and pop into city hall where we saw a cool scale model of the entire island - those mountains we'll be driving through are really freakin' high!! Our sleep-deprived bodies got a charge from croissants and coffee before we headed to the tiny bustling city airport for our flight up north.

The clouds cleared for our decent and the view was SPECTACULAR!! Sheer mountains dropped into water that sparkled in the afternoon sunlight and the little town of Ísafjörður is wrapped around a peninsula in the deep finger of the fjord. The shuttle driver spoke no English but we got to our guesthouse which is delightful - six thumbs up from the three of us!

We wandered around for several hours - mouths agape and cameras snapping madly at the natural vista and charming town around us. Dinner at Tjöruhúsið in the Ísafjörður Maritime Museum was incredibly fresh fish, served in the pan at the table. Cold beer is always good and Viking brand rounded out our meal. We stopped into the tourist office and spoke with Kirsten who was very nice.

I slept in this morning but made up for it asap before we went out walking some more around town, taking yet more amazing picture. There are tons of cute, friendly cats wandering around who've all been getting chin scratches and photo-shoots. The architecture is really interesting - lots of mid-century modern! For a laugh - and because I love them - we popped into the local hardware store. Holy nice fixtures batman! Gorgeous modern stuff that would be special orders at Home Depot are fully stocked in a town of 3500! And of course everyone is blond and beautiful - even the crusty old guys down on the docks!

"Spiral Kitty"

We had an amazing afternoon boat trip out to Vigur island where we saw puffins, arctic tern, seals, and eider ducks. The family that owns the island run an eiderdown "farm" where they harvest eiderdown from the nests to make eiderdown duvets.

Having a Georgia O'Keeffe moment at Vigur Island...

It's hard to put into words how beautiful it is here. The air is cool and fresh. The sea and sky are ever-changing lifeforms. There are an astounding number and range of flowers everywhere: yellow and orange Icelandic poppies; heavenly scented wild roses; lush purple lupins; etc. The bread and baked goods are to die for! The smell... omg.

So much to describe! How to put these experiences into words? I will have to flesh out these on-the-fly postings once I get home.

Tomorrow, we're off to Látrabjarg in our rental car - cross your fingers and wish us luck!

A bientôt!
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One helluva life!

2008-08-16T10:41:00.008-04:00

Chris will have some very dear company now. The Dixon clan lost a long-cherished friend this week with the death of Ron Laidlaw. The Laidlaws were like a second family to Chris and were among the first people to meet him when he was just a baby.

Ron and his wife Vips welcomed me into their home at Christmas- time several years ago when I visited them with Chris and his mom and grandmother. I was a bit nervous because Chris had talked about them so much and in such a warm and affectionate manner that I wanted to be sure to make a good impression. I need not have feared any stern inspection! At the Laidlaws, strangers quickly became friends and friends became family.

Even though he was 88 when he died, Ron was never old. He was passionate about current events and curious about people, he had a wry (sometimes even corny) sense of humour and loved to share cartoons and jokes with loved ones near and far via his computer, he loved a good bottle of vino and had been helping his younger son build up a small vineyard in the Niagara region. His life-long passion was photography which he continued to practice up until his death.

But most of all he loved his family and his friends and they reciprocated in spades. Although I didn’t know him long or well, I could see the deep, abiding love and joy that Ron felt when he was surrounded by those he loved. He just bubbled with energy.

After his wife died several years ago, Ron described himself as a ship without its sail. He has rejoined his beloved Vips and I know they will enjoy smooth waters together forever more. Bon voyage – we will miss you.

Ron enjoying Iceland's Blue Lagoon this past May
(photo courtesy of Christian Laidlaw).

National organ donation registry

2008-08-13T17:15:00.015-04:00

Yesterday it was announced that Canada will finally develop a national organ donation registry. This registry will replace the many provincial and regional networks which currently manage life-saving surgeries for thousands of Canadians surviving with kidney, liver, lung, heart, and other organ failure.

Three years ago, Chris was near or at the top of the organ donation waiting list in Ottawa. Since Ontario alone has five completely separate and locally managed transplant regions - each with its own waiting lists - he was removed from that list shortly before we moved because he would no longer be living in the Ottawa region. It was our understanding that he would be assessed soon after his arrival in London and placed on their regional organ donation waiting list.

He lingered a jaw-dropping 14 months on the assessment waiting list before being scheduled for the full-day series of appointments to meet with the various members of the transplant assessment team: co-ordinator, social worker, nephrologists, transplant surgeons, etc. With a single registry, his file could simply have been transferred without being removed from the waiting list.

There were many times when he would give me an update of the latest anticipated wait time before the assessment that I lost all patience with the snail's pace bureaucracy of our healthcare system. I fumed and swore and railed on, demanding answers from Chris that he did not have. He was too patient for my fervent caregiver-driven frustration but it was his body and his condition and I knew I had to accept that.

Over my years living with and loving Chris, I came to understand how he – like anyone who faces a health crisis - had to steer his own course, comfortable with his own fully informed decisions and full participation as the key member of his healthcare team. This was the philosophy at the core of his PhD research interest.

In the end he never made it back onto an active organ donation waiting list because of the complications he developed from Encapsulating Peritoneal Sclerosis. The assessment team was waiting to see if he would respond to treatment before possibly undergoing the strain of transplant surgery and whether it might also jeopardize the precious donor kidney.

The new national organ donation registry will hopefully ease painful and frustrating wait times such as Chris and I endured. It will also open up the pool of available deceased donor organs to the best-suited candidates – no matter where they live – thus ensuring the best possible matches as well as creating opportunities for paired exchange donations. The new registry will also hopefully increase awareness of growing organ donation needs.

One issue that I am emphatic about is the validity of a deceased donor’s wishes over the possible dissension of their surviving family members. If someone has made the decision to donate their organs after death, that decision should be as binding as their will or any other legal document they made in anticipation of their death. Obviously healthcare staff must handle these situations with delicacy and empathy but in the end the deceased person’s wishes should be fulfilled.

Be a lifesaver. Sign your organ donation card or mark that choice on your health insurance card or driver’s license and – most importantly - talk with your family about this issue.
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Fairy godmother

2008-08-11T23:15:00.010-04:00

This year I've seen a bumper crop of babies in my circle of friends, acquaintances, and family. It's practically raining babies!

After a dry spell of several years when most of my friends seemed to have completed their childbearing - either by choice or Mother Nature's whim - suddenly I'm up to my chinny-chin-chin in baby announcements. The first was a late arrival in the first week of January and since then a new one has arrived every few months like clockwork (one more to come!). I feel like Mary Poppins!

I never really considered myself the maternal sort. Never really had the urge or desire to have a baby (much to my dear mom's ever-lasting disappointment). Not sure why, the longing just never really kicked in. Oh, I had a brief phase when I thought how nice it would be but that was a passing fancy. I used to joke that knowing my luck, it would be my kid who would be the axe murder - best not to tempt fate!

Don't get me wrong, I love children - as did Chris. We were both very concerned about child welfare issues and the importance of protecting and nurturing growing minds and bodies - encouraging little spirits to find their wings and soar, no matter what their dreams. We knew early on that we would not have children but that we could support and encourage the children in our lives.

I guess I’ve grown into my nurturing skills as I’ve gotten older. Maybe I tried too hard not to be maternal when I was younger, tried too hard to be different, thought that being a feminist meant not being maternal, who knows… But now I enjoy cuddling squirming babies and making them laugh, playing silly games and listening to adventurous plans of eight-year olds. I get to be a kid again! But I’m also not afraid to be strict and lay down rules. There’s a reason we’re the grown-ups – too bad more of us don’t act that way more often.

This past year has been one of heart-wrenching loss, sorrow, and grief but it also been one of spiritual renewal and deep gratitude for the circle of loving support that has surrounded me on this journey. I see the love and support that Chris gave his friends, family, and students reflected every day in the faces of those I love.

I’m one of the luckiest people I know! I try to honour that by “paying it forward” to my fairy godchildren. I hope I can help them find their wings.

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Purging & packing

2008-07-30T21:16:00.008-04:00

Have I mentioned how much I HATE PACKING!?

Don't get me wrong, I'm really excited about moving into my own little house but bloody hell... Just when I think I've finally whittled my belongings down to a sleek, manageable amount I look at the growing pile of boxes and struggle to understand how 10 of those are just books! And, I've weeded my collection TWICE this past year! [sigh]

I consider the pile of boxes that I've packed so far and wonder how I would feel if all of them suddenly disappeared or exploded or were mysteriously lost during the move... Aside from photo albums and some really lovely, unique things that I've bought over the years or that I inherited from my mom & dad, I honestly think it might be a refreshing (albeit drastic) way to strip my possessions down to basics. Very Zen. Very William Morris.

Back to reality: the purging and packing continues. Anyone who knows me knows that I hate clutter and the mindless consumerism that drives our lust for pretty, new toys (even when I like said pretty, new toys - hey I'm not made of sackcloth & ashes!). I've actually managed to throw out very little in recent years. I donate clothing and housewares to organizations such as Goodwill, Value Village, and other local "resale" organizations - many of which are run by charitable organizations. (Besides, vintage/retro clothing and home decor have become so trendy in recent years it's almost ridiculous!)

Most of my donated books that aren't passed along to friends, go to the local public library where they are added to the collection or sold at the hugely popular annual fund-raising book sale. Now that I'm moving I've been selling some furniture via a "digital yard sale" (i.e. an e-mail to everyone I know in the local area code!) as well as on kijiji. Other sites such as Craig's List and FreeCycle offer similar services.

When I move into my house and maybe decide to do a bit of renovating/re-decorating, I'll probably donate salvageable materials to Habitat for Humanity's ReStore outlet. It keeps perfectly good materials out of landfill, reduces the demand for natural resources, and provides employment and funds for that organization's valuable international work.

Don't just recycle - re-think, refuse, reduce, reuse, repair, and then recycle what ever's left over. (OK, time to get off my little soapbox and get back to packing!)
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Goodnight Tigger

2008-07-29T23:12:00.016-04:00

Many of you may have heard about Randy Pausch, a professor at Carnegie Mellon University who became famous for his "Last Lecture" entitled Really Achieving Your Childhood Dreams.

Pausch was diagnosed in September 2007 with terminal pancreatic cancer. Shortly thereafter, he was invited to give a "Last Lecture" at Carnegie Mellon. The school has a long tradition of such lectures where professors are invited to give a theoretical last lecture about the BIG ISSUES that are most important to them, the wisdom they would like to impart, the lessons they would like to leave their students and colleagues. Pausch's lecture really was his last and it was funny, touching, and deeply personal and it soon became a monster hit thanks to YouTube. Ultimately, the lecture was a love letter to his children but we can all learn something from his words.

How Randy Pausch chose to live his life after his diagnosis is inspirational... not in a big flashy way - although he did get to do some really cool stuff - but in many, many small memorable ways. He resigned his teaching position and, despite the growing number of requests for interviews and TV appearances, he and his wife Jai focussed their energies on living each and every day thereafter to its absolute fullest. He spent much of his time with her and their three young children. They may have been creating memories but I bet that they were really just soaking up the minutiae of each day - knowing how few of them might remain. They seized the day.

Professor Pausch enjoyed many academic and professional achievements and inspired many of his students and colleagues to find the joyful creativity in their lives. His "Last Lecture" may not be ground-breaking academic theory but in many ways it's even more important because of its simplicity: live life fully, find joy and passion, remember the wonderful evocative smell of crayons, figure out how to climb over the brick walls in your life, choose Tigger instead of Eyore (watch the video - it'll all make sense).

Randy Pausch died at home, aged 47, on July 25 in the loving company of his wife Jai and their three children.

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365 days

2008-07-02T10:22:00.003-04:00

365 days... how can they have passed so quickly?
how can they have passed so slowly?

**********************

Trying to Get Through
By Hothouse Flowers

Spend a long time on my own last night
I think I spent a little bit over the top
It's just something in a bottle
Made me feel right
And I think that's why I couldn't stop

The man beside me
Had the warmest look of understanding in his eyes
As I went on about the laws the barriers and things
That came upon me and my kind
I'm just trying to get through

We have words but sometimes words say too much
But they don't say enough
The boy meets the girl
Sometimes they sail smoothly
And sometimes it's rough

I remember like a little child
Kicking against a stone wall
That I built myself
I won't give in now
I won't feel guilty
I'll just rise up
I'll have to be myself
I'm just trying to get through
I'm just trying to get through

So help me
I'm trying to get through
Can't you see I'm trying to get through
Help me through

So listen people what I tell you now
Life is hard but it's worth keeping on
Listen people what I can tell you straight
It's not too late to try and get through
I'm just trying to get through...
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Every day can be Canada Day

2008-07-01T14:57:00.006-04:00

Today is a very special day for Canadians around the world. It's Canada Day (Dominion Day for the traditionalists in the crowd) a day when we celebrate and recognize our beautiful land, our colourful history, our vibrant cultural crazy quilt of immigrants and native peoples.

Our maple leaf flag flies proudly from every balcony, car window, and flagpole this week like it rarely does any other time of year. Bright red maple leaves will be tattooed, painted, sprayed, sewn, and carved in every imaginable material from cakes to sidewalks to cheeks (and other body parts!).

On Parliament Hill in Ottawa and all across the country, families and friends will gather in backyards and outdoor parks to listen to music, watch parades, and - of course - oooh and aaah over tonight's fireworks.

Chris and I were both proud Canadians - we sang along to the national anthem; we loved all those hackneyed Canadian symbols like mounties on horseback, rugged mountain vistas, maple syrup, and the McKenzie brothers. We were proud of what we knew Canada could be at its best: its public healthcare system, its vast and beautiful environment, its openness to diversity, its peaceful social democracy.

Despite many challenges and difficulties, the fragile promise held in shining moments throughout our shared memory reveals a lot about who we can be: Terry Fox and his Marathon of Hope, Expo '67 in our Centennial Year, the federal government's recent apology to the Aboriginal peoples of Canada. There are many, many moments - both small and large - that speak to who we are as a people and what kind of land and country we can to leave to our children. It's up to us to become the change we want to see.

So go out and celebrate Canada Day every day: eat delicious Indian food, visit a mosque, care for a Japanese bonsai, learn to speak Spanish, play the bagpipes, give up your seat for an elderly war vet, knit an Icelandic sweater, teach English to a new immigrant, see a blind woman, offer a hand up to a teen down on their luck, donate blood, learn to canoe, teach your children to say "excuse me" and "thank you", join an African drumming circle, shovel your neighbour's walk, speak up against prejudice and intolerance, and oooh and aaah over the fireworks in your life - whenever and wherever they occur.
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Going 'round and 'round in circles

2008-06-18T20:32:00.010-04:00

Today I walked my first labyrinth. I wasn't sure what - if anything - to expect from the experience. I'd read of people claiming transcendent, even out-of-body experiences while walking labyrinths. (I had no such exalted expectations!)

Labyrinths date back thousands of years and can be found in cultures around the world. They are tied to Pagan, Christian and other faiths and are often used for meditation or prayer. To help dispel some ongoing confusion, a labyrinth is not a maze - although the two do share some characteristics and historical significance. In some ways they serve opposite purposes - a labyrinth helps you to find your way, a maze is a place to lose yourself.

The labyrinth I walked is outdoors, located in a hilltop clearing surrounded by trees. I wasn't sure if I might be caught in rain because the sky was quite grey and there was a cool gusty breeze blowing. In the end, I decided I didn't really care if I got rained on - maybe it would even add to the experience!

As I began to walk the path, my mind was busy - fluttering about, consciously thinking about what I was doing. But as I continued to trace the path in and out of the labyrinth's circular shape, slowly getting closer and closer to its centre I found my thoughts becoming less cluttered. I listened to the birds in nearby trees. I looked at the tiny meadow flowers and clover below my feet.

With each circuit, I realized I was walking more and more slowly, simply enjoying the quiet solitude of the place and the process. It was somewhat akin to watching flames dance in a bonfire or listening to waves wash up on a beach - quite mesmerizing and calming. The circular path forces you to slow down your mental process, to filter out the 'noise' of daily life, to take a brief moment to simply walk and breathe and feel... perchance to dream. The point is to enjoy the journey, not simply get to the destination as quickly as possible.

If you're interested in seeing/walking a labyrinth near you, check out The International Labyrinth Society's labyrinth locator or the Ontario Labyrinth Directory.
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Young in the head

2008-06-13T21:27:00.010-04:00

If you're feeling older than your years (or maybe just a year older like I am this week); if you're complaining about your aches and pains and how tired you are; if you think you're too old to [insert here whatever it is you're feeling too old to do]; then get off yer sorry arse and go see a movie called Young@Heart. Trust me, you'll enjoy yourself.

It's funny as hell - I'll warn you, there are also moments that are sad as hell too - but what you'll really remember is how full of life this bunch of 'old fogies' are. This is way more than an "aww shucks feel-good story". I dare you not to have fun watching this film - you will not be able to sit still!

The Young at Heart Chorus is composed of a group of seniors (average age 81) whose performances include an eclectic assortment of toe-tappin' tunes ranging from Schizophrenia by Sonic Youth to Stayin' Alive by the Bee Gees. Check out this brilliantly tongue-in- cheek rendition of The Ramones' punk classic I Want to be Sedated:

Growing old is all in your head (and maybe your hip and your back and your hearing) - make the best of it and go enjoy the ride.
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I'm grieving as fast as I can

2008-06-10T12:53:00.009-04:00

I have been through the wringer this past week or so, mentally speaking that is.

I’ve been out with friends, laughing and enjoying life in all its wonderful weirdness. I’ve lain despondent on the sofa staring at the ceiling feeling very sad and lonely. I’ve been boiling furious – screaming in anguish to peel the paint off the walls one night at about 3am (leaving me worried when no one did call the cops!). I’ve been excited about new ventures and adventures to come. I’ve been sharply disappointed at judgments made in my absence.

Maybe it’s just the heat and humidity…

Grief is a lonely journey – whether we travel with family and friends or not. Everyone who lives through the death of a significant person in their lives goes through a different experience. The variables are truly endless and can differ wildly even within one family or close knit group.

Each person’s relationship with the one who has died will colour the way they experience that loss as well as how they work through their grief. Their own life histories and personalities and beliefs will equally affect that experience. One person will experience each death that occurs during their lifetime in a different way as the layers of their life deepen and intertwine. Their past and their memories will become part of their future and their dreams.

Grief doesn’t come with a standard manual or a recipe. Grief has no universal timeline or predetermined expiration date. Grief is as individual as a fingerprint or DNA.

Some days it's enough to get out of bed and eat breakfast, other days are for taking on the world. Only I can decide which is which and when is enough.
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How to live forever

2008-06-03T11:47:00.004-04:00

Last night I was going through some papers and found a faded newspaper clipping that I had squirreled away many years ago. It's a poem that spoke to me about the greater meaning of life at a time when I had yet to experience the pain of losses that were to come.

It rings even more true now...

************

To Remember Me
By Robert Noel Test (1926-1994)

The day will come when my body will lie upon a white sheet neatly tucked under four corners of a mattress located in a hospital busily occupied with the living and the dying.

At a certain moment a doctor will determine that my brain has ceased to function and that, for all intents and purposes, my life has stopped.

When that happens, do not attempt to instill artificial life into my body by the use of a machine. And don't call this my deathbed. Let it be called the Bed of Life, and let my body be taken from it to help others lead fuller lives.

Give my sight to a man who has never seen a sunrise, a baby's face or love in the eyes of a woman.

Give my heart to a person whose own heart has pain.

Give my blood to the teen-ager who was pulled from the wreckage of his car, so that he might live to see his grandchildren play.

Give my kidneys to one who depends on a machine to exist from week to week.

Take my bones, every muscle, every fiber and nerve in my body and find a way to make a crippled child walk.

Explore every corner of my brain.

Take my cells, if necessary, and let them grow so that, someday, a speechless boy will shout at the crack of a bat and a deaf girl will hear the sound of rain against her windows.

Burn what is left of me and scatter the ashes to the winds to help the flowers grow.

If you must bury something, let it be my faults, my weaknesses and all my prejudice against my fellow man.

Give my sins to the devil. Give my soul to God. If, by chance, you wish to remember me, do it with a kind deed or word to someone who needs you.

If you do all I have asked, I will live forever.
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Wending my way towards the light

2008-05-28T12:07:00.008-04:00

Last night I had one of my flying dreams, only this time I was awake.

I soared up through the clouds, lifted by the sultry thundering voice of an unlikely angel...

When k.d. lang was a child, the gods reached down and gifted her with a voice for the ages. The sweet purity and luxuriant power of her stunning voice leaves me struggling for words that aren’t cloying or overwrought.

There are many days when, like Charlie Brown, I walk under a cloud that follows me from place to place but last night was one of those times when light punched through my shadowed world.

I wept silently in awe listening with eyes closed to her sublime rendition of The Valley. This was as close to any divine moments I’ve experienced. Words fail...

The Valley written by Jane Siberry (Issa)

Soaring up into the cool starry night sky, arms outstretched, guiding me over tree tops and turning, turning across wide open fields up towards the limitless stars, surrounded and carried on waves of melody.

What a voice, what a gift... thank you k.d. for those transcendent moments.
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Love is a mix tape

2008-05-19T15:16:00.010-04:00

Anyone who came of age during the 80's or 90's has no doubt been the creator and/or the recipient of a mix tape. I certainly was, I even have memories of taping songs from the radio onto my funky white plastic portable cassette recorder/player (it was the late 70's, cut me some slack).

Mix tapes heralded the beginning of individuals creating, in effect, soundtracks for their own lives... self-publishing before the world of YouTube existed. The mix tape was the first step towards what we now take for granted in the modern world of 'pick & choose' MP3 music.

Most of you will remember the popular movie High Fidelity, based on Nick Hornby's book of the same title - a classic tribute to music and love and mix tapes. There was even a Friends episode in which Chandler gives Monica a mix tape for Valentine's Day - sufficed to say that despite his good intentions the evening did not end well.

Chris made me several CD compilations over the years. The first he titled Here's Hopin' and gave to me the summer we started going out - apparently he was smitten and wasn't afraid to let me know! Others included one for Valentine's Day entitled Better Than Flowers (hmmm) and a blues-themed one I received for a birthday entitled Don't Nobody Know My Troubles but God. He also made compilations for family and friends - sharing music was his way of telling them he loved them.

A while back a fellow librarian, knowing of Chris' death, recommended a book entitled Love is a Mix Tape by music journalist and life-long creator of mix tapes Rob Sheffield. The autobiographical book recounts his time in Charlottesville, Virginia during the 1990's where he fell head over heels in love with fellow mix tape aficionado Renée Crist "a hell-raising Appalachian punk-rock girl". Not quite six years after their wedding, Renée died very suddenly from a pulmonary embolism at the age of 31.

In many ways this book is Sheffield's tribute to Renée but it's also the story of his slow and sometimes painful musical journey back into the world of light and laughter. It's been described as the happiest, sad story you'll ever read. This is a funny and well-written story - I smiled and laughed throughout this book. Of course I cried as well - how could I not?

I think Chris would have enjoyed the story of Rob and Renée - he would have recognized wry similarities in the 'opposites attract' stories. (Although I'm sure he would have taken issue with some of the musical selections or the way they were put together. Like most music junkies, he was very opinionated about how to put together a great compilation - how the songs worked together was just as important as the songs themselves!)

If you enjoy a good mix tape, you'll enjoy this book. It will bring a smile to your face.
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Another kind of family

2008-05-18T15:39:00.008-04:00

Last month I attended the annual dialysis memorial service organized by the staff of the hospital dialysis program. This very touching event is becoming more and more common in dialysis clinics as staff come together with families to share their grief at the loss of people who are more than just patients.

Unlike most other healthcare settings, dialysis staff and patients spend many hours together several times a week over the span of months and often years. Despite rotations in shifts and changes to schedules, patients and staff get to know each other well - sharing stories of children and grandchildren, work goals and travel photos, happy news and difficult struggles.

I visited Chris fairly often at dialysis. We would catch up on our day or watch TV together... I once got corralled into refereeing a trivia challenge. Family members are welcome in the unit and I got to meet many of the "other women" in Chris' life - especially the hardworking, kind, generous, funny nurses who took care of his dialysis regime while he was hooked up to the machine. There were also nurse practitioners, doctors, dieticians, and technicians who all played vital roles in maintaining Chris' health - indeed his life.

For these staff, the losses of patients each year must take a difficult toll. Like cancer care, death is sadly an all too common part of dialysis care but the people who choose such a career path seem to be especially resilient and caring individuals who somehow manage to share the burden of chronic illness but also the joys of life.

This year, 44 dialysis patients who passed away last year were honoured at the memorial service. Several staff spoke from their hearts or read poems, their voices thick with emotion. Families and friends were invited to light memorial candles. The theme of this year's service was The Spirit of Transformations and that transformation was represented by butterflies which was especially touching to me... almost like a secret gift. I felt Chris smiling with me at the bittersweet coincidence.

I will be forever grateful to the staff of the dialysis unit who helped Chris live his life to the fullest. There were many other places he would rather have been but if he had to be there, I'm glad he was in such caring and capable hands. Thank you for all you do.
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A home of one's own

2008-05-18T15:23:00.007-04:00

In case you've been wondering what I've been up to during the last few weeks... I bought a house!!

I guess the hankering to feel grass under my feet was re-awoken once spring began and I realized I was ready to take that step. Last fall I wasn't ready to leave the apartment that Chris and I had shared. I'm excited and nervous but it will be fun (except for the actual moving). And now I can finally have my own backyard swing, just as Chris promised me.
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"A gift is a gift, no matter how long it lasts."

2008-04-26T19:41:00.023-04:00

"Grief comes in waves," wrote Joan Didion in her remarkable book The Year of Magical Thinking.

It can also blindside you when you least expect it. I had been thinking of writing about the spate of babies bursting into my world this year, the circle of life, all that kind of stuff, but I'm putting that aside for another day.

As I sit here writing my eyes are filled with tears, my throat tight and my heart filled with anguish and sadness. Why? Because this morning I turned a page in the Focus section of the Globe & Mail and read words that broke my heart, unleashing a torrent of emotions and memories of Chris' death.

Amelia Bruce died on April 5. She was 27 years old.

I didn't know Amelia but last August her grandfather, Toronto writer Stephen Gauer, wrote a very personal and touching article in the G&M about his experience as a living kidney donor for Amelia. He wrote lovingly of his sunny, resilient, smart, and outgoing grand-daughter and how she lived her life like any young woman, despite - or perhaps because of - her kidney failure.

Amelia received a donor kidney in 1997 but in 2005 it began to fail and she faced the prospect of going back on dialysis and a wait of up to eight years for a second transplant. Her grandfather volunteered to be tested and was found to be a good match and on June 26, 2007 they both went into surgery. The transplant was a success but months later something went wrong and Amelia began to experience a series of setbacks that frequently sent her to the hospital. In recent months though her health seemed to stabilize and she was looking forward to moving into her own apartment which her grandfather was painting for her. But then it all went terribly wrong.

Stephen Gauer's follow-up article in today's G&M is entitled Goodbye Amelia. It is a raw and heart-breaking love letter to a little girl and a young woman. It's also a personal recount of his own journey alongside Amelia watching her growing up and what it meant to say goodbye to his grand-daughter. He responds to those who asked him if he regretted giving her his kidney, "I believe with all my heart and soul that if donating a kidney to Amelia made her life better, easier, less painful, more hopeful, happier, less exhausting for even one day out of those 284, it was worth it."

As you can imagine, many thoughts crashed through my mind as I read this heart-breaking news today. So many similarities resounded, odd little things like Amelia's mother hearing her alarm ringing on and on and discovering her daughter dead in bed. The night before he died, Chris had set his alarm for an early wake-up. When I went back to the apartment later the next afternoon to pick up some clothes, I froze in my tracks upon hearing the clock-radio blindly roaring to an empty bed. It had been playing all day.

The article recounts Amelia's mother's anguished protests, "This is completely wrong. This is bullshit."; Amelia's memorial service where over 130 people came to share their grief, love, and loss; Stephen's wonderment at the unexpected serendipity of gaining a delightful grand-daughter when he met and fell in love with Amelia's grandmother; all these experiences touched off a firestorm in my own heart...

Memories of my own horror at realizing that the moment we knew would some day come had actually come far too soon; trying to reach Chris' parents and not knowing what I was going to say when they answered the phone; the hundreds of kind, supportive people who came to Chris' visitation and memorial service; and some of the strange things people said to me out of discomfort or tactlessness.

I'm drained by this day. I've cried for Amelia, for Chris, for myself. So many unfulfilled dreams, so much pain, so much love.
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Gift of life

2008-04-22T13:26:00.005-04:00

This is National Organ and Tissue Donation Awareness Week (April 20-27)

As many of you know, Chris was lucky enough to receive a kidney from an anonymous deceased donor in 1994. Unfortunately, after seven years the kidney failed in 2001 and Chris went back on dialysis. His doctors had hoped that he would be able to receive a second kidney transplant. His dad, his brother, and I all volunteered to be tested to see if any of us were compatible to be living donors for Chris. Unfortunately he passed away before that could happen but his corneas were donated and he was able to give the gift of sight to two individuals in Ontario.

According to Medline Plus, the organs and tissues from one deceased donor can save or help as many as 50 people! Organs which can be donated include:

Internal organs such as kidneys, heart, liver, pancreas, intestines, lungs
Skin
Bone and bone marrow
Corneas

Please take a few minutes this week to consider your wishes regarding organ and tissue donation, sign your organ donor card, and - most importantly - talk with your families and friends about this important decision. After your death, they will have the final say on whether your wishes are fulfilled.

Gift of Life
Canadian Blood Services
Canadian Association of Transplantation ~ Public Information
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Too much stuff

2008-04-21T17:07:00.006-04:00

Inspired by a friend and fellow librarian who sent me a posting from one of my favourite blogs - Unclutterer - I took a good, hard look at my bookshelves and then went to town. I decided to once again try sorting my books into read and unread - a scheme I've used in the past with some success but became bored with. I was horrified to discover that nearly half the books on two full bookcases were UNREAD (I won't humiliate myself by providing examples)!! My excuse is that many are Chris' books... some are in Cyrillic!

Despite having purged about four boxes of books before we moved two years ago and another four boxes of non-fiction after Chris passed away, I realized that it had been a loooong time since I had cast a critical and realistic eye on my book collection. The Russian classics in Cyrillic were weeded, as were one pair of the inexplicably duplicate copies of both The Iliad and The Odyssey. I'm still waffling on the pile of Robertson Davies - a favourite of Chris' but not so much mine. The give-aways have gone to friends, our apt building's book exchange cupboard, and the library.

Call it spring cleaning if you wish but those of you who know me know that I love to get rid of clutter. In my fantasy life I aspire to these inspiring words of William Morris: "Have nothing in your house that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful". In reality I have been known to verge on mild panic attacks when feeling overwhelmed by too much clutter!

Those of you who knew Chris knew that he was not afflicted by this difficult condition. :-) So I guess we were a healthy match - he wouldn't let me get rid of things that we really shouldn't and I wouldn't let him hoard things that we really didn't need. Like bundles of ten-year old pay stubs, manuals for obsolete software, and one rusty hubcap for a car we didn't own (in case you're not sure, these are things deemed unnecessary for us to keep).

My dad often used to say that one person's trash is another's treasure... of course he was a delighted recipient and wheeler-dealer of many people's 'trash' over the years. (My purging tendencies are no doubt a direct albeit unintended result of his influence.) But while I love to get rid of stuff, being an eco-witch means I'm loath to throw things in the garbage so I'm a long-time fan of thrift stores, freecycling, and swap parties (see earlier reference to "one person's trash...").

On that note, go out and celebrate Earth Day tomorrow by not buying over-packaged, cheaply-made stuff you don't really need; get rid of some of the stuff you already have too much of; and give away what we all need more of: laughter, hugs, and kindness.
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The "w" words

2008-04-14T19:38:00.004-04:00

I've now been a widow for longer than I was a wife.

9 months, 1 week, and 2 days... well not quite 2 days, more like 1 and a 1/2 days.

That was how long Chris and I had been married when he died so suddenly in my arms early in the morning of July 2. Last Thursday marked that same period of time since Chris' death. I now find myself adrift in uncharted territory, unmarked time... A.C. (After Chris) if you will.

I spent more time planning our wedding than I spent actually being married! It really would be ridiculously funny if it weren't so achingly sad.

I never even got used to being a wife - to figure out what it meant to me, what kind of a wife I was and would become. A number of "w" words began to pop into my mind as I began writing this entry: woman, womyn, wife, widow, wench, witch, weaker sex, whore... all of these words heavy with meaning and emotion, each representing something different to different people in different cultures and different times.

Who am I? What am I? Just myself... whatever that may be.
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It's not just a car... it's a Karmann Ghia!

2008-03-29T16:47:00.013-04:00

When I was out and about yesterday running some errands downtown, I noticed an Audi TT Roadster and smiled. Now don't you fret, I'm still as anti 'car culture' as ever but I've had a life-long love of beautiful design and the Audi TT Roadster is one great looking car.

The reason it makes me smile is that its silhouette is very familiar to anyone who knows what a VW Karmann Ghia looks like. I had a vague memory of having seen a couple of them over the years but when I met Chris I entered the world of Ghia.

Chris and his mom, circa 1979

When he was little, his mom had a beautiful sky-blue Ghia and Chris rued the day his parents sold that car, vowing to get one for himself when he could afford it. The Ghia is not a practical car by any stretch of the imagination – completely useless as a family vehicle, especially for Canadian winters. It is however a sporty, sassy, gorgeously retro, little summer run-around and it's also available as a convertible!

Chris, being a collector by nature, had an eclectic assortment of Ghia ‘objets d’art’ – mostly acquired courtesy of eBay. These included a set of collector’s cards, a keychain, a sticker, a rubber stamp, a T-shirt, a lapel pin, a ball cap, a die-cast car model, and… a slightly rusty hubcap (don't ask). One of the first gifts I gave Chris was a framed Ghia post-card.

When Chris was accepted into the PhD program, I promised him I would buy him a Ghia as a graduation present. I caught him on more than one occasion perusing the eBay Motors site looking at available models. He never did get to even test-drive one and I’m not sure how he would have squeezed his 6’2” frame into the low, cramped interior but hot damn, he would have looked good driving that car!

“Where to, beautiful?” he would have asked, his blue eyes twinkling behind cool shades, beaming with pleasure as he drove off towards a new adventure. (Damn car culture!)
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Lost voices

2008-03-20T11:36:00.008-04:00

There was an interesting little story in yesterday's news about an elderly gentleman in New York state whose wife passed away in 2005. Catherine Whiting had left a voicemail message on their answering service before she died and her husband Charles had listened to it each day since her death, finding comfort in the sound of her voice. When their service was upgraded however, the message was lost. After hearing his story, the phone company launched a database search and were able to retrieve the digital recording of Catherine Whiting's voice. The wonders of digital technology.

Several days after Chris passed away, I was going through old messages on our answering machine and there was one from Chris that he had left only a few days before he died. Still stunned from his sudden death, I remember the shock of hearing his voice. I can't even describe how bizarre and wonderful it was to hear his warm voice streaming out of that little silver box, wrapping me in comfort and slapping me in the face all at the same time. It was a breezy, affectionate little message like any other he had left a thousand times before. He signed off - like always - saying "love you".

That message was lost to me several weeks afterwards when our power went out for a brief time. The moment it happened I knew that Chris' voice was gone. I was so angry, so frustrated that a brief accident of lost electrical current could snatch away that tiny precious moment of intimacy Chris left to me. I remember yelling at the answering machine when the power came back on, viciously pouring all my frustration and anger over it's ability to come back to life when Chris could not. Stupid *#^% machine!!

When I was emptying out my parents' house after they had to move into a nursing home, I found a reel to reel recording of speeches made at their wedding reception. What a wonderful moment, holding that treasure from the past in my hands. Not even knowing of its existence! I had a CD copy made and now I can listen to the voices of my Grandpa Charles, my uncle Doug, and my dad - all of them now passed away. Hearing their voices makes my memories of them so much more real.
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Legacy of learning

2008-03-18T18:39:00.007-04:00

A couple of months ago I wrote about the scholarship I wanted to create in Chris' memory and now - with the help of friends and family - that initiative will come to life.

Several months after his sudden death last July, I met with representatives of the library school where Chris & I met as grad students to discuss ways in which his life could be honoured. It was quickly agreed that one of the best ways would be to support the same passion in a new generation of Library and Information Science (LIS) students.

Chris' curiosity and openness to new knowledge led him not only to PhD studies but also to explore interests as varied as cooking, travel, music, Russian literature, and mini-golf! He had the rare gift of true joy in learning and generously shared his knowledge with others. Many of us have had the experience of leaving a get-together with Chris more energized and excited about our own endeavours than when we arrived.

We've established an award named the Christopher Mathew Dixon LIS Memorial Scholarship. It will be awarded once annually to a Master's or Doctoral LIS student who not only shows the same passion for the field in which Chris studied, but who also exemplifies a commitment to making his or her community a better place through active and ongoing volunteer work.

I've donated some "seed money" to start the ball rolling and now we're appealing to faculty, alumni, staff, colleagues, family, and friends to help build the endowment so that this scholarship can be awarded to deserving students for many years to come.

To make a gift you can donate securely on line. If you prefer to make a donation by mail or telephone, or if you have any questions, please contact Karen Boddy, Alumni & Development Officer, by e-mail or call (519) 661-2111, ext. 87463.

This living legacy would not have come to life without the dedication of several people in particular at the faculty who are very dear to Chris and me. I affectionately think of them as the Three Musketeers (3M for short) - I hope they know how much I appreciate their support.
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It's a small EPS world

2008-03-12T12:31:00.009-04:00

Several months ago, I stumbled across an Internet reference to a book entitled Barry's Stolen Life. The book was written by Linda Sweetland about her 28 year old son Barry who died of complications from kidney disease in 2003.

What made me take a second - and then a third - look at this reference was the startling series of coincidences between Barry and Chris' stories. In the end I ordered a copy of the book for myself and read it in one sitting. The book is self-published and is - as many such projects are - a labour of love rather than a literary masterpiece.

Like Chris, Barry was born seemingly healthy but began to show evidence of underlying problems at a young age. The coincidences begin: both were diagnosed with Reflux Nephropathy at a young age; both had surgery in an attempt to correct the problem; both were ultimately diagnosed with End Stage Renal Disease; both underwent hemodialysis, kidney transplants, and peritoneal dialysis; both suffered through peritonitis; both lived active and happy lives; and both married their sweethearts shortly before their sudden deaths. Barry and Becky were married for little over two weeks. Chris and I had nine months.

It was complications from the relatively innocuous peritoneal dialysis that caused them both to develop a rare condition called Encapsulating Peritoneal Sclerosis (EPS). The condition seems to mainly occur in patients who have undergone peritoneal dialysis for longer than five years. The statistics rise the longer the treatment is used – but even so the rate hovers around a lowly 3% of dialysis patients who develop EPS. Chris' team of nephrology specialists had seen less than a handful of cases over the span of 20 years in the field.

Even specialists studying EPS do not yet understand what triggers it in some patients but not others. EPS causes the normally tissue-thin peritoneal membrane to become thickened and impenetrable, making the fluid exchange of dialysis impossible but also slowly encasing the digestive organs thereby cutting off nutrient absorption.

Chris had undergone several surgeries and was receiving experimental drug therapy for his EPS – we’ll never know if he would have been cured. Barry suffered terribly from the condition and in my heart I am relieved that Chris (and I) never had to endure such distress. He never expressed regrets for having chosen peritoneal dialysis as a treatment method. He always spoke of the freedom it gave him - to travel, to work, to live.

According to the book, a percentage of the profits from its sale will be donated to research into the condition. The International Society for Peritoneal Dialysis is working with several specialists to create an international EPS registry to aid in the research of this rare condition.

You may be wondering how I could read Linda's book. I’m not sure. I’m a reader, a learner, by nature. It’s one of the ways I understand life and cope with issues I don’t understand. As well, the coincidences were almost freakish and I wanted to see how someone else had coped with such similar experiences. We're all learning and that doesn't always mean choosing the easiest path.
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Daily salvation and the bloody persistence of memories

2008-03-11T20:42:00.005-04:00

I've had such a hard time (pardon the pun!) putting into words how time has become an increasingly fluid and elastic element in my life since Chris died.

Most people find that time seems to continually, exponentially, and freakishly speed along faster and faster with each passing year. How can it not trip up over itself and turn our minds inside out!? (Maybe it does – we just call it Alzheimer’s.)

What I’ve experienced since Chris’ death is a not linear in any sense. Suddenly time bends backwards and slows down; it rockets forward and stops. I never know what any given day is going to feel like when I wake up in the morning. Will it be a day of moving forward and looking ahead or will it be a looking glass day? Will I find myself tumbling down the rabbit hole where time and reality and logic have no relevance?

One of many traditions I picked up from my mom was to sit down early in January every year with the new and old years’ calendars and write in birthdays, anniversaries, etc for the coming year. I knew that it would be an emotional minefield this year but habit won out.

The memories leapt to life from each little numbered square: love notes, medical appointments, travel plans, house-hunting visits, anniversaries - many of them in Chris’ near indecipherable scribble. Some he never lived to see: the closing date of the house we bought three weeks before he died, our first anniversary, his 35th birthday.

Each memory is marked in my mind not only for how long ago it happened but also by how long it would be from that day until the day Chris died… like two mirror images of the same inevitable reality; like two speeding trains heading towards each other. “This week last year…” “It would be two months to the day of his death.” It’s an easy game to get caught up in.

I sometimes feel like I’m standing at the corner of a set of mirrors that reflect images into infinity. At the corner point is the moment of Chris’ death and everything in my mind seems reflected through that instant. That instant which never seems to fade or drift in and out of focus like other memories. That instant when everything changed and time stopped being logical.
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Winter wonderland

2008-03-09T00:36:00.002-05:00

It finally stopped snowing a couple of hours ago.

After being holed up in my beige concrete apartment box all day, I suddenly wanted to be out in the still whiteness of the night.

It’s so beautiful. It takes my breath away. Stepping out in front of our building, I stand for a moment and taste the cool fresh air.

I let myself fall backwards into a snow bank and savour the soft wet fresh smell as the snow flakes rise up in little clouds about my head and then flutter back down. The storm has scrubbed the sky clean and the scattered clouds hang like tattered lace curtains high above my head. Before walking on, I smile at my sleeping snow angel shadow.

The streets are empty and quiet. No one is out. I feel deliciously alone in this fairyland, like I’ve walked through a door in a dream. I hope that I don’t see anyone as I walk the streets – I don’t want words or noise to break this beautiful silence.

The snow is knee-deep where a vague furrow marks the path of the sidewalk underneath. Here and there benches stand like abandoned sections of country fence railing, their seats and legs coyly hidden just below the snow.

A white plastic bag snagged high up in a tree branch catches my eye. It billows out like a Barbie-sized spinnaker sail, holds its breath for a moment, and then softly collapses with a silent sigh. I stand in the middle of the empty street and watch it for awhile as if looking on a sleeping child.

The streetlights cast yellow and blue tinged pools over the satin-shiny fresh snow, tempting me to walk still farther. I come to a sign that says “Path not maintained during winter.” and so I climb up over the snow bank, lifting my knees high with each step into the uncharted wilderness of the path that leads to the pool house. Halfway along I stop and look behind me. My steps have left neat boot-shaped holes deep in the powdery drifts. At the end of the path I leave another snow angel calling card for the sidewalk ploughs that will come early tomorrow morning.

On my way home I see an uncommonly tall and straight evergreen tree. Each swayed branch is outlined in white like a rib-bone, its twin mirrored on the other side of the trunk and I can’t help but see a tall fish skeleton! I blink and it’s a tree again.

I slowly walk along the side of the street, glancing up at the sighing plastic bag as I pass underneath it again. The only sounds are the faint hum of the occasional street lamp and the first street ploughs far away in the distance.

I look up into the night sky, searching for stars but none appear and so I head home, my mittens and pants damp with snow and a smile in my heart. Chris would have loved this night.
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You, me... and we

2008-02-29T22:05:00.007-05:00

I realize that it's been awhile since I posted any updates on the blog. I have been writing, just not online. Like many people in northern climes, I struggle through February. Perhaps it, not April, is the cruellest month. My mother often wondered if she suffered from SAD - quite possible, given her predisposition to mild depression. Thankfully (at least to my mind) this has been a bright snowy white winter for the most part, banishing the grey, damp weather that passes as an excuse for winter in these parts.

It's been a difficult month - probably only in part because of the winter blues. The mother of a dear friend of mine passed away recently after a long struggle with Parkinson's. I sat with her several afternoons in the week before her mom died, keeping her company, making sure she got out for a walk in the fresh air and a regular bite to eat. We talked, I knit, she held her mom's hand, sometimes we just sat quietly together. Looking on her mother sleeping, I remembered many tender, intimate hours spent with my own beloved mom in a similar setting.

It was an honour to be among the close circle that supported my friend during the precious waning days of her mother-daughter time. To quote a wise and simple line from Lars and the Real Girl "That's what people do." If we're lucky, we feel an empathy for those around us who are in pain and we do what we can to help them through. It's part of being human and, hopefully, in turn makes us ever more human.

Marking the first ever International Rare Disease Day, tonight's episode of The Agenda on TVO focussed on rare diseases and how people deal with everything that comes with them. One of the guests was Alison Agar, born with Polycystic Kidney Disease and a three-time kidney transplant survivor (obviously that caught my interest). Another of the other guests was Ian Brown who wrote so very eloquently and honestly about life with his son Walker in a series of articles, soon to be expanded on and published as a book. Each of the guests spoke not only of the medical condition but of how it impacted on everything in the family's life and beyond.

A chronic illness becomes second nature, a lifestyle - albeit not one of choice. Illness - rare or not - never afflicts just the person with the condition. Like a pebble into a pool, it's effects radiate outwards to spouse, children, parents, friends, workplace, school, and so on, and so on. Illness is a "we" diagnosis, not an "I". Nonetheless, it often creates families where no blood ties exist even while we struggle to maintain the bare bones of a semblance of normalcy in the face of seemingly hopeless chaos. That's one of the few blessings of chronic illness... it can make us more human all the while robbing us of our physical strength and even our dignity.

I seem to have rambled on about lots of disparate topics but I guess at the core everything relates to being able to reach out, to help another may help to ease the weight of our own burdens, to feel for one another, to recognize the "we" in each other, no matter what that other face looks like.
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Bumped out of first place

2008-02-10T14:59:00.000-05:00

I recently came to the sudden and somewhat stupidly stunning realization that I am no longer the most important person in anyone's life.

I don't mean that I'm not important to or well loved by many dear friends and extended family. And I don't mean to imply that I think I should the most important person in their lives. It’s just that all those people have others in their lives who have top priority: their spouses, their children, their parents…

What suddenly occurred to me was that while Chris and I were the most important people in each other's lives and I was the most important person in my parents' lives, but they’re now gone from me and I have no siblings or children to fill that role, to take that cherished and honoured place of ‘most important’.

By important I mean that person(s) whose existence and presence is the most precious thing to you, whose day-to-day life causes you worry and pride and that indescribable warm glow; that person for whom you would give your own life, your own happiness to secure theirs – without thought or second guess; the person you first turn to in times of joy and sorrow.

Maybe it seems self-centred or self-pitying or both. I’m an orphaned, childless, widowed, only child. That’s a state of being but it doesn’t have to be a state of mind. I guess it’s part of figuring out my new life - something to come to terms with, to roll about in my mind. I just have to be careful not to let it take hold somewhere deep within me where it will take root.
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No longer searching for Bobby Fischer

2008-01-30T20:40:00.001-05:00

This morning I met with someone from the university Chess Club to donate several of Chris' chess sets and his chess clock. Although he never joined, he had expressed some interest in the club and talked about maybe checking out some of their events to see if it was a group he might find appealing. I think he'd be happy knowing that his sets will be enjoyed by fellow lovers of the "King's Game". Right now, I like to think he's picking up tips from recently departed chess legend Bobby Fischer.

Coincidentally, Fischer also died of complications from kidney failure. Apparently he refused ongoing dialysis therapy and chose to let nature take its course. While many people may view this as an extreme choice and question Fischer's capacity to direct his own medical care, it is a legitimate option that some kidney patients decide on for any number of reasons.

Another interesting coincidence is that the last years of Fischer's life were spent in chess-mad Iceland where he lived a reclusive and increasingly paranoid existence, occasionally making news with outrageous rants against Jews and/or his country of birth, the U.S. Fischer's remains were buried in a small church cemetery near Selfoss, 60 km south of the capitol of Reykjavik. I don't remember Chris mentioning that he knew of Bobby Fischer living in Iceland but knowing Chris' wide-ranging knowledge of many seemingly unrelated bits of information...

I guess we won't be searching for Bobby Fischer any longer. Hopefully, he's found the peace that eluded him for most of his troubled and controversial life. Maybe he can learn something from Chris.
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Intimacy in the closet

2008-01-27T14:39:00.000-05:00

There's something incredibly intimate about sharing a closet with someone you love. Having someone else's clothing hanging beside your own in your bedroom - where you sleep and get dressed and dream - makes it 'official'. You're not just giving them a drawer or a shelf for weekend sleep-overs. You're sharing your lives, your ups and downs, your fears and hopes. Seeing our clothes, our toothbrushes, our mementos intertwined together in our home always made me smile. I loved and I was loved. Call me old-fashioned but it was lovely.

The closet where I moved Chris' clothes after he died is empty now, except for his wedding suit. I've packed up the last of his things and they're piled up in four large green garbage bags by the door, ready to donate to charity.

His many variations of blue plaid short sleeved sports shirts; his many variations of long-sleeved dress shirts in every beautiful shade of blue from vibrant royal to dove grey-blue like his eyes; what seems like the entire Eddie Bauer men's collection from the past five years; soft, warm sweaters slightly worn at the elbows; the huge fuzzy terry-cloth bathrobe I gave him for Christmas several years ago (he gave me a matching one the same year); ties and belts... and shoes.

It was time to pack up his shoes. He won't be coming back. He won't need them any more. His feet won't get cold.

As I slowly go through things in the apartment and give them away or shred papers or throw them out, there's less and less of a 'couple' presence in our apartment. Despite the remaining books and CDs and photos and mementos and cooking gadgets that Chris brought into my life and into our apartment, his shirts no longer hang beside mine; his toothbrush no longer nuzzles against mine; his shoes no longer wait for walks beside mine; our clothes no longer mingle in the laundry basket together; the daily intimacy is gone... forever. Only the memories remain, and they are so happy and so sad.
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Paying it forward

2008-01-18T23:22:00.000-05:00

In recent months I've been germinating two pet projects in memory of Chris that I've been hoping would come to fruition. I'm delighted to say that both have received full approval from the 'powers that be' in their respective arenas and will be moving forward over the next year.

The first is a graduate scholarship fund at the library and information science faculty where Chris and I met as Masters students and where Chris was a PhD candidate at the time of his death. We created many wonderful memories during our time there - we were often affectionately teased as one of several 'librarians in love' couples. I hope that this memorial scholarship will help successive generations of library science grad students fulfill their dreams for many years to come.

The other project will be a more hands-on labour of love combining my librarian skills as well as my experience and interest in consumer health information and patient advocacy. I will be working with patients and staff at the university hospital Chris attended to create, in his memory, a patient and family library for kidney disease and related resources at the new dialysis unit currently being developed.

His passion for patient self-advocacy and education was born of his own experiences as a person with a chronic illness but one of his key coping mechanisms was to educate himself about his health condition so that he could be an active, informed participant and decision-maker in his own care. I want the new library to be a place of enquiry, reflection, learning, and empowerment for kidney patients and their loved ones, but also for healthcare staff - for we can all learn from each other.

Giving back or 'paying it forward' was very important to Chris and has become even more so for me since his death. During the past several years I learned more from my parents and Chris than I would ever have thought myself capable of. Not of intellectual knowledge or facts, but in the seemingly boundless capacity of the human heart and mind for compassion; for patience; for nerves of steel and steady hands; for tender care of messy situations; for protecting a loved one; for truly living life in the moment.

I will continue to write about these projects as they develop and keep you posted on their progress. Thank you to those of you who have helped me bring them to life and continue to give your support, your time, and your expertise. Thank you for ‘paying it forward’.
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It's about the behaviour, not the orientation!

2008-01-15T14:19:00.000-05:00

Last week I was so mad I could have spit. I probably did when my jaw dropped open in stunned reaction to the belated news that Health Canada had released new standards for organ donation in December. The department announced that, among other things, men who have had sex with another man within the past five years will not be considered as organ donors!

Did I just wake up in 1988? Are we still having this conversation? In the early dark days of the AIDS epidemic gay men were the primary figures in that war. As the epidemic cuts a swath of death across the world, we now know that it is not sexual orientation that makes a person an HIV carrier or more susceptible. It is a person's behaviour that makes them at risk for HIV and AIDS, not their sexual orientation!

Behaviours such as promiscuous and/or unprotected sexual activity and shared needles; behaviours about things that we don’t talk about in ‘polite’ society. The HIV virus loves our shame and our dark secrets, our extra-marital philandering, our little junk habit, our secret thrill of riding ‘bare-back’. Meanwhile, all gay men are once again being singled out by preposterously archaic assumptions in poorly written medical guidelines.

The reaction has been vocal, swift, and broad-based. Most transplant units across Canada have announced that despite these new guidelines, they will continue to assess organ donations based on behavioural risk-assessment guidelines. Given the ever-increasing shortage of organs needed for transplants, Health Canada should have given this issue more thought. Shame on them.

Toronto Sun - Letter of the Day by Ontario Minister of Health, George Smitherman
Toronto Star - "Most gays ruled out as organ donors"
Globe & Mail - "New organ donation rules don't exclude gay men"
CBC News - "Sexually active gay men no longer allowed to donate organs"
CBC, This Hour Has 22 Minutes for a refreshingly satiric perspective on Health Canada's guidelines [This Week's Video Highlights > select Jan 15 > scroll down and click on "Organ Donor Policy"]
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A gift worth the odds

2008-01-15T13:08:00.000-05:00

Today will be a sad and difficult day for a very dear friend of mine and her extended family. Her uncle passed away on January 4th from complications following kidney transplant surgery.

For those patients who are eligible and interested, organ transplants from a living or deceased donor can offer a new lease on life. For some, like liver or heart recipients, organ transplants may be their only chance for living. Organ, tissue, and blood donations are literally a gift of life.

My friend's uncle had lived with kidney failure and been on dialysis for over 25 years. He was a difficult match for organ donation but because of recent improvements in technology and research his wife was finally able to be a living kidney donor for him. Many would agree that she gave him the ultimate gift of love.

Sadly, due to a series of complications, the transplant never fully 'took' and my friend's uncle struggled to recover in the hospital for several months before passing away from heart failure.

All of us who are part of the organ donation world know the risks and possible complications involved. Organ transplants are not a cure. Organ transplants do not last forever. But organ transplants can offer many people with life-threatening or chronic conditions very good odds of living a more 'normal' life. A life where they can work full-time, play with their children, go on vacations, eat and drink a wide variety of foods, walk half a kilometre without resting. A life where they don't have to go to a clinic three days a week or spend weeks in intensive care. A life that most of us take for granted.

In memory of Gary and Chris and the thousands of people still waiting for organ transplants, please consider organ donation, sign your card, and - most importantly - discuss your wishes with your family.

Rest in peace Gary.

************

GARY STEPHEN LOGAN

On January 4, 2008 at the Toronto General Hospital, Gary Stephen Logan, loving husband to Marisa Logan, succumbed to complications related to a kidney transplant at the age of fifty-three.

A memorial service will be held at 1:15 p.m. on Tuesday, January 15 at the Cemetery Notre-Dame-des-Neiges to celebrate his life. Our family wishes to thank everyone for their kind and supportive words and gestures.

In lieu of flowers, the family would appreciate donations to the Renal Transplant Research and Education Fund at the Toronto General Hospital.
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A memory in the palm of my hand

2008-01-03T22:43:00.000-05:00

Yesterday I was going through some of Chris' clothes that I still have to pack up. I paused at his wedding suit, smoothing the fabric, staring at the faded dry boutonniere still pinned to the lapel.

I found two tablets in the inside breast pocket. At first I thought they were prescription pills of some sort because Chris took medications at different times throughout the day but these pills had no markings and they smelled... well, minty.

Suddenly I realized what they were: tic tac breath mints.

I stood there looking at the two little white tablets in the palm of my hand... 're-living' a moment in the past that I had never experienced; a moment when Chris thought of kissing his soon-to-be new wife and slipped breath mints into his jacket pocket.

How funny to find such a seemingly trivial little thing tucked away, as if waiting to be found, waiting to unexpectedly reawaken moments of a life.

Looking at the tic tacs, I was suddenly reminded of a photo I took of Chris holding our wedding rings in his palm the day after he kissed me as his wife for the first time.

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Missing the Chris in Christmas

2007-12-22T14:12:00.000-05:00

The first of everything is painful after the death of a loved one, especially the person with whom you shared your days & nights, your hopes & dreams, your other self.

Over the past months I've struggled through buying and selling our first house, Chris' birthday, our first wedding anniversary, and Thanksgiving. Others in his life have also passed their own milestones: his grandmother, parents, and brother have now each celebrated their first birthdays without a phone call or a card from Chris.

He wasn't there to raise a glass or make a wry joke or suggest a good restaurant for a birthday dinner. We've remembered him at those times when we gather together as friends or family but our celebrations are just a little quieter and there's a trembling of emotion in our laughter.

And now it's Christmas... the most storied and emotionally fraught celebration of the year.

When Chris and I bought our house, we served notice to family that we would be hosting this year. We had already planned where we were going to put our first tree (real of course!) and what we were going to serve for Christmas dinner (crown roast instead of turkey). There were covert plans to hide the television so that we would all spend the afternoon together talking or playing boardgames or going for a walk or singing along badly to cheesy Christmas tunes or all of the above.

Christmas this year will be a difficult and strange one. None of us is quite sure how to get through it. Chris' absence will be blatant - perhaps even more so for his family because I will be there but he won't. It's not like the Christmas when the two of us went to visit my parents and we were both absent from his parents' house. Not buying gifts for him, not writing cards with him, not debating the merits of gravy vs. cranberry sauce - all of these are making my heart ache even more than usual.

Somehow we'll stumble through the emotional minefield of the next week. I'm blessed with friends and in-laws who consider me family. Although I may feel lonely without Chris, I won't be alone this Christmas. I'm luckier than many. If you know someone who may be alone this Christmas, consider how much comfort you could give them by inviting them into your lives this holiday.

Merry Christmas
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Doing the best we can...

2007-12-17T00:22:00.000-05:00

Over the past several months, a number of people have told me how strong or courageous I am. I can't say that I feel terribly strong or courageous.

Sometimes I feel as weak and helpless as a newborn. Sometimes I just want to lie in bed and cry... and I do. Sometimes I'm totally confused and overwhelmed. Most of the time I just put one foot in front of the other, pick one thing to focus on getting done and doing it - no matter how slowly. Because the alternative is giving up and sinking into the suffocating dark exhaustion of depression and letting myself slowly die.

Perhaps surprisingly, I don't want to do that. At least not enough to really fall all the way. There are things I want to accomplish, things I want to see, people I enjoy spending time with - that is the light that guides me along this dark path.

Over the past several weeks I've been reading a remarkable series of articles in the Globe & Mail by columnist Ian Brown. He has written very candidly about life with his 11-year old son Walker who was diagnosed with an incredibly rare genetic disorder: Cardio-Facio- Cutaneous Syndrome. The three lengthy articles cover everything from the family's years of chaotic home life, the dizzying turnstile of medical appointments, the agonizing uncertainty of every care-giving decision, all punctuated by episodes of pure transcendent joy and wondering glimpses of life's true essence.

I'm sure that many people have told Walker's parents Ian and Joanna that they are courageous and strong, they are. But I know that they probably don't feel it most of the time. Most of the time, they're just trying to do the best they can - for Walker, for their daughter Hayley, for themselves.

Most of the time, that's what being strong and courageous is all about - just trying to do the best we can.
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Imagine... Iceland

2007-12-08T23:38:00.001-05:00

One of Chris’ favourite musicians was John Lennon. In addition to John's musical talents, Chris admired his intellect and wit, his outspoken political and social activism, and his deep love for his family. I think we all recognize some similarities!

In October of this year, on what would have been John’s 67th birthday, Yoko Ono officially unveiled the Imagine Peace Tower on Videy Island, just off the coast of Iceland. The installation is a memorial to John and its tower of light, reaching into the sky, a beacon of hope for worldwide peace – a cause that John worked for and and sang about tirelessly.

Imagine by John Lennon

Chris often talked of one day visiting Iceland, especially after he discovered the band Sigur Rós who hail from that country. I’m not sure where his love of all things Nordic originated but I knew that we would one day see Iceland. I thought we would see it together... I was wrong.

I've made a promise to Chris that I will go to Iceland one day. I plan to scatter some of his ashes at Látrabjarg, an achingly beautiful area known for its fjords, soaring cliffs, and seabird colonies.

Glósóli by Sigur Rós

I think Chris would like that two of his musical favourites are now linked by geography and spirit. Iceland is a fascinating and beautiful country, rugged and cold, proud of its natural beauty and independent spirit… sounds kind of like home doesn't it?
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Stand up and speak out

2007-12-06T13:49:00.001-05:00

I dedicate today's posting to the memory of my beloved mom. She was a remarkable, vivacious, bright, well-travelled, creative, and passionate woman. She was also a wife who lived under the silent shroud of verbal and emotional abuse.

Every year on this date, no matter where I am, I go and pay tribute to the memory of the many women who suffer violence and abuse at the hands of men who often claim to love them. I weep silently in the candlelight and wonder why. This year I won't have Chris beside me for support and comfort.

We cannot remain silent and look the other way. It is long past the time for polite silence when our friends, sisters, daughters, and mothers are suffering at the hands of our friends, brothers, sons, and fathers.

This is not a 'women's issue' or a 'feminist issue'. This is a matter of life and death. ALL of us - women and men - must stand up and speak out. We can break the endless cycle of abuse.

Family Violence: It's your business
National Clearinghouse on Family Violence
The White Ribbon Campaign
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Chris' love song

2007-12-04T00:47:00.000-05:00

Love Song (The Cure)

Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am home again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am whole again

Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am young again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am fun again

However far away
I will always love you
However long I stay
I will always love you
Whatever words I say
I will always love you
I will always love you

Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am free again
Whenever I'm alone with you
You make me feel like I am clean again

However far away
I will always love you
However long I stay
I will always love you
Whatever words I say
I will always love you
I will always love you

Love Song by The Cure

The bustle in a house

2007-12-03T17:57:00.000-05:00

I'm pretty tired of death. I'm also pretty tired of the paperwork that inevitably seems to accompany every aspect of life... and death.

I'm tired of closing estates of the people I loved most. My father, my mother, and my husband - in the span of little over two years. I'm getting to be too damned good at it.

I'm tired of receiving mail addressed to The Estate of the Late [insert relevant name here].

I'm tired of going through personal things, trying to decide what to do with them, where they should be sent, to whom they should be given.

I'm tired of boxing up the remnants of my loved ones lives.

Because in the end that seems to be all that's left of anyone's life - one or two boxes of odds and ends, those incredibly personal things that have no monetary value or practical use: photo albums; love letters; awards & medals; sentimental mementos whose stories are now lost forever.

The responsibility of putting away someone's life is so underestimated. Yes, we live on in the hearts and memories of our loved ones and, perhaps, here and there in public documents. But what of those most intimate and personal touchstones? What do we do with them? Remember what happened to Rosebud?

I always feel so sad when I come across loose photos and postcards in antique shops. They should be with their families, people who care about their stories and are linked to them through time.

Many years ago I read a beautiful poem by Emily Dickinson that has always remained with me:
    The bustle in a house
    The morning after death
    Is solemnest of industries
    Enacted upon earth, -

    The sweeping up the heart,
    And putting love away
    We shall not want to use again
    Until eternity.
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Life gone in a flash... or a spark

2007-12-03T16:45:00.000-05:00

Time is a strange, fluid element. Mercurial in its ability to stretch and shrink, stop and speed by. Yesterday marked five months since Chris' death. Unbelievable. Already some memories are becoming fuzzy; others are all too painfully sharp and clear. Possibly never to fade.

His death is still unreal in so many ways - a nightmare from which I cannot awaken. Our time together - so fleeting - seems like a dream to which I cannot return.

When we were separated during my last term in grad school and Chris was working hundreds of kilometres away, four months seemed like an eternity. Now I will begin to know what an eternity apart truly feels like. Or not...

I've been asked what I thought happens to us after we die. Like everyone but Lazarus, I don't know. I know that I don't believe in a heaven where angels walk on streets of gold and strum harps. But I do believe that all of that electricity and 'life energy' that courses through our bodies, keeping us alive, cannot simply disappear. Mother Nature doesn't do things that way. She's the original recycler!

I imagine that 'life energy' slipping out of our bodies after we die and surging up into the skies, much like bonfire sparks swirling up into a night-time sky. A romanticized image? Perhaps... who knows. We all have our own vision of heaven. The vision that gets us through what seems like eternity.
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What was.. and what could have been

2007-11-30T23:35:00.000-05:00

Today, the thrift store pick-up service came and took away our old sofa. Despite its faded and worn upholstery, its sagging sofa bed frame, and the fact that it was never going to darken the doorway of the new house, I became emotional upon seeing it leave.

Chris and I snuggled together on that sofa; we opened it up and watched movies together under a comforter on cold winter nights; we read, ate, napped, listened to music, and recovered from various colds & surgeries on it; Chris found relief in a few hours of sleep there many nights when he couldn't sleep flat in bed. He spent the last hours of his life on that sofa the night before he died. Did he sleep soundly or did he toss and turn, unable to get comfortable? I'll never know.

Today was also the closing day for the sale of the house that Chris and I bought back in June... back when life was so joyful and seemed so full of promise. After the call came from the lawyer's office to say the deal was officially closed and the cheque was ready to be picked up, I burst into tears.

After Chris died, I waffled back and forth several times about whether to keep the house. Despite his death, the things that we loved about the house were still there: the coved ceilings, the original glass doorknobs, the arch-topped front door, the pink and white (!) marble-tiled bathroom, the shaded front porch, the wonderful old neighbourhood full of trees, etc. We never aspired to a huge McMansion in the 'burbs with ensuite bathrooms and a 3-car garage. That charming little house was our dream home!

In the end I decided not to move into the house mainly because of what Chris loved most about it: the enormous kitchen (23' x 14'!). As a person who loves eating but only enjoyed cooking as Chris' sous-chef, I was haunted by the vast emptiness of that kitchen. I saw myself lost in there without him - without his love of fresh, savoury ingredients, his fearless experimention with new recipes - pouring his love for me into his creative outlet of cooking. That kitchen was barren for me without Chris.

I decided to let the house go, to pass it on to someone who would fill it with love and laughter as Chris and I had planned to do. Last weekend I held a house-cooling party at the house for friends and family to thank them for their support and also to leave some good karma for the family that bought it. I decorated the house with lots of Christmas lights and hung our stockings by the chimney with care (in the hopes that Chris' spirit soon would be there). We had a wonderful evening with lots of laughter, a few tears, great music, and good food... Chris would have loved it.
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Water of life

2007-11-20T01:07:00.000-05:00

A little while back Mark, an old of Chris’, e-mailed me and mentioned in passing a YouTube video he had come across which featured a photo slideshow of UWO library school students – including Chris! He had stumbled onto the video while searching for music by local Celtic band Uisce Beatha. Turned out that there were a lot of interesting coincidences as this story unfolded…

When I lived in Ottawa in the early '90's, I was good friends with a brother of Uisce Beatha’s bass guitarist and a group of us used to go see the band play whenever they came through town.

Years later when I met Chris, Uisce Beatha came up in conversation somehow or perhaps I saw one of their CDs in his collection. Turns out that during the same years that I saw them play in Ottawa, Chris and Mark were going to see them play in London regularly for the home town crowd!

Jason, the creator of the YouTube video, "Rarin' Librarians", was a former TA student of Chris' at library school. It turns out that Jason’s decision to include the Usice Beatha song “Old South London” as background music for the video was influenced by Chris.

Jason did a blog post about creating a SW Ontario playlist and Chris, the music guru, submitted a few songs that fit the bill, including "Old South London". Jason had never heard the song before - even though he too had seen the band live in concert - but he realized that it was a perfect soundtrack choice when he was creating his library school slideshow.

None of us knows if Chris was even aware of the video’s existence - but I know that he would have enjoyed it! And he would definitely appreciate the myriad of social networking connections in this tale – nodding his head knowingly with that wry smile and a twinkle in his blue eyes. We’re all connected, in past and future, in more ways than we can even imagine.
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Elephants never forget

2007-11-18T23:48:00.001-05:00

Anyone who knew Chris knew that he loved elephants. They are incredible creatures of amazing strength and gentleness. Chris was fascinated by their complex social structures and rituals, and the legacies of their multi-generational memory.

I brought his large collection of elephants to the funeral home and invited people to take one and keep it as a memento in memory of Chris. Many people hesitated at first but I encouraged them and by the end of the day, all had found a new home. One of the stuffed elephants went home with his cousin's young daughter. When I asked her what she would name it, she replied "Chris".

Today I was going through the box of Christmas decorations and came across a lovely elephant ornament I bought Chris several years ago that I had completely forgotten about. It was supposed to go up in our first Christmas tree that we were going to put up in our new house this December.

A few weeks ago, I was reading an article in the Globe & Mail about a limited edition bentwood elephant stool that is being produced in honour of the anniversary of renowned designer Charles Eames' 100th birthday. It's so cool - Chris would have loved it! (However, it would have been quite a pricey addition to his collection!)

There is an natural habitat elephant sanctuary in Tennessee where old, retired, and sick elephants can live out the their days in a reasonably natural environment free from circus tricks and zoo enclosures. Chris came across the sanctuary's site several years ago and wanted to support this worthy cause. Perhaps that will be my Christmas gift in memory of him because elephants - and Chris - never forget.
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Happily ever after?

2007-11-18T01:59:00.000-05:00

Is it really better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all? Sometimes I wonder... My aching, painful heart would argue no - it would rather not feel at all some days. The deep and gaping emptiness, the waves of pain and sadness are sometimes so overwhelming.

I stupidly chose to watch a cheesy favourite movie tonight, Notting Hill. (I know, but I can't resist Mr. Grant's charming accent and self-deprecating humour.) I should have remembered that happy endings make me cry at the best of times. This is not the best of times - it is the worst of times! Happy endings and fairy-tale weddings only remind me of what I lost when Chris died. What we had for so very short a time.

Why couldn't we live happily ever after?! Hadn't we had enough #@&$*% crap to last a lifetime!! Was it too f****ing much to ask for even a few years of tranquil, domestic married bliss before ripping us apart forever (or until whatever interpretation of afterlife turns out to be reality)! Each January 1st for the past several years we had been saying "This year will be our turn-around year!" But each of the past few years were tinged with with tremendous losses and challenges: the death of both my parents and my uncle; Chris' increasingly uncertain health; etc.

We thought that getting married and buying our little dream house were the beginning of a new chapter of a long and satisfying epic not the closing chapter of a bittersweet novella. I feel like we'd taunted the fates, living our lives instead of cowering in fear of the next blow. I don't taunt them anymore, I just try to quietly get through one day at a time. Live life to its fullest each day, enjoy whatever little pleasures come along, because it may indeed be the last time.

It's very late and I'm feeling dark tonight. Empty and sad, angry and lonely. No more romantic comedies for awhile...
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Gift of warmth

2007-11-16T00:02:00.000-05:00

Tonight I slowly and tearfully folded up Chris' winter coat and placed it in a bag with his winter boots. This past spring I had washed it and put it away, never thinking in a million years that Chris would never again wear that coat or those boots. Never again would we go for walks together in the fresh, bright snow. Never again would he bundle up against a damp, biting cold windchill to go up to school. Never again would he search through the coat's many pockets for a missing glove.

Tomorrow I'm going to drop them off at the Boys' and Girls' Club of London for their annual Koats for Kids winter coat campaign. The program collects winter outer wear primarily for children but also for those in need of all ages.

There are many similar programs in communities all across the country (e.g. Snowsuit Fund of Ottawa). If you have unused or outgrown winter wear such as coats, boots, scarves, mitts, and/or snowpants taking up closet space, please consider donating them to this worthy cause. It will warm you and others.
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If only...

2007-11-14T23:28:00.000-05:00

When I look back on Chris and my time together, I have few regrets. We were lucky, we lived in the moment. Not necessarily because of Chris' condition but in spite of it. But of course there were things that I wish had been different…

if only we’d known that it probably wasn’t mysteriously persistent heartburn but perhaps early signs of aortic pressure which led to the dissection that killed him
if only an angiogram or even an ultrasound had been done of his arm before he underwent surgery to create a fistula that took months to heal, was painful to access, and ultimately unusable
if only he’d started on a high dose of prednisone last fall
if only he’d never developed encapsulating peritoneal sclerosis (EPS)
if only we’d started home hemodialysis last year
if only he and one of his doctors had had a more communicative and respectful relationship, his fluid overload would have been addressed sooner when his blood pressure was already sky-high
if only he hadn’t had to wait 14 months before being assessed to be put on the transplant waiting list after moving
if only he hadn't had a bout of peritonitis, perhaps no EPS?
if only one of the two transplant calls in Ottawa had been a good match
if only he had been offered home hemodialysis instead of peritoneal dialysis, perhaps no EPS?
if only my parents hadn’t been in poor health and lived so far away, I could have been tested to be a kidney donor years earlier
if only his drug dosage had been more carefully monitored when he got his first transplant, he wouldn’t have suffered toxicity and the kidney might have lasted years longer
if only his blood pressure and kidney function had been more closely checked as a youth
if only his condition had been diagnosed at age 2 or 3 instead of 9 or 10, his kidneys would have suffered so much less damage, he might not ever have needed dialysis
if only he hadn’t had a fluke birth defect
if only…

But all these things did come to pass and none of us – Chris included – can take the blame for them. Because despite any second guessing and misplaced guilt, all these experiences contributed to making Chris the person he was: strong, patient, curious, tolerant, wry, generous, empathetic, and loving. Were they fate, chance, flukes, destiny, mistakes, oversights… who knows. The only thing to do is what Chris usually did: learn and let go and love.
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In sickness and in health

2007-11-14T22:57:00.000-05:00

It occurred to me a little while ago that not only do I miss Chris - I miss caring for him. While he was obviously able to make his own decisions about his care and his self-management as a person with a chronic illness, I was his caregiver in the sense that I was his sounding board for decision-making, his nurse when he was recovering from surgeries or procedures, his advocate when he was not able to do so for himself.

I did all this passionately and without question and with the instinct to protect and care for the one I loved most in the world - the one to whom and for whom I would gladly have given anything, including one of my own kidneys. Chris’ kidney failure was a fact of our lives but one that we strove to not make the focus of our lives.

Now that Chris is gone, my caregiving duties are dramatically reduced. They are now only to myself - and to Sprockets of course! But I miss caring for him, worrying about him, researching new approaches to treatments and therapies, helping him shower, changing his dressings… he doesn’t need my caregiving anymore. He’s free, to care for all of us… who need it now more than ever. Take care.
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Día de los Muertos

2007-10-28T16:11:00.000-04:00

Several people have asked me where Chris' ashes are buried so that they might go and visit his grave. We buried his ashes at Mount Pleasant Cemetery and his grave is in the middle of Section QR, right in the heart of the cemetery.

Although his body was cremated, I chose to bury his ashes in the ground rather than a wall niche. You can find his grave in a clearing under three very tall trees. His grave only has a small temporary marker until the permanent headstone is put in place (probably not until after Christmas).

The cemetery is open every day and is a beautiful neighbourhood park where you will find people jogging and walking their dogs. Visitors may leave flowers or other tokens such as poems or mementos.

A friend recently told me about the traditional Mexican Day of the Dead which is celebrated on November 1st. This naming may seem macabre to our sensibilities but celebrations in honour of deceased family and ancestors are marked around the world in many forms. The Christian tradition is marked by All Souls' Day on November 2nd.

I have memories of visiting family graves in Barbados at Christmas time and leaving beautiful tropical flowers in honour of deceased relatives. I will celebrate Chris' life by bringing him flowers on this upcoming Day of the Dead and remembering how much joy he brought into my life.
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Home is where the heart is

2007-10-28T16:01:00.000-04:00

“Where is home?” This question was recently posed to me by my social worker. The old familiar adage is: Home is where the heart is. If that is true, where is my home? I used to say Northern Quebec for that is where I was born and grew up, where my parents lived in the same house for 40 years, where I could retreat to familiar childhood comforts and places.

During the time when my parents had to move into a nursing home and our family home was sold, I realized that my home was now with Chris in Ottawa, where we lived and worked and had begun to build a life together. When we moved back to London, I missed our life in Ottawa but my heart was with Chris and so my home was where my heart was.

Arriving back in London from my recent trip, I was hit very hard by the realization that no one would be there at the station to meet me, to welcome me home. Chris would not be at home eagerly waiting my arrival, beating Sprockets to wrap me in his loving arms and kisses. My tears began in the elevator and spilled over upon entering the dark, quiet apartment. How can this be home when my heart is no longer here? Where is my home… where is my heart?
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Librarian at peace

2007-10-28T15:42:00.000-04:00

Behind the Parliament Buildings in Ottawa – with a stunning view of the river, the surrounding city, and the distant Gatineau Hills – stands the beautifully restored and majestic Library of Parliament.

This is where Chris and I first met on a “back-stage” tour offered to library school co-op students working in Ottawa. During the tour, Chris reverently referred to this magnificent building as “Mecca for librarians”. As a nod to that romantic and important setting, I gave Chris silver Library of Parliament cufflinks as a wedding gift – he was tickled pink, and promptly had his best man take scissors to the cuffs of his dress shirt so he could wear them at our wedding.

Following my parents’ deaths, we mused about where we might want to be buried. Chris had mentioned that he would like some of his ashes scattered behind the Library of Parliament because that was where we met. So that’s what I did on a beautiful but chilly day several weeks ago. It ended up being too windy – and too busy with tourists – to have the privacy and solace for this quiet moment so we walked down to the bike path which runs along the base of the cliff below the Parliament Buildings.

There, I found a beautiful, tranquil spot looking out across the river and gently scattered the ashes of Chris’ body amongst the wild flowers and fallen autumn leaves under the trees. If you look up the cliff from that spot you can see the Gothic spires of the Library of Parliament through the trees. Nearby there are two benches where you can sit and enjoy the view and think of Chris.

....

He would have been happy with this choice and I know that I will always be close to him in this favourite place where we found each other.
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Fellow passengers

2007-10-28T14:26:00.000-04:00

Travelling and trips have long been metaphors for life’s journey. The mythology of discovery of enlightenment or wisdom along a pathway from where one is to where one is going is a core narrative in human story-telling around the world. Along the journey of our life we meet so many people, often never knowing at the time which ones will be with us for the long haul and what we will learn from our fellow passengers.

As I travelled this month I witnessed friends, lovers, families experiencing tearful goodbyes and reunions, joyful and boisterous welcomes, promises of postcards to be sent, thank you’s for home-cooked meals… I too exchanged these with dear friends during my trip – friends whom I feel like I’ve known my whole life. Forgiveness, unconditional love, affection, and support are at the foundation of these relationships. These friends are now like family to me. I wonder if I need them too much – what do I give to them? That time will come… hopefully I will be ready.
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Stations along the way

2007-10-28T14:12:00.000-04:00

Travelling by train has always been a favourite of mine, as it was of Chris’. Grounded to the land and removed from the crowded frenzy of highways, trains often provide passengers with a more tranquil and reflective environment.

Although I’d taken this trip many times before, I hadn’t realized the memories which would be evoked by some of the stations along the way – stations where Chris and I stepped off together for weekend getaways and vacations.

Belleville: near Prince Edward County where we spent several wonderful holidays, where we got married, and where we musingly talked of one day retiring. Kingston: where we had a fire-lit romantic winter weekend at a local inn and watched river ice breaking in the misty waters at the bow of the Wolfe Island ferry. And of course, the destination: Ottawa, where Chris and I first met, fell in love, and began to build our life together.

This trip was a way for me to step forward alone but also to look back and realize that I don’t need to abandon that which is behind me in order to find a way ahead – those experiences and memories will help me find my way.
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Voice of the voyager

2007-10-28T11:06:00.000-04:00

Earlier this month I went away on a trip – my first since Chris passed away. It was a journey of many moods and meanings – some unexpected. Travelling alone for the first time since his death, I brought along his beloved iPod on my trip.

More than simply portable entertainment, it brought me into Chris’ world in a way that I had not entirely expected and brought Chris along with me on a journey where I thought I would be alone.

While I enjoy music, I am not a music lover by nature in the way that Chris was. He experienced music. He breathed and felt and tasted music. Chris internalized and expressed the spiritual, rational, and emotional voices of his life’s journey through music.

I had forgotten how different music sounds and feels when using headphones. The music pours right into your head – into your body – no longer simply surrounding you but spilling out from within. This was how I felt listening to Chris’ music on my journey. He was within me and surrounding me. I felt his love of music and tasted his love of life.
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Don't worry, be happy

2007-09-30T22:58:00.000-04:00

We're probably all familiar with those lists of stressful life events. Most are based on the Social Readjustment Rating Scale developed by psychiatrists Thomas Holmes and Richard Rahe, commonly known as the Holmes-Rahe Scale. The scale is composed of 40-45 life events that are each given a numerical value or weight. The death of a spouse carries the highest value (100). Interestingly, marriage carries the 7th highest value (50) and is considered more stressful than being fired (47) or the death of a close friend (37).

The results are generally categorized into three ranges:
Score of 300+: At risk of illness
Score of 150-299+: Risk of illness is moderate (reduced by 30% from the above risk)
Score 149-: Only have a slight risk of illness

Given the past few years of my life - and my inability to resist completing surveys & questionnaires - I was curious to see how I would fare according to the good Drs. Holmes & Rahe. I scored 431.

A pop-up box pronounced with alarm: This score indicates a major life crisis and is highly predictive (80%) of serious physical illness within the next 2 years. Great - like I don't have enough to be stressed about, now I have to worry about not getting sick!

Look at what time it is! I'd better get 8 hours of restful sleep before eating a balanced & nutritious breakfast and going to yoga. {:-@
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Like a pebble in my shoe...

2007-09-30T15:50:00.000-04:00

I’ve been going through Chris’ things. I slowly triage the boxes and books, the clothes and the CDs. But some things I can’t do anything with. His shoes for instance... I can’t bring myself to even remove them from the shoe rack. A person needs shoes, especially in the winter! If he came back and found all his shoes gone, what would he do...

We wear in our shoes. We break them in. We leave an imprint of ourselves, our weight, our gait, in our shoes. How could they be anyone else’s? They’re so personal, so individual.

I recently read a poem entitled Death in Absentia which contains these evocative words: Like a pebble in my shoe / I’ll walk with you for the remainder of my days.

So what else can I do but keep Chris’ shoes? Joan Didion wrote so very eloquently about this heartbreaking and illogical dilemma in The Year of Magical Thinking. I remember thinking her predicament odd when I read the book, but now I understand.

So many things in life seem odd until we experience them... and then we understand. We walk a new path - in someone else’s shoes.
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Brotherly love

2007-09-29T22:45:00.000-04:00

Chris' brother Ryan gave me a lovely gift this weekend. It’s a copy of a forthcoming book from Random House entitled Hockey's Young Guns which Ryan co-authored for The Hockey News where he is a writer. Chris was pretty proud of his “kid” brother and kept abreast of his latest articles and interviews but this would really have made him burst his buttons!

When Ryan presented me with this gift I had no idea that he had included a special tribute to Chris who passed away before knowing that the book was forthcoming. The dedication page contains just two simple but poignant words: for Chris

I know that Ryan will carry his big brother’s spirit and love with him throughout his life’s journey. And I know that his big brother will always walk beside him.
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Ashes to ashes, dust to dust

2007-09-29T17:01:00.001-04:00

We buried Chris' ashes today.

It was the kind of day that Chris would have loved: blue, blue skies; bright, golden sunshine; a light refreshing breeze blowing through the red, orange, yellow and green leaves; not too warm - a perfect September day. Fall was Chris' favourite season and he often said that September weather was the best of the year. He was usually right!

We buried his ashes in lovely clearing beneath three soaring trees deep in the heart of one of the oldest cemeteries in London. It's a beautiful, tranquil retreat from the noise and bustle of the city. Chris & I often walked there, as do many people in the neighbourhood, enjoying its park-like setting. I know that he will rest peacefully there with the birds and squirrels to bring him the news of the day between my visits.

This is the poem I read at his burial:

Music I Heard
By Conrad Aiken

Music I heard with you was more than music,
And bread I broke with you was more than bread;
Now that I am without you, all is desolate;
All that was once so beautiful is dead.

Your hands once touched this table and this silver,
And I have seen your fingers hold this glass.
These things do not remember you, beloved,
And yet your touch upon them will not pass.

For it was in my heart that you moved among them,
And blessed them with your hands and with your eyes;
And in my heart they will remember always, -
They knew you once, O beautiful and wise.

I also read the closing chapter of Trumpet of the Swan, one of Chris' favourite books. For those not familiar with the book, it was written by renowned children's author E.B. White who also wrote the beloved Charlotte's Web.

Trumpet of the Swan is the story of Louis, a trumpeter swan who was born mute and how he overcomes his handicap with creative thinking, determination, and the support of family and friends. Along the way he has many adventures and eventually meets the swan of his dreams whom he woos with his musical prowess. It's easy to understand why Chris loved this story and why it was particularly resonant to him. I think he would have liked the simple pleasure of this tribute.

Rest in peace my love.
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Kitty love

2007-09-25T22:53:00.001-04:00

Everyone knew that Chris and Sprockets had a love-hate relationship - he loved her, she hated him. But since his death, I think that she actually misses his teasing, his seemingly dangerous slippers, his never-ending efforts to endear her to him...

Chris and Sprockets enjoying some rare "together time"
on the Lazy Boy this past Spring.

Sprockets consoling herself on Chris' fleece blankie last week.

First wedding anniversary

2007-09-23T17:30:00.000-04:00

Today is my first wedding anniversary. It's been a day of very mixed emotions...

This morning a group of us including Chris' family and friends participated in the Kidney Foundation's annual Be a Lifesaver Walk for Organ Donation Awareness. The weather was gorgeous and the turnout and funds raised were about double last year's figures! I was overwhelmed by the generosity of the people who joined my team and came out to walk with me in support of this wonderful cause. I was also overwhelmed the generosity of our sponsors - the final tally for our team, Carpe Diem Chris, was over $4000 towards transplant research! I feel that Chris was with us every step of the way.

Of course, it's hard not to think of this day last year - our wedding day, when we promised to love and cherish "as long as we both shall live". We never imagined it would be so very short a marriage when we had so much love to share; when everything in our lives finally seemed to be falling into place; when the future looked so full of happiness and promise.

Our wedding ceremony also included a request for a Declaration of Support from family and friends as read by our officiant:

As their families and friends, you form the community of support that surrounds Sandra and Christopher. Each of you, by your presence here today, is being called upon to uphold them in honouring and loving each other. Always stand beside them, never between them. Offer them your love and support, not your judgement. Encourage them with your kindness and loving hearts, and honour this marriage into which they have come to be joined today.

In the past several months, this support has been absolute and it is the reason I'm able to get out of bed in the morning; the reason I know that - one day - I will look forward to the future.

I will always be thankful for Chris coming into my life and I will always celebrate this anniversary of love. I love you & I miss you, ваша Кошенька.

First dance, "Rainbow Connection" Sept. 23, 2006
[thanks to Charlene for the video clip!]
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It's the little things ...

2007-09-18T19:19:00.000-04:00

Things I miss...

your voice
your arms around me
your warm feet
picking up after you
your soft hands
your worrying about me
being your sous chef
your rockin' air guitar solos
your Russian endearments
reading the G & M with you over brunch
the sound of the coffee grinder
your twinkling blue-grey eyes
the door being unlocked when I get home
messages from you on the answering machine
rubbing your arm as I go to sleep
hearing you tell me you love me
the sound of your key in the lock at 10pm on dialysis nights
your thoughtful, sweet presents/presence

Thank you...

for filling my life with love
for making me laugh 'til I cried
for giving elephants voices
for cooking wonderful gourmet food made with loving passion
for loving me because/despite that I'm just a little crazy
for making me feel so beautiful & special every day
for being my rock & my safe harbour
for trying to live every day as if you didn't have kidney failure
for trusting me to care for you
for sweeping me off my feet

I wish I'd had time to tell you just one more time how much I love you... but we said all these things - often. We knew, my once-in-a-lifetime love.
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Birthday wishes

2007-09-12T09:40:00.000-04:00

Today is Chris' birthday. He would have been 35 years old. He would have been back in school for a couple of weeks by now, finishing his PhD coursework this term in preparation for writing his comprehensive exams sometime next term. We would have been preparing to move into our new house, frantically purging and packing. We would have been planning our 1st wedding anniversary weekend getaway to Toronto having already made reservations weeks in advance at Canoe, North 44, and Rain. So much to look forward to…

Today is a sad day, filled with longing and unfulfilled hopes and dreams. But it is also a day to celebrate Chris, to remember how he made us laugh, how he enjoyed his friends, and how lucky we were to have been welcomed into his circle of love.

Think of him today and send him a birthday wish and go out into the world.

Professor Vlad's memories

2007-09-04T17:11:00.000-04:00

I received this very touching message from Vlad, one of Chris' Russian Studies professors.

**************
I was Chris' professor of Russian and Comparative Literature in the 1990s. In fact he was in the very first class that I taught at UWO in 1991 (first-year Russian). He then took all the Russian classes we had to offer and went on exchange to Minsk about which he surely told you. He came back from Minsk able to converse in Russian and I recall how amazing it was to actually carry on a conversation with him!

Chris was the most memorable student I ever had and I've been here for 15 years. His keen expression will stay in my mind for as long as I live. He always tried to learn. Russian is a very difficult language but Chris was never put off by that. The amused look on Chris' face whenever he struggled to get his tongue around a difficult passage of Russian prose or when he had to figure out the right verb ending from an endless array of inflections seemingly invented by a sadistic academic always meant that even the most challenging exercise was pure enjoyment for him.

From the very start Chris told me about his renal condition. Sometimes he had to miss classes because of his health. Once I even pointed out his frequent absences to him and quickly bit my tongue when he explained why he hadn't been coming. I was so happy for him when he had his first transplant and it seemed that all his troubles were over. That's why I was so shocked to learn when I met him recently that things hadn't turned out the right way for him.

Chris was part of a group that acted as guinea pigs for my language teaching method involving music. The method was eventually translated into a textbook published in 1996 in the US: Listening to Okudzhava: Twenty-Three Aural Comprehension Exercises in Russian. Chris' name is in the dedication – in first place. That should tell you how much I valued his input. The book was reissued with corrections in 2000 and a new set of student names appeared in the dedication after a course I had taught at Indiana University. But Chris' name was still first. It will always be first in my mind. I suspect the book is still part of Chris' possessions and you may have seen it.

Chris house-sat for us and took care of our dog one summer. He came over for dinner a few times and even brought a present to my son Alex. Alex still remembers that Nerf gun. And when Alex was still inside my wife's pregnant belly, Chris met us at Gibbons Park and was amazed to see "his professor" in such an unprofessorial state. He was very young then (recently out of high school) and probably thought (sort of) that professors somehow lived only in their offices and could not possibly appear unshaven, wearing shorts and accompanied by a very pregnant wife.

Chris and I met for lunch a year ago when he looked me up after his return from Ottawa. He looked great, told me about you and about his Ph.D. plans. He sounded so positive that I could not be happier for him. Now I kick myself for not contacting him after that lunch. Life just takes us into its whirlwind and when we wake up we often find that we've neglected to do the really important things. Seeing Chris again would have been such a thing. Chris was important.

Chris was one of the most tolerant people I've ever known. He always had an ear for any opinion, giving everyone the chance to expresses him or herself. And the sparkle in his eye seemed to say: "Maybe, maybe, why not..."

I would like to close by saying that Larissa (my wife) and I can't stop thinking about Chris. We grieve with you. We feel a sense of loss. We see his face in our mind's eye. It is always a smiling face though and that makes all the difference. It is hard to cry when you see a smile. You can't help but take a deep breath and smile back even through tears. And then you think: that smile has marked me and I feel better for it. To quote my favourite Russian author, Sasha Sokolov (whose prose Chris read in my class), Chris has left his footprints in my soul.

Two thumbs up

2007-09-01T00:20:00.000-04:00

This is a great photo of Chris with his friend Martin, hanging out at the legendary Mount Brydges Audio Video where Chris worked when he was a student. The combination of his love of movies and his steel-trap memory made him a favourite among patrons for whom he provided personalized recommendations and friendly, knowledgeable service. [Thanks to Tara & Martin for providing the photos!]

Martin & Chris - cheers!

Chris working his magic behind the counter.

From Belarus with love

2007-08-29T10:20:00.000-04:00

I received the following message from Chris' friend Yuri, whom he met while studying in Belarus in '95-'96. [Thanks to Yuri for providing the photo!]

Yuri, Natka and Chris - Rock 'n Roll Forever!

**************
It was just yesterday when I was happy telling everyone this wonderful story about an old friend of mine with whom I had lost contact, and who had managed to locate my email address and send me a message. He had many people here in Belarus, my fellow-students, who do remember him, and I'm sure they will also be sad at the news.

Everyone here in Belarus remembers Chris as a very nice and friendly guy who was constantly interested in what was happening in our country. For some time, he represented all Canadians here and by looking at him and interacting with him, I created my own image of Canada and Canadians. As a native speaker of English, he helped us a lot in our studies and took an active part in our student activities.

I particularly remember those days when I planned to play an unplugged guitar session for a group of my colleague students at Chris's farewell party but couldn't handle the English-language lyrics of some of the rock classics. Chris helped me out with this. He was patiently listening to Bob Dylan and Eagles trying to hear what they sing and wrote the lyrics on paper so that I could learn them and sing. I also remember his stories about Canada, about ice hockey teams and London and Toronto music night clubs.

Several times he invited me to visit him in Canada, but I couldn't manage for financial reasons at that time. I've traveled all over the world since then but never visited Chris because I didn't have his contact info and the letters sent to his old address bounced back to me for some reason. This time I was hoping that I could invite him to visit our part of the world. Chris will always be in my heart as a great friend and a very nice person. I'll miss him...

Gift of sight

2007-08-27T22:37:00.000-04:00

Today I received a letter that filled my eyes with tears of gratitude. It was a thank you letter from the Eye Bank of Canada, notifying me that Chris' donated corneas have restored the gift of sight to two individuals in Ontario. "Your husband's legacy has given light where once there was darkness and hope where once there was despair."

Chris and I were both long-time advocates of organ donation awareness. As many of you know, Chris received a kidney in 1994 from a deceased donor whose grieving family gave him that treasured and generous gift. Now Chris himself has in turn become a donor, giving the gift of his 20/20 vision.

In honour of Chris, please consider organ donation and - most importantly - talk to your family about your wishes.