"A gift is a gift, no matter how long it lasts."

"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

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

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

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!

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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!

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

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.

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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

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

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...

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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