Food and love... food is love

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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Unexpected visitors

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...

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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2 x 2 = wonderful

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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Turning the page...

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

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.

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Lest we forget

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.

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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.

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Happy birth day

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.

One helluva life!

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).

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Fairy godmother

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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Goodnight Tigger

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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Every day can be Canada Day

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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"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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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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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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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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