Just One More Day

My Dad has cancer, and not a good kind. Not that there are any good kinds of cancer, but there are earlier stage cancers, more treatable cancers. He doesn't have one of those kinds. He has inoperable cancer. Two words you never want to hear together. Inoperable cancer.

Late last fall he developed a cough that wouldn't go away, so he went to see the doctor thinking he had a chest infection. Instead he has cancer.

He's had it for a long time and had no idea. He's always been pretty healthy. He's not obese, doesn't drink, doesn't smoke, has low blood pressure. He has regular check ups with his doctor, and gets his blood work done twice a year. In fact the last time he got his blood work done everything was so perfect the doctor asked him why he was there. Only it wasn't perfect.

It never even occurred to him that he had cancer.

That's the thing, we never think it's going to happen to us. Until it does.

One day your dad tells you he's had "a bit of a cough". And then suddenly you find yourself sitting beside him as the specialist explains that the tumour is inoperable.

My dad wanted to put a new roof on the house this spring, and replace some windows. Instead he will be recovering from radiation and chemo treatments.

We always think we have time to do the things we want to do. Until we don't or we can't.

Last week someone said to me, "He's 75, he's had a long life," as if somehow that is supposed to be comforting. It's not. They are right though, he has had a longish life. And as he says, he's still got his feet on the ground, he's not going anywhere yet (take that freaking cancer). Which is good because I'm not done arguing with him. I consider myself fortunate to have had my dad for as long as I have. I, of all people, know that is sadly often not the case. But it's still not long enough, it's not nearly long enough. Not long enough for him, or my mom, or my brothers, or his grandchildren or me.

It doesn't matter how old we are; 27, 43, 61, 75. There is never enough time with the people you love.

We never ever think it's going to happen to us. Until one day you get a cough. You have a seizure. You find a lump. Your door bell rings. And your life is irrevocably changed.

So often we put things off, we'll get to it tomorrow.  I'll call dad tomorrow, I've just been so busy with work. I'll send her a message tomorrow, I don't have time today. Not today buddy, I'm too tired. We'll go to the park tomorrow, I promise. We'll go for a walk at the old farm next weekend dad, if it's not raining.

Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow.

We always take for granted that tomorrow is going to come. And if we are lucky, it will.

But sometimes we aren't lucky.

Sometimes there are no more tomorrows.

And you'll never get to keep those promises or send those messages. And you won't get the chance to say I love you.

Please don't put off until tomorrow what you should do today.

Pick up the damn phone. Call your father, and your mother too. Nobody is too busy for the people that matter to them. Nobody. Tell them you love them, as often as you can. They need to know. And thank your parents for putting up with you all these years (I really didn't mean to talk so much, honest). You wouldn't be the person you are today if it wasn't for them. And make time for your friends. Send your friend that message that you just haven't gotten around to sending. Nobody deserves to be treated as an after thought. Get your ass off the couch and take your son to the park. And go for that walk at the old farm with your dad, the fresh air will do you both wonders.

Today you still have a chance. Don't waste it.

Because you truly never know when you'll find yourself wishing you had just one more day.

Sometimes the morning really doesn't know what the day will bring.

Trust me on that one, I know what I'm talking about.

I love you Daddyo (just in case you forgot in the last hour).


"The afternoon knows what the morning never suspected."~Robert Frost

Finding Monica

Who are you? I've literally asked myself that question a thousand times over in the last almost three years. I've even had the The Who song (the one that is theme song on the TV show CSI) stuck in my head for months. You know the one: Well, who are you? Who are you? Who, who, who who? I really wanna know? (you're welcome for the ear worm, by the way).

When Dan died my whole world was turned upside down, and for a while, I felt like I'd lost myself.

I had so many unanswered questions. How would I support my children? Where would we live? What was I going to do with the rest of my life? Who am I? Fortunately some of those questions were answered within a few days but two critical ones remained:

1. What was I going to do with the rest of my life?
2. Who am I?

I really had no idea what the hell I wanted to do with the rest of my life. But I did know one thing with utter certainty:

I did not want to spend the rest of my life as Lieutenant Colonel Bobbitt's widow.

Of course I will always be Dan's widow but that is not WHO I am, and it's certainly not WHAT I do (which is a good thing because I'm actually a pretty mediocre widow and when I do something, I usually don't do it by half measures.)

I am so much more than what I have lost. I am not just Dan's widow as I was not just Dan's wife.

I am not what happened to me.

Do you remember who you were before the world told you who you should be?

I do. And much more importantly I know who I am now. And who I am is who I want to be.

Widowhood forced me to evaluate not just my life, but who I am fundamentally as a person. I have gotten to know myself really well over the last few years. The good, the bad, the ugly. And as it turns out, I actually like myself, and I'm proud of the woman I have become.

Inside, I'm still Monica but I'm a different version of her then I was three years ago. This is the Monica who knows all too well that life can change in one tragic moment, and so she no longer takes anything for granted. This one is more grateful and more compassionate. This is the Monica who loves fearlessly and fiercely. The one who says what she thinks (okay that hasn't changed, I just do it much more publicly now.) The one who isn't afraid to take risks or to try new things. The one who refuses to live life with regrets. This Monica is much more self assured and confident. She knows not only who she is but where she wants to be and what she wants to do with the rest of her life.

This is the gift widowhood has given me.

It has given me Monica.

None of us could possibly say we are exactly the same person as we were when we were say twenty, before life happened. I know I can't. I'm definitely not the same person I was back then. Before I became a wife. Before I became a mother. Before I became a widow.

Once upon another life, I wanted to be a counselor. I went to university, wrote my thesis, graduated, and then I got married. Dan finished his training and we moved to a military town with no university nearby. And that was that. As is sometimes (often) the case, my career aspirations were put on hold for Dan's military career. I always planned to go back to school, eventually. But of course eventually never came, as it so rarely does. Postings, children, deployments, there was always a reason not to start, and eventually, with each passing year, my desire to be a counselor faded away. I've never once regretted that decision. I was actually happy I could stay home with my kids, I liked being there for them when they came home from school, I still do (except for when they come home cranky). In a life that was often fraught with upheaval, I was the one constant in their lives. But now they are starting their own grown up lives. Next year my baby will go off to university and I will be an empty nester, starting another chapter of my life.

It took me a while but I finally figured out who I am and what I want to do with the rest of  my life

Eventually is finally here. Next week I start my first university course since I graduated many moons ago. Not in counseling, I ruled that one out. It takes a very special kind of person to be a counselor and I know that's not me. Counseling clients day in and day out is emotionally intense. I'm not sure I would ever be able to leave all of that sadness at the office door. I am taking a psychology course though, in human resilience and when VAC sorts out my paperwork, I will start my certificate in creative writing.

Because as it turns out, what I really want to do with my life is exactly what I've been doing for the last year. Writing, speaking, advocating.

Funny how the answer was staring me right in the face the whole time.

I love people. I love talking to them and hearing their stories. I love being able to help them find perspective for their problems. I love giving back. I am so fortunate I've been given an opportunity to do all of those things.

And as for the other question.

Who am I?

I am a mother, daughter, sister, friend, military widow, writer, speaker, blogger, advocate, student. I am all of those things and so much more. And most importantly, I am exactly who I have chosen to be.

I am Monica.

"I am not what happened to me, I am what I choose to become."~ Carl Jung

Another Year to Be Grateful For

As we sit here on the cusp of a New Year, getting ready to bid farewell to the old one, I can honestly say 2016 was the best year I've had in a while. Not perfect by any stretch, and not without it's sadness and challenges, but good nonetheless.

Last New Year's Eve I had absolutely no idea what the upcoming year had in store for me. I couldn't even begin to imagine the possibilities 2016 held, but I welcomed them all with open arms and without reserve. I was ready to tackle any challenge that faced me and to take advantage of every opportunity I was given. Little did I know just how far those opportunities would take me, literally and figuratively.

One day last January, out of the blue, I received a call asking me if I would go to Petawawa to share my story with some of the soldiers there. Without hesitation (I really do need a pause button), I immediately said yes. Of course, I had no idea that was to be the beginning of a new chapter of my life. As I stood there speaking to a battalion of infanteers, I couldn't help but wonder what Dan would have thought of it all. And then I could hear him saying, "You gave her a microphone and a captive audience, what were you thinking?" Actually I know he'd be pretty damn proud that I was able to find a way to use his loss to help soldiers and their families who are struggling. I can never put into words how much the response from all of the soldiers I have spoken to means to me. Since that day, I have had the honour of speaking several times. I have traveled across the country from Petawawa to Gagetown, Toronto, Kingston and Yellowknife. Yellowknife of all places. And in every single one of those places, I have been welcomed by old friends and new. I have met some of the most amazing, courageous men and women who serve our country. Men and women who have shared their stories with me. Men and women who inspire me every single day. Just as I have touched their lives, they too have touched mine. And they have become my strength.

When I first started writing this blog, I had no idea, of course, how my words would resonate with so many. Or that anyone would find me so inspirational. That's the thing isn't it? So many of us go through life never truly realizing the impact we have on others. I have been fortunate enough to get a small glimpse of the impact I have had on so many. And I am humbled by it. I am humbled by the widow who thanked me for telling her its okay for her to be happy (and it so definitely is), by the soldier who found the strength to not open a drink, by the one who called his mom to tell her he loved her after he heard me speak. I am humbled by every soldier and family I meet. I am humbled every single time I am asked to speak. I am humbled and I am incredibly grateful.

Grateful for the opportunity to make a difference and to give back. Grateful to those who believe in me, those who support me, and those who entrust me with their stories. Grateful that my story has inspired others. Grateful that I have given a voice to hope in the face of tragedy.

As I spoke in Kingston last month, I was overcome with emotion. So many dear friends were there to support me; friends from my very first posting as a young army wife, old neighbours, new friends. How very fortunate am I to have so many wonderful people in my life? I am so incredibly grateful for them and for the life that I had and the life I have. The life I have now is not the life I ever imagined myself having, but its a damn good one. And one I will never take for granted.

It is so easy to take it all for granted; our health, our people, our time. We are all guilty of that. But life is so very fragile. And often fleeting. 2016 reminded me of how tenuous it all is. This year a beautiful, gregarious young woman was diagnosed with an inoperable brain tumor. My neighbour died mere months after being diagnosed with stomach cancer. A husband and father of three suffered a fatal heart attack while golfing with friends. All tragic, painful reminders to never take our lives or our health for granted.

The life you have may not be the life you envisioned yourself with or the life you want, but it's your life. And it's up to you to make it the best one that it can possibly be.

It is never, ever too late to make a fresh start. Every day you get is a new opportunity, a new chance to begin again, please don't ever squander that gift away.

And no, it's not easy. I know that all too well. Starting over is hard, scary and painful. You will make mistakes along the way. You may even stumble and fall. But you can pick yourself up and you can start again. I know because I've done it, many times. I will never tell you that it's easy but I will tell you that it's worth it. Truly.

Leave the past where it belongs, in the past. Don't carry it with you into the New Year.

C.S. Lewis said, "There are far, far better things ahead than any you leave behind."  I so believe this to be true.

Bitterness and anger won't heal past hurts, they won't bring back what you have lost. But they will ruin the future and rob today of it's joy. And today really is the only day that is ever guaranteed.

My New Year's wish for you all is that you see how very much you have to be grateful for. Even when you don't believe you do, you really do. You're still here. That's a good place to start.

And always remember someone else is happy with less than what you have.

Someone else is happy with less than what you have.

I have no idea what 2017 has in store for me, but I do know this: I am grateful for the gift of another year. I know it won't be without it's challenges and there may well be more sadness but it will also bring with it happiness and joy.

Gratitude turns what we have into enough, and so much more.

Be grateful for the gift of another New Year. It's a gift that far too many will not receive. Please don't waste it.

Hello 2017. It's nice to see you!

"Approach the New Year with resolve to find opportunities hidden in each new day."~Michael Josephson

There Is Always Something to Be Grateful For

There is always something to be grateful for. This may sound trite to some but it really is true.

The other day someone asked me how I can be so positive all of the time. I honestly wish that were always true, but even I have my moments. Especially last month:




October was a bit heavy for me. I was tired, frustrated, overwhelmed. Sad. And then one day, I was literally knocked on my ass by the dog. As I stood there wiping away my tears, wishing once again could it just be November already, I noticed that there were roses on the bush beside me. Despite the frost, the wind, the rain, they were still there, still blooming. At the end of October. They'd been there for days and I'd never noticed them. I was so wrapped up in feeling sorry for myself, I couldn't see what was right in front of me.

I'm sorry October, it really wasn't you, it was me.

I actually am a pretty positive person, 90% of the time (okay maybe 85%). But sometimes, it gets to be too much, even for me. The truth is sometimes I'm tired. Tired of always being the one responsible for everything, of having to make all of the decisions. Sometimes I'm scared; of what the future has in store (I don't want to be the crazy old widow in the rocker on the porch with a passel of cats), scared I'm going to mess it all up. Sometimes I wonder if my kids got stuck with the wrong parent, the one who isn't as much fun and isn't the best at helping them with their homework (I suck at math). Sometimes I worry I've made all of the wrong decisions. Sometimes I really miss my friends and feel like I've let them down because I'm not there when they need me the most.

And sometimes it's hard NOT to get caught up in the day to day stress (seriously why does everything have to break at the same time?). Sometimes all of the little stuff adds up and seems like really big stuff. Especially when you are worn down emotionally. Which is where I was in October.

Until the day I found myself on my ass on the sidewalk.

"All you have to do is pay attention. Lessons always arrive when you are ready"~Paulo Coelho

Hopefully the lessons arrive a little less painfully the next time. It's funny how literally being on your arse on the ground forces you to look at things from a different perspective. As I picked myself up and dusted myself off, I saw those roses. And those roses reminded me that everyday might not be good, but there is something good in everyday. If only we take the time to see it.

All that stuff I was stressing about was just that..stuff. Stuff that in the overall scheme of things really doesn't matter. It only mattered because I was letting it.

I was unhappy. Because I was making myself unhappy. I own my happiness, that's my responsibility.

I was focusing on all the wrong things. I was focusing on what I don't have and not on the things I do have. I was counting my misfortunes, not my blessings.

I have so very much to be grateful for. I'm healthier and fitter than I have ever been. Everyday I can walk by the ocean and breathe in the salt air. I live in a beautiful house in a beautiful town. I have three, healthy, happy, well adjusted children. Children, who as it turns out, actually think I'm doing a half decent job at this full time, single parenting gig (well, besides the night I threatened to quit, apparently I can't do that, who knew?). It's very true that I'm no good at math, but I do employ a very good math tutor. And while we might not have the same hair-brained adventures as we did when their Dad was alive (Dear Lord some of them were beyond ridiculous), we still end up having loads of fun together.

My friends know that if they ever need me, I'll be there faster then they can say Bombay Sapphire (I'd even bring some with me). I might not get to see them every week or even every month, but they are always there for me, just like I am always there for them. And I am so fortunate that I get to spend time with them whenever I travel. Whether it's in Petawawa, Gagetown, Ottawa, Toronto, Kingston or Yellowknife (Yellowknife of all places), there are always old (and new) friends there waiting for me. How lucky am I?

I might indeed end up as a crazy widow rocking on my porch someday, but somehow I doubt it (okay the crazy part might happen). But the passel of cats will definitely not be happening as I just happen to be allergic to cats. And besides, that's plan Z anyway, luckily I have twenty-five other plans to go through before I get to that one. I think I'll start with plan A: Count my blessings.

There is always, always, something to be grateful for.


“Gratitude unlocks the fullness of life. It turns what we have into enough, and more. It turns denial into acceptance, chaos to order, confusion to clarity. It can turn a meal into a feast, a house into a home, a stranger into a friend. Gratitude makes sense of our past, brings peace for today and creates a vision for tomorrow.” ~Melody Beattie

After the Doorbell: Twenty-Five Things I Didn't Know About Being a (Military) Widow

Before I was widowed, I had absolutely no idea what being a widow really entailed. The military spends a lot of time preparing soldiers to go to war, but they don't really prepare wives to become widows, they don't issue us joining instructions when we are widowed. I had been a military spouse for almost twenty-one years. I was actively involved in our military and regimental communities. I attended every pre-deployment briefing, ironically even including one Dan held for his own regiment before they deployed to Wainwright. But over all of those years and over all of those briefings no one ever told me what really happened, after the doorbell rings.

In the days and weeks after Dan died, I turned to books and the internet for information on being widowed. I needed to understand what I was going through and I needed to know if what I was feeling was normal. There was a lot of helpful information for widows, information on grief, practical information on finances, cautions on not making any big decisions in the first year. But most of the information was generic, written for the much older widow. Being widowed when you are elderly is a much different experience then being widowed when you are forty-three with three teenagers. I did find one book with a very short chapter on some of the unique challenges facing a younger widow, such as single parenting and dating. And another that very briefly mentioned war widows, apparently they do better because "they have a built in squad of cheerleaders." Perhaps that's not an entirely accurate statement, but support from women who have experienced a similar loss is very important, support that I didn't have when I was first widowed. I didn't have a squad of other military widows cheering me on, in fact, at the time I only knew one other military widow and I hadn't seen her in over fifteen years. At any rate, I'm not a war widow, I'm an accidental military widow. And mercifully, Dan was the only one killed in the accident, so there was only one of me.

Eventually, of course, I did meet other widows. Military widows, civilian widows. Older widows, younger widows. Widows with children, some without. Some widowed long before me, some widowed after. All of them amazing, courageous, resilient women who inspire me and who have taught me so much. We are the same, and yet not the same. All of our losses equally tragic but all of our experiences and stories as unique as we are.

There is no rule book on on how to move forward with life after loss, it's up to each of us to move forward, in our own way, and in our own time.

I have learned some things about being a widow. Ask another widow, and her list will be similar but different. Because there is no one list that fits all for widowhood.

1. You will be in shock. When I was notified of Dan's death, I didn't cry, or scream or collapse. I felt nothing, as if I was separate from myself. I remember at one point I actually thought, "I should be crying, why am I not crying?"  I didn't know I was in shock.
2. You will be more afraid than you ever have before. How will I tell our children? Will our children be okay? How will I support them? What am I going to do? I'm going to mess it all up. Who will look after me when I'm old? What if I fall down the stairs? No one will ever know. So many fears....
3. You will be more exhausted then you have ever been before. Physically and emotionally, completely and utterly exhausted.
4. You will have memory problems. I constantly forgot where I was going, what I was doing, what I was saying. To be honest, I'm still a bit forgetful but the kids tell me I can't blame it on being a widow anymore.
5. You will have difficulty concentrating. It was 18 months before I was actually able to read an entire book cover to cover.
6. You will have sleep difficulties. I was never a great sleeper to begin with, and even now two and a half years later I still have sleep difficulties, and I often still have to rely on medication.
7. Widows weight loss is a real thing. I think I lost about thirty pounds in the first four weeks. Not a weight loss plan I would recommend. 
8. Widows have a very strange sense of humour. Well, lets be honest, I was pretty funny to begin with, I'm just even funnier now.
9. There is a business side to death. Like it or not, there is a business side to death, and there are rules and procedures that have to be followed. I will always be grateful for my Assisting Officer, I could never have managed all of the meetings and paperwork without her.
10. You will carry a death certificate in your purse for the first two years. Because you just never know when you are going to need it. And ironically, you will also use your marriage certificate more after you are widowed than you did when you were first married.
11. You will become acutely aware of your own mortality. If I die, my children are orphans. I can't guarantee that something bad won't happen to me, but I will be damned if my kids lose me because I was too selfish to take care of my health.
12. You will be judged. Some people are very judgmental of widows, when you date, if and when you get married again, how much money you spend. Some even seem to think they could do it better.  "If I were you." But, fortunately for you, you're not, are you? 
13. People will tell you how you should grieve. So many people are still influenced by the myth of the stages of grief. The truth is not everyone will go through all of the stages of grief, and yet we are told that we must and if we don't, well then there is something wrong with us.
14. You will make mistakes. And lots of them. And that's okay, everyone makes mistakes. I've never been a widow before, I've never been a single mother before, I've never even really had to date before. You don't know what you don't know. 
15. You are stronger than you think. You never know how strong you can be until you have to be that strong.
16. You will get to know yourself very well.  The good, the bad, the ugly. As it turns out, I'm actually proud of who I have become. I'm not perfect by any stretch of the imagination, but honestly, who is? 
17. You are not what happened to you. I am so much more than what I have lost. I am not just  Dan's widow, as I was not just his wife. I am not my marital status. I'm Monica. Well, a slightly improved version of her.
18. You will feel like you are stuck in between two different worlds. Being widowed is kind of like forced retirement. I often feel like I don''t really fit in in my civilian community but sometimes I'm not sure I really belong in a military one either. 
19. You are allowed to move forward with your life. Moving forward with my life is not betraying Dan's memory. In fact, for me to do anything other than I have, that to him would be the ultimate betrayal and a disservice to everything he stood for. 
20. Dating is really complicated. Really, really complicated. And one of the added perks of being a military widow: its hard for a "civilian" to understand your military life and anyone who wears a uniform will have a hard time seeing you for you and not your last name.
21. You will miss sex and physical intimacy. Yes, I did just write that. Not all widows are 95, just saying.
22. You will look at life through a totally different lens. Loss has a way of really putting things into perspective. All of those little things that you think really matter: they don't.
23. You will be more grateful. I am so much more appreciative of what I have now. I consider every minute I get to spend with the people I love a gift. Because what if I never get to see them again?
24. You have to own your own happiness. I'm responsible for my happiness. Me. Nobody owes me my happiness. Happiness is a choice I make and I have to work at it every single day. I can choose to be happy or I can choose to be miserable and being miserable is not who I am. 
25. Life is too damn short. We always think we have more time, until we don't. There is never, ever enough time. 

Widowhood is an intensely personal journey. Some lessons you can really only learn if you live them. Unfortunately, there are no short-cuts through hell. You just have to keep going.

You can never truly be prepared to be a widow. But you can be proactive.

The harsh reality is people die. Suddenly, unexpectedly, tragically. Death doesn't just happen during deployments, obviously or I wouldn't be writing this blog. Accidents happen. Cancer happens. Suicide happens. Twenty-three or forty-three, private or lieutenant-colonel, husbands or wives, none of us are immune to death.

You need to make sure you have all of your paperwork in order: wills, power of attorney, insurance documents etc all should be reviewed and updated regularly.

And most importantly, you need to sit down and have that What If conversation with your spouse. It's a conversation that all couples, especially military couples, need to have.

Burial plans and funeral arrangements need to be discussed. They are not easy things to talk about, but trust me, those are extremely difficult decisions to make when you are exhausted and grieving. And you need to have an intimate conversation about life moving forward without you.

Thankfully Dan and I had that conversation. It was the most important conversation we ever had as a couple. That conversation was the prologue to this second chapter of my life. When others question or criticize my decisions, I have the surety of knowing I am honouring Dan's wishes for me and our children.

Two and half years later and there is still so much that I don't know about being a widow. My list is still evolving, as am I. I'm still learning, still making mistakes as I go, but really, isn't that what life is all about?

Learning, evolving, loving.


"Everything you need to know you have learned through your journey"~Paulo Coelho

Anyone Can Die

As I drank my coffee and scrolled through Facebook this morning, my newsfeed was full of tributes for Gord Downie and The Tragically Hip following last night's final concert in Kingston. Lovely, eloquent, heart felt tributes. So many who were genuinely overcome with emotion; a mixture of sadness, loss, pride. Love.

When Gord Downie announced in May that he had terminal brain cancer, Canadians were left reeling. How could this happen to a beloved rock icon? He's only fifty-two. But of course, cancer doesn't care how famous you are, or how young you are, or how much you are loved. It is cruel, and random and unfair.

Gord's decison to go public with his diagnosis has moved and inspired many. When he could have easily been defeated, he made the choice to continue doing what he loves most, touring and performing.

Cancer may decide when his life ends, but he will decide how it ends.

Anyone can die, but it takes a lot of courage to really live, especially in the face of a terminal illness.

Truth be told (and as it's Sunday morning, it seems as good of a time as any for a confession), I was never actually a big Tragically Hip fan. I almost feel like I need to apologize for that (how very Canadian of me.) I was more of a Rush, Great Big Sea, Spirit of the West kind of gal (and incidentally, speaking of inspiring, if you haven't seen it, you really should watch Spirit Unforgettable, a documentary about Spirit of the West's lead singer John Mann's battle with early onset Alzheimer's.)

You don't have to be a fan of The Tragically Hip though, to recognize the impact that Gord Downie and the Hip have had on Canadians. They are after all, "Canada's Band." They provided the sound track for many in our generation. And though I can honestly say I never danced to them in university, nor have they ever been on my running play list, I've listened to their music many times over the last twenty seven years.

Dan was a huge Hip fan. He owned every one of their cds. In fact, I'm pretty sure that stack of cds is still packed away in my basement somewhere. He used to love playing them when we were driving home from Petawawa, usually as we were coming out of Quebec and into northern New Brunswick, my least favourite part of the drive. He would belt out their songs at the top of his lungs, while I would sit in the passenger seat fuming. The madder I got, the louder he would sing (so unlike him). If you ever had the misfortune of hearing him sing, you will appreciate just how painful an experience that was. I'm not sure how many arguments we had over the years about the Hip but I know there were a lot.

The one and only time Dan saw them in concert was when he was in Kingston on a course. I'll never forget how excited he was, he talked about it for days afterwards. And as sick as I was of hearing about it at the time, I'm so glad now that he got to go to that concert. It's funny how sometimes the things you think don't matter that much actually matter the most.

Up until a few months ago, if you had asked me who the lead singer of The Tragically Hip was, I wouldn't have had a freaking clue. Me and a whole lot of others, I'd say. Now every Canadian knows Gord Downie's name (unless they've been living under a rock). And now they know what the word glioblastoma means.

Glioblastoma. The most common and aggressive cancer that starts in the brain. It's just one of over 120 different types of brain tumors. Twenty seven Canadians are diagnosed with brain tumors every single day. Approximately 55,000 Canadians are living with a brain tumor. Like Gord Downie, most of them are seemingly perfectly healthy, until one day out of the blue, they are not.

I spent Canada Day with two of my closest friends and their daughter Carolyn and her husband who were visiting Nova Scotia. It was a beautiful, sunny day. We spent the afternoon touring the vineyards and wineries of the valley; sampling the various local wines, beers and ciders. We had so much fun, you couldn't have asked for a more perfect way to spend the day. The next day, as they were driving home from another day of site seeing, Carolyn had a seizure in the back seat of the car. And then another. And then three more after they arrived at the hospital. Three days later they received the diagnosis, a diagnosis that no one ever wants to hear: she has a brain tumor. She's twenty seven. Twenty seven. She was perfectly healthy and then she wasn't.

I've known Carolyn since she was a spunky six year old lecturing any one who would listen on the dangers of smoking (she wasn't wrong there). I wasn't surprised when her mom told she me was going to become a nurse. I've lost count of the number of babies she's helped usher into the world. And now she's the one who needs care. But when she could easily become angry and bitter, she's not. She's positive and upbeat. Last week she baked cookies and brownies and took them to her co-workers, just because. Maybe we should all take the time to stop and bake cookies for someone. Just because.

Life is too god damn short (to not eat cookies, especially chocolate chip ones).

Anyone can die but it takes courage to really live.

Carolyn amazes me with her courage, strength, and positivity. She never chose to have a brain tumor but she chose not to let it define her. Just like Gord Downie.

Gord Downie has brought the subjects of grief and loss to the forefront of our collective consciousness. He has shown us that we while we don't always get to choose what happens to us, we absolutely get to choose how we respond to it. Tragedy doesn't have the final say. We do.

I may never consider myself a Tragically Hip fan, but I am a Gord Downie fan. Because of his very selfless decision to go public with his illness, he has helped raise awareness of a very devastating disease. He has brought hope to many who were hopeless. And money raised from his charity will go to finance research that could lead to a "series of potentially game-changing breakthroughs in the treatment of neurological disorders including tumors, cancer, dementia and stroke." Treatments that will, of course, come too late to save Gord himself, but that may, just may, come in time to make a difference to someone like Carolyn.

And that will be his most important legacy of all.

https://donate.sunnybrook.ca/braincancerresearch

"No dress rehearsal, this is our life."~ The Tragically Hip

The Things We Need To Say

When I was a kid, my mom would always tell me that time goes by a lot faster when you are older. I would always laugh (and probably roll my eyes) and tell her she was wrong. Then of course, I grew up and had kids of my own. And suddenly one day I realized that what she said was true. Time really does go by faster when you are older. Go figure, my mom actually knew what she was talking about. As painful as it was to do, I picked up the phone and called her and told her as much. I'm sure she didn't stop grinning for a month.

Even though I knew my mother was right, I didn't truly appreciate the value of time until after Dan died. It was then that I realized I had spent most of my adult life waiting for time to pass. Waiting for the next posting message. Waiting for the course to be over. Waiting for deployment to end. Waiting for the house to sell. Waiting for the kids to be out of diapers. Waiting for them to start school. It's very sobering when you realize you've spent most of your life waiting for your time to be gone.

Time that I will never, ever get back.

Sometimes you never realize the value of a moment until it becomes a memory.

I write (and speak) about time a lot. Because it is one of the most important lessons I've learned in the last two years: to never take my time for granted. 

It's so easy to get caught up in the day to day stresses of work and raising families, in the waiting, that we lose sight of this valuable lesson. Sometimes even I slip and forget, until a harsh wake up call reminds me. When my neighbour dies of cancer at 61. When my friends lose a friend to a heart attack at 49. When my friends' daughter suffers a sudden, life altering illness. All tragic reminders that life can change on a dime and that we can never, ever take it for granted.

The trouble with time is you always think you have more. Until you don't.

The other day I posted a link to an article on my Facebook page:

• I love you
• I'm sorry
• I understand how you feel
• I believe in you
• I'm scared
• No
• Thank you

Such important things to say, but things that many of us struggle with saying. Often we put off saying them because they are difficult to say. It's hard to admit we've been wrong or that we're scared. It's hard to say no. Or to tell someone that we love them.

I've said these things more over the last two years then I ever have before. Because I am very mindful that I might never get the opportunity to say them again.

The truth is I am scared sometimes. Scared of that god damn snake I stepped on when I was walking the dog (seriously 3000 acres of dykes and I put my foot down on a snake. It was dead, incidentally. I'm not sure if it was from me stepping on it or not). Scared that I might spend the rest of my life alone in this big old house. Scared that I will mess everything up.

I've never been a widow before, I've never been a single mother before, I've never even really had to date before. And well, you don't know what you don't know. Often, I don't know what I'm supposed to say or do. And sometimes I end up saying or doing the wrong things. But I have learned it's okay that I make mistakes, we all make mistakes. And it's okay that I don't have all the answers, I'm not supposed to. No one does.

Fortunately, I have the most amazing friends, friends who are always there for me, even when I screw up. I'm so incredibly thankful for you. I actually don't know what I'd do without you. I can't thank you enough; for always being there for me, for always listening to me natter and for being my shoulder to cry on, and also for kicking me in the ass when I need it the most.

My three kiddos have heard me say all of these things (and more) many, many times. We discuss them a lot. They know that I actually don't know what I'm doing sometimes (well, a lot of the time. I just make it up as I go along). They also know I do the best I can until I know better and then I (try) to do better. They know because I'm honest with them. Because we discuss it. And yes sometimes our discussions even illicit some eye rolling (it's okay K, if we're lucky someday you will be able to call me to tell me I was actually right, and I was, of course). 

And I tell my kids I love them every, single day.

These are things we all need to say, while we can, before it's too late.

I don't want to spend the rest of my life wishing I had told someone how much they meant to me. Or how much I appreciated them. Or how much I missed them. And that should also be on the list.

• I miss you

The people we care about need to know that we feel their absence when they aren't with us. We can't always be with our people, especially when we live in different provinces (or countries) but we can let them know we miss them. And how much we value the time we do get to spend with them.

It only takes a few seconds to send someone a message to say thank you or to tell them that we love them, or that we miss them or just that we are thinking of them. And yet often we don't make the time. We don't pick up the phone to call because we are just too damn busy, with work and life. We'll do it tomorrow.

Only, sometimes, there is no tomorrow. And you didn't say the things you needed to say.

Instead, you are left with a lifetime of regret.

The very last text I sent Dan was "Eaves trough is up!"

Not I miss you or I love you.  Because I didn't know that would be the very last thing I ever got to say to him. I thought I had all of the time in the world to say all of the things I needed to say.

The trouble is you always think you have more time to say the things you need to say. Until you don't.

I'm sorry (the garage is a mess). Thanks (for putting up with me for all of these years). I miss you.

The eaves trough is up.

It takes two seconds to say I love you.

Say it as often as you can while you still have the chance.

Because you never know when that chance will be gone.

It only takes two seconds.

I love you.


"The regret of my life is that I have not said 'I love you' often enough"~ Yoko Ono

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