I am Canadian

I have always enjoyed Canada Day and not just because it is a holiday but because it is a day when everyone seems in the mood to celebrate. It is a day where the red in the flag seems brighter and everyone seems prouder to be a Canadian. However, I’m not sure that those of us home-grown Canadians truly understand how blessed we are to be a Canadian.

Canada Day has been more special to me in recent years because the other half of our family became Canadian citizens just five years ago. There was a wonderful ceremony at the Confederation Building, well attended and a quick glance around the room let everyone see the new Newfoundland and Labrador that is emerging. It was a truly multi-cultural experience.

It was clear to me that everyone receiving citizenship was excited and proud. There were friends and in some cases family there to cheer them on and to share in this special occasion. It was no different for us. We sat there beaming with pride and soaking up every word. It was a wonderful way to celebrate Canada Day and later we continued that celebration with a gathering of many of our friends and family. I know it is a day that we will remember forever.

However, the road to that wonderful day wasn’t an easy one. There is a misconception that Canada’s doors are wide open for any and all to enter. This is not true. Immigration is a challenging and often intimidating process. It starts with the very difficult decision to leave your home country. For many I’m sure this decision doesn’t come easy. Political unrest and even war to those of us who have never experienced it might seem like the perfect reasons to go somewhere else but it just isn’t that simply. There are so many things to consider.

Think about all the little things that you may have struggled with when you took your last holiday; driving on the other side of the road; none of the same brands of beverages; ordering dinner in a different language but then a couple weeks later you’re back home again. Now think about spending the rest of your life in the place you holidayed, far from friends and family. For most people immigration is a forever thing.

My experience with the immigration process was somewhat secondhand but extremely enlightening as I watch from the sidelines; the visas; the paperwork, the interviews, more paperwork, additional interviews, the costs, the legal advice and the struggles to adjust to so many new things and of course the months and years of waiting and wading through the process . This is definitely not for the faint of heart.

I remember distinctly the summons to an interview in Buffalo and Detroit. We were informed that the children were required to be there at this interview. It was flight costs to Toronto for everyone. Then rent a vehicle and drive to Buffalo; not a preferred holiday destination; only to be told the children were NOT required at the interview. No one even apologized and there was no discount to cover the several hundreds of dollars of that we had spent to accommodate the original request.

Once back home we continued the waiting game and continued our struggles to get everyone settled into their new country. I will state right up front that the first year is the most difficult as well as the most exciting. It is full of firsts.

There was that first day of driving on the “right” side of the road. There were the kids second “first” day at school. There was purchasing the first vehicle in your new country and then the buying that first home, just to mention a few of the obvious but there are the things that are no so obvious. Going to the grocery store and not recognizing any of the brands on the shelf. What to buy and how long before I discover with one I will like and what about the favourite things from home that you just can’t find here…more adjustments.

I finally decided that the process takes so long so that when you finally are an official Canadian citizen you have been Canadianized. You don’t need directions to the Confederation Building where the ceremony takes place and you are more than accustomed the side of the road that you take to get there.

Then you celebrate. Like most births all the pain of getting there is quickly forgotten and everyone stands and sings the national anthem…mumbling the French part and feeling that incredible sense of belonging and proudly announcing “I am Canadian”.

Fish out of water

Every once in a while a memory flashes into your mind out of nowhere; bringing you face to face with an embarrassing moment in your life that you’d rather forget.

I had one of those just the other day, a moment that in hindsight was somewhere between completely hilarious and totally mortifying. It was hilarious because 30 years have passed; mortifying because I can still feel the confusion and the embarrassment of being trapped in the Toronto Transit Commission.

“What goes around comes around,” my grandmother would have rightly stated. As is often the case, it took me awhile before I got the message.

Growing up on an island like Twillingate brings with it some special skills: I could moor a boat, cut out cod tongues and was nearly an expert at taking a sea cat off a hook. So, when the come-from-away teenagers came to visit as they did almost every summer, I took a little too much pleasure in watching them struggle with the things that I thought were part of everyday life.

If I had only known!

When the time came for me to head off to the big city in search of work; I had no idea I was about to live out the city/country mouse story of my childhood. Arriving in Toronto was both exciting and terrifying. Everything was new and much bigger.

After spending my first night in my new apartment I was ready to explore. My roommate called me to join her for coffee not far from where she worked. I can still remember the specific instructions she gave me: Make sure to put the chain lock on the door before you leave and at the Kipling Subway Station take the westbound train, then transfer to the No. 10 bus which I was assured stopped right in front of the Second Cup Coffee shop.

I remember repeating her instructions over and over so that when I was ready to leave the apartment and start my first real adventure into the streets of Toronto I’d get it right.

First; put the chain lock in place. Sounded simple enough, but after carefully inspecting the lock up and down I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how it worked. I stood outside the door for the longest time struggling to squirm my hand inside to put the latch in place. It was a total mystery to me. I finally did it, but darn near broke my wrist. The thought that I would have to do that every time I went out left me thinking that I’d be spending a lot of time apartment bound.

The next stop was the subway station. I carefully approached the ticket window and passed over my money in exchange for a funny looking coin. I was clever enough to know the coin was the key to get me aboard the train but before I could completely figure it out the person behind me impatiently told me what to do. I obediently dropped the coin in the slot and moved through the turnstile, which is when the fun began.

Finding the westbound train platform wasn’t so difficult and almost immediately there was a train. I felt total relief as I boarded and sat down. I watched carefully for my stop, and there indeed was Kipling Station. I immediately got off and went looking for the buses. I found them soon enough but couldn’t figure out where to buy a ticket. I looked and looked and watched people come from the subway and board the buses but I couldn’t see where they purchased their tickets. There was no wicket, no automatic coin dispenser, and no machine of any sort.

I was trapped in the TTC.

I eventually stopped someone and asked the brave question: “How do I get on the bus?”

“Don’t you have your transfer?” the person replied.

No, I didn’t. I didn’t even know what a transfer was, an important piece of information that my city-mouse roommate failed to mention.

Back I went to the eastbound platform, back to where I started my journey, got my transfer and started all over again. The moral of the story is that every once in a while when life gets downright confusing and the turns in the road leave you bewildered and frustrated, take comfort in the fact that there’s always a bus waiting.

Trick is to backtrack and start again. That’s the ticket.

Take a Hike

Are you up for the challenge? Well I thought I was but I guess I didn’t really know what the challenge was. Does that sound familiar? How many times have you gotten caught thinking something was a piece of cake (cheesecake that is) only to discover, much too late that you were so very wrong.

Admitting that I’m wrong isn’t one of my strong suits. To be totally honest I find it darn right difficult so when I agreed to hike the Long Range Mountains with a really good friend and outdoor enthusiast from Ontario I had no idea what I was agreeing to and seemingly no interest in knowing the difference. It just sounded like fun and that was all the mattered to me – least for that moment.

I was told to prepare. Prepare for what I thought. Sure, I’ve hiked many times in my life and wasn’t this my neck of the woods plus it was months before the trek and plenty of time to pull it together. Week after week my friend would call to remind me that I needed to take practice hikes with a backpack that that we would need certain supplies.

I dragged the backpack out of storage borrowed supplies from friends and each time I explained that I was going to hike the Long Range Mountains I would received that same response “Really?”. “Yes” I would reply confidently and head home to my ever growing stockpile of camping goodies. As it got closer to the time for my friend to arrive I was feeling more and more excited. So excited in fact I never noticed the tentative way in which person after person would respond to my news of hiking the Long Range Mountains.

The drive across the island was picture perfect. As we got closer to Gros Morne National Park my friend explains that before we hike we have to check in with the Park Warden. You have got to be kidding, whatever for? Was I in for a surprise!

We waited patiently for the Warden who was a quiet pleasant man that seemed overly intrigued with us and our quest. He pulled out a large map that reminded me of something straight out of my grade nine geography book.  “Can you read a topo map?” My friend replied a quick yes and I figured now was not a good time to say anything.

The Warden began to explain that the boat on Western Brook Pond would drop us at the dock at the base of a small water falls. That didn’t seem too bad…a boat…and dock and a small water falls. What came next wasn’t as comforting. He suggested that we hike up the left of the falls because there was a moose carcass on the right side and the bears had been feeding off it. Now he really had my attention but before I could say anything he pointed on the map where the first campsite was located.

Much better - a campsite! I listened as he explained the locations of several other campsites along the way and slowly started to relax again but not for long. We required permits and the hike would probably take 3 – 4 days – piece of cake I thought. But he continued; if your permits are not deposited in the box at the end of the trail by day 7 they would dispatch a search and rescue team. It took a couple of moments for that to sink in but suddenly a little voice inside whispered “You better start talking now because I think you may just be in over your head.”

Taking my time so not to appear alarmed or daft I asked a simple question; “how many people will we meet at the first campsite?” His reply still rings in my ears. “None. IF you complete the hike you will be the first to do so this year.” To which I replied “Really?”

I was speechless for one of the few times in my life and we were issued our permits and sent on our way.  The only thing running through my head was “pride goes before a fall” or being eaten by a bear. Still it was the next morning before I backed down from the Long Range Mountain challenge although the boat ride was pleasant.  I think I might be ready for that hike now, any takers?

How Not to Wear Panty Hose!

I almost died. From embarrassment, that is, and even today when I think about it I still get that’s sinking feeling. But then, within seconds, I laugh at the memory of it. Still, for a young aspiring marketing executive it was an hour or so of living hell.

I was living and working in downtown Toronto and had just found my way into the world of marketing and communications. We were working on a new fall promotion for a client and I was tasked with meeting their national marketing director to review the details. I was more than pleased at the opportunity, which was scheduled for 9 a.m. on a Monday morning.

Sleep was difficult Sunday night. I remember lying in bed going over and over the information in my mind, until finally drifting of into a deep sleep. When I awoke the next morning I immediately knew I was in trouble.

My alarm hadn’t gone off.

Damn. It was already 8 a.m. and it would take at least 30 to 40 minutes to drive to the meeting. I didn’t have much time or many choices. I grabbed the outfit I had worn the day before – navy pants, light-colored blouse and navy blazer. It would do just fine. I jumped in my car and flew through the morning traffic.

I pulled into the parking lot at precisely 8:50 a.m. Perfect. I wanted to make a good impression. The receptionist showed me to the marketing director’s office. It was impressive. There was a large mahogany desk and wonderful leather chairs. I made a mental note to have an office like it someday, but we were soon down to business.

I leaned over to collect files from my briefcase when something caught my eye.

“Oh my God,” I thought to myself. Hanging from my pants were the panty hose I had worn with the outfit the day before. Oh no. I started to sweat and feel a little sick.

“Coffee?”

“Yes, I’d love a cup.”

That might buy me some time, but no such luck. The national marketing director buzzed the receptionist and she brought in the coffee.

“Focus,” I told myself, but distracted I was. Then I had a brilliant idea. If I stepped on the end of the panty hose that was sticking out and gently pulled, maybe I could get them out that way. I could then tuck the panty hose into my briefcase and no one would be the wiser.

To summarize the situation: I was presenting to a major client, drinking coffee and trying to free panty hose from my pants.

It wasn’t my day.

The plan seemed simple enough, but the execution was less than flawless. As it happened, the panty hose were occupying both legs of my pants and freeing them was impossible, no matter how nonchalantly I pulled.

I was actually making things worse. I had only succeeded in dragging about six inches more of the panty hose from the pants, hardly the fashion statement I was trying to make.

The presentation continued. It went well and the marketing director didn’t seem to be aware of my personal struggle. That was good, because I was only catching every other word and feeling sicker as each moment went by.

Time for plan B: stuffing the panty hose further up my pant legs. Yes, that could work. I casually pushed my chair back a little from the desk, exchanging ideas and taking notes as I went. Then I crossed my legs so that I was closer to those damn panty hose. There, I could reach. At that point I was very grateful for the mahogany desk, which was shielding me from total embarrassment.

Stuffing the panty hose back into my pants worked better than trying to pull them out and finally there was nothing showing. What relief, and the meeting was almost over.

I slowly put all of my files back into my briefcase and thought about my options. Was there a washroom close by? No.

I had no choice but to take slow, deliberate steps towards the exit. The hallway seemed longer on the way out and I walked much slower than normal.

Concentrating, I remember feeling the panty hose slipping. I was at the reception desk when I felt them starting to escape.

Finally, I was out of the building. The panty hoses were slipping more by then. When I got to the car the panty hose were actually dragging on the ground. I quickly jumped into my car and tugged and tugged until those blasted panty hose were free.

Since then, I check the legs of my pants before every presentation.

Super Mom hits the snooze

No one can ever accuse me of being a morning person. I certainly don’t jump out of the bed and bid the day a cheery “hello”. No, I’m definitely a hit the snooze button several times kind of gal and I make no apologies for the fact that I prefer the quiet of late night to the tranquility of early morning. That might account for how and why my mind was able to trick me that morning a few years back.

That night ended like so many of my mid-winter nights, writing emails into the wee hours of the morning, making a list of all the things I would like to get to the next day knowing that many of them would probably go undone and taking the time to appreciate the sound of the telephone not ringing.

Like most moms I know, sleep is never far away once I hit the pillow and always as I drift off I think about the next morning’s routine…the alarm sounds. I hit the snooze button once – 10 more glorious minutes. The alarm sounds. I hit the snooze button again. Another 10 minutes but not so sound. The alarm sounds. Just in time for the morning school report.

Listening to the morning school report is a must any day but during the winter it is critical. “Today there is a blizzard. All schools and most businesses are closed.” Wow, I hadn’t even heard that we were expecting a storm. Typical, I never seem to have a handle on the weather or my grocery shopping. Oh well, only one real option, roll over and continue to sleep. I have learned to never argue with the school report.

Another hour goes by and my son creeps into the room. “Mom, are you getting up. We’ll be late for school.” I explain, “There’s a snow storm and school is cancelled. You go back to bed and we’ll check the news again later. Okay.”  What a welcome relief, a couple extra hours of sleep never go astray. Finally, time to face the day no matter what. I take a quick peek outside. Strange, it does seem to be so stormy, must be blowing through quickly.

Oh yeah, super moms feed their children breakfast. Considering we had the time bacon and eggs seem the best choice. Why, this is a treat, a leisurely breakfast in the middle of the week. I can only imagine what a whole bunch of days like this would be. Oh well, let’s just enjoy this one for a moment but only for a moment before the darn telephone rings. 

That’s strange, it’s the office. Who would be calling from there this morning? Am I okay? Sure, I’m okay, why wouldn’t I be okay. I didn’t show up for work and I didn’t call. Well, considering there is a snow storm why was that so unusual. No snow storm? No schools closed? All businesses are open. No way. I listened to this morning’s school report.

The children are hearing my conversation. No one is quite sure what is going on most certainly not me. I’m hearing the “Twilight Zone” theme music in the background and wonder if life hasn’t caught up with me in a big way.  Another more careful check outside confirmed the obvious, there was no snow storm.

So, what really happened? I can only offer a couple of possibilities; I forgot to set the alarm and my mind went through my morning routine without me. I think that is only fair considering how many mornings I go through my morning routine without my mind or maybe I did set my alarm and turned it off instead of hitting the snooze allowing a runaway dream to take over from there.

My children remind me often about that very strange morning. They are not shy about telling there friends about how they got to pip off school because Mom dreamed there was a snow storm. Me, I just smile at how my mind or maybe body got the better of me. And many mornings now when I hit the snooze button I wonder will it be 10 glorious minutes or a morning of leisure?

Hockey Starlets - 2005

This was written in early 2005 but it still one of my favourites:

Monday night hockey? Yes, it was suppose to be the last night of the season so I excitedly pulled into the parking lot (a little late as usual) only to see 22 women standing around looking anxious.

“Great; I’m not really that late,” was my first thought, followed by, “What the heck is happening?”

Turns out that the sign in front of the arena for the past month so announcing “Ice on until the 25^th” was not so. What a disappointment. For months the routine of Monday night hockey was something that I looked forward to, craved even.

Ice hockey you say? You bet.

It’s one of the fastest growing female sports in Canada and I’m hooked. It is hard to believe that before October of 2002 I had never really played ice hockey. I still snicker at the reactions I get as I dash from meetings with a quick apology: “Got to go. I have to be on the ice in 30 minutes”.

The best was going to trade-in a helmet that didn’t quite fit. I stood at the counter explaining to the salesperson that it was too narrow and that I wanted to trade it for a slightly wider model.

He listened carefully, nodded, looked around and said “so where is the young fellow?”

At first I was confused, but quickly responded “that’ll be me”.

So, what’s this all about; the idea of a women at my age and particular point in life picking up the game of hockey.  

Not a simple question to answer but I am certain it is not for the beer drinking in the dressing room afterward. (Sorry guys we don’t get that)

We all rush to the stadiums and, once the game is done, rush to our frantic lives. Maybe that is part of the answer; for about 50 minutes we’re free on the ice. Free to chase that silly black disk around and around; racing up and down the ice and occasionally getting that incredible opportunity to score a goal. There just isn’t a better feeling than seeing that puck pass the goal line and know that it came off the end of your stick. I know because I can proudly say that I have had that experience twice — once for my team and once for the other team.

Does the game get rough? Anytime you have 12 people on the ice all wanting the same thing — control of the puck — anything can happen.

The recreational league is non-contact, that is, if you don’t count the times when a player just can’t stop.  I love the pick up games we play for fun outside the league where we spice it up a little and friendly rivalry gives way to the odd bit of one-upmanship.

There the moves of some of the more skillful player are to be admired and, for a novice like me, envied. Most of us don’t shy away from the corners and an easy turnover is the last thing on anyone’s mind. It’s all in good fun and so far the only injury I have received is the mild bruising of my pride from time to time.

And we have referees. Some people think women playing recreational hockey don’t need referees; not so. We take our hockey seriously and are just as frustrated when the off-sides don’t get called or the icing call that we desperately want gets waved off. I do know that since I have started to play the game I have an increased respect for the role of the referee. Can you imagine having 12 women telling you all at once what they think the call should have been?

Today, I can’t picture my life without hockey although it will July before the summer games start so until then I have hung up my skates. I don’t know if the almost over night craze for women’s hockey some how changes the game but I would like to think that I have discover something truly special. Whether it is the friendships that develop naturally through playing any team sports or whether it is the fact that I feel great when I get off the ice I know that hockey is now a part of me. I’m not a great player, I’m not even a good player but by golly I have heart and an helmet the fits properly so I’m playing and I invite you give it a shot - oops no pun intended.

 

 

Letting Go

Early in my career as a mother, my own mother’s advice to me simply stated that the greatest gift I could give my children was independence. That seemed easy enough considering they were only young at the time. I was actually quite open to my children being independent. From potty training to feeding themselves I eagerly cheered; “bring it on”. Who doesn’t want to see their little ones conquer all those milestones that we have so carefully marked as important; first tooth, first word, and first step? We encourage each and every one of these as if our own worth as a parent is measured by their triumphant execution. However my mother forgot to tell me that to give this wonderful gift of dependence I would have to “let go”.

Those early years are so amazing. Each and every day brings something new and from our vantage point as parents it is even more exciting as we anticipate what is next. I was no different from many other young mothers, reveling in it all until that dreaded “first day of school.” Sure I was committed to this child’s independence but did he really have to walk across the street into that schoolyard every morning by himself for that to happen? It is a good thing that day one at school allows every parent to pretend that they travel to school with their children just to be a part of one of those “firsts” never once admitting how totally unprepared they are for this first experience of “letting go”.

Once I survived my “first day of school” I heaved a big sigh of relief thinking that’s behind me. Oh no, two years later the very same feelings and all the same fears. It was then that I began to realize why my mother felt it so necessary to share the importance allowing independence with me. This is no easy thing and it doesn’t get any easier.

I graduated from the walk across the road to the primary school to a bus to the elementary school. I know it sounds simple enough, oh no. It is scary. There are new and even bigger dangers lurking around every corner; older and bigger kids traveling alongside your son or daughter. Each time that I felt the urge to pile them into my car and drive them I would hear my mother’s words, take a deep breath and carry on.

I now have had many years of practicing this concept of “letting go” and my kids and I squarely disagree on how well I have performed. I give myself an “A” for all the times I choked back my fears and allowed them to face the challenges of growing up. They on the other hand would probably give me a “C” for all the times I wasn’t ready for their next steps.

I still believe that what my mother said was so true and I tried to always consider whether the decisions I made on behalf of my children held them back or held them up. Either way I would like to pass my mother’s advice along to you because at some time in the process of growing up children will need to make decisions for themselves and they need to know how.

So, here I am at probably the most difficult stage of this process of “letting go”. With four young adults ranging from 19 – 22, one getting ready to graduate from university in this spring, and three not far behind, they all now ask for the car keys and each definitely believe that a curfew is only for me and the dog. I find myself facing more “firsts” than ever. As the optimist that I am I keep hoping for it to get easier but no such luck. I still struggle with letting them make choices that I know from my experience they will regret. Exams and reports are perfect examples of me taking a far too active role in their decisions on when and how long to study. Then there are those things can have an even bigger impact like backing out of the driveway too fast…far too fast. (I hope you are reading this.)

I think I’m finally getting it, not that either of the four in this house would entirely agree with me. I on the other hand am quite proud of the fact that I am more excited than scared of the next couple of years where each leaving home will be inevitable. 

So, thanx Mom for that great advice.

How does my garden grow?

Everyone admires a beautiful garden and I’m no exception, although I didn’t inherit my mother’s green thumb.  In fact, I seem to be more skilled at forgetting to water and care for the precious floras and faunas that I am at nurturing them into a healthy existence. 

An incident at my parents’ home clearly illustrates my lack of knowledge.  I commented to my sister on how pretty a yellow rose was in a floral arrangement.

“Yes,” she replied, “it would be if it wasn’t a tulip.”

Lucky for me the ability to admire doesn’t hinge on knowledge.  A pretty flower is a pretty flower and I still maintain that I love a pretty garden. 

The thought of having a lovely garden was actually the driving force behind a decision to hire a landscape company to perform a backyard make-over.  We had a lot of our own ideas and we sat down and put our thoughts on paper.  “How exciting,” we thought.

Like any project, this one was a slow evolution.  We discussed placing flower boxes here and rock walls there.  I was already planning the wonderful barbeques that we would have once our courtyard retreat was completed. 

In support of grassroots entrepreneurism, we hired a small landscaping company that I had stumbled upon a few months earlier.  So far so good, right?  Well, over the next six weeks our dreams of a glorious courtyard retreat turned into a nightmare. 

It all started well enough.  The fence was tackled first – straightened scraped and painted.  It took a little longer than expected but we were patient.  The next couple of weeks saw a corner garden and rock wall constructed.

Nice, but the rock wall wasn’t the height we had asked for.  By that time we had been waiting four weeks and my birthday barbeque that was supposed to be our first celebration in our new courtyard retreat came and went with everyone saying how nice it would be once it was finished. 

“Once it’s finished,” became the project’s theme.  Nailing down a completion date was harder than nailing Jell-O to the fence.  It was always only going to be a couple of more days. 

At that point, my spider senses were telling me we had a problem.  It was then all the questions I should have asked at the start of the project came rushing to me.  What’s the company’s track record?  We hadn’t even asked for references.  Sure, we had a quote in writing, but when I reviewed it so much was open to interpretation.

I suddenly realized that my inexperience had probably contributed to making a bad decision.  It’s confusing to deal with a project that’s new to you, which I’m sure most readers would relate to in dealing with a contractor. 

I had no idea how much a bag of “top” grade mulch should cost and I definitely had no idea how much plant material you could buy with $100 bucks.  To be truthful, by the time we were five weeks into the project the only thing I was certain of was that 18 inches isn’t two feet, the height the rock wall was supposed to be.  The rest was very cloudy and getting cloudier. 

By week six, everyone was feeling the stress.  Patio stones were laid and our troubles grew.  I watched from the sidelines, feeling more uneasy each passing day.  You know that sinking feeling that comes when you know something just isn’t going to get any better and you have to take action?  Knowing that frustration can often lead to even worse decisions, we sought some advice of someone more knowledgeable (a little late I know). 

All our concerns were confirmed, especially regarding the patio stones.  Our first course of action was to try and negotiate with the company we had hired.  We were shocked when our concerns were met with confrontational language.  After several attempts to resolve our issues we were forced to discontinue the contract and take a loss financially. 

We then licked our wounds and turned our attention to some other renovations that we had planned.  Needless to say, we hired a qualified project manager that negotiated with the contractors on our behalf and everything is going great and on schedule. 

We finally finished our courtyard retreat and now I’m content to look our window and admire the beautiful roses in our garden.  Or are they tulips?  Whatever – they really are pretty.    

   

My Story - CIBC Run for the Cure

On October 2008, I was invited to be the survivor speaker at the CIBC Run for the Cure.

What follows is most of my speech that morning…

“On April 26, 2006 I received the news that most women dread to hear. The results of my biopsy were positive for breast cancer. I remember how strange that moment felt.

Although nothing had yet changed… in an instant everything had changed.

My story is like the stories of many others standing here this morning but for each of us it is a personal journey and my journey started with an unsettling feeling. Despite everything I had read and heard about breast cancer I really didn’t know much about the road ahead.

Telling my family was the very difficult first step in my journey. No one ever wants to bring suffering to their family. I felt sad to have to do so. They of course didn’t see it that way at all. I’m forever grateful for their love and support.

Breast cancer is a world of non-invasive, invasive, stages, grades, ER, PR and Her2. I was overwhelmed with the decisions. What surgeon, lumpectomy vs. mastectomy, localization, sentinel node biopsy, lymph edema, chemo, radiation, white blood cell counts, wigs, scarves and/or hats.

There were definitely days when I ascribed to the philosophy “if I put my hands over my eyes then no one can see me”…it offered only momentary comfort… reality was never far away.

As with most journeys I also learned things. I learned to gather information so I could make decisions. I bought every book at Chapters on the subject and read and read. I was afraid of making a wrong decision and often didn’t feel brave enough to make any decision.

 

I was blessed that I knew others willing to share their stories with me. Gerry Rogers and Ann Marie Anonsen, my lymph nodes owe you a debt of gratitude. Julie Bettney, your very encouraging words and the book you sent helped me to keep my sights on the light at the end of the tunnel.

Now I make an effort to “Pay it Forward”. I take the time to talk with newly diagnosed breast cancer patients.  I lend my books and my 5 years of Golden Girls on DVD because to laugh throughout this journey is sometimes the very best medicine.

My journey took me through surgery, (a mastectomy), a sentinel node biopsy, pathologies were; stage 2, high grade, triple negative, invasive breast cancer. The surgery had gotten all the cancer with good margins.  Treatment was chemo and only chemo; six treatments of three drugs including the infamous “red devil”.

I struggled with the decision to do the chemo treatments. I had read so many stories of people opting out of chemo and wondered if I could follow that path. However; after much soul searching I agreed to move forward with the chemo.

To make chemo as bearable as possible I was often joined by family and close friends. We sometimes created a little chaos at the chemo unit. A big thank you to each of my chemo buddies. You rock!

Then I flunked chemo!!! I can say that now and smile but living it was something that I would rather forget.

Treatment 1 & 2: Routine…no surprises except the rapid hair lost!

Treatment 3: I began to struggle.

Treatment 4: Not good at all. Even though my blood work was exactly what we could expect. My general health was not so good and I began to consider not continuing. This decision was the most difficult but in the end I signed on for the fifth chemo treatment.

 

That fifth treatment was October 5^th, 2006. It seemed routine enough but 5 days later on October 10^th, I collapsed in my driveway. A CT scan later revealed a blood clot in the left artery to my brain and the right artery had been dissected during my fall.

The damage was significant. My right leg didn’t want to cooperate at all, I experienced vision reduction in both eyes and the hearing in my right ear was crackly. Core strength, balance and hand-eye coordination were greatly reduced.

It was a lot to absorb. The good news was that there was every expectation that these symptoms would reverse as the blood clot dissolved and the dissection healed but in that moment of time I was again faced with “now what”.

Well, no more chemo!!! The risks now outweighed the benefits.

I came home a few weeks later to personal care, a walker, eye patches and headaches that never went away.

The next several months were the darkest of my journey. After a few weeks I was well enough to not need 24 hour care but not well enough to get back to my life. I was struggling with a combination of disappointment and anger.

I think that being a survivor is more than surviving the disease but surviving the incredible changes that comes along with the disease, the physical and mental changes, financial and social changes. I remember fighting back the tears when the cashier at Costco insisted that the person on my card wasn’t me.

By August of 2007 I made a decision to dedicate all my energy to reclaiming “me”. It was a great decision.

A good friend helped me find someone who was willing to design a rehab program specific to my needs.

Two years later I feel privileged to be speaking to you at this amazing event.

Why are we here…well…a recent stat reports that: In 2008, it is estimated that 360 women will be diagnosed with breast cancer in Newfoundland and Labrador. More than 22,000 across the country!

It is only through research that we will develop better treatments, a cure and ultimately prevent all women from the threat of breast cancer.

Have a great run…”

My island home

I remember skipping stones. Getting that stone to skip more than 16 times was my personal best. I would watch the rings grow larger and larger until they would melt into the surrounding water. Could my life be any better? I sure didn’t think so. I had what many children could only dream of — a quiet peaceful existence in the most beautiful of surroundings. My little island home in the North Atlantic created for me the most pleasant of childhoods.

There were times when adventure tourism took on a whole new meaning. Copying from ice pan to ice pan required careful precision and a misstep not only meant a chilling bath in the bay but you could also count on a darn right scolding in the porch when you got home. Warmth came quickly, though, as many nights ended with a song and a yarn around the kitchen table surrounded by family and friends.

Twillingate or Toulinquet as it was known in the 1600s was my playground, my home, and for much of the time I believed, even then, it was my personal paradise. It was on that little island iced-in for much of the winter that I learned to love our great province of Newfoundland and Labrador. Then again what wasn’t there to love? As a kid I watched the slow train of icebergs, all shapes and sizes, pass by every summer from the end of June to mid-July. I followed the dance of the Northern Lights through the skies on a crisp September night — light shows occasionally interrupted by the regular flash of the beam from the lighthouse at Long Point.

One of my favourite memories is fishing for tomcods off the rocks beneath Mr. Bath’s flake — except, of course, for the time I jigged my cousin Randy. He had to have the hook cut out of his hand at the hospital and my mother suspended my fishing license for a spell.

I didn’t really know how much I loved this place until I had to leave. Jobs in the mid-1970s were scarce and after finishing college so off I went to the mainland in search of work. The streets of Toronto were a long ways away from the rocky shores of Twillingate but I quickly adjusted. Like many other displaced Newfoundlanders, I found more of my kind to gather with, to share our songs, our stories and our common bond of missing home.

Newfoundland and Labrador was always at the centre of my heart and going back never far from my mind.

It took me 11 years to find my way back. I can still remember the excitement of crossing the Gulf and when the ferry docked in Port aux Basque I immediately announced “ I’m home” even though home was technically several hours away. I knew then I was here to stay. My travels still take me around the world but no matter where I go or for how long am away I’m always the happiest when I am here where “the paths of whales and icebergs cross”.

I no longer live in Twillingate but have made my home in St. John’s. Still, there is the occasional iceberg that makes its way past The Narrows and just last September I watched the Northern Lights put on a marvelous show. I’m constantly reminded of how right I was to return. More than that, I’m constantly reminded of how important it is for me to help in any way to create a place here for my children’s children.

That might seem like a lot to hope for but I’m very motivated. In recent years I’ve helped to build businesses here in this place where “the paths of whales and icebergs cross”.

Today I feel a lot like I felt many years ago in Twillingate when I learned to skip beach stones. I feel a little like the kid who missed the edge of the ice pan for the first time — totally excited and terribly anxious. Could my life be any better? I sure don’t think so.