A few hours ago, a family member shared with me their terminal cancer diagnosis. The call was extremely brief, yet plays on loop in mind. Not just for the shitty news but also because of my extra shitty response.
Me: Hello. Is everything okay?
Them: No. I’ve been diagnosed with terminal cancer.
Me: Fuck.
Me: Fuck.
Me: Fuck.
Them: (starting to cry) I have to go. I’ll talk to you later.
Call ends.
FUCK.
Let’s recap. Someone shares with me the absolute worst personal news ever, and my response is to open and close my mouth like a goldfish while repeatedly swearing. To the point where my behaviour causes them to hang up and not answer any attempts at calls or texts since then.
I’m not saying I know what I should have said instead, because I don’t. But I know it wasn’t that.
We’re living in a weird, oftentimes difficult timeline, and this holiday is a good opportunity to reflect on some things in life that I’m thankful for.
I am fortunate to have been born in a country with stunning natural beauty from coast to coast, enriched by multiculturalism, and governed by leaders who aren’t fucking crazy. I enjoy national healthcare and free speech, and mutual respect with my fellow citizens.
Closer to home, I’m thankful for my family and friends. I’m thankful for my husband and cat, and the roof over our heads. I’m thankful for a strong passport that offers me the opportunity to travel, and I’m thankful for the ability to read and transport myself into make-believe lands.
I’m thankful for tinted lip balms and fun patterned socks, for potatoes and golden kiwis. I’m thankful for a brilliant nurse practitioner and medication to keep my panic disorder in check. I’m thankful for the changing colours of the leaves on the trees, for long weekends and lazy mornings.
To my fellow Canadians, I wish you an happy thanksgiving and hope you’re able to spend a couple of minutes today reflecting on what you’re thankful for too.
It’s been a while. After saying au revoir to my walking cast and crutches, I’ve certainly been making up for lost time. Let me catch you up on what I’ve been doing over the past couple of months.
An early morning visit to a lavender farm in the mountains. Lavender always makes me think of my grandmother, and I’ve had a lifelong love for it as a result.
The heady smell of lavender, the buzzing of bees and beautiful scenery was worth the drive.
My husband and I took part in a local bat count event. Yes, you read that right. Bats.
We spent a couple of hours on a Saturday night in the countryside counting mother bats and their pups as they left the colony to feed on insects. It’s a yearly event to assist with monitoring endangered bats in our province.
At times it felt like we were in a scene from Alfred Hitchcock’s, The Birds, but in the best possible way. So much fun.
I’ve always dreamed of working in a bookstore with a resident cat. Perhaps one day I’ll do just that.
Until then I’ll keep visiting my favourite used bookstore, where I’ll search out the cats to give pets to.
Potato spirals at a street fair are fun, but I do wish I’d ordered one with less toppings. What didn’t land on the ground at my feet was delicious, but unnecessarily messy.
Each Friday night my parents’ make “pizza”, where they top pitas with whatever they’ve got in the fridge. I love this idea and not-so-subtly invite myself over once in a while.
This time I brought the bottle of gin I personally distilled, and cracked it open to enjoy a pre-dinner gin and tonic on their back deck.
The verdict? Delicious. It’s a nice addition to my gin collection, and I like to bring it out when I feel like a special treat.
I make a point of not running. Like, ever. Except when someone brings in donuts to the office, and in that case you better get out of my way. I’ve recently learned at a petting zoo that I will also run for capybaras. I mean, just look at them.
A friend and I created a bookclub earlier this year, and decided it must follow a few rules: no one else can join, we read whatever we want, and each meeting must include delicious food. It’s basically an excuse to get together for a visit. For our most recent meeting, I prepared afternoon tea for two.
Camping to me is essentially pretending to be homeless. It sounds nice in theory but the bugs, effort, costs – I’d rather stay indoors, thanks. But my husband liked camping. Relationships involve compromise, right?
After several years of not so subtly suggesting we donate our camping gear and be done with it once and for all, my husband finally saw the light. We cut our last ever (insert cheering) camping weekend short and raced back to civilization.
The next weekend, we stepped back in time, to the days of the Cariboo Gold Rush. There we stayed in an old historical town and visited various buildings within the museum and took part in several activities – law court and Chinese classes being just a couple of them. We both love it there and are already thinking of our next visit.
It only made sense that we also visited an old copper mine, to imagine what life was like for those risking their lives deep in mountain tunnels.
Lots of drives into the countryside were made. My favourite was when we came across a field of sunflowers, all seemingly smiling towards the sun.
There were also a couple of trips to the movie theatre, enjoying lots of local produce, get-togethers with family and friends, and planning for future vacations.
It hasn’t been all sunflowers and bookshop cats though. I was bitten by a tick and am currently on strong antibiotics, several people close to me are dealing with their own health concerns, and the world seems to be imploding before our very eyes.
I’m doing my best to keep my anxiety in check, my elbows up, and my focus on what I can control. What does Autumn have in store? I’m not sure but I’m hopeful for coziness in all its forms.
For the first time since the end of May (!), I was able to go for a walk around the neighbourhood tonight. I say around the neighbourhood but really mean up the street and back. Regardless, I’m thrilled beyond words. Dizzy with excitement!
For those checking in for a status update, you’ve probably guessed that my appointment with the surgeon went well. I’m happy to report that I’m now walking cast and crutches free. Woot!
That’s the description my best friend gave me when I asked what I looked like as I rolled into a dirty Parisian gutter.
She’s got a way with words, that one.
For my 50th birthday, I spent 2 fantastic weeks in Paris. On the morning of our last day, my best friend and I rushed outside of the hotel to catch the bus. As we approached the bus stop, I veered slightly in order to see past a woman blocking my view. I couldn’t tell you if the bus was approaching or not, because I suddenly found myself on the road in the nasty gutter.
My brain struggled to make sense of what had happened, and why my ankle screamed in pain while my knee bled. I vaguely remember saying that I thought my ankle was broken, and that I wasn’t sure how I would get up. Which was a real concern since I landed exactly where the incoming bus would stop. From what I’ve pieced together, I veered further than I thought I had and I rolled over my ankle before crashing down.
Parisians have long held a reputation for being rude and snotty to foreigners. That’s not my personal experience. And when I found myself literally bleeding in the street that day, it was a crowd of Parisians who swarmed in to offer assistance and help my best friend get me to my feet. The hotel staff jumped into action with genuine concern and medical supplies. The triage nurse at the hospital went above and beyond, communicating with me throughout the long hours I was in Emergency via the translation app on his mobile. The lovely taxi driver suggested he wait with us, keeping me in the car while my best friend dealt with the friendly pharmacist at the 24/7 pharmacy in the dodgy neighbourhood in the middle of the night. Without my best friend and all of these kind Parisians, I’m not sure how I’d have managed tbh.
But back to me, since this is my midlife crisis blog. The details of the following day and weeks are still a bit too fresh to discuss. Paris has become a favourite sort of second home over the years and this accident has traumatized me in such a way that I don’t know if/when I’ll return. Le sigh
Hopefully one day I’ll be able to share about my experience with a Parisian hospital, traveling home on crutches and in a walking cast, the multiple visits to the hospital and Practitioner’s office I’ve made since returning home, et cetera.
But for now I’ll simply say this: I’m f-cking over it. It’s been weeks, and I’m still under medical care, still in a walking cast, still on crutches, still injured with a broken ankle and mangled knee.
On a positive note, I’ve expanded my vocabulary (though only to now include words like avulsion fracture, MCL and meniscus). And while I’m no ballerina, I like to think that I helped in my own little way to further wipe away the stupid stereotype about Parisians.
I recently turned 50. Like with most milestone birthdays, I find myself reflecting on the many standout experiences that have brought me to this point. Some were abysmal and I’d rather forget them all together, while others were so so good that I wish I could live through them again. On repeat.
In a world where not everyone is fortunate to live to such an age, I have made it. Mostly unscathed too! While some people approach turning 50 with plans to jump from a plane or buy themselves a motorcycle, I’ve decided my midlife crisis is going to be a blog.
A place to share my experiences: the good, the bad and the ones I’d never share without a curtain of anonymity for a false sense of security.