You would think I’d love it, especially since I have five kids, all grown now. When they were little it was cute. The paper cards they made in school, jumping on my bed to say Happy Mother’s Day and declare their undying love for me, and sometimes breakfast in bed. Though honestly, their dad was behind most of it.

Now it’s just another day.

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As a Salvation Army Officer (minister), I had to preach a Mother’s Day message every year. I think once I told my husband he should do it, but for the most part it was up to me. It was difficult because there really isn’t that much about motherhood in the Bible. Women mostly pop up as the mother of a great man.

There was Mary’s sacrifice which echoed Hannah’s, though not the same. Oh, and then there’s the famous Proverbs 31 woman, praised for running the household, making money, feeding everyone, clothing everyone, never sleeping apparently, while her husband sits in the square with the other men.

Typical.

But what makes Mother’s Day hard now is simple:

My mom is gone.

My mom passed away October 8, 2009, a month before her 89th birthday.

And not a day goes by that I don’t miss her. I wrote about her in my old blog:

I don’t think we’re ever really prepared to lose a parent, no matter how long they live or how old we are. I cannot imagine what life will be like without her. I feel like an orphan. I want her back.

When I think about the type of mom she was, I am amazed at how she even knew how to be a mom.

She was born in East London near the Tower Bridge in 1920. Her dad worked the docks and apparently was not a nice man. Her mom died in 1923. Her father remarried and together they brought my mom and her sister to Canada, leaving behind four other siblings.

They arrived in Canada in 1926. My mom was five, her sister nine.

Six weeks later her father died.

Their stepmother did not want them and beat them regularly. My mom told me a story of how her stepmother threw an iron at her and it hit her in the head. My aunt married the boy next door at just 17 to escape. That same year her stepmother gave my mom away to Children’s Aid. In 1933 many older kids were placed into the homes of wealthy families as apprentices and servants, though we all know what it really was.

Indentured labour disguised as opportunity.

My mom, young and naive, became pregnant at 19 and was forced into a home for unwed mothers. She was allowed to stay and nurse my brother for five months, and then she was sent back to work, and only allowed to visit him one afternoon a week.

Then she met my dad at my aunt’s house, and apparently she fell hard for him. She was 5’2” with bright red curly hair and my dad was 6’ with nearly black hair and blue eyes. It was right before he was sent to basic training after joining the Royal Canadian Army, in the Irish Regiment, with his younger brother. They were to be deployed to fight in World War II.

He wanted to marry her right away, but she hadn’t told him about the baby. When she finally did, he asked for and was granted leave to go back to Toronto to marry her. They put his name on the birth certificate and he took my brother Terry on as his own son.

For the first time in her life, my mom was free.

My dad was gone for almost five years. He watched his brother get killed by a bomb in Italy, but carried on. When he came home he was a different man and drank every day to cover his trauma.

My mom remained faithful to him for 42 years until he died of cancer in 1981. She gave him three more kids — Ron in 1946, Pat in 1948, and then me, 11 years later in 1959, twenty years after her first child.

Can you imagine what she went through? And if I shared it all with you, it would have to be a book.

I tell you all this because even though nobody had ever really shown her how to be a mom, never mind a good mom. And yet, somehow she managed magnificently. My brothers and I loved her fiercely. She was love personified.

She raised us with a firm hand and a lot of love. When I was small I loved to cuddle with her because she was soft and warm and always smelled lovely. She raised me in a no nonsense way providing loving care, but there was no mollycoddling! “Okay, that’s enough now, go out and play.” She loved to laugh and you’d often hear her around the house singing or whistling old wartime songs. One of her favourites? All The Nice Girls Love a Sailor

For you listening pleasure…

https://youtube.com/shorts/ETARJC-g3Dg?si=25A_GuyOnyW6QY-h)

All the nice girls love a sailor
All the nice girls love a tar
For there's something about a sailor
Well, you know what sailors are
Bright and breezy, free and easy
He's the ladies pride and joy
Falls in love with Kate and Jane
Then he's off to sea again
Ship ahoy, ship ahoy.

She lived with an alcoholic who drank away the equivalent of the grocery budget. He left the raising of the children to her and was emotionally absent even if physically present. He did not want her to work outside the home, so we had very little.

But it was enough, and she made it work.

By the time I was seven years old both my brothers had moved out. So it was just me after that. It was like being an only child, except these two annoying grown men kept showing up now and then and eating our food and bossing me around.

My mom was my safe place. With her I always felt loved, even when she was mad at me and disciplining me, which honestly wasn’t often. But when she did…I ran!

Respect though. She expected it.

In 1998, after years of bugging her to come live with us, she finally did. She had breast cancer that year and was recovering, so I pulled out my secret weapon… my twin girls! She couldn’t handle much pleading from them before she caved and moved across the country a month or so later.

She lived with me for 11 years.

During that time she developed vascular dementia. Slowly I watched our roles reverse. But even near the end, you could often find me laying in bed beside her watching her favourite shows or playing Rummy 500. She had absolutely no verbal filter by then, which led to many laughs. Well, mostly for all of us.

During those years she got to spend time with her grandkids and enjoy the birth of several of her great-grandchildren. When I was working, my daughter would come stay with her during the day and would often plop her babies on the bed beside her while she made lunch or ran around doing things.

My mom loved this.

We also had care aids provided by our healthcare services who came and helped. I couldn’t have done it without all of them, including my husband, who was so good with my mom. She loved him and treated him like a son.

At the end, her final stroke disabled her completely. She spent the last month of her life in hospital. My oldest brother came out to stay and spend time with her. He was always her sunny boy. At the end of his visit he told her he had to go home, but that he loved her so much.

The next day she stopped eating.

That week I sat beside her singing all her favourite hymns while the nurses often stopped quietly outside the door to listen. I massaged her with cream to keep her skin moist, trimmed her eyebrows, and made sure those chin hairs were gone.

Because priorities.

The kids all made their way to the hospital that week to say their goodbyes, tears, and sadness everywhere.

She slowly crossed into unconsciousness. But the night before she passed, she suddenly became alert, like she had just woken up. I spent time telling her how much I loved her and what a wonderful mom she had been. She told me she loved me.

She passed away early the next morning during nurse’s shift change, sometime between 7:00 and 7:30 a.m. It was October 8th, 2009, just before her 89th birthday. I arrived around 8:00 and when I saw she was gone, I laid my head on her and sobbed. It felt like I couldn’t control myself and that I would never stop crying. I berated myself for not staying longer the night before. Why did I go home?

For quite a while after I was despondent and often I would sit and be staring at nothing in particular. No more safe place. How was I going to move forward.

I used to think sympathy cards were meaningless when you were deep in grief, but I’m telling you, send them. Every single card I received, and there were so many, was read and went straight to my very core. Those messages of condolence, the handwritten notes, the scripture verses were like a balm to my broken heart.

We had a service for her here on the West Coast. I was surprised at the number of people who came. Everyone she met loved her and she loved them right back. Hugs all around all the time. Even some of the care aides came to the funeral.

Then we took her home to Toronto be buried with my dad.

I was stunned that the church was standing room only. They all came, every church member who knew her, almost every grown-up kid she taught in Sunday School, every girl she mentored as a Brown Owl in Brownies, every friend still alive from her bowling league, and many of my old school friends who remembered her smiles and good naturedness. The kids from the church remembering her as the candy lady in the back row, her friends from the women’s group remember her as the bag lady (she like buying bags, lots of bags!)

I think my brothers, who didn’t know much about her later life after they left home, were stunned by the impact she had on so many people.

I was so proud to be her daughter.

After she passed away, I would go to work and people would tell me their problems while all the time I’d be thinking, “What is wrong with you people? Don’t you realize my mom died?”

Over the years the pain slowly softened and was replaced with memories of happy times and laughter. Holding her hand while walking to church together, our arms swinging to the rhythm of our steps. Grocery shopping together. Her reading stories to me and teaching me to read before I even reached kindergarten. Holding her hand while we walked and her reminding me to stay on her left side because she was deaf in one ear, thanks to that evil stepmother. Teaching me to play Cribbage to learn my numbers. Making jam tarts with leftover pastry while she baked pies. Her high pitched screaming when my cat Buffy brought her a bird in the kitchen. The time my big walking doll scared her half to death in the middle of the night because she thought it was me standing in the corner of the kitchen.

All the stories.

Every one of them brings joy to my heart.

And as I sit here with all these thoughts and memories, I’m emotional, tears brimming. Here I am at 67 and feeling the loss as if it were yesterday.

I know she is with me every day. I miss her with every fibre of my being.

I have never regretted looking after my mom as she aged. It was a complete and utter privilege to be there for her and provide that safe place for her at her most vulnerable time. It was hard, though, and without help from my daughters, my husband, and the health services, I could never have done it. Between full-time work, teenagers, preschoolers, and an aging parent, I burned out more than once.

And yet I would do it all over again in a heartbeat.

In that old blog in 2009 I wrote:

Whatever I have today, whatever I have become, whatever I have accomplished — it’s because of my mother, and what she taught me, what she did for me, and what she poured into me. I owe her so much.

Dear God,
Today we thank You for mothers — for their love, their sacrifices, their strength, and all the ordinary ways they cared for us day after day.
For those missing their moms today, bring comfort.
For those still able to hug their mothers, help them cherish the time they have.
And for the moms still raising kids, grant patience, strength, and perhaps a little extra coffee.
Thank You for the gift of love that stays with us long after someone is gone.
Amen

Thank you, dear reader, for continuing to read, share your stories, and stay in touch. I appreciate you all so much. As Mother’s Day arrives, I know many of you are also missing your moms, grieving complicated relationships, or carrying both love and loss together in your hearts today.

I can only say this: I know. I understand. And I offer my heartfelt condolences to you.

And if you are fortunate enough to still have your mom with you, give her an extra hug. Even if she drives you slightly crazy sometimes. Especially then.

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Energy? Not so much.

Right now I’m trying to decide between two novel ideas.

The Girl Who Saved Everything

One I started many years ago and has stayed with me, growing a chapter here, a chapter there. It’s a fantasy about a young girl who must save her land from a great evil. Through her journey she will experience hardships and victories, learning and growing. Yes there are faeries. Yes, there is a sort of magic. Yes, there is death and destruction. In other words: all the necessary fantasy ingredients.

Because I love a good fantasy novel or series, and my younger two boys and my older grandchildren love them too, Harry Potter and LOTR marathons happen from time to time.

The Ending No One Saw Coming

Then there is the mystery novel. For quite a while I’ve wanted to write one, and finally an idea came to me. And the plot is wonderful. It touches current cultural issues and centres on a female protagonist who not only solves a mystery, but confronts her own demons. The plot is thick with misdirections and ends in a way no one saw coming. Themes include addiction and recovery, sexual assault, abuse, homelessness, and finding yourself again, and personal growth. Yes, there is blood and gore. Yes, there are interesting and unique characters. Yes, there is danger. Yes, it has all the ingredients that make a great mystery novel.

Mysteries have been a staple part of my reading habits for so many years starting with Nancy Drew and The Hardy Boys as a young reader. Then later, Ellis Peters, P.D. James, Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, Elizabeth Peters, Dorothy L Sayers, and so many more, too many to list here. I love a good British mystery or crime story - Stephen Booth and his Cooper & Fry characters, Martha Grimes and her detective Richard Jury.

Me Crying Into My Coffee

This really should be an easy decision. But I’m stuck. My mind wanders back and forth. I should be able to decide, but the truth is, my mind isn’t working the way I want right now.

It’s concerned with healing.

All I want to do is relax. I’m unmotivated. I’m low energy.

No wonder I can’t decide.

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I thought by now I’d be up and at it. Full steam ahead. Well, that is where my mind goes and what contributes to my frustration in how long healing from cancer takes.

I’m in the in-between. The liminal space. Emotionally foggy, yet strangely creative.

My energy is inconsistent, and some days it’s just limited. I’m never quite sure how many hours out adventuring will feel manageable. Everything feels well enough, and then one hour too much and it’s exhaustion and bed for a couple of days.

It’s like I am running on regular leaded gas in a premium world.

Other days I am good to go and I do my thing and I’m fine afterwards. Like I won a lottery and I won a free tank of premium.

It feels like waiting, hovering, in-between

I’m just not fully back. But I’m not where I was and I can see tiny improvements.

The Coast is Calling

The good news is…it’s now trailer season. My husband travelled to the Sunshine Coast and opened our trailer, draining out the antifreeze from the pipes, clearing away the growth of weeds, and blowing the leaves and debris from the fall. His good friend always accompanies him, like an annual trek. Otherwise he’d never get the cover off the trailer, never mind all the other stuff he has to do.

So, I am mentally getting ready to go on a trek to the coast.

I can already feel the ocean breeze off Howe Sound as I sit and stare at the water sparkling in the morning sun. The breeze blows the winter cobwebs of my mind away and brings a new energy with them. I walk up the lane under the tall trees reaching up into the sky and a Douglas Fir hundreds of years old.

I never grow tired of looking up at them.

I will sit still, absorb the beauty of the surroundings, and be inspired.

Perhaps I will get some writing inspiration. Perhaps I’ll know which novel to choose.

The Creative Mind After Cancer

In the meantime, I have so many ideas for stories. I’ve started a file on my writing software called simply, “Story Ideas.” Yeah, I know, original.

There are children’s book ideas. Even some with outlines done.

There are also short story ideas, quick mysteries and sudden revelations.

Some are just prose I’ve written that’s been trimmed from my writing, that I just can’t delete. Perhaps it will fit somewhere else.

Before I would have gone all in on one thing. I would have picked one quickly and dived in, only coming up for air to do research.

I was like this my whole life. Driven. Single minded. Sometimes multiple projects at the same time.

Now I’m scattered and have trouble focusing.

My capacity may have changed, but not my creativity.

For a while after I finished treatment, I had some clarity about my life. I’ve said this in other posts, that I asked myself a question. If I only had five years left, what would I want to spend that time doing?

Sure, spend time with family. Yes, see my friends more.

But without producing or creating anything, I know I would be bored. And when I get bored, I get depressed.

So out of all the things I could think of that I wanted to do, all I could think of was…

Writing that novel. 
Writing more on Substack. 
Writing more stories for my grandchildren.

But in the open space it almost feels empty at times. I get restless when I can’t focus or motivate myself.

It’s so frustrating.

No one tells you about this part of the cancer journey.

Not the Female Version of Job

Woven in all of this is my faith. I talk to God knowing He is there, listening, caring, loving.

I feel that love at times. Sometimes I don’t

Sometimes, I am lost, wandering in the forest and cannot see the sky. It makes me grumpy and my prayers reflect this.

“What the heck, God!”

“Come on, what’s with such a slow recovery. You can do better.”

Between the slow recovery and continued chronic pain, I get grumpy. Irritated. And some days I feel like throwing in the towel.

Then add in stress: family, finances, grief.

My husband’s parents are starting to fail. His father, so stubborn, after being released from the hospital with congestive heart failure, insisted on returning home. He’s 94. His mother, too, is starting to decline.

This all takes its toll. How do we help from so far away?

Then there’s a health scare with my husband, which, thank goodness, is not at the defcon 5 level. Family strife. Worry over finances. All of it together can be overwhelming.

Alone, you can handle it and work through it, hanging on to your faith. Too many things piled on top of the other can topple anyone’s faith.

Well, except Job. But I am not the female version of Job.

And do you know what? All of this affects my writing. All of this affects my ability to choose what to do. All of this causes an overwhelming sense of helplessness.

The Hare Has Left the Building

This brings me back to my decision.

Fantasy or Mystery.

This is the choice. Perhaps a poll would help.

Perhaps I need to shift the lens away from choice only. Instead of asking myself which story I want to write, a new question springs to mind:

I need to ask myself which story fits the energy I actually have.

Acknowledging that getting back to normal takes time, helps.

However, accepting that getting back to normal takes time, helps even more.

Acceptance is not defeat.

I need to embrace the idea that slow is my new normal. Apparently, I am now a turtle, not a hare.

I can take the lesson I learned from living with chronic illness. Embrace the pain and ask what it is teaching you.

It’s time to ask myself - what is this situation teaching me?

About myself? 
About life? 
About God?

The truth is I don’t know. I can’t answer any of these questions right now. All I know is I am asking them. I am reflecting on them.

And in my own way, I am learning how to live and create in this space, one day at a time.

Albeit with a slightly grumpy version of me.

Dear reader, I am so thankful for you. So many of you have been journeying with me from the beginning. I’m thankful for the prayers, the positive energy sent through cyberspace, the lit candles, and your funny cat, dog, bear, goat, and lately, elephants videos. They can really make my day. They reset my mood.

I also want to acknowledge that many of you are sharing some of my experiences in healing from cancer or other health issues. You’re also living in difficult spaces and times. So let me ask you:

• How do you make choices when you don’t feel like yourself?

• What season are you writing or living in right now?

• Let me know which novel idea I should go with.

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Why do I do this?

Because if someone takes a moment out of their day to wish me well, the least I can do is acknowledge it. But truthfully, it’s more than that. It’s the one day of the year where I get to reconnect—however briefly—with the many people I’ve met over the years. It’s like a little annual reunion, one message at a time.

Some of them are school friends, and this is the one thread that has quietly held over the years. Some are dear friends who call and chat (and we inevitably say, “We should do this more often”). Others comment regularly, and some are newer friends and acquaintances. It’s such a pleasure to see their greetings—like opening small, unexpected gifts all day long.

My husband asked me what I wanted for my birthday, and I said, “Nothing.” And I meant it. Time spent with people who care about me and love me is more than enough. (Also, at this point in life, if I want something, I usually just go buy it myself… which takes some of the mystery out of birthdays.)

But this year, I received a gift I didn’t ask for—and one that means more than anything else. My two daughters, who haven’t spoken to each other for two and a half years, have reconciled. They’ve settled their differences and are speaking again. For the first time in a long time, I’ll be spending time with them both together.

If you’re a parent, you’ll understand—there’s a deep healing in that. It has brought such peace to my heart and to our family. It was painful to watch, and this feels like a quiet kind of miracle… the kind that doesn’t make a lot of noise but changes everything. The kind of grace I’ve learned to recognize as God quietly at work. It’s certainly an answer to prayer.

And layered into all of this is something else I don’t take lightly anymore: after cancer, I’m deeply grateful to be here to celebrate another year, —grateful to God for the gift of time I don’t take for granted anymore—even if I am quietly (or not so quietly) creeping toward the big 7-0. At 67, I’m calling it “experienced,” not old.

And tonight, I’ll start the celebrations with dinner out with my lovely husband—who, thankfully, still thinks I’m worth taking out.

It’s a very good birthday… and one I’m quietly thanking God for.

And I’m grateful for all of them—for every message, every memory, every small connection that still finds its way back, once a year.

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On Another Note

Some of you might know that I started a new publication called The Shape of Things. I wanted to talk about what is going on in the world, but not in this space. Here is what the About page says:

“The Shape of Things looks beyond the headlines to explore the political and economic forces shaping our world. Drawing on expert analysis, credible sources, and historical context, this newsletter steps back from the daily noise to examine what may be driving the events we see unfolding.

Rather than reacting to every headline, the goal is to look for patterns, ask thoughtful questions, and place current developments within a wider lens.

If you are looking for calm, careful analysis in an often noisy media environment, you may find this a helpful place to think through the moment.”

The first three articles are up. It’s a series called Democracy is messy. Here are the links to the series with an excerpt for each one:

Democracy is Messy Part I: When Shared Power Feels Inconvenient

Democracy is a bit like a large family dinner.

It’s messy, and not everyone has the patience for messy. When people start craving something faster, simpler, or more controlled, democracy can begin to feel less like a strength and more like an obstacle.

Democracy is Messy Part II: It All Seems Reasonable (At First)

There are a lot of things happening in the world right now. Some people don’t notice until their grocery bill spikes or filling the gas tank suddenly feels offensive. Then they pop up like prairie dogs wondering what just happened. Others watch the news and feel a quiet unease—this is not good.

And then there are those of us who start connecting dots. Watching, listening, comparing perspectives… and eventually realizing these patterns aren’t new at all.

Democracy is Messy Part III: The Long Way Back

Democracies don’t collapse overnight—and they don’t come back overnight either. History shows the road back is long, uneven, and often uncertain… but not impossible. Recovery is slow, uneven, and filled with false starts. It requires not just new systems, but new habits, new expectations, and a willingness to keep showing up.

My next piece is a little history of floor crossings, and switching sides
            —left to right, right to left. And of course a bit of a deep dive into the history of it. 

I’d love for you to join me over at The Shape of Things as I look at things that are happening and follow me and my curiosity down a rabbit hole. I am trying to make some, even just a little, sense of things. My love of history helps my research and I’m learning so many new things and being reminded of things I learned in the past. As I share you’ll hopefully noticed my usual warm and sometimes humorous style I try to weave into my writing. Difficult subjects require that. A chuckle or even just a smile can help lift us up after listening to the days news.

Dear reader, thank you for walking alongside me in these reflections on life, faith, and all the in-between moments—and for following me over into The Shape of Things, where I try to make sense of the world without losing my mind (or my sense of humour).

I’m grateful you’ve chosen to spend your time here. Truly. In a noisy world, that’s no small gift. If something in this piece stayed with you, feel free to share it with someone else who might need a little encouragement… or at least a thoughtful distraction from the news.

Don’t forget to keep sending me the love, the funny cat videos, healing vibes, and prayers, while I continue to recover from my treatment. It is apparently, a long haul…or so I’ve been told.

A song I’ve been humming all day… one of my favourite bands.

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I’m still not sure when that became a category I belonged to.

I don’t remember a doctor ever saying that to me when I was in my 20s or 30s, or even my 40s. No, it started in my 50s and it hasn’t stopped, instead at 60 it seemed to come up more often than not.

What do you mean, “My age?”

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Today, my hubby was telling me about how he referenced a woman we both knew. He referred to her as “old.”

“Old?” I exclaimed. “She’s the same age as me!”

“Really? She looks a lot older.”

“Yeah,” I answered, “that is why I keep my hair coloured.”

That’s right. Somewhere along the way, grey hair became shorthand for “no longer worth noticing.”

As a leader of a non-profit, I served on many community councils and committees. I frequently watched as older women were sidelined and overlooked. I was co-chair of a committee that advised the mayor and council in one city and there were a few women like that. I always called them out and people were amazed at their knowledge and wisdom.

You’d think people in social services would appreciate that.

Nope.

And not only the men, but the women did it too.

I vowed never to stop colouring my hair. I wondered if I might change my mind in retirement—but now that I’m here, it’s a hard no.

I’ve told my daughter who is the one who will look after us when we need it…

“Don’t let my hair go grey and make sure you remove my facial hair!”

She laughed.

I was not joking. And it was not funny.

Some want to age naturally, and that’s fine, especially if you’re a celebrity with money and a platform. But for us average, everyday folk, nope. There is nothing natural about becoming invisible as you get older.

I’ve always liked being around older women. My mom was almost 40 when she had me and for a while I thought perhaps she was my grandmother, and maybe I was my oldest brother’s child. What a thought! You see, there were no photos of my mom pregnant with me. I was an oops 11 years after her youngest child. Well, more accurately, I was the result of a drunken bet my father made one night in the pub with his friend. Neither of them had daughters, only sons. They made a ridiculous bet over who could get their wife pregnant and have a girl first. I was born six months after the other girl, I forget her name now.

So, my mom and all her friends were “older women” and I found them fascinating. They always had great stories, advice, and were far nicer to me than my friends’ parents, who were much younger. They were more impatient, not wanting another kid around. My mom’s friends had grandchildren, as did my mom, and that’s how they saw me.

I’ve always wondered how my mom handled becoming invisible, until I realized she didn’t. She was a good friend to so many at her bowling club and at church. My mom did not work outside the home. My dad never wanted her to, and without much education—only grade eight—she likely would have ended up in menial work. I’m sure she preferred to stay home.

My mom wanted more for me.

And she got that.

Now that I am “that age,” I find myself grappling with what it means to grow older. All the aches and pains, the creaky joints. Chronic health issues and now cancer have given me a different insight to being “that age.”

I am grateful to have gotten to “that age.”

“Even to your old age and gray hairs I am he, I am he who will sustain you. I have made you and I will carry you; I will sustain you and I will rescue you” (Isaiah 46:4 NIV).

“Is not wisdom found among the aged? Does not long life bring understanding?” (Job 12:12).

This month, on the 23rd, I will turn 67. After surviving triple negative breast cancer, you cannot know (unless you do) how much it means to still be alive, still looking to accomplishing goals, still married after 44 years, and still learning and growing.

Many do not get this privilege.

And if this is “that age”… then I am grateful to be here.

Lord, you have carried me through youth, through strength, through seasons I thought would never end...
     and now into this age I did not quite see coming.
When I feel diminished, remind me that nothing of my life has been wasted.
When my body feels weaker, help me remember that my life is still full of purpose.
Teach me to hold both truths at once...
     the grief of what is changing,
     and the gratitude of still being here.
And if I am tempted to fade quietly into the background, 
      give me the courage to keep showing up, with wisdom, humour, and love.
You have promised to sustain me even to old age.
Help me to trust that promise.
Amen.

Here’s some irony. I’m not imagining 64 anymore. I’m living well past it, with far more depth than the song ever hinted at.

Dear reader, thank you for walking through this stage of life with me. Some of you are already here, some of you are approaching it, and some of you are watching it in the women you love. However it finds you, I hope you remember this: growing older is not a loss of worth—it is a gathering of it. And if we’re fortunate enough to reach “that age,” then perhaps the real task is not to disappear… but to keep showing up. And if you haven’t yet reached “that age”—just wait. It’s coming for you as well. And, if you’ve seen me write about this before, well..you know…I am getting to that age! 🤭

Paid subscriptions aren’t on yet. But right now, I’m not working, and coffee is a perfectly reasonable form of encouragement. Feel free to…

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Not long ago I wrote a post titled “This Was Supposed to Be a Cozy Newsletter: How Fear, Faith, and YouTube Collided Before Breakfast.” In it I admitted that some mornings the news can feel overwhelming. One headline leads to another, and before long you’re wondering what on earth is actually happening in the world. If you’ve ever fallen down that same rabbit hole, you’ll understand what happened next.

Instead of simply worrying about it over my morning coffee, those who know me will know that my instinct is to start reading. In truth, I had already been doing that for some time—history, politics, economics, and the strange patterns that seem to repeat themselves across time. Eventually I realized those questions needed a place of their own. And so… I started another Substack.

Now before anyone panics, Lessons in Life & Faith is not suddenly becoming a geopolitical analysis newsletter. This will remain the cozy corner where I write about life, faith, family, cancer recovery, knitting projects, and the occasional cat-related drama. But the bigger questions about our world—the politics, economics, and historical patterns shaping our time—kept tapping me on the shoulder. They didn’t quite belong here, but they clearly wanted somewhere to live.

Since I’m not working anymore, I did ask myself what exactly I’m going to do with all this time. The obvious answer, it turns out, is apparently more reading, more research, and more writing. So I gave those questions their own little corner of the internet called The Shape of Things. The first post is already up.

It will be a place where I can explore some of the larger questions that sit behind the daily headlines like: politics, economics, global tensions, and the historical patterns that often help explain why the world behaves as it does. I’m writing it under my former surname, K.J. Hartley, so if that name pops up somewhere on Substack, that’s still me.

I’ve always loved history, thanks to a creative teacher I had in high school. He used to share the most gory details about people and events in the past. We learned about Bloody Mary who burned religious dissenters at the stake and the two princes who disappeared from the Tower of London. I still remember him demonstrating how ancient Egyptians mummified bodies, complete with far more detail than most of us expected in a history class and using a doll to show us how they wrapped the body. At one point he even told us about a time he had used a dead animal for a demonstration and got into trouble for it a few years earlier. It was memorable, to say the least. I’ve loved history ever since and have always been interested in the stories behind the stories. It’s probably why I enjoy Malcolm Gladwell’s podcast Revisionist History so much.

What I am hoping to do in this new publication is not to shout opinions into the void because there seems to be plenty of that already. I’d rather step back a little and ask better questions.

What forces are shaping events?

What patterns are repeating themselves?

What might we learn from the past that helps us understand the present a little more cleary?

This doesn’t mean I suddenly have all the answers. If anything, the more I read the more I realize how much there is still to understand. But sometimes the process of thinking things through slowly, carefully, and with a bit of historical perspective can help us feel less overwhelmed by the constant rush of news.

So, if you enjoy that kind of exploration, you are welcome to wander over and join me there. And if politics and world affairs are not your cup of tea, that’s perfectly fine too. I have friends who won’t watch the news because it’s far too stressful.

Either way, Lessons in Life & Faith will still be right here, doing what it always does, reflect on life, faith, family, creativity, and the everyday moments that shape us.

In many ways, this new project actually grows out of the same instincts that shaped Lessons in Life & Faith. I’ve always been curious about how people make sense of the world, our beliefs, our decisions, our fears, and our hopes. Sometimes those questions show up in the quiet places of life: family, faith, illness, creativity. Other times they show up in the headlines. Either way, I suppose I’m still doing the same thing I’ve always done, trying to understand the world a little better.

Apparently my curiosity just needed one more place to roam.

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Here’s a great song from the past - Unwritten by Natasha Bedingfield. It’s got a great beat. Enjoy 😊

Thank you for reading and for continuing to walk alongside me here. I’m always grateful for the thoughtful and generous community that gathers around Lessons in Life & Faith. I’m also grateful that so many of you are willing to explore life, faith, and the occasional rabbit hole with me.

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“As a father has compassion for his children, so the Lord has compassion for those who fear him; for he knows how we were made; he remembers that we are dust.”— Psalm 103:13–14

Recently, I snapped at one of my adult children.

My anger went from zero to 100 in seconds. I quickly realized what happened and apologized. In my defence, I had not yet had a full morning coffee, which is always dangerous territory for everyone involved.

But the truth is, the reaction had very little to do with coffee. It had more to do with exhaustion. The past couple of years have included cancer treatment, hospital visits, and the strange emotional terrain that follows serious illness. My reserves were lower than I realized.

It had to do with anxiety.

Anyone who has lived with anxiety knows it doesn’t always announce itself politely. Sometimes it creeps in quietly. Other times it arrives like a freight train. And occasionally it behaves like a large brown bear that decides to sit on your chest first thing in the morning.

You wake up, and there it is. Heavy. Breathing loudly. Completely uninterested in leaving.

Over the years I’ve tried all the recommended remedies.

Deep breathing.
Meditative prayer.
Talking to a counsellor.
Medications.

All those things helped.

But anxiety has a way of slipping back in through the cracks when life gets complicated. And family life, as most parents know, has a remarkable ability to become complicated.

The Hidden Anxiety of Parenting Adults

When our children are young, parenting feels like something you can manage with effort and good intentions. You set boundaries, teach them right from wrong, and hope you’re pointing them in the right direction.

Then they grow up.

And you discover that love does not grant you the ability to fix everything.

Every family goes through seasons of difficulty. Illness. Stress. Disappointment. Trauma. Grief. Sometimes several of these show up at the same time, like uninvited guests who decide to stay for dinner.

As parents, we do the best we can with the knowledge we have at the time. But life doesn’t come with a rewind button that allows us to redo the difficult years.

And sometimes the hardest part of parenting adults is discovering that the past does not live in their memories the way it lives in yours.

Memory Is a Strange Thing

Researchers tell us that memories formed during traumatic events are not stored in the brain the same way ordinary memories are.

Normal memories tend to be organized like a story: a beginning, a middle, and an end.

Traumatic memories are often fragmented, emotional, and scattered. More like flashes than a tidy narrative.

Two people can live through the same event and remember it very differently. One remembers a stressful moment. The other remembers fear. Neither person is necessarily lying. Their brains simply stored the experience in different ways.

As someone who likes things laid out logically so they make sense, I find this difficult at times. My instinct is to reconstruct events carefully, like laying puzzle pieces on a table.

But trauma doesn’t behave like a puzzle. Sometimes it behaves more like broken glass—sharp fragments that cut when you try to hold them.

Learning this helped me understand something important: when people recount painful memories, they are often telling the story of the emotions they experienced, not necessarily a perfectly chronological account of events.

That can be hard for parents to hear. Especially when we wish with all our hearts that our children had felt safer than they did.

Sometimes I wonder about the joyful memories. The ordinary ones.

The bedtime stories read night after night. Singing songs to them while they drift off to sleep. The living room dance parties while doing housework. Earth, Wind & Fire blasting from the stereo while we sang along and waved dish towels like backup dancers. The laughter around the kitchen table. The ridiculous jokes. The long conversations in the car.

Parenting isn’t only made of difficult moments. It is mostly made of thousands of small, ordinary acts of love.

I sometimes wonder where those memories go.

Do they fade when life becomes painful? Do they get pushed aside when fear or disappointment takes centre stage? Or do they remain somewhere under the surface, waiting quietly for the day when they can be remembered again?

I hope they are still there.

Because I remember them.

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The Myth of the Perfect Parent

Parents carry a quiet burden. We replay moments in our minds and ask questions that have no clear answers.

Could we have handled that differently?
Did we miss something important?
Should we have known what was coming?

Hindsight is a remarkably intelligent advisor. At the time, however, most of us are simply trying to keep life moving forward.

I remember one moment years ago when two of my children were misbehaving and I had reached the end of my patience.

“That’s it!” I announced dramatically. “You two are in big trouble now.”

They looked appropriately terrified.

“Go down to the family room and sit there,” I said loudly. “I’m coming down in a minute.”

Then I added, in my most serious voice, “And you might get a spanking.”

For the record, I didn’t spank them. That was just the nuclear threat I occasionally deployed when I was completely out of patience.

Years later they told me about that moment.

Apparently they sat huddled together on the couch plotting how they would pack their bags and run away from home.

Run away.

From a house where the worst thing that happened was a stern lecture.

Their imaginations had filled in the terrifying possibilities before I even walked down the stairs. Meanwhile I had simply been a tired mother, experiencing depression for the second time, and at the end of my rope.

Parenthood is humbling that way.

The Anxiety Parents Don’t Talk About

What many people don’t realize is that parents can carry anxiety long after the children are grown.

It shows up in strange ways.

Sometimes it appears when difficult conversations begin unexpectedly. Sometimes it surfaces when old wounds are mentioned. Sometimes it is simply the accumulation of years of loving people you cannot protect from life.

Anxiety robs you of things you once took for granted.

Your peace.
Your sense of well-being.
Your ability to concentrate
Your joy.

It brings along companions like insomnia, digestive issues, heart palpitations, and chronic pain. In my case it joined an already crowded party that included fibromyalgia, and early onset arthritis.

Many women discover anxiety arrives around perimenopause or menopause as well. Up to half of women experience it for the first time during that season of life.

No one warned me about that little surprise. One day I awake in the early hours of the morning with a bear sitting on my chest, barely able to breathe.

The good news is that we learn ways to live with it.

We breathe.

We pray.

We talk things through with people who understand.

And slowly we learn that control is not always the goal. Sometimes the goal is simply learning how to stay present when life becomes overwhelming.

Love Without Control

Parenting adult children requires a kind of humility that few of us expect when we begin the journey.

You cannot rewrite the past.
You cannot manage their memories.
You cannot solve every problem that appears in their lives.

What you can do is continue loving them.

You can acknowledge your own mistakes.
You can take responsibility for what was yours to carry.
And you can release the parts that were never within your control to begin with.

Responsibility and fault are not always the same thing. We take responsibility for our actions. But life itself often plays a much larger role than we realize.

Living With the Bear

These days I am learning to live with that large brown bear called anxiety. Some mornings it sits on my chest and reminds me that love is not tidy. Anxiety can make the future feel dark. But scripture reminds us that even the darkness is not dark to God.

It is messy.
Complicated.
Full of questions we may never fully answer.
But it is also resilient.

And sometimes, when the bear loosens its grip a little, other memories return too.

The bedtime stories. The road trips. Vacations. Laughing around the kitchen table. The dance parties to Earth, Wind & Fire while I waved a duster like a backup singer.

Those moments were real too.

Love lived there.

And slowly, over time, the bear shifts its weight. The breathing softens. The pressure eases.

The apostle Paul once wrote that love “bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things.”

I am beginning to think that is exactly what parenting requires.

Love remains.
Messy.
Complicated.
Full of imperfect memories and unfinished conversations.

But still there. It stays. Even when we cannot fix everything.

And perhaps that is grace — love that refuses to leave.

Lord,
You know how messy families can be.
You see the love, the misunderstandings, and the memories that don’t line up the way we think they should. 
You know the times I tried my best and the times I was simply sick, tired and overwhelmed.
When anxiety rises and old conversations echo in my mind, remind me that you see the whole story.
Give me grace for my children, and grace for myself.
Help me keep loving, even when I cannot fix everything.
Amen.

My kids know how much I love Simon & Garfunkle and my favourite song is Bridge Over Troubled Water. We are never alone, there is always someone on our side…

Dear reader, thank you so much for reading and staying with me on this journey. Some of you have been here from the very beginning and have watched this path unfold—from a semi-retired student pursuing a PhD and teaching, through breast cancer, and now into recovery. Writing about family, our own journeys, inner thoughts, and health challenges is not always easy, but these are often the places where life and faith meet—and I’m grateful I get to share them with you. If you are new here, welcome. I’m so glad you’ve joined this small community where we reflect honestly about the joys and struggles of ordinary life.

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Parenting journeys are not easy. If this resonated with you, I’d love to hear about it.

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I sense the ache worsening. The base of my thumb has begun filing formal complaints.

The lines of the chart blur. I’m on the wrong line again.

“It’s time to put my knitting away… again,” I say to my husband.

Ed has learned that this sentence is rarely about the knitting.

“Your hands hurting?”

“Yep. And I have to take back this entire row because I missed something. 343 stitches!”

In hindsight, optimism was involved.

I’ve been knitting a sweater lately that is mostly stockinette. Miles of it. No complicated chart — just two small side panels in an easy pattern. Easy, at least, for someone who has been knitting since she was seven. Apparently experience does not exempt one from ripping back. The body is knit in the round. All knit stitches. No purls. No relentless counting.

I can’t resist lace, though. Lace yields the most beautiful fabric. There’s something deeply satisfying about gifting someone an heirloom shawl or wedding wrap, knowing your hands shaped something intricate and lasting.

But lace demands attention. And lately, attention feels expensive. I don’t have the bandwidth for yarn overs that require accountability.

I thought by now I would be finished with chemo brain. Yet the cognitive fog and fatigue linger, almost a year after the last bag of poison. Stress likely plays its part.

Medical trauma. That’s what they call it.

I call it learning how fragile the body is — and how steady God is.

It’s not the first time my body has rewritten the script. Years ago, surgery divided my life into before and after. A neurologist later told me my memories were still there — I just couldn’t retrieve them. The body keeps score in its own quiet way.

I am grateful that God does not keep score the way my body does.

Has it happened again? Or is this simply healing taking longer than I expected?

Whatever the reason, I am knitting stockinette with only a small dash of lace. But even that can trip me up.

I refuse to give up knitting. It has been my lifelong companion — relief, comfort, mindfulness, joy. I’ve knit baby sweaters and toques, scarves and shawls, blankets, toys, cables, Fair Isle, Intarsia. My hands have known complicated charts and delicate yarn overs.

And yet here I am, choosing plain knitting. Apparently wisdom sometimes looks suspiciously simple.

One of the scans after my cancer diagnosis was a bone scan. They needed to know if it had spread. When my family doctor called, he said, “Good news. There is no cancer in your bones.”

“Oh good,” I exhaled.

“But the base of your hands” he continued, “especially the right, are severely degenerated.”

Well then. Hmph. As if the pain wasn’t already shouting this. Of all the places to unravel, I thought—my knitting hands? This is why the braces help. The aching thumb. The way my hand protests halfway through a row, signs waving “stop now.”

I’m trying a cortisone shot soon — a last ditch effort before discussing surgery. I am hoping for time. Just time.

There are seasons when troubles travel in clusters. One thing after another. It’s exhausting to wonder what might come next.

No. I’ll take arthritis over cancer anyday. Perspective is a strange gift, and suddenly arthritis feels like a consolation prize.

So for now, I’m choosing stockinette. Not because I can’t knit lace… but because I don’t want to count.

This is part of the healing regimen…

Chemo — carpet bombing.
Surgery — precision.
Radiation — light aimed at what the eye cannot see.
Immunotherapy — teaching the body to remember what does not belong.

Knitting — healing, put back together one stitch at a time.

Perhaps this, too, is grace — a season where simple obedience looks like rest.

Healing, it turns out, may prefer stockinette too. Cancer was lace — intricate, consuming, impossible to ignore.

This year feels like stockinette.

Knit. Knit. Knit.

The sweater grows quietly in my lap, its weight familiar, steady. No drama. No urgency. Just yarn becoming a beautiful fabric, row by row.

Forward motion without spectacle.

And for now, that is enough. Enough for my hands. Enough for my heart. Enough for God—who is not in a hurry.

Lord of steady hands,
teach me the holiness of small stitches.
When my body protests and my mind blurs,
quiet my fear of falling behind.
Loosen my grip on intricacy.
Give me grace for repetition.
If this is a season of repair,
help me receive it without apology.
Knit patience into my aching joints.
Knit peace into the spaces I cannot retrieve.
And remind me
that You are not in a hurry.
Amen.

I’ve had this song in my head lately, and last week when we were singing Karaoke with some of the kids and grandkids, at my turn I chose this one—Landslide. I think some of the lyrics have been resonating with me.

And, I’m not gonna lie, after having bronchitis, I’ve sounded a little like Stevie Nicks!

Can I sail through the changin’ ocean tides?
Can I handle the seasons of my life?
Mm

Well, I’ve been ‘fraid of changin’
‘Cause I’ve built my life around you
But time makes you bolder
Even children get older
And I’m gettin’ older, too

Thank you for reading — and for indulging a woman who can turn a sweater into a life metaphor. I’m grateful for this space where we can talk about yarn, healing, and everything in between. Writing here often feels like knitting in good company: steady, unhurried, and better because others are nearby, and with a cup of tea. Anyway, you remind me I am not on this journey alone. Thank you for your comments and messages. They’re uplifting and meaningful.

Subscriptions aren’t on—yet. But right now I’m not working, coffee is a perfectly reasonable form of encouragement. Feel free to…

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I sat there, staring at the screen of my phone, a rush of physical sensations in my gut, moving downward into my legs. I felt paralyzed. My heart raced. My breathing became shallow from the tightness in my chest.

I had just read the words…

“… left the group”
“…left the group”

My shoulders hunched. My muscles tightened. My head felt light and dizzy from pressure.

Even while writing this I feel the echo of those physical sensations.

I feel them in the middle of the night while I try to return to sleep after my bladder wakes me up.
I feel them in the morning, as I begin to wake up and the thoughts begin to ruminate.
I feel them as I worry about cancer returning and dying without reconciliation.

I am stuck.

I can’t move forward. 
I can’t move backwards. 

I am just sitting in it.

Estrangement from your children has a way of hijacking the mind.

You replay conversations, imagine worst-case futures, rehearse what you should have said, and brace yourself for what might never happen. Fear and rumination start masquerading as vigilance—as if thinking harder might protect your heart.

It doesn’t.

It just keeps you stuck.

Estrangement isn’t only a relational rupture; it’s a neurological one; it’s a spiritual one. When love has nowhere to land, the brain spins. Naming that loop—this is fear talking, not wisdom—is often the first small step back toward solid ground.

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How do you live when love has nowhere to land—and faith feels quieter than fear?

When the mind gets trapped like this, I start looking for language—ways to name what’s happening so it doesn’t swallow me whole.

It feels like I’m caught in a loop, lost, tripping over a the same mental ruts that lead nowhere.

Joshua Coleman, PhD describes these different mental ruts as “loops.”

• Shame Loop – blaming myself for the entire situation

• Rumination Loop – replaying conversations in search of answers

• Fix-It Loop – if only I had done something differently

• Waiting Loop – I cannot live fully without them

• Fear Loop – what if this lasts… forever?

I get stuck in the rumination and fear loops. I already know fixing it isn’t in my control. I don’t live in self-blame. The waiting loop still hovers. But the rumination and fear loops wreak havoc on my mental health and stability.

This isn’t the first time this happened.

Years ago, estrangement lasted five or six months. I remember sobbing until there were no tears left. Slowly, things repaired—but I stayed guarded. Eventually, I allowed myself to reconnect, and for several years, things were okay.

Then it happened again during COVID.

Shock. Shame. Despair. Rage. All of it. The tears would not stop. I grieved the loss and eventually accepted it as the new normal, though I remained open to repair.

I have a strong mind and a way to compartmentalize intense emotions. Growing up in an alcoholic home teaches you how to survive dysfunction. Resilience becomes second nature.

What once helped me survive may also have shortened my grief.

I just decided this was life. I tucked it away.

Then, tentatively—like tiptoeing through weeds—it looked as though repair might happen again.

Maybe…?

No. This time is different.

No tears. Just an acceptance of something I have no control over it.

When I reach places like this, I go to prayer—desperate for calm, healing, restoration, strength. But Christmas 2025 came and went. I was sad the entire time. The sadness turned into thoughts of what’s the point? Why am I even trying?

The depression deepened. No matter how much I prayed, it didn’t lift. Eventually, I didn’t want to pray about it anymore.

These rumination and fear loops dragged me down lower each day.

So I did what I always do. I researched. I read. I found Dr. Joshua Coleman’s work on estrangement. He says the first task for an estranged parent is stabilization.

That word stopped me.

I cannot keep everything locked inside my mind, pretending it isn’t important. Healing stalls without stability.

I return often to Mindful Self-Compassion by Christopher Germer and Kristin Neff, reminding myself to speak inwardly the way I would speak to a dear friend—with kindness, compassion, and love. I need to remind myself of the goodness of God and how much he cares for me.

Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about you. 1 Peter 5:7

So what can I do right now to deal with the rumination?

Pulling ourselves out of rumination doesn’t mean denying the grief or “thinking positive.” It means learning when to gently interrupt the spiral.

Sometimes it looks like this:

• coming back to today instead of rehearsing tomorrow

• limiting how often I revisit the story

• choosing one safe person to talk to instead of ten imaginary conversations

• remembering that love can exist even when contact does not

Healing doesn’t come from resolving the relationship on demand.

It comes from reclaiming your inner life—one quiet, brave boundary, one prayer at a time.

Fear feels useful. If i stay alert enough, I won’t be blindsided again. But rumination is just fear pacing around the room, checking the locks for the hundredth time.

It needs interrupting.

• name it: that’s just fear talking

• contain it: give it boundaries, I’m not thinking about this right now

• ground yourself: put your feet flat on the floor, breath deep, name five things you can see

• replace forever with today

• limit retelling the story—choose one safe place to tell the story honestly

• practice loving without reaching

This is just what I’ve learned—not conquered.

When I am in the worst place, my faith holds me. Even when I can’t say a prayer, I can write one. Writing is like breathing. My fingers move even when my heart feels heavy.

God of mercy,
quiet the fear that keeps looping in my mind.
When my thoughts race toward forever,
bring me back to today.
Hold what I cannot fix,
carry what I cannot bear,
and teach my heart how to rest
even when answers are missing.
I place _______in Your care,
and myself there too.
Amen.

If you find yourself in a similar place, perhaps work through it with me. Use this prayer. Put in the name you need to put in it. You’re welcome to send me a private note by replying to the email or a messaging me on Substack.

I was in church not long ago when the worship team sang The Goodness of God. I cannot get through that song without tears. Something in it bypasses my thoughts and goes straight to the place where words fail.

When prayer feels impossible, I listen.

And for now, that is enough.

Thank you, dear reader, for sitting with me in this tender, unfinished space. Estrangement is lonely terrain, and writing it out loud is an act of trust. As I continue healing from cancer, I’m learning that recovery isn’t only physical—it reaches into the places where fear, grief, and unanswered questions live. If this resonated with you, I hope you felt less alone, even for a moment. I don’t have tidy answers or a resolved ending, just a willingness to keep showing up—one breath, one prayer, one small act of courage at a time. If you’re walking a similar road, I’m glad we’re walking it together. Hard stories are lighter when they’re shared.

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9:30 p.m. Early for me. Practically rebellious.

As I lay there waiting for that lovely, rhythmic breathing that signals you’re drifting off, I realized something was off.

I couldn’t breathe.

Sniff. Blow.

Sniff. Blow.

“Okay,” Maybe nasal spray.

Nope.

Sniff. Blow. Cough. Cough.

And then—because why not—my head started pounding right across my forehead. A second, more distant pain joined in, radiating through my face like it had an invitation.

Oh.

It’s a sinus infection.

I called the doctor the next morning, and the receptionist kindly informed me she could squeeze in a phone appointment that day. A small mercy.

I listed my symptoms like a seasoned professional.

Yes, it’s that colour.

Yes, my face hurts.

Yes, the coughing is from post-nasal drip.

Right then. Antibiotics it is.

Of course, when you’re allergic to several antibiotics, choosing one that actually works feels a bit like medical roulette. This time, we landed on clarithromycin—which is effective, but leaves a lingering bitter taste in my mouth that can only be described as deeply offensive. Yuck.

Here’s the kicker: I had a sinus infection last month. And now another one.

So naturally, I found myself asking the question cancer survivors know well:

What exactly is my immune system doing right now?

Post-cancer infections are, unfortunately, very much a thing. Treatments like chemotherapy, radiation, immunotherapy—even surgery—can leave your immune system compromised for months, sometimes years. Respiratory infections and UTIs are especially common.

Lucky me—my two favourites.

Just when you think you’ve crossed the finish line, someone quietly moves it.

It’s exasperating. The chemo brain that lingers. The fatigue that refuses to pack up and leave. And now, the bonus round of frequent infections. It’s not dramatic—it’s just deeply irritating.

Healing, it turns out, has excellent timing—and a questionable sense of humour.

Just when you think it’s over, you realize that “recovered” isn’t something you’ll be experiencing anytime soon. Not yet, anyway. It’s likely the fibromyalgia is playing a supporting role in all of this—a boarder who’s stopped asking and just lives here now. The whole thing feels like emotional whiplash.

One minute you’re relieved.

The next, you’re back in your head.

The emotional load of constantly monitoring your body is exhausting.

Is this normal?
Is this serious?
Should I call someone?
Am I overreacting—or underreacting?

It’s like living with an internal committee that never reaches consensus.

There’s also a particular kind of grief that comes with losing your immune system—the quiet sadness of missing the days when you could catch a cold without it becoming an event. No antibiotics. No charts. No follow-up questions. Just tissues and tea and moving on.

At this point in the journey, people look at you and assume you’re fine. After all, you look fine. Treatment is over, so surely you should be back to “normal” by now. Your hair has grown back. But healing doesn’t look like a triumphant return—it looks like managing, adapting, resting, and constantly adjusting expectations.

For someone like me, this is torture.

I never imagined I’d be ready to retire anytime soon. And yet, here I am, finishing my final two courses and feeling oddly eager to be done—not because I don’t care, but because I want the mental space. No deadlines hovering. No internal clock pushing me forward.

Is that a sign I’m ready for retirement?

Maybe. Perhaps it’s just a sign that recovery is not yet complete.

I know I’ll be writing more. Working on that book I started. Settling into a different rhythm. And if the university were to call and say, “Hey, we need you—someone’s on leave,” I suspect I’d be open to that.

But every semester?

Or when it interferes with time at the trailer in the summer?

Probably not.

It will all depend on where I am in the healing process. These final two courses went fine. I managed well. A week after final assignments, I’m finished marking and just about done submitting grades. No drama. No collapse. Just… done.

What I wish people understood about after cancer is that survivorship isn’t the end of the story. It’s simply a new chapter—one with its own challenges, questions, and recalibrations.

It’s a somber moment when you realize it isn’t over. When you quietly ask yourself, Will it ever be?

But this isn’t a lesson.

It’s not a conclusion.

It’s just where I am today.

God of mercy,
I come to you at the point of healing
that feels like it isn’t going to end.
Constant vigilance is exhausting,
and just when I think I am done adjusting,
here I go again.
Meet me here.
Help me trust that rest is not failure,
and that this chapter still belongs to you.
Teach me to live gently in this body,
receiving today without demanding tomorrow,
and to recognize healing even when it looks quiet.
Amen

One of the passages of scripture that I’ve gone to more than enough times in my life, Psalm 13, seems to be particularly fitting right now. It’s like the writer has had enough, and yet, in the end his faith holds. My enemy, for now, just happens to be my own body.

How long will you forget me, Lord? Forever?
    How long will you hide your face from me?
 How long will I be left to my own wits,
    agony filling my heart? Daily?
How long will my enemy keep defeating me?
 Look at me!
    Answer me, Lord my God!
Restore sight to my eyes!
    Otherwise, I’ll sleep the sleep of death,
         and my enemy will say, “I won!”
        My foes will rejoice over my downfall.
 But I have trusted in your faithful love.
    My heart will rejoice in your salvation.
 Yes, I will sing to the Lord
    because he has been good to me.

Even in the waiting, I know I am not alone. This season is slower, heavier, and more uncertain than I expected—but it is not empty. God is here in the questions, in the managing, in the ordinary faithfulness of one day at a time. And for now, that is enough to keep going.

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Dear reader, thank you for staying with me through this long and winding journey. I sometimes wonder if you’re getting impatient alongside me, waiting for a tidy ending or a clear resolution. But instead, you keep opening the emails. You keep reading. Some of you send quiet messages, others leave comments on Facebook or LinkedIn when I share a post—and each one reminds me that I’m not walking this alone. Your presence, steady and kind, matters more than you know, and I’m deeply grateful to be held by this community as the story continues.

Subscriptions aren’t on—yet. But now that I’m officially retired, coffee is a perfectly reasonable form of encouragement. Feel free to…

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Before I begin, a small clarification. This isn’t a political post, and it’s not an argument for one side or another. It’s about the emotional and spiritual weight of the world we’re living in—how easily fear settles into the body, how loud opinions crowd out wisdom, and how tiring it is to carry global anxiety on top of very personal grief and healing. There will be no policy analysis here. Just an honest reflection on what it feels like to be human in this moment. So no to any political left/right nonsense. We are in this together. 🇨🇦

I felt a paw touching me.

I turned away, burrowing deeper into the duvet, eyes clamped shut like that alone might delay reality. I had not had a good sleep.

Surely it cannot be time to feed the cats yet.

I managed to eke out a few more precious minutes by shooing her away.

“Leave me alone, Puddles.”

The real menace—River—was still downstairs. If he’s not up here launching his full 13 pounds of solid determination onto my ribcage, then I still have time. Once River arrives, all hope is lost.

But now I’m awake.

And once I’m awake, my brain does what it does best: spins wildly through all the life things.

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I decide the responsible, emotionally mature thing to do is a little gentle reading. Something soothing. Something warm. A nice, cozy newsletter about walking by the ocean, smelling the roses, communing with nature—one of those pieces that wraps you up like a knitted shawl and whispers, Everything is fine.

I will blame what happened next on the fact that I wasn’t wearing my reading glasses and had already drained the battery on my iPad. On my phone, squinting dangerously, I clicked something in my inbox.

It was not about roses.

It was about scary stuff.

Trump’s Arctic Bloodlust: Senior WH Officials Say Trump’s Greenland Obsession Is a “Dry Run” for Canada Invasion, And It’s VERY Real.

Well then. Thanks,

As I read, a hot, heavy feeling settled deep in my lower abdomen.

Real gut fear.

My heart started racing.

My temples began pulsing like a warning light on a dashboard.

This was not the warm-and-fuzzy newsletter I had ordered.

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We’ve spent the last year being called the 51st state. We watched. We listened. We tried to carry on like normal adults. We got tariffed into oblivion. We fought back. We boycotted American products with impressive Canadian politeness and quiet resolve.

People sold their winter condos in Florida and came home. Money stayed north of the border. U.S. distilleries—especially in Kentucky and Tennessee—took a real hit. Exports of U.S. spirits to Canada dropped by 85% between April and June 2025.

That’s a lot of unsold bourbon.

It all started right in the middle of my cancer treatments, and honestly, thank God for chemo brain. The nonsense was background noise while I focused on surviving. Now that I’m in recovery and the fog is lifting, I’m seeing it everywhere—and it’s hitting differently.

Now I can’t turn anywhere without hearing about military options. Greenland. Canada.

It’s on the TV news.

It’s in the newspaper.

It’s all over YouTube.

And yes, it’s even in Substack—where I was just trying to read about trees.

Our Prime Minister is holding firm, standing with NATO and Greenland. Will diplomacy work? Will security agreements hold? Will we be safe? Will the U.S. attack Canada? Will our sons and husbands be called to serve?

You would think it would be enough that we’re all dealing with affordability, debt, health issues, family stuff—just regular life happening.

And cancer.

Not just my own, but watching dear friends walk through brutal cancer journeys of their own. That brings a different kind of grief.

And then the Putin-esque idiot south of the border goes completely off the rails.

I’m going to be honest—it’s getting to me.

I don’t know how to keep my sanity through all of it. It’s easy to say, as Christians do, God is in control. But was He in control when other countries were flattened by power-hungry maniacs?

I wrestle with that.

Still—faith is what I have. And faith, somehow, is enough.

So I pray.

Then pray some more.

Then complain.

Then pray again.

Then cry.

Then pray again.

Then I knit.

Then I paint.

Then I watch YouTube videos—because apparently that’s part of my wellness plan now.

And that’s when Jeff Douglas shows up with his We Are Canadian video—the verbal equivalent of someone putting a steady hand on your shoulder and saying, Okay, everyone take a breath. No yelling. No flag-waving hysteria. Just that familiar, clear-eyed Canadian tone: polite, firm, quietly unbothered, and very much not asking for permission. He reminds us who we are—confident but not obnoxious, humorous without being smug. It’s the kind of national pep talk that doesn’t spike your blood pressure. I watched it and felt something unclench. Turns out reassurance can sound like a guy calmly listing facts, values, and boundaries, with just enough dry wit to say, Yes, we’re nice—and no, don’t mistake that for weakness.

And eventually, River comes and sits on me.

Which, oddly enough, helps.

I don’t have answers big enough for geopolitics or power-hungry men. What I have is this moment. Faith that steadies me when fear hits my gut. Hands that can still knit and paint. A country that knows who it is. And a very heavy cat who insists on reminding me that I am not allowed to spiral alone.

I’ll still be uneasy. I will still flinch at the news. But today, I pray. I create. I laugh at a Canadian guy on YouTube reminding me who we are. And eventually, I get sat on by a cat.

For today, that will have to be enough.

I don’t need scripture to shout right now. There’s enough of that lately. I need it to quietly tell the truth. And this passage from Proverbs felt uncomfortably on point—less like ancient wisdom and more like commentary on the morning news.

Fools have no interest in understanding;
    they only want to air their own opinions.
Doing wrong leads to disgrace,
    and scandalous behavior brings contempt.
Wise words are like deep waters;
    wisdom flows from the wise like a bubbling brook.
It is not right to acquit the guilty
    or deny justice to the innocent.
Fools’ words get them into constant quarrels;
    they are asking for a beating.
The mouths of fools are their ruin;
    they trap themselves with their lips.
Proverbs 18:2-7 NIV

Oooh… I like that part about “asking for a beating!”

I should pray now…

God,
It’s me again.
I know You’re fully in control, even when the world looks like it’s being run by people who flunked out of school. I’m trying to trust You, but my nervous system keeps reacting faster than my faith.
So… just checking in.
You can fix this.
Anytime now.
I’m waiting.
What exactly are You doing with this situation?
Please calm my heart, quiet my gut, and help me stop doom-scrolling like it’s a spiritual discipline. Remind me that You’ve handled worse than this—without panic or social media.
Thank You for small mercies: prayer, creativity, laughter, cats, and the occasional perfectly timed Canadian video.
I trust You.
Even while I’m tapping my foot.
Amen.

Thank you, dear friends, for walking this moment with me—the real one, not the curated version with easy answers and inspirational quotes slapped on top. Your presence, messages, comments, and knowing smiles remind me that none of us is carrying this strange season alone. If you know someone else feeling the weight of the world settling right in their gut, or dealing with too much, including cancer, feel free to share this with them. Fear doesn’t like company, wisdom improves when shared, laughter—especially at the nonsense—still helps. And sometimes comfort arrives in the form of a very large cat who refuses to let you spiral unattended.

Subscriptions aren’t on—yet. But now that I’m officially retired, coffee is a perfectly reasonable form of encouragement. Feel free to…

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2025:

✅ Finished cancer treatments and now in remission.

✅ Learned to crochet amigurumi animals (and made several plushies).

✅ A new grandchild, Summer, was born in May.

✅ Completed two knitting projects.

✅ Managed to read two full books and parts of other books.

✅ Changed my involvement in volunteer work that was toxic.

✅ Laid off (thanks to a reduction in student visas).

✅ Got a new kitten (can we really afford another pet?!).

✅ Bought a new trailer (in debt again 🤦🏼‍♀️).

✅ Joined a choir and am loving it.

✅ Started attending church again (after cancer treatments).

✅ Travelled to Southern Ontario to see family.

✅ Put together an outline for a series of children’s books based on our families pets.

✅ Started writing a murder mystery - and I’m excited about this!

✅ Got more consistent in my writing on Substack and reached 504 subscribers and 1,674 followers!

Normally, this would read so differently for this overachiever - like building an emergency shelter for the unhoused, or a successful major fundraising campaign.

Now I am learning that not measuring everything as an accomplishment is okay. It didn’t feel that way at first, but I am learning that it is ok to slow down, spend time doing the things I enjoy, and not accomplishing anything at all. Some would say my writing is an accomplishment, but seriously, it is for me, but so much more. It has helped me to cope with the cancer and other difficult life transitions. It doesn’t feel like an accomplishment, it feels natural, like breathing.

Now I need to gear up for 2026.

Wait!

No, you mean gear down!

This coming year I will be finished my short teaching (second) career (4 yrs of pure enjoyment), and will be focusing on writing, knitting/crochet, getting together with other knitters, singing, and possibly getting back to playing my piano or guitar. Oh, and maybe some watercolour painting.

This is what you call retirement for an overachiever. Sad, isn’t it. 😂

This slower season is also shaping what I feel called to write next. Now that I am in a different place with my cancer, I am focusing on healing and staying healthy. I will continue to write about my cancer journey and what healing entails. I hope to interview some other cancer survivors and upload those videos to this Substack as a podcast. I’ll write about life in general and the lessons I’m learning. Of course, I’ll write about the intersection of family and cultural issues, and what it’s like parenting five adult offspring, and life as a grandparent, and whatever else God places on my heart.

You have been such faithful readers. I can see by the stats for my articles that they have roughly an average of 60% open rate, and lots of views (15.9K in 2025) from other readers who haven’t subscribed yet. That tells me this space is being read with care. Right now, I have not turned on paid subscriptions. However, I do have a “buy me a coffee” button/link in my posts if you’d like to support my writing.

I’m deeply grateful for each of you who reads, reflects, and quietly walks alongside me here. This space exists because of your presence, and I care about writing in ways that are honest, meaningful, and genuinely helpful. If you’re willing, I’d love for you to take a few minutes to fill out the short survey below. Your responses will help guide what I write next and how I show up here—thoughtfully, faithfully, and with care. Thank you for being part of this community.

If you’re willing, you can find the survey here.

Don’t you know? Haven’t you heard?
    The Lord is the everlasting God,
    the creator of the ends of the earth.
    He doesn’t grow tired or weary.
His understanding is beyond human reach,
     giving power to the tired
    and reviving the exhausted.
 Youths will become tired and weary,
    young men will certainly stumble;
      but those who hope in the Lord
    will renew their strength;
    they will fly up on wings like eagles;
    they will run and not be tired;
    they will walk and not be weary.
Isaiah 40:28-31

Thank you for staying with me through this season of recalibration—of learning how to live more slowly, more honestly, and with less urgency. Your presence here truly mattered as I fought to heal, helping me stay hopeful and grounded on days when my strength wavered. As I step into 2026, I’m choosing healing over hustle, depth over performance, and joy in the small, ordinary things. I hope you’ll keep walking with me as this next chapter unfolds—quietly, creatively, and with grace.

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Some songs age the way we do—deeper, quieter, and truer. This one is coming with me into 2026.

Much grace,

Kathie

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My husband would love a condo on the ocean—beach right at the doorstep, palm trees swaying, warm breezes blowing through the wide-open windows. Me? A cozy room filled with books and yarn, a big chintz, plushy chair, deep rich colours on the walls, and a desk to write at in a lovely old house tucked into a small village somewhere in the UK or Ireland. He likes Disco and R&B. I like folk and classic rock.

Yes, in almost every way, we are exact opposites.

However, we have one thing in common: we are both creatives.

Oh—and we love to dance…but that is another story.

Ed is an artist, though he never fully developed his talents. His father was a professional artist and graphic designer who told him—far too early and far too bluntly—that he wasn’t good enough to succeed. The advice was simple: skip art school, get a job, and support him in his early retirement. That kind of criticism leaves a mark, and I don’t think he ever quite got past it.

Still, creativity leaks out of him whether he intends it to or not.

He may rarely pick up a sketchbook, but put him in a kitchen and magic happens. He cooks beautifully, experiments freely, and never—ever—uses the same measurements twice. In fact, he doesn’t use measurements at all. Recipes are merely “suggestions.” He even records cooking videos for his Wok With Chiu YouTube channel, which feels exactly as on-brand as it sounds. He’s also the decorator in our house, constantly adjusting furniture and pillows in search of the perfect arrangement. And when Christmas arrives, he’s the one hauling out the boxes with great enthusiasm while I’m still mentally negotiating with December.

Music has always been another love of his. He and his brother DJ’d when they were young, and I listened to his mixed disco tapes blasting in the car for so long that I’m convinced it contributed to my hearing loss. He taught himself drums and guitar, though his ADHD means practice sessions were brief and enthusiastic—“just going over it,” as he calls it. And if you ever need an idea, Ed is your guy. For more than 30 years, he was the one saying, “Hey, we should do this,” while I replied, “We need a plan—and money.” His answer was always the same: “Okay! Let’s do it!” Which is how I became the planner and budgeter while he waited impatiently to begin.

I express my creativity through music, writing, and knitting, needlework, and occasionally painting. I grew up playing several instruments—violin in the school orchestra and a brass instrument in the Salvation Army band. Later, I studied piano and took classical guitar lessons after moving out. Music always felt natural and grounding. Knitting and crochet have been part of my life since I was seven, beginning with tiny outfits for Barbie dolls. One of my crewel needlework pieces now hangs framed in our living room.

But writing—that’s always been my thing. Journals, poems, stories, essays—you’ll always find me writing. I still have the Remembrance Day poem I wrote in middle school, praised by my teacher and read aloud at an assembly to my absolute terror. It’s folded in my old jewellery box, the paper now yellowed with age. In high school, English class sealed it for me. Mr. Heighton introduced me to the classics—Jane Austen, Charlotte Brontë, Louisa May Alcott, Margaret Laurence—and I knew I wanted to be an English professor and my generations Jane Austen. That particular dream didn’t unfold the way I imagined, one of my lasting regrets, but I did keep writing. I wrote newsletters in the early years of our marriage, a long-running column for our organization’s national magazine about family, faith, and ministry, blogged at kathiechiu.com, and now find myself here on Substack, still doing the thing I’ve always done.

So how do two creative—and sensitive—people manage 44 years together?

Well…it takes work.

Hard work.

This past summer, I did a fun video with my granddaughter that went viral—shockingly viral. Over 4.7 million views. The theme was simple: “How many months have we been together? Months? You mean years!” followed by photos of us going all the way back. We’ve been married 44 years, so no, we couldn’t fit in 44 photos—but we tried.

You can watch it here: TikTok Video

The comments, aside from people debating whether my husband is Mexican or Asian, were all about how much people want this kind of love. They see the photos and assume it’s all rosy and romantic.

It’s not.

It’s work.

It’s figuring out your literal and figurative space:

“This is my space—don’t touch my knitting!”

“Why do you keep moving the sugar? I like it there.”

“It’s not hoarding—I just like keeping things.”

“It does not have to be spotless all the time.”

Sound familiar?

Once you negotiate space, you begin the slow work of learning each other—especially when you’re both sensitive. I didn’t think I was overly sensitive. Turns out, I was wrong. We both bruise easily. The difference? When I’m hurt, I say so—or I get angry. Ed learned early that expressing hurt only brought louder voices, so he buried it.

When it finally came out, it came out like a volcano.

Once, after a fight, there was a hole punched in the kitchen wall under the phone (yes, when phones lived on walls). Ed attempted to fix it with crumpled newspaper and plaster. Before it dried, the paper expanded. The result looked unmistakably like a breast sticking out of the wall.

In an act of immature anger, I drew a nipple on it.

Bad move.

Days later, I was hosting a church gathering when our pastor asked to use the phone. He glanced at the wall and said calmly, “So… you two had a fight?” he asked with a grin.

Over the years, we’ve faced more than we ever expected: children arriving sooner than planned (and sometimes when planning wasn’t happening at all), parents who didn’t want us together, a fire, a miscarriage, unemployment, illness, depression, debt, hospital stays and surgeries. We changed careers. Moved provinces. Burned out from giving too much for too long. Faced addiction, estrangement, and grief that settled deep.

I cared for my aging mother while becoming a grandmother at 41. We buried her. We kept going. There was more illness. More depression. Anxiety. Menopause. And then a move across the country that split our children and devastated our family.

And later — cancer.

This list isn’t exhaustive. It’s just honest.

So how do you stay together through all that?

Lots of counselling. 
Faith. 
Good friends. 
Managing expectations. 
Education. 
More counselling. 

And learning to see beyond the moment — to ask what’s underneath the behaviour. Meeting each other where we are. Forgiveness. Letting go. Not keeping score.

Boundaries matter. Self-respect matters. But when I make my husband’s well-being a priority, and he does the same for me, we stand on solid ground.

I recently heard David Brooks (PBC/The Atlantic) say we’ve confused love with how someone makes us feel. Real love, he suggests, shows up when we want to serve — when giving feels as good, or better, than receiving.

And he’s right. We’re in a culture that is so self-oriented, and it’s all about how I feel. That’s not what love is. You know you’re in love when you want to serve the other person. Love eliminates the distinction between giving and receiving because to give to someone you love feels just as good, if not better, than receiving.

I think that’s what we’ve learned.

Do we mess up? Yes.

Do we make mistakes? Absolutely.

Do we forgive? Always.

Empathy and understanding, sacrificial love, looking out for and caring for each other—this is the bedrock of any great relationship.

He also celebrates my successes and loves to read my writing. Hey, you can’t beat that.

This Friday, as we celebrate 44 years of marriage, we’re also celebrating life—my life—and winning a battle with cancer. And I’m celebrating a partner who showed up in every possible way. Is he flawed? Of course. So am I. But he loves me with tenderness and care, and I would not have made it through breast cancer without him.

He is my hero.

This was the scripture read at our wedding, and over time it has become less a standard we thought we could meet and more a grace we continually need. We have tried to love this way — patiently, kindly, without keeping score — and we have often failed. Yet God has been faithful where we have not. When our love faltered, His did not. What has sustained us all these years is not our perfection, but His grace, meeting us again and again, and teaching us how to love anew.

God of grace,
Today we thank You for us—for forty-four years of choosing one another,
even when it was hard,
especially when it mattered most.

Thank You for the love that has grown deeper than we ever imagined,
for the lessons learned, the forgiveness given,
and the steady companionship that has carried us through every season.

You have been present in our joy and our sorrow,
in our strength and in our weakness.
When we did not know how to keep going,
You gently held us and helped us take the next step—together.

Bless our marriage again today.
Renew our hearts, our patience, and our tenderness toward one another.
Teach us to keep listening, keep laughing, and keep loving well.

As we look back, we do so with gratitude.
As we look ahead, we do so with trust.
Whatever the future holds, we place it in Your hands,
knowing that we will face it side by side.

Thank You for the gift of this life we share.
Amen. 

Thank you, dear reader, for walking (and occasionally limping) through this story with me. Long marriages aren’t a straight line either—they’re more like a wobbly dance between joy and struggle, grace and grit, with the occasional awkward step that everyone pretends not to notice. If you’ve ever found yourself muttering under your breath, wondering how you got here and why you’re still trying, know that you’re not alone. We creak, we groan, we miss the beat now and then—but we keep showing up. And somehow, by grace, that’s what makes it work.

The year was 1981. The year the Iran Hostage Crisis ended, an assassination attempt on Pope John Paull II, the launch of the IBM PC, the iconic wedding of Prince Charles & Lady Diana, and in Canada—the Terry Fox Highway was named.

We chose Endless Love for our first dance at our wedding. We didn’t meet at church — we met at a bar, on a dance floor — which just confirms that God occasionally prefers a DJ to an organist.

Blessings to all of you!

Kathie

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It’s been eighteen long months since that first phone call about something suspicious on my mammogram. Days blurred into weeks, weeks into months, and for a while I wondered if time had stopped and I was caught in one of those strange dimensions. Chemo was like a demolition crew was given the keys to the house and tearing down walls. Radiation was only 15 treatments, like a sprint, quick and intense. Immunotherapy took longer - every three weeks for a year. It wasn’t a sprint—it was a year-long course at military school for my immune system, teaching it how to recognize the enemy and refuse to forget its face. It finished in October, but during that time my hair grew back with an attitude - with curls so wild it looked like I’d been out in a gale force winds. Lovely, but uncontrollable without lots of goop to keep them in line.

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My energy began to pick up a bit. My concentration is a bit better, which is a good thing because I’m teaching on online course right now and I don’t want to see the students tilting their heads with a questioning look. I may forget some words but at least I can keep going without losing my train of thought. It’s hard to believe I went through all of that and am still alive - well, I did have some close calls.

And then I received the news I wanted to hear yesterday, “in remission” the oncologist said. What glorious words. I already knew the scans were clear, but just hearing those words brought a sense of elation. Somehow I am still hear, a little scarred, but stubbornly alive and facing a future I wasn’t sure I’d get.

I had so many questions for my oncologist about recurrence. A week ago yesterday, my daughter’s mother-in-law passed away after a valiant battle with breast cancer. I never knew what type of cancer Julie had. I asked her once and she said she didn’t know.

“I don’t want to know or think about it,” she said.

That baffled me. At the time, I couldn’t understand how she didn’t want to know. Later, I realized we all carry cancer differently—some by gathering data like armour, others by refusing to give it a name they fear will own them. I suppose I needed information to feel safe. Julie needed distance to survive the idea of it.

One of the first things they tell you is know what type of cancer you have, what drugs you are taking, and what your treatment is. That’s because when you end up in the ER during treatment, which you will at least once or twice, you need to know what to tell the doctor.

I knew what type of cancer I had. For those of you who know me, you know I did my research like my life depended on it. You know I obsessed over it! I knew how rare triple negative breast cancer was, around 10% of all breast cancers. I knew it was aggressive, meaning it grows and spreads very quickly. I knew what stage I was and what the five year survival rate was for people with this type of cancer with my stage - 2a with lymph node involvement. I I clung to the 75-80% survival like it was a flotation device, refusing to look at the 20-25% recurrence lurking underneath. I kept myself positive and did not even consciously consider anything other than survival.

But life has a way to turning over stones you’d rather leave unturned. It turns out that Julie’s cancer was triple negative breast cancer. Apparently, she knew all along, and Sarah found out just about a month before she passed. That’s when I went back to the research. That was when the 20-25% number began to seem much larger. The numbers didn’t change - I did. Suddenly those percentages weren’t theoretical, they had a name - Julie.

Julie had her first bout of breast cancer about nine years ago. It was caught early and was stable, hopeful, human. I remember when she came with her husband by motorcycle up to our campsite on the Sunshine Coast. Although she had lost her hair, her chemo scarf made her look free and easy on the back of that bike. She looked well. I remember her telling me how much she appreciated my daughter. It wasn’t just a compliment. The way she leaned in to emphasize how Sarah had looked after her, cooking for her, doing housework for her, and taking her to appointments. With no daughters of her own, Sarah became hers. I was proud of my girl; mother-in-law relationships don’t always look like that.

Her cancer returned in year six, tucked away in her stomach - an odd place, I learned. While Julie clung to her doctor’s optimism, I clung to research. I knew a recurrence in that location didn’t usually give more than a few years. I didn’t say much, but the numbers sat in me like stones. In the end, the cancer spread up and down her GI tract until eating wasn’t possible. She grew thinner and thinner as she fought valiantly, enduring “palliative” chemo to slow the growth. Finally, the cancer took over so much real estate there was no way to survive it, and she passed away last week (after I wrote my previous post).

So naturally, the numbers were sitting beside me like an unwanted guest when I met with the oncologist the other day. I asked her again about recurrence. She threw out a range- 15, maybe 20, sometimes 25 percent.

“But you can’t live by stats,” she said. “Everyone is different and people surprise us. I’ve seen stage three triple negative never come back, and stage one return. Numbers don’t make predictions—they make averages.”

Technically, she was right. Emotionally, I wanted a guarantee. Something carved in stone, not floating percentages.

And here’s the maddening part: my results are spectacular. My cancer began to dissolve in the very first round of chemo. By week eight, an ultrasound showed nothing. At surgery there was only a tiny sliver left, they got clean margins, and the 15 lymph nodes they took? No cancer.

I am in remission. Period. Keep this thought in the forefront of your mind, Kathie!

She would have discharged me yesterday if it hadn’t been the fear in my eyes. Instead, she ordered a CT scan and booked me for one last appointment a year from now. If it’s clear, she will officially discharge me from the cancer centre and her care.

Ed and I celebrated by going to my new favourite bakery and coffee shop, Gratia. They have yummy cream cheese brownies I can now actually taste! (And gluten free!) That, along with a soy milk latte with one shot of vanilla, my tastebuds were in heaven, a sweetness that feels like freedom - messy, sweet, and entirely undeserved.

I am very thankful to God for his faithfulness. His love endures forever! He gave me strength to fight, with His help I stayed positive, and his daily presence reassured me. God didn’t promise a life without hardship—He promised His presence in the middle of it. He didn’t put the fire out, but He stood with me in it. And for that I will be eternally grateful. There were times things looked dark, and I questioned my faith. But no matter what, I was drawn back to Him, again and again, often with the help of my friends in prayer, and the many people I knew who had my back.

I love the lyrics to this song by Audrey Assad. They encompass how I feel and move me in ways I can’t express.

All my devotion is like sinking sand
I’ve nothing to cling to but Your sweet hand
No clear emotions keeping me safe at night
Only Your presence, like a candle light

After everything I’ve had
After everything I’ve lost
Lord, I know this much is true
I’m still drawn to You

I pour out my sorrows just like a precious oil
I kiss Your feet, Lord, with a holy joy
My tears an offering of my highest praise!
Your eyes say “Welcome,” and I receive Your gaze

‘Cause after everything I’ve had
And after everything I’ve lost
Lord, I know this much is true
I’m still drawn to You!
After everything’s been said
After everything love costs
Lord, I know this much is true
I’m still drawn to You

Here it is if you’d love to listen to her sing. Songs like this kept me going in dark times.

Cancer makes people feel helpless—both the one fighting it and the ones who love them. But there is help, and it’s often simpler than people think.

Connection

• You can call or video chat with them when their immune system is low and you can’t visit.

Presence

• If you can visit, just watching a movie together, or listening without offering solutions.

• You can drive them to treatments.

Care

• You can drop off a meal to them if they don’t live far away.

• If you’re far away, you can send a food gift certificate or order a meal in for them.

• You can gown and mask and go do laundry for the family.

• And yes, funny cat videos definitely count as medicine!

Prayer/Intention

• Most importantly, you can pray for them.

If you’re not a praying kind of person, that’s okay. I always gladly accepted positive thoughts, burning candles, and loving messages. When someone offers you what they have with love, you accept it gladly.

Thank you, dear reader, for walking beside me, whether you held a flashlight, sent a prayer, or just laughed at my bald jokes. Companionship makes even the scary roads bearable. You’ve been wonderful.

I’m not done - not with living, not with learning, and certainly not without telling stories. I’ll keep writing about healing, hope, faith, and whatever life hands me next. And yes, that mystery novel is still sitting on my laptop, tapping its foot and waiting for me.

Stay tuned - apparently, surviving cancer was just the prologue.

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But here’s what I know…

I’ve Fought Hard

How do you fight a rare and aggressive cancer?

Well, you get aggressive right back. You roll up your sleeves, glare at it like a mom who’s had enough of everyone’s nonsense, and say, “Oh no, not today.” And then—because I like to go all in—I took on not one, not two, but four different chemotherapy drugs. A full-blown chemical choir, harmonizing their way through my system. (This was the Keynote 522 regimen, the heavy-hitting protocol shaped by a phase 3 clinical trial for triple-negative breast cancer.)

And let me tell you, they didn’t tiptoe in politely. They showed up like rowdy houseguests and rearranged everything, leaving their belongings all over the place (don’t you hate it when guests do that?). I did my best to stay positive through the nausea, the bone-deep exhaustion that made my very eyelashes tired (well, before they fell out), the skin rashes, the hair abandoning ship, the loss of taste, and the total disappearance of my appetite. And of course, there was my lovely greyish complexion—an elegant shade somewhere between “Victorian ghost” and “needs more iron.”

But through it all, I kept going. Because when something tries to take your life, you fight back with everything you’ve got—chemotherapy, radiation, surgery, humour, and the stubborn determination of a woman who refuses to go quietly.

Then there was the immunotherapy. It’s the treatment that’s supposed to teach your immune system to become a ninja warrior—building resistance, strengthening your defenses, and hopefully convincing the cancer to pack its bags and never return. Is it a guarantee? Well… no. But at this point I’ll happily take “a decent chance” and call it a win.

The side effects? Oh, just a bonus round of fatigue and joints that felt older than the pyramids. My hands and knees took turns complaining, but honestly, I was lucky. This drug can pounce on your organs like a hyperactive cat—so I’m grateful mine only got a gentle swat.

And then there were the IVs. I will not miss the random bruises that showed up like abstract art—each one courtesy of a needle that “just missed.” By my last appointment, it took two nurses and four attempts. After 15 months of poking and prodding, my veins finally staged a rebellion. They twisted themselves into pretzels and shouted, “Absolutely not! We’re closed!”

Radiation seemed easy at first… until the slow burn under my skin told the real story. And the dreams of being radioactive did nothing to help. The massive machine—whom the staff named Vivian because she was like a diva—spun around me in slow motion while I stared at the cherry blossoms on the ceiling. I assume they were meant to be calming, but let’s be honest: “enjoyment” is not the word I’d use. “Distraction,” maybe. “Survival mechanism,” probably.

The sunburn and rash that followed stuck around far longer than invited. And they tell me this level of radiation is perfectly safe. Well, if that’s true, why did everyone treating me run and hide behind a giant protective wall? I’m just saying—mixed messaging.

I’ve Healed Hard

One of the strange realities of fighting an aggressive cancer is how endless it feels. Some days stretch on so long you start to wonder if you’ll ever make it through, if the treatment will actually work, or if this is the part where the credits roll. Meanwhile, a very practical corner of your brain quietly pulls out a clipboard and starts organizing end-of-life decisions—DNR or no DNR? What kind? Burial or cremation? It’s like planning an event you sincerely hope never happens.

It’s all so overwhelming… until, suddenly, it isn’t. One day you look up and think, Wait—what do you mean it’s over? How? Already? You’ve spent so long surviving that you almost forget what comes next.

And what comes next is its own journey.

What comes next is healing.

One of the ways I’ve coped through all of this was by writing. Putting my story into words felt strangely healing—like I was stitching something back together inside myself. It gave me a sense of purpose, a way to make sense of what was happening. And it lifted my spirits to imagine that someone out there might read it and think, “Oh… me too.” Or perhaps someone with a loved one fighting their own battle might find a little insight into the emotional roller coaster cancer puts you on—complete with unexpected twists, sudden drops, and the occasional desire to scream.

And of course, there was laughter. If you’ve been following along, you know I became a full-time collector of funny cat videos. Dogs doing ridiculous things? Send them. Babies laughing? Yes, please. Any clip that made me snort unattractively? Gold. Studies say laughter reduces side effects, and honestly, I believe it. Mine weren’t as severe as some of the incredibly brave women I got to know in my online cancer group—and I like to think my daily comedy sessions helped.

What I didn’t realize was how much I would continue to need that laughter—even now.

What hits you after all the treatments stop is a strange emotional collapse—like the war is finally over, the sword is back in its sheath, and suddenly your body realizes it can fall apart a little. Tears leak out at the most inconvenient times. A sadness drifts over you like a heavy fog. And the thought “I almost died!” barges into your brain without even knocking.

It reminded me of when my youngest son, Evan, was born. His arrival was… dramatic, to put it mildly. I was in excruciating pain, and no one could figure out why. He came barreling into the world at record speed while my abdomen screamed in protest. Later we found out that my old C-section scar had started to tear open, but my bladder—bless its heroic little heart—was stuck to it and full enough to act like a built-in compress. I’m convinced an angel had one hand on my bladder and the other on Evan’s backside, giving him a firm push.

Afterward, all I could think was: He almost died. I almost died.

I spiralled into that narrative until my midwife came over and snapped me back to reality:

“Change the narrative, Kathie! You LIVED. The baby LIVED!”

She was right. And after cancer treatment, I had to relearn that same lesson.

I LIVED. I WON. I BEAT CANCER.

So I let the tears come. They showed up at bizarre, inconvenient moments—usually unrelated to anything happening around me—but I stopped fighting them. They were part of the release.

To help myself heal, I started talking to a counsellor. And oh, the relief of saying all the things. The things you don’t unload on your husband or your kids. The deep-down, folded-up, locked-away stuff. Speaking it out loud felt like untangling knots I didn’t know I had.

It turns out that once you drag those buried thoughts into the light of day, they lose their grip on you. They shrink, soften, and quiet down.

And slowly, you begin to feel human again.

I’ve been trying to start eating better. Truly. But let’s be honest—I’m mostly failing at that, and that’s a whole post of its own! One battle at a time.

I also started back to my active rehab. Those sessions were paused way back before my diagnosis because of a fender bender that messed up my lower back, so I’m basically picking up where I left off. Little by little, the strength is returning. I notice every ache more than before, and the post-workout pain sometimes feels like it’s auditioning for a dramatic film. I’m pretty sure it’s triggering some FMS flares too, but I refuse to give in. My body has been through too much for me to stop now—I need to keep getting stronger.

But the most powerful part of my healing has come from God’s work in my life. My faith has deepened through this, even though it hasn’t always been steady. I’ve been through things in the past that shook my faith hard and sent me down some painful roads. Rebuilding it took time. And strangely enough, cancer—this unwelcome, terrifying intruder—helped me refocus on what truly matters.

My prayers now are filled with gratitude for God’s presence. I felt Him every time someone sent a prayer, a song, or a bit of faith-filled encouragement. Throughout treatment, I really tried to focus on being grateful… though if I’m honest, most of my prayers sounded a lot like, “Please let this work!” Now that I’m in the healing and recovery phase, the gratitude rises from a deeper place, steady and sincere.

I am so grateful my life was spared.
I am so grateful I had the strength to fight like a princess warrior.
I am so grateful God went ahead of me in that fight and was the strength I didn’t have.
I am so grateful for a husband who cared so tenderly for me and stood by me through every moment.
I am so grateful for the friends who came with me to treatment and kept me company—they have no idea how much their presence lifted my spirits.
I am so grateful for my family doctor who called me almost every week with test results and genuine concern.
I am so grateful for my daughter, Sarah, who poured herself out for me even while navigating her own busy and stressful life, taking me to treatments... and coffee.
I am so grateful for movie nights and cooking vegan food together with my son, Nathan, and his girlfriend Rosslyn.
I am so grateful to Nathan for coming with me to my first oncologist appointment and some of the treatments.

Gratitude kept me positive through the storm, and it’s helping me recover now. It softens the hard moments, brightens the quiet ones, and gently reminds me that healing is not just physical—it’s spiritual, emotional, and beautifully human.

I’m Becoming Myself Again

It’s December 1st that I go back to my oncologist for that “final wrap-up visit”—a phrase that feels both comforting and vaguely like we’re completing a group project. Before that, I had the usual tests: a CT scan with that dye that makes you feel strangely warm and convinced you’re about to pee yourself (why does no one warn you how accurate that sensation is?). And then a mammogram—because nothing says “fun” like squishing a freshly operated-on breast into a machine designed by someone who has never owned one. You just close your eyes, hold your breath, and pray the technician has gentle hands. Some of you know exactly what I mean.

But here’s the twist: my oncologist won’t be the first to give me the results. My family doctor called this morning and booked a phone appointment for Thursday. I already know he’s going to tell me first. So when I see the oncologist afterward, I’ll have to do my best “surprised face” and pretend I didn’t already get the scoop. My acting career begins now.

Whatever the results say, one thing is certain: I am getting stronger. Sometimes it feels like I take a giant step backward—and then, out of nowhere, I’m moving forward again. Healing is not a straight line; it’s more like a toddler learning to walk: wobbly, unpredictable, and occasionally hilarious.

When I say I’m becoming myself again, I don’t mean the woman I was before cancer. She was strong, yes—but she was also busy, serious, responsible, and always “in charge.” No, I mean the woman who has been inside me all along: the vulnerable one, the creative one, the one who laughs freely, the one who doesn’t apologize for being soft or silly or joyful.

And honestly? We all do this—especially women. You know what I’m talking about. We adjust, shape-shift, polish ourselves into whatever version of us seems most acceptable, respectable, or useful. And slowly, the real us—the girl we were before expectations piled on—gets quieter.

But through all of this, that little girl in me started bubbling up again.

The carefree one. 
The one who danced and sang for her parents like a pop star, 
who adored her dog Ginger and her cat Buffy, 
who raced her bike with the wind in her face, 
who played hide ’n’ seek until the streetlights came on.
The one who filled her pockets with imagination and joy, 
the one who made the violin squeak like a startled mouse and blasted the brass baritone with unearned confidence,
and who lived for the magic of orchestra and band.
The one whose little poems and stories were celebrated by teachers who saw something in her before she ever saw it in herself.

That girl.

She’s the one nudging me now. 
She’s the one whispering, “Re-evaluate your priorities.”
She’s the one cheering me on, pushing me back toward my creativity.
She’s the one who finally convinced me to write more—not someday, not eventually, but now—including that long-dreamed-of mystery novel.
She’s alive again.

And so am I.

I think from here on out, my posts are going to wander a little—like me in a grocery store when I’ve forgotten my list. Yes, I’ll still write about cancer, but I’ll also be writing about life after cancer: the highs, the lows, the “am I really this tired?” moments, and everything else this wild life insists on throwing at us.

I’m even thinking about adding the occasional video—maybe interviewing other cancer warriors, gathering their wisdom, humour, and survival hacks. (If they can teach me how to look good on camera, even better.)

I hope you’ll stay with me on this slightly new path, dear reader. You’ve been my cherished companion through all of this. I love when you write, comment, and share pieces of your own life with me. You’ve enriched my world more than you know, and truly—you will always have a place in my heart.

Gracious God,
As I look back on this long and difficult journey, 
I pause with gratitude for the strength that carried me, 
the healing that sustained me, and the grace that never let me go. 
You know every step I fought through, every moment I doubted, every tear I shed, and every small victory that pushed me forward.
Now, as I step into this new chapter—after the fighting and the continued healing—fill my heart with peace.
Give me courage for the days ahead, 
joy that rises gently within me, 
and hope that anchors me when fear tries to creep back in.
Bless those who walked beside me—family, friends, caregivers, and all who held me in love and prayer. 
May they feel the same peace and gratitude I carry now.
And as I step forward, 
may I live fully, 
love deeply, 
and cherish the days I am given.
Strengthen my spirit, steady my steps, and guide me into the life that waits beyond the healing.
Amen

I love this song by Brandon Lake.

Thank you for walking with me through every step of this cancer journey, for staying by my side all the way to this new chapter. Your prayers, kindness, and steady presence helped me find my way back to myself. I hope you’ll stay with me as I keep growing, healing, and becoming the truest version of who I am. There’s so much more ahead—and it’s better when we travel together.

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This old photograph of my father always makes me so emotional. It does so for many reasons. One, I’m so proud to say he served. Two, the devastation World War II had on him that robbed my brothers and I of a father who could be present, who could laugh, and who could have a relationship with his children.

My dad became an alcoholic and after five years of being shot, patched up and sent back out, who could blame him. How many people did he shoot? How many of his friends died in his arms? If that weren’t enough, he witnessed the death of his little brother who signed up with him. His instinct was to run to him, but his Sergeant barked out to keep moving.

PTSD. Mental health issues damage so many families. It’s not just the soldier affected, it’s the fallout that lands on the family that just keeps being passed on?

I’m proud of him.

I’m also immensely proud of my brother who made the military his lifelong career. And while he never saw action in a war, he was ready to go where they sent, ready to serve. Here he is with my mom’s brother, my uncle James who also served in WW II and was in a prisoner of war camp. He never had children.

My children’s generation is the first to not serve in the military, but I’d like to think if the time came, our sons would be brave enough to go. Hopefully, that day never shows its face.

Whenever I hear the bagpipes and there is anyone in a military uniform, I’m always moved to remember.

Grace.

Kathie

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I had a full year of freedom from the hair salon—no foils, no toners, no “just a little trim.” Honestly, my bank account was thriving. But walking back in after all that time? Let’s just say the shock wasn’t from the bleach. (Why didn’t I start a “future hair fund” when I had the chance?)

Still, vanity won the day. I just couldn’t look at those frizzy light-brown curls any longer. I missed the old me—the one who believed blondes might actually have more fun, or at least better lighting. So the moment my hair grew past two inches, I booked the appointment.

And you know what? It turned out beautifully—soft streaks of silver, hints of light brown, and just enough blonde to make me feel like myself again. Worth every penny… but I don’t want to look at my Visa .

I love the way it turned out. The lights make it look a little more reddish than it is, but hey, it’s still lovely.

Carla and I have a plan—next time it will be rose gold, blonde, and silver. Yes, a little bit of pink for surviving breast cancer.

If I were to ask you, on a scale of one to ten, how vain are you?

5? 8? 3?

When I was young I wanted to look well enough to fit in. I hadn’t yet found my own style, so I copied the styles of the other girls (or was that our mothers’ styles?). By my teenage years, I fell into my own rhythm when it came to my wardrobe. Jeans, hip huggers with tons of suede patches sewn on as they fell apart. Overalls - over a T-shirt. Shirts with patterns with jeans. Indian sandals, also known as Hippie Sandals.

You would never have caught me dead in a dress back then. I was a jeans-and-T-shirt kinda girl through and through. But one fateful day, I decided to take a risk — a gorgeous green, scoop-neck, fitted dress that made me feel almost sophisticated. I should’ve known better.

The moment I walked into class, the air shifted. Heads turned. And then, from across the room, one of the guys I’d known since forever blurted out, “She’s got legs!”

Oh. My. Gosh. Instant regret. My face turned the exact shade of that dress.

It was back to blue jeans and T-shirts after that — my comfort zone, my armour, my safe haven.

There’s another reason I always preferred jeans — I was born with bilateral clubfoot, and my lower legs never fully developed. They’re thin and wonky looking, more so back then. Pants were my quiet way of keeping that part of me hidden. It wasn’t about shame so much as emotional comfort. Jeans became my armour — sturdy, forgiving, and, quite frankly, reliable.

And then there were halter tops — the great liberation of the ‘70s. No bras, no strap marks, no rules. We didn’t actually burn them, but let’s just say the spirit of the movement was alive and well. Freedom never felt so breezy.

Ah, the 70s — what a glorious, groovy mess of freedom and questionable fashion choices. You young people should be jealous!

We had bell bottoms so wide you could hide the cat under them. And if they weren’t dramatic enough, we fixed that. Out came the scissors and a triangle of floral fabric or suede, and voilà — custom flares that could catch a breeze like a sailboat.

That was me in my natural habitat: casual, creative, a little rebellious. Truth be told, I’ve never strayed far from it.

I’m still a T-shirt-and-jeans kind of girl — just with fewer patches.

As the 70s faded into the rearview, and the 80s strutted in with disco balls and hair spray, fashion took a turn for the tight and shiny. Think tube tops (still no bras — we were committed to the cause) and pants so snug you needed baby powder to get into them. I hit the nightclubs with my friends, dressed my own way, dancing like I had nothing to prove — and I didn’t.

Then I grew up. Marriage, kids, church, work. Suddenly it was dress for success, then dress with modesty, and dress for everyone else’s comfort but your own.

Eventually, I traded it all in for a Salvation Army uniform: fitted jacket, skirt, and sensible shoes. It was tailored, respectable, and completely not me.

Fast forward to now — 2025 — and my favourite outfit is no mystery: jeans and a T-shirt. Or leggings and a loose top if I’m feeling fancy. Comfort is queen. Plain reigns. I’ll still dress up now and then, but the second I get home, off it comes and on go the stretchy pants. That’s what I call a wardrobe reset.

Sometimes I wish I still had my old Lee’s hip huggers with the flare — and maybe the courage (and tummy) for a halter top. But these days, I’ll stick with what feels like me. On the vanity scale, I’m a solid six: I want to look good, but not enough to suffer for it. My daughters probably wish they could perform a fashion intervention — they’re stylish, I’m… consistent. I don’t do much jewelry, barely any makeup, and I own exactly the right number of shoes: one for every season.

Cancer did change me, but not in the way I expected. It stripped away the noise — the trying, the pleasing, the pretending — and left behind the essentials: faith, family, joy… and a love for denim. So if I go by way of the grave instead of the urn, I want to be buried in my favourite jeans and T-shirt.

Because really, who wants to see these legs anyway?

What about you? What’s your style? Do you dress for you, or for the world watching? Either way, I hope it makes you feel alive — and comfortable enough to breathe.

Yeah, vanity is not just for the women!

Dear God, 
I'm so thankful that my worth isn't stitched into labels,
or measured by how I wear my makeup.
You made me in your image,
Jeans, T-shirts, and all, 
and called it good.
Continue to remind me that beauty is not outward perfection,
but is peace and grace.
As I continue to age, 
help me to continue being comfortable in my own skin,
even as it sags and wrinkles.
Forgive my vanity, Lord, 
but thank You, too, for the spark of joy that comes
from wanting to look alive and human.
Help me to be grateful,
clothed in grace, wrapped in laughter, and hemmed in love.
Amen.

Thank you, dear reader, for strolling through the closets of my memory with me. Life — much like fashion — has a way of cycling through trends, from halter tops and jeans to hospital gowns and chemo caps, and back to jeans that finally feel like home. If you’ve ever looked in the mirror and thought, Who even is that?, take heart — we’re all just learning to wear our true selves comfortably. A little frayed at the edges, maybe, but beautifully, honestly us.

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This post is public — so if it made you laugh, tear up, or rethink your wardrobe choices, feel free to share the joy.

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The dream was intense, but something was tugging me away from it. You know that feeling as you’re waking from a dream, when your mind slowly becomes more aware of your surroundings? Sometimes it’s opening your eyes to sunshine and feeling hopeful for the day ahead. Other times, it’s rain — and all you want to do is stay in bed, warm and comfy beneath the covers. Here on the wet coast, those cozy, stay-in-bed days are all too common this time of year.

Friday morning wasn’t just gloomy, I was being yanked from my dream by excruciating pain. My left knee felt like someone was slicing it open, my thighs were burning, and my shoulders decided to join the chorus with deep, aching complaints. My neck didn’t want to move; it was afraid it might break. On top of that, I was nauseated from the antibiotics I was taking for my sixth bladder infection, which I was sure was heading for my kidneys. And then, just to top things off, I discovered I had a yeast infection — likely caused by my eighth round of antibiotics in a row.

What had I done to deserve this pain!?

Oh yeah — I’d had my first active rehab appointment the day before.

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Meet Ashwin, the Tall, Handsome, Torturer

Ashwin, my torturer (ahem, kinesiologist), is such a nice guy. He’s young, just married the weekend before, and proudly showed me beautiful photos of him and his bride in traditional Indian wedding outfits, followed by their “white wedding” pictures — a stunning couple. All this while he had me doing squats, dead bugs, and that delightful exercise where you walk sideways with a band around your ankles. A first-rate torturer indeed.

It had been just over a year since my last active rehab session. My previous torturer was heading off to the University of Alberta to study physiotherapy when I was diagnosed with breast cancer. There were twelve weeks of rehab left for my lower back, but I couldn’t finish them because, well… chemo. At the time it felt like someone had slowly pulled the plug on my internal power source. I could almost hear the quiet glug-glug of my energy circling the drain.

I was so disappointed to stop, because I had just started feeling stronger and more alert with less pain. Clearly, the exercises were helping. The truth is, I’m a lazy exerciser. I drag my butt, forget on purpose, and procrastinate like a pro. Having someone there to keep me accountable makes all the difference. Thankfully, ICBC (our provincial insurance) held my sessions until after treatment. My adjuster’s mother had gone through breast cancer, so she knew what I was up against.

No one really tells you what happens to your body after chemo. Sure, they mention nausea, vomiting, and hair loss, but not the loss of muscle mass and bone density. The skin changes are frightening. I feel like my body aged a decade in one year. Where I once had some muscle, now it’s weak, wrinkled flesh, like my body skipped the line straight to the senior discount.

So there I was Friday morning, moaning and groaning in pain from just a few exercises. That didn’t happen last time! What was going on?

When the Ache Isn’t Just in the Body, but in the Soul.

It’s hard to describe the feelings that come with that kind of pain. I often joke about things, but sometimes it gets painfully real. When I woke up hurting that much, I wondered why I was bothering to torture myself. The pain whispered that I was fighting a battle I’d already lost. What’s the point? The cancer will probably just come back anyway. I thought of the women in my support group whose cancer had returned and it began to feel as if hope was slipping through my fingers like sand, and I was too tired to scoop it back up.

The voice in my head kept going…

I just wanted it all to go away. The infections, the pain, the brain fog, the boredom. Then came darker thoughts, wondering what it would be like if I just didn’t wake up. What if I could quietly slip away? Wouldn’t that be easier? I felt like I was standing at heaven’s door, not knocking, just resting my forehead against it, wondering what it might feel like if it opened.

If I kept that up, my mind was going to explode from the weight of it.

But then, nope. Not doing this. I dragged my butt out of bed. Slowly, I got washed and dressed. I put heat on those aching muscles and started my usual routine. That night, my dear hubby massaged my legs, and by the next day, they were still sore but a bit better.

By Sunday morning, the pain had eased enough for me to try my home exercises. A few squats, check, leg muscles working. Wall push-ups, check, shoulders cooperating. Phew.

Today, massage to get ready for the next torture session tomorrow.

Thanksgiving and the Turkey that Saved the Day

Sunday was also Thanksgiving dinner. Some of the family were coming, so it was turkey and all the trimmings. Of course, we forgot the cranberry sauce! Still, it was a feast! A tender turkey, stuffing, mashed potatoes, turnip-rutabaga mix, cauliflower, broccoli, carrots, brussels sprouts, and oven-roasted sweet potatoes. We can’t forget Nathan, my vegan son, so there were special ‘turkey’ cutlets. And no turkey dinner is complete without my mom’s famous gravy recipe (which, I must say, I’ve perfected). I also spruced up the vegan gravy!

It was a lot of work. My hubby prepped most of the veggies — peeling, chopping, and slicing, but by the end of the day my energy had completely exited the building. And, of course, everyone was late! We’d already planned for a late dinner to accommodate Alethea (our lovely granddaughter and pet groomer), who was working, but I finally texted and said I was going to eat without them. I couldn’t keep staring at that beautiful feast and I was so hungry!

To my surprise, at the last minute, Naomi, her sister, and their brother Isaac all asked to come, too. I see Naomi now and then, but I hadn’t seen Isaac in several years. My daughter’s marriage breakup came with some devastating fallout, so having them here, together again made the day extra special.

It was a very good day — and there was so much to be thankful for.

Especially that turkey dinner.

Dear Lord,
Some days the pain feels louder than Your whisper,
and I’d appreciate it if You could turn up the volume a notch.
My body’s running on fumes,
my spirit’s limping behind,
and I’m fairly certain You’re the only one that can get me walking a straight line.

Still, I know You’re near,
in the quiet breath between groans,
in the tiny mercies that sneak in when I’m not looking.
Hold me steady when I wobble,
and remind me that light still seeps through the cracks,
even when I’m too tired to notice.

And if You wouldn’t mind, Lord,
let that light be soft enough to soothe,
bright enough to guide,
and mercifully dim before coffee.

Amen

Thank you, dear reader, for walking (and occasionally limping) through this with me. Healing isn’t a straight line. It’s more like a wobbly dance between pain and grace, with the occasional turkey dinner to keep things grounded. If you’ve ever found yourself muttering through squats or praying your muscles don’t stage a full revolt, know that you’re not alone. We might creak, groan, and complain, but somehow we keep showing up, and that’s what counts.

And here’s a little video my good friend, Deb, sent my way to give me a good laugh. You’re gonna love it!

https://www.facebook.com/share/r/1CJqC5P7Ht/

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Chemo brain is the kind of trickster no one invites to the party, yet here it is, rearranging the furniture in my head without permission. I try to recall specific examples of my forgetfulness, but here’s the problem: I forget what I forgot. It’s like chasing smoke. Dreadful doesn’t even begin to cover it. I know it’s not the same, but I sometimes think I’m catching a glimpse of what my mom felt when vascular dementia slowly stole her away. I’m becoming my mother—and not the good-at-baking-pies part, either (even though I’m a whiz at that, thank you, mom!). If I had her level of kind sweetness, that would be just fine. But alas, no such deal was offered.

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Some days, I sit and think. Then I get up, do something else, come back, sit and think again—only to discover the thing I was thinking about has packed its bags and fled the country. My kids and husband will bring up events we supposedly all attended together. They recall details with laughter and nostalgia. I, on the other hand, stare at them like they’ve confused me with some other woman. The danger, of course, is that they could use this to their advantage. “Don’t you remember, Mom? You promised to give me fifty bucks for gas!” And how would I know?

The other day, we were driving to visit Rob in the hospital. He was a member of our church and played drums in our church worship team a long time ago. On the way, we picked up another former member, Terra, who spent the trip tossing names at me like popcorn. Do you remember so-and-so? And how about her? What about him? Each time I came up empty. The harder I tried, the foggier it got. Two days later, I can’t even remember the names she asked about - hence “so-and-so.” They’ve dissolved, gone—like soap bubbles floating out of reach.

Then there was the fridge incident. I went into the kitchen the other day with purpose, opened the fridge, and stared into the cold glow like I was awaiting enlightenment. Nothing. Not a spark of recognition. I sighed, shut the door, and wandered back to the living room. That’s when River and Miss Puddles appeared. They sat there—perfectly synchronized, perfectly unimpressed—eyes boring into me. It was an hour past lunch. And suddenly it clicked. I wasn’t hungry. They were. Apparently, the cats are the only functioning hard drive I’ve got left.

And don’t even get me started on names. I’ll be mid-conversation, introducing a person, about to say their name—and poof. Gone. Vanished. Locked in some closet of my brain, behind a door I don’t have the key for. Once, I even showed up early for an appointment, proud as punch that I had remembered, only to learn I was there the wrong day. I stared at the receptionist in disbelief and asked, “Isn’t today Wednesday?” Apparently, it was not.

If these were occasional lapses, just occasional, I could laugh them off. But this is daily life now. Several times a day, every day. It’s exhausting. My brain is not just foggy—it’s like someone put my thoughts in a blender and then hid the “off” button.

And it’s not just memory. I signed up for a free trial on a résumé-building site, thinking I’d give it a whirl. A while later, I had bungled it so badly that I cancelled the free trial. That’s right—I failed a free trial.

Learning new tasks feels like climbing Everest in flip-flops. The old me loved learning, reading, loved computers and gadgets, loved managing websites. Now? I stare at instructions until my head spins, then inch forward like a toddler learning to walk. Slowly. Carefully. Exhaustingly.

I worried I’ll never get my brain back to where it was. I used to juggle multiple courses, student emails, assignments, marking, teaching—all with colour-coded calendars and digital post-it notes galore. Thank goodness this past summer I only have my practicum classes. I was thankful for small numbers of students, established routines, reminders in my phone—and yet, still I managed to mix up the occasional day.

I think back to my pre-menopause brain like it was a superpower. I could hold entire filing cabinets of information in my head. I could tell you what magazine, which month, and which year I read an article in. I was running programs, building shelters, fundraising, overseeing staff, preaching every other Sunday—and somehow keeping it all straight. Then that glorious hormone shifting, mid-life event hit. Hormones dipped, and so did my mental sharpness. A hysterectomy piled on more complications, and ever since, it’s been like memory retrieval is a slot machine—sometimes you win, sometimes you don’t. However, even still, I carried on those job responsibilities right up until I retired early to teach university in semi-retirement.

These days, clarity is creeping back, slowly, like the sun through early-morning fog. Concentration feels possible again, and I’m thankful. But my memory still limps along a bit, especially when constant infections drag my energy down. Apparently, it takes your immune system time to recover after chemo. Brain fog is relentless, and yet—I keep going.

Because even in the haze, I can still write. I can still laugh. I can still remember the important things—like where the dog and cats’ food is. And on the days I can’t? Well, they’ll remind me.

What is Chemo Brain?

Chemo brain is the polite nickname for what really goes on upstairs: brain fog, scrambled circuits, and the general sense that your mind has packed its bags and gone on holiday without you. Memory? Spotty. Concentration? Wobbly. Cognitive function? Let’s just say it malfunctions like an old VCR that keeps chewing up the tape.

Doctors say it can be caused by a whole smorgasbord of things: the stress of hearing “you have cancer” (which is enough to fry anyone’s focus), chemicals that some cancers make, and of course, the big guns—chemo, immunotherapy, radiation, and surgery. Add in anemia (not enough oxygen getting to the brain), exhaustion, hot flashes courtesy of menopause being induced for some women, infections, pain, and all the lovely side-effects from meds, and you’ve got yourself a perfect storm. Basically, if there’s a way to mess with your brain, cancer and its entourage will find it.

And then there’s the big scary truth no one really likes to say out loud: chemo drugs can actually damage brain cells.

I found a good short video on it.

Doctors call it “cognitive impairment.” Patients call it “chemo brain.” I call it “brain damage with better branding.” Sounds lighter, less permanent, like something you might walk off after a nap.

The good news? The brain is wonderfully stubborn. Thanks to neuroplasticity, it has the ability to rewire itself, like rerouting traffic around a sinkhole. For some people, things clear up in six months to a year. For others, well, it lingers. But researchers say exercise helps repair the brain. Which is why I am immediately grabbing Tallulah’s leash. She’s been staring at me like, “Lady, you finally get it!”

How I Deal With Chemo Brain

• One track only. Forget multitasking. I’m a single-lane highway now.

• Write it down or lose it forever. Whiteboard calendars, iPhone clock alarms, iCalendar—it’s like running mission control in my living room.

• Keys, glasses, phone: same spot, always. Otherwise, they’ll vanish into the Bermuda Triangle of my house.

• Lists. If I don’t write one when I go to the store, I’ll come home with four watermelons and no milk.

• Bring backup. For important appointments, I drag along family to take notes. My iNotes app has become the vault of all wisdom.

• Kitchen safety first. Timers save both dinner and cookware. Burnt dinners are my specialty otherwise.

• Sing it to remember it. Yes, I sing phrases to myself if they’re really important. I’m basically my own Broadway show. Good thing I can carry a tune!

• Move it, move it. Physio and exercise help clear the fog, even when I’d rather melt into the couch. (I suck at this, by the way!)

• Names. When I meet someone, I say their name out loud, several times. They think I’m enthusiastic. Really, I just want to remember who they are.

• Counseling. Venting keeps me from exploding.

And then there’s my faith—the anchor that sometimes feels like it’s slipping, but never completely lets go. Some days I mutter, “God, what on earth are you thinking? If you’re even there.” And then, somehow, I find my way back. Prayer helps. Music lifts me. The prayers of friends steady me. And on especially rough days, funny cat videos minister to my soul almost as much as the Psalms.

All of it—the faith, the prayers, the laughter, the small hacks that keep me afloat—helps me believe that even with the fog, the light still gets through.

God, 
What was I saying? Oh yeah, what the heck, where are you!
Right, you are right beside me. I forget that at the worst of times. 
Please help me remember you are there, that you care, 
And in a way that I can feel your presence.

Help my brain to heal. 
Stitch those neurons back together,
Help me remember what is most important. 
Part the fog and let the light through. 

Thank you for bringing people into my life to help me,  
Whose friendship I appreciate so much,  
For the prayers of others for me specifically.  

I am so grateful that I can still write, 
And that this gift hasn't gone like my memory. 
In the end, show me what really matters, what is most important, 
Because otherwise I will slide into the pit of despair. 
And when I do anyway,  
Please reach a hand down to help me up and out again. 
Amen

Thank you for walking through the fog with me—one misplaced thought, missed appointment, and mixed-up word at a time. Your prayers, encouragement, and understanding smiles remind me I’m not alone in this mental maze.

If you know someone else with chemo brain, trying to find their car keys while holding them, or searching for the right word halfway through a sentence, feel free to share this with them. It helps to laugh together while we wait for the clouds to lift—and hope, thankfully, is one thing the fog can’t swallow.

Much grace…Kathie

P.S. Submissions of funny cat videos, dancing dogs, and overly dramatic goats are still being gratefully accepted. Bonus points if they make me laugh so hard I forget what I was worried about—or at least why I walked into the kitchen in the first place.

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Cancer is a beast. Triple-negative breast cancer? That’s the beast with extra claws. It’s rare, it’s aggressive, and the treatment plan looks like someone with a dark sense of humour dreamed it up. Four different chemo drugs (each with its own collection of side effects straight out of a horror movie), radiation (sunburn with a twist, anyone?), surgery (where uneven boobs—or none at all—suddenly become perfectly acceptable), and immunotherapy (supercharged T cells, which frankly sound like a Marvel spin-off). It’s brutal, and it drags on for at least a year.

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I count myself fortunate—I had fewer side effects than many of the women in my cancer group. But the ones I did have? They were no joke.

And then there’s the part no one really prepares you for: the psychological toll. Cancer gets in your head. After hearing so much about “causes” over the years, you can’t help but play detective with your own life. Was it the food I ate? The hair dye experiments? That time I stood too close to the microwave waiting for popcorn? Oh gosh, the food I heated up in plastic?

Mortality, Faith, and the What-Ifs at 3 a.m.

And then there’s the fear of dying.

For me, it wasn’t so much about myself as it was about leaving my family behind. I worried about how my husband would cope—would vegetables ever see the inside of our fridge again? Would bills get paid on time, or would the hydro company become his new pen pal? We’ve laughed about it together, and I tease that I’ve already trained our daughter to swoop in and help him with the finances. (Okay, not entirely a joke!)

And then there was the heart-squeeze of imagining my children’s grief, and my grandkids growing up without a Nana. Who else would sneak them treats before dinner, knit them sweaters they might never wear, or let them stay up way past bedtime when their parents weren’t looking? Most of my grandchildren are teenagers or young adults now (although we do have three littles again!) Who would go pick them up after work or do TikTok videos with them?

Every family needs at least one person who specializes in spoiling and doing crazy things—and I wasn’t ready to hand in my Nana badge just yet.

I’ve written before about the fear of cancer coming back, and let me tell you, that little gremlin that can sprawl out in your head like an uninvited houseguest, taking up too much space, and refusing to leave.

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Miracle Cures, Magic Potions, and Other Tall Tales

One of the annoying things about having cancer is the flood of unsolicited advice. Suddenly, everyone’s a medical expert with a cure tucked up their sleeve. I’ve heard it all: off-market drugs like Ivermectin, high-dose IV vitamin C, drink more green tea (as if I could drown the tumours in it), and a long list of “miracle remedies” from their naturopathic doctors, as varied as the people suggesting them.

I know most folks mean well. But the reality is, cancer patients are desperate—especially when the prognosis isn’t good or the cancer has returned. In that desperation, you’ll try almost anything. And if you don’t have a clear understanding of what makes a study valid, those medical journal articles can read like hieroglyphics.

It’s easy to take things out of context and put all your hope in anecdotes. Cue the story of Aunt Joan, who swears by some mystery herbal concoction and claims she’s cured. From there, it’s not unusual for people to spend tens of thousands of dollars flying off to Mexico, or other distant places for treatments that have zero solid science behind them. (If kale juice and moon chants actually worked, Costco would be sold out and we’d all be cured by now.)

Cancer Research: The Good, the Bad, and the Confusing

It’s hard for me not to get impatient when people toss around questionable “research.” I’ve always loved digging into the details—back in my Master’s days, research was my happy place. Later, I even taught classes where students were cutting their teeth on research projects. So while I’m no world-renowned expert, I do know enough to tell a solid study from a flimsy one. And one of the basics? Understanding the difference between correlation and causation.

Here’s the thing: correlation just means two things happen together, but it doesn’t mean one caused the other.

Example: Ice cream sales go up in the summer. Sunburns also go up in the summer. Therefore… ice cream must cause sunburns, right? (If that were true, Dairy Queen would be a public health hazard.)

Causation, on the other hand, is when one thing directly makes another happen. Too much time in the sun causes sunburn (or tan if you’re lucky). Simple, painful, and no amount of Death by Chocolate is going to change that.

Just because two things happen at the same time does not mean their connected.

And that’s exactly why not every “miracle cure” story you see on Facebook passes the science test.

Highly Scientific Facebook Research 😉

I asked my friends on Facebook what people had heard about the supposed “causes” or “cures” for cancer, and how those ideas connected to the whole correlation vs. causation problem. The answers poured in.

My friend Allyson shared one of my now-favourite websites: Spurious Correlations. It’s full of hilarious charts that prove, for example, that the number of people who drowned after falling into a pool correlates with the number of Nicolas Cage movies released in a year. (Which, in case you’re wondering, does not make Nicolas Cage responsible for pool safety.)

My friend Cindy mentioned the old rumour about aluminum in deodorant causing cancer—a theory that has been debunked.

My neighbour Shaimaa contributed a whole list she’d heard:

• Storing food in plastic containers

• Thawing meat at room temperature is “carcinogenic”

• Sugar feeds cancer cells

None of these has been proven. Notice I don’t say “untrue.” They might one day turn out to be true, but so far, the science hasn’t confirmed it.

And then my friend Amanda, who has a daughter with autism, reminded me how similar myths swirl around autism. Aside from the vaccine debate, she’s heard:

• Tylenol

• Heavy metals

• Gluten

• Spiritual or “sin” problems

• Nutritional supplements

• Essential oils

• And of course, the ever-popular “pink drink”

People confuse anecdotes with science. Just because your Aunt Joan swears by her herbal tea doesn’t mean it cured her cancer—or anyone else’s.

One of the most persistent myths, of course, is that vaccines cause autism. Here’s how the “logic” goes:

• Children get their MMR booster at 18 months.

• Children often begin to show noticeable signs of autism around 18 months.

  Therefore, the vaccine must cause autism.

It’s a textbook case of correlation, not causation. Andrew Wakefield’s infamous study, suggesting a link, was deeply flawed and later retracted. Johns Hopkins School of Public Health published an excellent breakdown of why the study was so problematic—even Wakefield’s co-authors pulled their names off it. Unfortunately, by then, the idea had already spread like wildfire, and conspiracy theories quickly filled the gap.

This is why good studies matter. And what makes a good study?

• A large sample size (lots of children/adults, not just a handful) and random

• A specific time period (like before and after thimerosal was removed from vaccines)

• A control group to compare against

• Careful accounting for confounding factors (like smoking in coffee studies)

• Replication by other researchers

• Peer review to ensure quality and eliminate bias

So what on earth is a confounding factor, anyway?

Imagine you’re studying whether coffee causes heart disease. You compare coffee drinkers to non-coffee drinkers. But if some of those coffee drinkers also smoke, smoking itself might be the real culprit. That’s what a confounding factor is—the hidden ingredient messing up your results.

And sometimes, the way risk is reported makes things sound scarier than they are. I remember showing me a study that said eating red meat increased the risk of heart disease by 17%. The average risk in the U.S. is about 5%. That doesn’t mean your risk suddenly jumps to 23%. Instead, you calculate 17% of 5, which is less than 1%. So your risk goes from 5% to 6%. In other words, the occasional roast beef dinner probably isn’t the Grim Reaper on a plate.

Since my diagnosis, I can’t count the number of people who’ve told me that Ivermectin is the cure for cancer. According to them, it cures everything—COVID, cancer, you name it. In reality, it’s a medication for parasites. There are some early lab studies suggesting anticancer properties, and one current study combining it with immunotherapy. Promising? Maybe. Proven? Not yet. Lots of things that worked in mice in the lab don’t translate to humans.

That’s the bottom line: when people share these ideas with cancer patients, they risk offering false hope. I know most mean well, especially family members who just want to help. But when their advice is rejected, it can cause friction or even fractured relationships, with family members being accused of not wanting to get better.

So here’s my plea: unless there’s solid evidence from rigorous, peer-reviewed studies, resist the urge to hand out “cures.” What cancer patients need isn’t another folk remedy. What we need is your presence, your prayers, your humour, and your hope.

At the end of the day, I’ve learned to take “miracle cure” stories with a grain of salt—sometimes a whole shaker. If every cup of green tea, kale smoothie, or essential oil blend really worked, oncologists would be out of business, and the health food store would be busier than Costco on a Saturday!

Science matters, and good studies are important, but even then, they can’t carry you through the long nights or calm the anxious thoughts. That’s where faith takes over. In my own cancer journey, prayer has steadied me, reminding me that God is present

Thank you for sharing this journey with me—the real one, not the one promised by miracle cures and magic potions. Your prayers, encouragement, and knowing smiles remind me I’m not walking this path alone. If you know someone sorting through the same noise, feel free to share this with them. Hard journeys are lighter when we can laugh at the nonsense together—and hope, unlike fad remedies, is the one thing that truly multiplies when it’s shared.

Grace,

Kathie

P.S. Submissions of funny cat videos, dancing dogs, and dramatic goats are still being gratefully accepted. Extra credit if they make me laugh so hard I snort, or if they’re embarrassing enough that I have to explain myself to strangers.

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A Lifelong Hair Experiment

My hair has been my lifelong experiment—sometimes a science project, sometimes a comedy show, always a bit of a gamble.

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As a child, I had longish, golden-blonde hair with bangs—“fringe” for my UK friends. It was silky, straight, and angelic-looking… until bath time. Shampoo night was a battle. My mom used baby shampoo—no conditioner, because either it hadn’t been invented yet or we were too broke to know about it. Every tangle turned into a torture session, and I screamed like I was being murdered. Eventually, Mom had had enough. Snip, snip. She took the scissors to my hair.

It was bad. So bad that I cried until my eyes were redder than a stop sign. Eventually, Mom relented and marched me to a real hairdresser, who tried to cheer me up after she gave me a Pixie cut by saying I looked like Twiggy. Twiggy! She was everywhere back then—giant eyes, skinny frame, short pixie cut. I was kind of obsessed with her at the time. Those big eyes and skinny legs like mine made me feel more normal. Trouble was, I was not Twiggy. I was just a scrawny, heartbroken kid with hair two inches long and zero supermodel mystique.

Still, once my hair went short, it never really stayed long again. Over the years, it has been: short, medium, long with perm curls, one side shaved, bleach blonde, strawberry blonde, copper, light brown with red undertones…you name it, I’ve probably tried it. My head was less “crowning glory” and more “choose your own adventure.”

By grade nine, puberty gifted me waves. They curled beautifully with an iron—think Breck shampoo ad. But my roots were darkening, and the golden-blonde was fading. Cue the mall makeover.

I strutted into The Haircutting Place in the Simpsons department store at Sherway Gardens Mall. The music was blasting, the stylists were young and cool, and my teenage ego was eating it up. I asked the stylist to trim an inch. She heard: Leave an inch. Let’s just say the photo evidence is… humbling.

Then came the experiments: lemon juice in the sun (smelled nice, didn’t work). Peroxide at the roots (worked unevenly—think zebra). Store-bought dye (hello, swamp-green tint under fluorescent lights - nothing says high school glamour like swamp hair.) By grade 12, I gave up and returned to my darker blonde.

After that, hair was something I played with. If I didn’t like it, no big deal. It grows back, right?

Well. That was my mantra until last summer.

When Chemo Changed the Rules

Chemo doesn’t just take your hair; it steals your easygoing attitude about it. I told myself, It’ll grow back. But everyone warned me: Chemo hair is different.

And different it was. When it finally sprouted, the top was double grey while the rest came in black. Not even brown. Black. I checked the mirror daily, hoping it would magically shift shades. Well, it didn’t. If it had turned white like my mom’s, I’d have gone full rebel and dyed it pink. But this? This was not the plan.

Then came the curls. At one inch: waves. At two inches: tight curls. By the time it had a little volume, I looked like I’d stepped straight out of a 1960s salon, fresh from a roller set. Think Nurse Phyllis Crane from Call the Midwife. Add a headscarf tied under the chin, and I could’ve given Queen Elizabeth a run for her money—minus the elegance.

I eventually braved the Aveda salon, hoping for blonde again. Instead, I walked out with short, reddish light-brown curls that looked like they belonged in someone else’s yearbook.

Wigs, Caps, and Patience

Many women wear wigs during chemo. I tried. My daughter Sarah and I even went on a wig-shopping spree, which was fun… until I wore one. (See previous post with wig shopping spree photos). The wig was hot, itchy, and so “not me” that I lasted maybe ten minutes before yanking it off. So I stuck with chemo caps—practical, cozy, and blessedly authentic.

Now, I’m just letting it grow and waiting to see what my new “chemo hair” decides to become. Maybe it’ll mellow out. Maybe it’ll surprise me again. All I know is, for now, my lifelong experiment continues—just with a few more plot twists than I signed up for.

Because What’s a Post About Hair Without Hair?

I can’t resist adding the ultimate hair anthem—the song “Hair” from the musical Hair. It’s wild, it’s joyful, and it makes me laugh every time. Though I have to admit, watching that guy toss around his long blonde locks makes me more than a little jealous these days.

A simple prayer this week…

Lord, please give me patience while my hair grows back...sigh. 
I have nothing else for you today...no other requests...except of course...
Please let my hair grow quickly!
Amen

I’m so glad God has a sense of humour!

Thank you for staying with me through all the twists, tangles, and curls of this cancer journey, dear reader. Your presence—whether in prayers, cheers, or those quiet moments of nodding recognition—is a gift I treasure more than words can say. If you know someone navigating a similar path, please share this with them. Hard journeys are lighter when walked together, and hope (like hair) has a way of growing stronger when it’s shared.

With gratitude and grace,

Kathie

P.S. Submissions of funny cat videos, dancing dogs, and dramatic goats are still being gratefully accepted. Extra credit if they make me laugh so hard I snort, or if they’re embarrassing enough that I have to explain myself to strangers.

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