The Pulse of The Morning

May 17, 2025, 3:30 p.m. I have escaped to Toronto for a few days to visit my kin. It took some engineering to leave home and to make sure all of Frank's needs are met. But I'm confident that everything will work out. But still there is an ever-present, disquieting anxiety. All will be well,  I say. All will be well. I am here in another place, almost another world, where no-one is dying, doing simple things with my child, her husband and their child, my beautiful grandson. I them love so very much. We eat good food. My son-in-law is a great cook. My daughter and I drink coffee on the porch, take walks along the laneway, through the neighbourhood. I cuddle on the couch with A, read him stories, give soft kisses on the forehead freely. We share warm hugs and lots of laughter. I love you. I've missed you so much. Spring in the city is not a distant memory; it's a full body, visceral experience. So many memories from 40 years ago. Queen Street, Grace Street, Indian Trail, B...

  May 2, 2025, 7:25 am The midnight rain wakes me from a strange nightmare: wolves morphing into people I'd rather not see again, especially in my sleep. I am shaking, breathless, afraid. I sit up in bed and listen. Just the patter of rain on the woodshed and the tick-tock of the cuckoo clock in the living room. I wrap my heavy woolen shawl around me and quietly tip-toe through the darkened house to the entrance of the mudroom. Frank sleeps in his hospital bed and I can hear from his breathing that it is a deep sleep. Are you awake? I whisper softly, knowing I won't rouse him. I just need to hear my voice. He sleeps on. It is cold in the house. A fire is needed. I walk over to the woodstove without turning on a light. Frank jokes at my ability to see in the dark. Calls me a vampire in disguise. I reach for the kindling and newspaper and quickly set it alight in the firebox. The flames creak to life, adding light to the darkness. I warm up some milk and wildflower honey in a sa...

  April 20, 2025. 6:50 am It has been far too long since I've written anything down in my notebook. It was a hard winter. Frank went into heart failure in November, an unfortunate co-morbidity of his particular cancer. After many appointments and overnight stays in the cold and windy city throughout January and February, he had an aortic valve replacement in March. The medical care was exceptional and he recovered well. But it has taken a toll on him. He is smaller, frailer. But his determination to live has only increased. He walks 15 minutes every day, rain or shine. He stacks wood until he feels the all-too-familiar, slight nagging pain in his back. Sometimes it takes an hour for this pain to emerge; sometimes half an hour. But he persists. He is a superhero. So I begin another season with good intentions of writing each morning, pencil to paper. It is spring after all! But this morning, I struggle to make sense, to form any proper, cohesive thoughts. I am still tired from the ...

  [This post is from diary entries from last summer, when Frank was first diagnosed. It serves as context for the rest of this blog] June 20, 2024 Frank has been in pain for six months now. He says it's from splitting wood all winter-long. I am worried, naturally. He saw his doctor a few weeks ago and blood tests are in the works. We receive a phone call this morning from Dr. F, a locum at the clinic. She is shaken by Frank's results, especially his prostate specific androgen (PSA) levels. We can hear it in her voice. She says she's never seen anything quite like it before. A PSA test result above 4 is concerning. Frank's is over 1700. He has excruciating bone pain; so much that he cries when he rises from his chair. "I'm confident to name what will eventually kill you," she says. A strange and abrasive way to phrase, "You are dying." He has prostate cancer. And, more than likely, it's metastic prostate cancer. We are both numb, speechless. ...

Most mornings I try to sit and write a few pages in my small notebook. Pencil to paper. A daily record of thoughts, observations, feelings, ideas. Mainly unedited and nothing profound. In my small notebook, I try to capture my slow, deliberate days with Frank, who is living and dying with aggressive, terminal cancer. I try to capture the beautiful intricate dance between life and death; the weaving together of living and dying, and the grace and beauty of awareness, compassion and love. This blog is an attempt to reflect my morning scribblings. I've been contemplating it for a while but my inner saboteur likes to tell me that no-one would be interested in my very small, quiet world alongside a river in rural Nova Scotia. So I've put it off for many months. I am a Luddite in heart and soul [I'm a weaver after all] and I rebel against this technology. I considered publishing a zine which feels much truer to who I am. But that takes time and effort, something I am very short ...