Thinking of you

Wednesday night I sat on the couch thinking about Uncle Jackie and the three of you. I know exactly what it's like to lose a dad. I don't know what it's like to lose a husband, but mine is my world, and I can imagine. All the words of how this feels are terrible. 

I had thought of the four of you a few weeks ago when one a series of posts from 11 years ago appeared in my Facebook memories. I had been bored and decided to harass a scammer, Mrike, who emailed me offering me millions of dollars. The posts were ridiculous, including requests for old Canadian dollar bills, nude and feet pics. One of you read the posts to Uncle Jackie, because Aunt Linda posted that Uncle Jack "is worried for you for fear that big pr#%k shows up at your door only wearing shoes!!!"

While I was sitting on the couch, I recieved a Facebook message from a friend. When I opened it, it was a group chat with my friend and my friend again. Two identical Susans. Remembering Mrike and that it made you laugh, I decided to play along for a little comic relief. Grief is exhausting. 

(Warning, there is some completely inappropriate language at the end.)

(It's pretty dumb, too.)

If you've managed to weather through to here, my real friend Susan was added to the chat by a clone of her Facebook messenger account (same name, same profile pic). Susan was unaware of the scam until friends started to comment on her Facebook page telling her they were getting weird messages. Real Susan said a bunch of friends responded to Fake Susan, but I was the only one Fake Susan kicked out of a group chat.

Hope you're holding up as well as can be. I will see you on Tuesday. 

Love Peggy

Protect our coastlines, Halman, not your donors

The Coastal Hazard Map showing former Halifax mayor's new house underwater in 2100 

Environment Minister Tim Halman says he knows what the 39,000 coastal property owners who didn't respond to a $100,000 survey about the Coastal Protection Act think. When questioned, Halman said "I interpret that vacuum, that gap as [people saying] 'Leave us alone. This isn't something that we're interested in.'" The act, which originally passed in 2019 with the support of all three parties underwent two previous rounds of public consultation and received outspoken support from Nova Scotians and municipal governments.

To say that silence means public dissent is utterly ludicrous. Especially when we've had so many recent examples of public dissent. Petitions are public dissent. Picketing in front of Province House is public dissent. Blocking roads, highways, and bridges is public dissent. People chaining themselves to trees and heavy equipment is public dissent. Occupying Ottawa for weeks was public dissent. If anything can be interpreted from a two percent response rate on a survey in round three of public consultation it is agreement, not dissent.

As stated in the CBC, all publicly available evidence about the Coastal Protection Act is strongly in favour of its proclamation. If there's evidence so overwhelmingly against the act that it has to be scrapped, something Halman states his Tory colleagues confirm, then surely this information should be immediately released to support the position of the government. 

Tim Houston said he has faith that people, when provided with the information about sustainable development, will make the right choices on their own. This too, is utterly ludicrous. If putting the right information in the hands of people will lead them to make the right decisions no one would ever smoke. No one would drink and drive. No one would break the law. We could abolish the police, the courts, and the jails. Our healthcare system wouldn't be overwhelmed, because preventable diseases would not exist. 

If providing people with the information to make the right choices worked, there would be no climate emergency and no need for the Coastal Protection Act. 

But that's not the world we live in. 

Putting information into the hands of people and trusting them to make good decisions only works for the people who want to make good decisions. It does nothing to stop the people who, despite being given all the information to make good decisions, choose to make bad decisions anyway. This is what will pit neighbour against neighbour. Look no further than the public dissent regarding the construction of former Halifax mayor Peter Kelly's waterfront home. This coastal build was subject to litigation from neighbours concerned about the destruction of ecosystems and being deprived of public access to a public beach. Kelly's house is a perfect example of how providing the information to people to make informed choices does not work. According to the Coastal Protection Map, Kelly's house is underwater in 2100. 

The refusal to proclaim the act will also place a burden on municipalities, who will now be forced to implement their own coastal building by-laws, largely without the funds, staffing, or expertise to do so.  

I call on Houston, Halman, and the rest of the Tory caucus: if the evidence shows that Nova Scotians are overwhelmingly in favour of scrapping the Coastal Protection Act, publicly release that information. Demonstrate that three rounds of public consultation and the wishes of the municipalities are wrong. Otherwise, do your job and protect our coastlines and our people and proclaim the Coastal Protections Act.

If you would like to contact Halman about what you do think about the Coastal Protection Act, here is his contact information. 

Phone: 902-469-7353

Fax: 902-469-7351

E-mail: timhalmanmla@gmail.com (yes, it's a gmail account)

Why is Karen Oldfield still interim CEO of NS Health and other questions to ask while our healthcare tanks

Communications Nova Scotia

On September 1, 2021, the provincial government announced that Karen Oldfield was appointed "Interim CEO" of the Nova Scotia Health Authority (NSHA). Oldfield, an unemployed lawyer and PC party faithful with zero experience in health care, replaced physician CEO Brendan Carr and a 14-person volunteer board of directors. The outgoing CEO and any of the board members were, by nearly any measure, more qualified for the position of CEO of NSHA than Oldfield. 

In an interview with the CBC, Oldfield stated that "while she may not have a health-care background, she came into her job with the experience of caring for a husband who requires regular trips to the hospital for dialysis and other treatments." Respectfully, saying you're qualified to run the provincial healthcare system because you've helped someone else use it is like saying you know how to run a restaurant because you've taken your kids to Wendy's a bunch of times.

Tim Houston's PC government was elected on the promise of fixing healthcare. Nearly a year and a half into Houston's government, healthcare is worse than it has ever been. Nearly 13 per cent of Nova Scotians don't have a family doctor. Nova Scotians are dying waiting for ambulances that don't come and they're dying in emergency rooms waiting for care.

All the while the government takes victory laps for a virtual care program that can service minor health complaints at a maximum rate of 1,000 appointments per week for the 129,000 Nova Scotians without doctors. A number that has nearly doubled since Houston's government took office. Additional laps are given for mobile health clinics that service two communities a week in Nova Scotia that can also only service minor health complaints and the eight physician assistants, three of whom evidently already worked here and a bunch of hospital improvements that were started under the last government and largely paid for by rich donors.

When Houston's government was elected, the vast majority of people in all of HRM, West Hants and Eastern Shore/Musquodoboit had doctors. Now these areas make up nearly half of the physician wait list. The Memorial Hospital on the Eastern Shore has no emergency room for the entire month of January. The Houston government eliminated the cash incentive for physicians relocating to these areas in some misguided effort to recruit doctors to more rural areas. I kindly say misguided, because thinking a physician will consider relocation rural Nova Scotia, because Halifax isn't eligible for a subsidy is stupid. There are definite merits to both urban and rural life. For a physician who wants an urban life and has massive debt to pay, they'll pick another province or another country where they can live in the environment they want. To be clear, it's us that's over a barrel, not them. To treat physicians like it's the other way around is a very unserious take from a government that only pretends to be serious.

In 2020, opposition leader Tim Houston demanded an inquiry into the 52 Covid-19 deaths in Northwood that occurred in the first month of the pandemic under the leadership of the previous Liberal government. Premier Tim Houston's government has witnessed a Northwood's worth of Covid-19 deaths every month for over a year now, more than 600 dead. Houston's unserious response to Covid-19 since April 2021 is to "get back out there!"

It's an unserious act to all healthcare professionals, including any we're trying to recruit, to fire a highly qualified CEO and competency-based board of directors and replace them with an individual with no experience and without competition. Oldfield, just like the two "personal friends" Houston appointed to head two crown agencies at $1,500 a day, is a very unserious appointment. 

It's a very unserious government that demands more money from the feds while insisting strings aren't necessary. Strings that are absolutely needed by this government that won't even answer to its own legislature about how it spends our money. That won't say how much hospital improvements will cost. That released a healthcare plan without timelines or targets. That appointed an unqualified "interim" CEO who is still in the position over a year later. An interim CEO under whom the quality of care in Nova Scotia has tanked all the while pledging that she'd swear on a bible that everything that has broken since she took over will be magically fixed by 2025, just when her boss needs our votes to stay in power.

Thank you for visiting VirtualCareNS. Better luck tomorrow, suckers!

"When I say 'this team will fix the healthcare crisis,' I mean it." 

Tim Houston, August 17, 2021

(Election Day)

"Yeah. Fix is a very subjective word."

Tim Houston, April 22, 2022,

"...we were also clear that it would probably get worse before it gets better."

Tim Houston, June 16, 2022

For certain, Tim Houston nailed the last one. Things have gotten worse.  

Things have gotten much worse.    

One of Houston's first acts in making things worse was to fire the physician CEO and 14 volunteer-members of the board of directors of Nova Scotia Health and replace them with long-time PC party faithful, Karen Oldfield, a lawyer with zero healthcare experience as "interim" CEO. Firing the doctor CEO cost Nova Scotians $400,000. That’s approximately one year’s salary for 1.5 physicians or five nurses.

More than a year later Oldfield is still “interim” CEO. In an interview with the CBC, Oldfield stated that "while she may not have a health-care background, she came into her job with the experience of caring for a husband who requires regular trips to the hospital for dialysis and other treatments." 

How the reporter kept a straight face is a mystery. Saying you're qualified to run the provincial healthcare system because you've helped someone else use it is like saying you know how to run a restaurant because you've taken your kids to Wendy's a bunch of times. 

I donated a kidney to one sibling and held medical power of attorney for another. I, too, have spent endless hours in hospital, but in terms of work experience, that doesn't make me qualified to be a receptionist in a doctor's office, let alone a senior healthcare official.

Oldfield said, "I have lived this system for a long time. I know the technology problems.

"I know when the parking [garage] arm doesn't go up. I know when the parking lot hasn't been plowed … I want nothing more than to get some of this stuff fixed."

Respectfully, Karen, there are bigger problems afoot here than hospital parking lots. You are one of them. You didn’t get to be CEO because of your prowess in healthcare administration obtained by osmosis, you are there precisely because you’re not a physician and you’ll do exactly what you’re told. 

That said, Oldfield is just a spy in the ointment. The biggest problem is that there’s not nearly enough ointment. In June 2021, 66,404 Nova Scotians needed a doctor. Today, 116,000 Nova Scotians need one. That’s one-in-10 Nova Scotians who are either clogging up our ERs, lurking like scavengers outside our remaining walk-in clinics trying to beat the daily cutoff, or forgoing care all together. 

One thing that the majority of Nova Scotians without doctors aren't doing is using VirtualCareNS that was touted as an interim solution. With 150-200 virtual appointments a day–a maximum of 1,000 appointments a week–and a patient pool of 116,000, the odds of getting an appointment are slimmer than getting tickets to see Shania Twain. 

Having repeatedly tried to book a virtual care appointment without success, I emailed VirtualCareNS this morning to ask what time of day appointments are made available. The only response I received was an auto-reply with a list of frequently asked questions, none of which explained when those 150-200 appointments are tossed to the physicianless masses every day. 

The email did tell me to plan ahead and book in advance so my prescriptions don't run out. My wonderful former doctor, who closed her practice this July, prescribed me a year's worth of refills. Perhaps by the time those run out, I might be able to secure myself a virtual appointment. I will be long overdue for my yearly lady-parts examination by then. Maybe I should get one of those phones that folds in half for a more comfortable fit in case that appointment is conducted virtually too. 

Update! VirtualCareNS email me back and it's absolute nonsense.

Do your job, journalists

It was with mounting frustration that I read the Chronicle Herald article 563 lawyers warn that COVID-19 mandates, protocols violate charter rights. In part, I was frustrated in part because I had just finished reading Nova Scotia’s health-care system in ‘dire straits’. A story of doctors and nurses pushed to the breaking point by COVID-19 and, in some cases, beyond, with nurses quitting in droves last fall and fears that the omicron wave may restart the exodus.

The surgeon interviewed said “we’re talking patients with orthopedic issues, and spine issues who are in debilitating pain, who can’t go to work, who can’t live a functional life, whose mental health is being affected by the fact that they can’t have their surgery.” 

Heart attack patients are being treated in hallways and, at times, up to 20 ambulances are waiting outside the hospital for offloading. Staffing shortages so dire, consideration is being given to allowing COVID-19 positive healthcare workers in the workplace.

“'Provincial authorities have said ‘that, quote, ‘work isolation is the last resort.’ But what does ‘the last resort’ mean?’ the surgeon asked. ‘I feel like we are at that last resort now, because we can barely provide basic medical care.’”

Mostly though, I was frustrated because the reporter who wrote the 563-lawyer article confused journalist with transcriptionist. Journalism is about finding things out. A quote attributed to journalism professor Jonathan Foster says: “If someone says it’s raining and another person says it’s dry, it’s not your job to quote them both. Your job is to look out the [expletive] window and find out which is true.” 

A more elegant and old, but analogous quote from French philosopher, art critic, and writer Denis Diderot is: “All things must be examined, debated, investigated without exception and without regard for anyone's feelings.” 

We all know the hospital story is true. Each and every one of us is a part of the healthcare system, as a worker, or a patient, or as their friend or family. It is not a matter of if we will use the healthcare system, it is a matter of when we will use the healthcare system.

Just so, we will all need a lawyer at some point too. Let’s take a look at the lawyer article. Evidently there is a “chorus of lawyers, business people, and private citizens”, otherwise known as some people, who are unhappy with COVID-19 mandates. Of them, 683 live in Nova Scotia and wrote a letter to Minister Lohr calling for an end to the mandates. The article does not consider the remaining 999,317 people who live here that did not sign that letter. 

At this point, we enter the ivory tower. Bruce Wildsmith, constitutional law expert, said “my humble opinion is that Justin Trudeau’s father, as the father of the Charter of Rights and Freedoms, would be rolling over in his grave.” We don't know if Wildsmith is speaking from first-hand knowledge of Pierre Trudeau, because the reporter doesn't ask him. Though I suspect that  the son of the man who invoked the War Measures Act and famously said “Just watch me” knows more than Wildsmith about what his father would do in response to a pandemic that has sickened millions and killed tens of thousands of Canadians. I would also wager that the number of Nova Scotians who would prefer a roadblock on the 104 over the unencumbered passage of goods and people has a similar ratio to Lohr’s letter.

Moving on to the True North Declaration, this is where the wheels of journalism come entirely off the bus. The declaration, which was quoted in part and unquestioned in its entirety, is littered with falsehoods and right-wing talking points. The source document may well have been a Jordan Peterson and Joe Rogan podcast, but who knows? None of this was ever questioned by the reporter. According to the article, 563 lawyers signed the declaration, but once you click the signatories’ button on the declaration page, you’ll see that number drop to 420 lawyers, 419 if you don’t count the one in Germany. There are over 126,400 lawyers in Canada. Nearly 126,000 of them didn’t sign this letter.

Turns out there’s more than one nutty professor in Ontario. When looking towards the credibility of a person making claims, being a law professor definitely lends credence. On the flip side, take a look at the law professor’s twitter feed. It’s a nonstop tweet-circus of Freedom Truckers, conspiracy theorist Theo Fleury, Ivermectin praise, and far-right discredited news sites. The declaration warns of a “mass hysteria”, which isn’t incorrect, but it’s not as described in the declaration. It’s a mass hysteria of a privileged class of mostly white men who have been minorly inconvenienced throughout the pandemic who think that screaming “my charter rights” and "eliminate mandates" will somehow bring about the before COVID times.

Which brings me to the last fellow in this article. Former Newfoundland premier Brian Peckford signed on to a lawsuit in Federal Court that seeks to end the vaccine mandate for air travel. The reporter was able to dig up that Peckford is the last living signatory of the Charter of Rights and Freedom, a recent Trucker Freedom Prof tweet. No acknowledgement of Peckford endorsing anti-multiculturalist, anti-environment, anti-mandate, and all around loon Peoples Party of Canada leader Maxime Bernier for prime minister. It was right there on Peckford's Wikipedia page. There's a photo too. Anyone who cares about human rights and freedoms does not endorse an astrology-for-men libertarian who openly embraces white supremacists.

The pandemic has been hell, no question, but as the saying goes, when in hell, keep going. Nova Scotia’s COVID-19 response has been one of the best in Canada. It is a point of Bluenoser pride how well we’ve done. We’ve had a spike in new Nova Scotians who have moved here from other provinces during the pandemic, because of that response.

We are a resilient people. We will endure and we will see the end of this pandemic. We should not have to suffer through passive, information-silo reporting while we’re at it. It's a pandemic, not a thought exercise. Reporters, when you’re interviewing constitutional experts, real or alleged, who say they’re fighting for our freedom, dig in. Ask them what hardships they’ve personally endured throughout the pandemic. Have they been harassed and abused for enforcing mask mandates like teenage store clerks or did they have to wear a mask on the subway? Did their employer lie about a massive COVID-19 outbreak and knowingly put them in harm's way or were they unable to find three-ply toilet paper at the grocery store? Did they ride face down on a ventilator for a couple weeks or did they have to cancel a southern holiday? Did they say a final goodbye to a loved one via iPad or did they have to work from home and Zoom? Did they watch people die all week at work while antivaxxers raged at them through the windows or were they forced to celebrate their birthday at home with Skip the Dishes?

Above all else, ask them to defend their position. When someone says they want all restrictions lifted, ask them what their plan is to ensure all Canadians receive timely and equitable care when hospitals are overflowing with COVID-19 patients. How will they protect the elderly, the immune compromised, and the unvaccinated? What will they do to ensure that nurses and doctors don’t quit when the nonstop death and disease becomes unbearable? Make them say the hard parts out loud and write those words down, because that is the story. That is who they are and that is what people need to know to make informed decisions. That is your job. Do your job. 

Five phases of grieving

Having spent the week grieving, it occurred to me this time that grief has a pattern. 

This grief was from the loss of a much beloved dog. Two years ago it was a best friend and two years before that it was a sister. 

All of them died too young.

It's not the five stages of grief you've heard about. Those stages are for people who are dying, not the ones still living.

Phase 1 is waves of crushing pain. The waves are overwhelming and paralytic. Crying jag after crying jag. In the ebbs you try and function like the world hasn't ended. 

Everyone around you talks softly. 

Your head will ache. Your jaw will ache. Your eyes will burn and your eyelids will redden and swell.

If the death was related to an illness, there is also this feeling of relief that comes from not being scared for the worst case scenario anymore, because the worst thing has already happened. 

You will then feel guilty for feeling relief. 

If you were involved in care giving, the first time that care is no longer needed will result in a crying jag because you're no longer needed. 

If you wished that things were better so that you didn't have to provide that care, you'll feel guilty for that too.

You'll go to bed exhausted and sleep poorly in this phase. You'll start crying before you even get your eyes open every time you wake.

Sympathy from people who care feels like taking a stake to the heart.

If the death was unexpected, phase 1 will be extra long.

Phase 2 is when doubt and second guessing comes into play. 

Did you really do all you could? 

Did you miss signs that now seem so clearly and glaringly evident in the aftermath?

If you were a decision maker leading up to the dying, you will replay those decisions over and over again. 

If I had only noticed this...

If I had just pushed harder for...

If I...

Those "ifs" bang up against the cold reality that your window to change anything has closed for good. 

The worst has already happened and you can't do anything about it now.

Regardless of your actual input into the situation, you will feel like a failure.

Crying jags continue to occur, but less often.

Phase 3 is when you're able to wake up without crying for days in a row. 

You profoundly miss your lost love one, but you're able to handle a conversation about them without severe mental distress and crying.

You've not necessarily accepted how they've passed, nor your role in it, but you are resolute in the fact that it can't be changed. 

You've accepted that their death is forever.

You're still incredibly sad and the tears are right there, just waiting for a memory or a word or an act to burst forth.

Phase 4 is when you've returned to what would be considered regular life. You're back to work and social situations (at least the ones you feel like participating in). You are able to shelve your grief for hours or days at a time.

It's still there though, and it creeps out from time to time. A funny story you are recounting is interrupted by a catch in your throat. Then your eyes start to leak. Suddenly your funny story isn't funny anymore and you wish you never started talking.

If you're lucky, you're around people who know and understand. Regardless, you still feel uncomfortable.

Phase 5 takes a long damned time. It's when you can look upon the lost one with love and affection and joy for them being a part of your life. You are largely at ease when speaking of them in past tense. 

The hurt of losing them, of missing them, hasn't left you, but the peace you've made with their death means it's no longer a source of daily pain and distress.

You know that your life was made better for knowing them, you just really wish you could still talk to them now and then.

As far as I've experienced, there is no phase 6. You just get really good at phase 5. 

As life goes on, you'll go through 1 to 5 often enough that you'll recognize the stages too. It'll give you a cumulative feeling of sorrow for all the loved ones lost and perspective that you will get through this one too, once you've gotten through the worst phases 1 and 2.

It's time to dump Senator Don

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2016 New Year's resolution follow up

This year I made a resolution to start drawing again. I stopped when I graduated from college. Though to be fair, I only started drawing again when I wanted to get into college. I needed to get back into school, because I didn't want to work in kitchens anymore and I was academic scorched earth. The term St.F.X. used was "dismissed".

There was also something about being banned for five years, but with my newly drawn portfolio and the assistance of my art-school grad spouse I was back in four.

Applied Communication Arts stands as my favorite year of school and also the year that taught me I had no business being a graphic designer. I switched to public relations. Bullet dodged. I did some illustrations during my PR workterm for a brochure series and put my pencils away. Need fulfilled. New job obtained.

It stayed that way for 15 years. Adult colouring books came on the scene and I remembered that I liked colouring (drawing, same eyes, same hand, just a little more knowledge in the application).

The key to a good New Year's resolution is to pick something you like doing that you don't currently do and pledge to start doing it. That's how this blog happened. I pledged to write, which I was doing anyway, I just wouldn't let anyone else read what I wrote (work writing is a whole other ballgame). It was a big, anxiety-laden deal for me so I made it my resolution for for 2015.

I also resolve to lose 25 pounds every year, but that's not something I like doing and never accomplish. I remain an exceptionally well rounded (too well rounded) figure.

To succeed at resolutions pick something you like and do that. For 2016 I pledged to start drawing again.

I started with a trip to the dollar store for a pad and coloured pencils. I wanted to colour and Georgia O'Keefe is my go-to for colour.

I'm sure there's people out there who don't need grids and outlines, but I'm not one of them.



Map it out. Fill it in.



The final picture is what's important.



 Bowie died and I gave portraits a go.



Then Lemmy died. I bought nicer pencils. See how much richer the blacks are. I'm getting back into the swing of things and the illustration is better. He's still too pretty, though.




I bought nicer coloured pencils and went back to my BFF, O'Keefe.



I love the grain in water colour pads. Even with nicer gear, this is still a very inexpensive hobby.



They were framed. Shawn came with a matt cutter. It makes framing cheap and easy.



Then summer came and life happened and nothing drawing happened until I decided I wanted to make my music teacher, whose school is predominately made up of youngsters, a homemade present like all the other kids. (They probably don't do this anymore, I am old and remembering my own ill fated piano lessons.)

My music teacher taught me some Amy Winehouse songs, so I drew her Winehouse. This is also the first drawing I've ever signed. I thought it was good enough.



My New Year's resolution for this year is to keep writing, to keep drawing, and, new for 2017, keep singing. I feel these things make me a better me.

I would also like to lose 25 pounds, but as long as I keep up with the other three and my mind and all my body parts work, I'm okay with being exceptionally well rounded for another year.

2016 "The Good and the Bad"

Snapdragons grow through a broken sandbag

A note from an old friend, entitled "2009 'The Good and the Bad'", appeared in my Facebook memories this morning. It was a deeply personal and unflinching account of a difficult year, but despite that, the note ended positively and with gratitude.

2016 has been a very difficult year.

It will always be the year my sister died. I feel I exist in this Schrödinger's cat exercise where my sister is dead and I am grieving interspersed with moments where I forget and all is well. 

The latter is fleeting, because I know my sister is dead. I watched her die. I felt the utter absence of the electric thrum of her pulse through the fistula in her arm. I watched the man who loved her for the last two decades do the same.

When speak of her passing, I say she was unable to live any longer, which is true, but I suppose that is true of everyone who dies.

My sister was my hero. She was one of many heroes that died this year.

We lost a poet and a princess, stardust and metal, a Greek god and a prince, a beloved villain and a stinging butterfly. Our mockingbird fell silent.

We lost the lives of tens of thousands of men, women, and children to wars with no winner.

We saw reason and self-interest abandoned for false promises and false messiahs: $350 m a week to NHS! Make America Great Again!

We expanded our vocabularies to include "alt right" and "post truth", defining things that should not exist.

Dark days for sure, but as the poet said, "There is a crack, a crack in everything. That's how the light gets in."

For everything that is awful in the world, there are people the world over trying to make things better. From the leaders who open their borders to the doctors and nurses without them, all the way to the grandmother knitting mittens for refugees, there is light.

There are people willing to stand up and say I am my brother's keeper.

In my own darkest days of the year, I was enveloped in the exquisite care and compassion of strangers. The women who cared for my sister extended that care to us as we waited for the end. For that, and for having witnessed their love and affection for my sister, they have my eternal esteem.

There is hope, even in the worst of it. I have hope that the fighting will stop. I have hope that peace and love will prevail over violence and hatred. I have hope that recent electoral upsets, while devastating, will put an end to apathy and inspire engagement among the disillusioned for a better future.

There is compassion. If there is a New Year's resolution I could make for the world, it's that we all try to be a bit kinder and a bit more understanding than we were yesterday.

And there is love. When the priest shook my hand at my sister's burial I was crying. He said that tears were a representation of how much we care. This year has presented no shortage of things to cry about, but it has also seen us united in shared grief.

Grief is a crack inside us, it lets the light, the love we feel, shine outward.

It's been a month and it's almost Chistmas

I am not one for tying grief to dates. I mean the first birthday they weren't here to celebrate. The first Christmas their sock wasn't hung.

The first year that they weren't here anymore.

The second year. The fifth and so on.

But it's been a month.

It feels like yesterday and forever ago.

It's easy enough in the beginning. Duty takes over. From the get go there's calls to make, emails to send, a funeral to plan, clothes to collect, and clothes to buy when geography comes into play.

There's an obituary to write. Both my biggest honour and the worst thing I've ever put into words.

There's trips to the mall and trips to the grocery store. Tabloids to stare at while standing in line contemplating those "you never know what someone is going through, be kind" memes on Facebook.

At that moment, you are the meme.

There's wakes and food coming from every corner.

The funeral.

The burial was a week later, because of the cremation. I told my brother in law that I was glad it was the following week, because it was one more thing we could do.

One more way we could be there for her.

The burial came and went. She is to the left of our father, which is perfect. She's left handed and he's right handed.

We went into a cabin in the woods for four days during which I thought all kind of catharsis would happen. Turns out you can't will that. I was better for it, but not even close to what I wanted.

Because I was still horribly sad and horribly emotional and weirdly sentimental.

I am not a sentimental person. Stuff is stuff. I bought the perfume she used to wear. I don't even like perfume.  I gave it to her daughter. I cried when I deposited her last CPP cheque in her bank account earlier this week (FYI the government will pay you for the full month in which you die) and I've cried a bunch of other times.

Crying is okay, there's no shame in it. I've been told that a lot. Mostly when crying. But it's on good authority, sadly from far too many people who have known far too much loss. Grief is a representation of how much you cared.

But it's not the only measure. My sister had a zeal for life. She was exceptionally kind and exceptionally positive. She lived in the here and now and she embraced the act of living as fully as anyone could, no matter an ever growing list of limitations.

I was Christmas shopping yesterday and I came across a pewter ring that said "celebrate life". Foreign sentimentality reared its head again and I bought it. It was $9 and it's staining my pinky black, but that's okay too. I have clear nail polish to coat it with when I get around to it and soap until then.

It's the message that's important.

Celebrate life.

Don't read this and feel sad for me. For her, yes, but not for me. I've got that covered.  But what you can do is be kind. Be kind for her and be kind for me.

The last time I had Sher out for dinner we went to the Townhouse Pub. There's a couple tight doors to get through and her chair had grown in size with her disability. A bar patron jumped to the occasion. He said it was okay to run over his foot. As with lots of things, it just took backing up and taking a second run at it, but he was there, in the moment, doing all he could to be kind.

There's people grieving the loss of sons and daughters, mothers and fathers, husbands, wives, and friends this Christmas.  Let's honour them all by being kind. Everyone will be the better for it.

Dear Kellie

This image came from an email. I looked online for it so I could provide a link to an image for credit purposes, but Kellie is just not that popular.

Dear Kellie,

I've been watching your fundraising campaign unfold through the emails you send.

This last one struck a chord. You said that the handling of the Syrian refugee program has been a disaster since day one. I could not agree more, though we will disagree on the start date.

Remember back in 2015 when your Conservatives were in charge of it? And how your party intentionally delayed refugee settlement until a dead kid washed up on a beach and made you guys look bad?

I agree, the actual refugee settlement – not the Conservatives bullshit do-nothing strategy – but the one that got Syrians on Canadian soil may have cost more than estimated, but for The Canadian Values Queen, that should be A-O-fucking K*. We've taken nearly 30,000 people out of harms way – over half of them children.

What can be more Canadian than going to bat for humanity in times of war? Why, we had beautiful ceremonies all over the country last month for doing just that. There was wreath laying and two minutes of silence nationwide.

There's certainly no Canadian pride to be found when we stayed on the bench; and we've already done our share of bench warming.

I get it, Kellie, based on your parliamentary performance to date you're pissed that we're spending money on foreigners. Well to that I say your party spent a shitload on foreigners too. Remember the G$ summits? For that gazebo-laden extravaganza, your Conservative government spent $1.1 billion on a party for global elites.

At $13,000 a refugee, we could have rescued almost 77,000 people with that money. Instead the Muskoka cottages region got a makeover. Be still my patriotic heart.

And Kellie, lest you write me off as one of those "elites" you rail against. I don't have a medical degree, nor do I have a medical specialty or an MBA. I don't have surgery privileges at an O.R. and I have never taught a class at university let alone held a chair. I have never served a public office and have obviously never achieved the lofty title of cabinet minister.

I sure as hell haven't run for leadership of a federal party.

I went to community college and I hail from and reside in a province your old boss described as one of "cultural defeat". Remarkably, I get up and go to work every day to a job where I earn a fraction of what you do, like the majority of Canadians, including those evil "elite" that work in the media, and act as a taxpaying cog in the wheel that keeps this country going.

You can huff and puff and spit all you want about the "elites", Kellie. Fill your boots. Engage in whatever cognitive dissonance it takes you to get through your day, but don't piss on my leg and tell me it's raining.

When it comes to being an elite, you're at the top of the pile and your pandering to the lowest common denominator cements your elite status. It's a bloody lot easier to toy with people's emotions than it is to have an actual fucking plan.

It's the very elite in you.


*My apologies for all the swearing, I blame my non-elite lack of class.

Sheri Anne Balawyder 1968-2016

Balawyder, Sheri Anne (Kell), 48, of Loch Katrine, Antigonish, passed away on November 9, 2016, at the R.K Nursing Home.
Born in Durham, Ontario, Sheri was the daughter of Brenda Kell and the late Leo Kell.

A spirit of joy and laughter, Sheri gifted us with her company for as long as she was able. Always ready with a big smile and never one to complain, Sheri lived her life in a way that serves as an inspiration and a template for all of us. She taught us to live bravely and courageously in the face of indomitable hardship, to seize hold of all the good that remains rather than the regret of what is lost, and to love, to laugh, and to enjoy each day as it comes.

Sheri will forever live in the hearts of her daughter Jessica MacDonald (Arthur Pettipas), husband Bernard Balawyder, mother Brenda, sisters Janet Phinney (Brett Phinney), and Peggy Kell (Shawn Dalton), brother Ron Kell (Evie Kell), nephews Leo and Logan Phinney, Jake and Ben Kell, and step-son Dennis Simms (Sammie Simms).

We express our heartfelt gratitude to the nursing staff of the R.K. who embraced Sheri as family.

Visitation will be held Friday from 2–4 and 7–9 p.m. at the C.L. Curry Funeral Home, 135 College Street, Antigonish. Funeral Mass will be Saturday at 11:00 a.m. at the Saint Ninian Cathedral Parish, Antigonish.

In memoriam, donations may be made to the Multiple Sclerosis Society of Canada and the Kidney Foundation of Canada.

A love song for my sister Sheri

It wasn't until my late teens that I was grown up enough to be friends with my oldest sister. Born one day before her seventh birthday, I joke that I've been stealing Sher's birthday thunder for as many years as I've been alive. If she minded having her birthday overthrown, she never let me know.

She's always been kinder than me.

Before we were friends, I worshiped her from across the hallway in our house. Tall and impossibly thin, she had better legs than my Barbies, thicker hair and a bigger grin. She wore make-up and white-musk perfume and listened to metal and Meatloaf and the Rolling Stones. In an entirely myopic household, she had contact lenses. They made her humongous green eyes blue.

I wanted to be her.

Sher got me my first job when I was 15, working with her in a fish and chip shop in the mall. She taught me to work. I taught her to be more reserved when it came to filling job vacancies with family members.

She never fired me.

The first time I was went to a bar was with Sher. Bored and on Christmas break, we tested our father's patience to the point where he gave us his blessing to head off to the bar in a light snowstorm. We drank beers, we talked to boys, we went home.

It was spectacular.

As I got older, our friendship solidified. In my university days, her household was my safe place. She was light of heart, a free spirit, always up for adventure and never one to complain. Her daughter and future husband were of the same mind. I counterbalanced that with the doom-and-gloom angst of a liberal arts education.

The free spirits always won.

Our family has polycystic kidney disease (PDK). It's hereditary. Sher was diagnosed with it around the same time our father was having a transplant. It was never much of a concern when we were younger, there were four kids in our family, two with PDK and two without. There were enough healthy kidneys to go around.

My brother came up first. The thing I struggled with the most was knowing that if I gave up a kidney, I wouldn't have one for Sher. He was my brother and she was my BFF long before there was such a thing as BFFs.  But Sher's kidneys weren't failing and my brother's were.

I gave him my spare.

After my surgery, Sher and her husband came up to visit with their not-cat-friendly malamute. She had been diagnosed with multiple sclerosis five years before the transplant. At the time, she was in a wheelchair and I was laid up on the couch. Our spouses were off somewhere. We agreed the malamute could eat my cat if it lacked the survival skills to stay where Sher could wheel to defend it from her chair. She was an adept wheeler in those days.

The cat made it. Split open, the laughter nearly killed me.

It's bad enough to have one life threatening disease, but to have two is too much for one person. I feel it is too much for one person to witness from the sidelines, let alone to be that person. That I couldn't give her a kidney became a moot point. Multiple sclerosis ruled her out as a transplant candidate.

But we endured, because she endured. Spectacularly.

And she has spectacularly endured. Through the endless invasive tests, through the loss of mobility that had me smiling at her in her hospital bed until I could go home and howl with grief over shin bones poking up like razors in what used to be better than Barbie legs. Through injections, seizures, infections, dialysis, paralysis and a mind that gaslights itself, she has spectacularly endured.

She taught me that grace and dignity are a state of mind.

She has enriched the lives of everyone around her, and even saved a life or two.

The head nurse at the home told me late this summer that they were refocusing Sher's care from aggressive treatment to a regime of comfort and compassionate care. She was quick to point out that Sher's still Sher. She is light of heart. She is free of spirit. She does not complain.

A little while ago, my brother-in-law asked her how she felt about the possibility of having to stop dialysis. She said she thought everyone would be okay. He asked her how she felt for herself. She said she was tired. She said on the upside, she would get to see our father soon. Also, her obsessively devoted dog Lucky.

Sher is is my sister and she is my friend and she is my heart. Wherever I've been she's been my safe harbour, she's been my home. Given a hundred years I will never be as strong as her, but I am strong enough to let her go.

Dialysis has ended and palliative care has started. My heart is breaking, but keep telling it that Sher is tired. There is no one more deserving of a rest.

I love you Sheri.