Dog Love

I received an email from my brother a while ago entitled, RIP King Carl Gustav 2002 - 2015. He wrote, “Gus” was a dog, more specifically, a golden retriever who belonged to friends. He was known for his hobby of underwater rock collecting." My brother was obviously distraught over the loss of Gus. He closed by saying, “I was one of his many friends. All who knew Gus are diminished.”

I responded with a quote I’d seen in a room at the vet’s office a couple of years ago. A room where I’d awaited the verdict about my own dog, Zoe. She’d taken a perilous foray into the land of chocolate and gum and deadly artificial sweeteners. Even though they pumped her stomach of the lethal contents, her blood pressure had dropped to dangerous levels and they were keeping a close eye on her. So while my beloved pet teetered between this life and the next, I sat in a room where the walls were stencilled with the quote, “Heaven is where all the dogs you’ve ever loved come to greet you.”

So that’s what I shared with my brother, that lovely quote. And in another paragraph I wrote, “A noble friend… He’ll be there waiting…” And that got me thinking about all the dogs I’ve ever loved and what that slobbery, wriggly, furry reunion will be like from the throng that will greet me. 

The first dog I loved was Maggie. She was a big old black lab who belonged to my Uncle John. He was on the road a lot working construction so Maggie got her room and board with us. She was an outside dog who took shelter in the garage in bad weather and all her meals there. When I loved her, she had a grey muzzle and milky eyes and her body was as broad and flat as a tabletop.  

Maggie was happy to let me use her big soft body as a pillow on the cool grass in Spring and her tail did an aerobic dance when I scraped leftovers in her dish. Maggie died at noon hour one summer’s day. Not from a massive heart attack like Gus, nothing like that. Mom had an errand to run while Dad was home for lunch. Maggie had taken to the shade beneath the car and Mom was unaware. 

The next dog was a chocolate lab Dad got from the pound. We called him “Satan” because he looked like Hell. He’d been abused by his previous owners and his snout was so misshapen we weren’t sure it would ever recover. But miraculously it did, so we renamed him “Jigs”, because he couldn’t keep still. Jigs was high energy and still a pup. He’d grip an old piece of carpet in his teeth and drag me around the yard. It was a jerky ride but I pretended I was sailing over bumpy clouds on a magic carpet like Aladdin. I loved Jigs even though he knocked me to the ground in the dark one night as I scampered home from next door, scaring the life out of me and tearing my good coat. Dad and my brother took him hunting one Autumn day. Jigs didn’t come home with them. He’d found a porcupine. I guess he was so full of quills there was nothing they could do for him. My brother took the killing shot. Dad couldn’t set his sights on him.

So there were intermittent dogs for a while. One stray Dad found wandering across Findlay Bridge. A Jack Russell, all white except for splashes of caramel across its back. He was cute and small, the perfect size for me and I loved that dog. But Mom didn’t. “I don’t want another dog!”, she declared. So its stay with us was short. Too short for a name.

There was another one Dad picked up from the pound.  A cute pup that looked like a miniature German Shepherd. I watched it die in the asparagus patch choking on a chicken bone. It died right at my feet. It’s stay also too short for a name but long enough for me to love it. 

Then at the end of grade two I got a golden lab puppy I named Schultz, after Sergeant Shultz in Hogan’s Heroes. He was so small when we got him the blades of grass on the lawn were up to his knee joints. I fell in love with Schultz instantly and couldn’t get enough of his puppy breath. He grew fast and was always underfoot in the kitchen. One night when Dad came home late from hunting, Mom got up to tend the kill and make Dad something to warm his belly. She put the kettle on the stove to boil. My mother reached for the shrill whistle, a golden flash of fur at her feet. The handle broke. The kettle tipped. The scalding water found his flank. When the pain found him, Schultz yelped a terrible yelp and ran circles around trying to escape it. That night, none could console him but me. He slept fitfully beside me. I could smell singed flesh. He recovered but would always have a scar. It became an identifying feature, like the diamond-shaped mole on my sister’s neck. 

He was a lovely dog. There were no magic carpet rides but he liked to drink from the bathroom tap. He also liked to haul a ten pound  bowling ball around the yard in his teeth, as though daring us to throw it. 

Schultz was just a year and a half on Christmas Eve of my grade four year. Someone was poisoning dogs in our remote neighbourhood, lacing raw meat with strychnine. Schultz ran until the convulsions caught up with him. He was found not far from our vet’s office. The vet knew him by the scar. There was nothing they could do to save him. So the new leather collar hung on the tree and the rawhide bone was left untouched. I have never again, given gifts to a dog at Christmas. 

So we were without a dog for a time until my sister decided to get a beagle pup from Breezy Point Kennels. Her pedigree said her name was Indiana Bell. We called her ‘Dolly’. She was deathly afraid of men and very high strung. She even had an hysterical pregnancy, during which she was hit by a car, which seemed to cause her to lose her litter of hysterical pups. Then she began to have fits. I remember hearing her feet scratch uncontrollably on the tiled floor. The sound sickened me. Anti-convulsant meds worked for a time. But on the day she went outside to do her business and the wind toppled her, Mom had her put down. I missed her in my bed. 

In my grade six year, dad brought home a puppy that looked like a cross between a Corgie, a Cocker, and a Collie. People would ask us what kind of breed he was and dad would reply, “He’s a hardware dog.” 

  “A hardware dog! What kind of dog is that?”

“Well”, my dad would say, “if you kick him in the ass he makes a bolt for the door.”  

Dad got a lot of miles out of that joke. The dog had belonged to a police constable by the name of Rinkey. The dog was his namesake. None of us cared for that name. So we decided to call him, ‘Mr. Smith’, Smith or Smithy for short. He was a gentle beast, known to rescue baby birds in Spring. He’d find them cowering in the caragana hedge, pick them up delicately in his mouth and drop them at the feet of one of his humans. It was as if he was trying to tell us, “Here, fix this.” He survived the loss of a leg in a vehicular mishap, and a fall off a train bridge. He lived long enough to steal an ice cream cone from the unsuspecting hands of my first toddler. Both of my children were old enough to mourn his passing and see their grandfather cry. Mr. Smith left a big hole in the heart of our family. He was our last dog.

In August of 2008 Hubby and I got Zoe. She’s a pug/terrier cross. Smart as a whip. She was five months old, raised by a military family with a vast repertoire of commands she obeyed. We haven't been as diligent about the commands. We both like the way she cocks her head when we speak, like she understands us and hangs on our every word. I love to watch her run because she goes so fast her behind gets ahead of her. She loves to hunt. Everything from birds to voles. She’s even overcome her fear of water and loves to fish. And although she shouldn’t, she loves chocolate. Hubby and I never had children together, so Zoe has become our dog/child. She even sleeps between us, under the covers. I hate to think of losing her. I don’t know how we’ll cope with such a loss. I don’t know who will console us. 

So I can understand how Gus’s humans and all who knew Gus would be diminished at his passing. In this temporal realm, dogs are love in its purest form. I wonder, when it comes to that heavenly greeting, who will be first at the pearly gates? Will it be God? Or will He let loose the dogs? 

Ode to all the dogs I've owned and loved and all the dogs I know and love.
And to those who are waiting and wagging, RIP - Hershey, Oscar, Reba, Pebbles, Tasha, Megan, Venus, Sam, Suzie, Snuffy, and Piddles.

Tuning Out...

It must be a sign of age that I've started to be very sensitive about what my eyes see and my ears hear. When I was younger, I used to avoid horror movies. They seemed to slither into my subconscious, their raking claws and glowing red eyes appearing when least expected. Usually at 3:17 a.m. when I was all alone and in the dark. Eventually, this avoidance progressed to movies with any kind of cruelty or abuse to animal or human. Then it evolved to include even a good suspense. Now I watch mostly animated movies with the odd rom com and special effects superhero movie tossed into the mix. Some might think me a bore. But I've come to embrace my delicate psyche. 

Recently, I've noticed this fragility has expanded to include my sense of hearing. When I first moved to this area nearly twenty years ago, I listened to EZ Rock 104.9. They played music from the seventies, eighties and today, which happened to be the nineties back then. Great tunes. Easy on the ears. I even enjoyed the banter between the early morning hosts. My listening life was good. Then someone mentioned a new station called, Magic 99. I abandoned tried and true for new. Their programming was similar to EZ Rock so I settled in to their wavelength. I even won Leonard Cohen tickets and his complete CD set through one of their contests. Life was humming along. Until suddenly, without notice, they became UP 99. I didn't like what I heard so I said, "Up yours.", and tuned out. 

I searched the dial and eventually found Lite 95.7. Jamie and Dan, a young married couple hosted the morning show. I liked how they talked about life and what it's like to be a couple, have kids, work together, juggle everything. I joined them on Facebook and often commented on their posts. Once again, my listening life was good and I was content. Then in January of this year, without warning, Lite 95.7 became CRUZ 95.7. Gone were the familiar deejays and playlists. I was incensed. How could they??? I was in search once again. Press seek and ye shall find. 

I tried Capital FM with Rob and Audie. As much as I enjoy the oldies, that's not all I want to hear. I tried CISN but I can't overdose on country either. I even tried CBC. Gack!!! So I tuned in to 104.9 again, hoping to find an old friend. Instead, I found Virgin radio. The morning show is hosted by Dylan and Pepper. That should've been my first clue. They talk about commuter dating and when was your 'first time'. If you're a virgin when you started listening, you won't be for long. Ryan Seacrest provides some reprieve from ten until two but he's miles away from where I am and what matters to me. The playlist is a little edgier too and I'm not fond of rap. So once again, I'm left without a station to call home. 


Mornings will be quiet. Maybe I'll do some yoga and write more. Goodness knows I could use the practice in both. But wait. I hear there's a new station in town. It's called, Fresh 92.5. An optimist by nature, I should give them a try, see what they're all about. If I don't get Fresh, I might have to dole out some cash and get Sirius. 

An Unlikely Friendship...

I have this ache. Sometimes it’s like a knot stuck in a spot that makes it tough to swallow. Other times it feels soft and watery and makes it hard to speak. The first time I noticed it was when I was sixteen and abruptly left home. I didn’t realize until then the power of heartstrings. I was so young, a new bride and I needed my Mom. But circumstances prevented us from communicating. The resulting ache had a mind of its own and made for tear-filled nights and leaden bed-covers every morning. 

I lived with that ache for almost a year before Mom and I were finally reunited. Our meetings were clandestine; stolen moments in her yard on a sunny afternoon or Saturday’s at Kresge’s lunch counter. Sometimes we met over laundry and folded and talked. She wasn't just my mother she was my best friend.

I did have other best friends. I still do. Two of them - so precious now because they’ve known me for a lifetime. But back then, they were going to school and dating. I was married and working full time. We just didn’t have as much in common. When I was excited about getting a vacuum cleaner for Christmas that first year they thought I’d lost a screw. Thankfully, the years have been kind to the three of us and we remain as close as sisters. But miles separate us and the ache insists I visit at least twice a year. The ache is nothing if not persistent.

Recently the ache has plucked a forgotten friend from memory and danced her through my heart’s corridors. We became friends through our spouses and that friendship kept us sane when our lives were less so. We traveled as couples. Even better we traveled as friends. But best of all we saw each other every day. We talked on the phone. We walked. We laughed. We shared everything. She was my rock after I gave birth to a breakable baby and a comfort when I lost precious family members. She was the sole witness to my crumbling marriage and even provided a safe haven when it ended. 

I lost custody of so much in that ordeal. My children, my home, my belongings. But in retrospect, one of the greatest losses was that friendship. Neither one of us realized it was chattel. The continuation of our friendship was not mutually beneficial because circumstances made it uncomfortable. So it was severed. Like a rotting appendage.

It’s been nearly twenty years and I still miss her like I would my right arm. I realize now that I took our friendship for granted. I was cavalier in thinking I’d make another friendship just like it. Don’t get me wrong, I’ve made acquaintances I thought were friends, and I have arm’s length friends and people I consider friends, but not the true-blue kind, like the one I had but lost. Maybe I’m too needy or expect too much. It could be I was just lucky to ever have found that ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ friend. 

Mom told me that it wasn’t easy to find a good friend as you got older. She was right. People have their families and well established friendships by the time they reach middle age. Demands on life and time just don’t make new friendships feasible or practical. I get that. The ache doesn’t. It’s a bit thick as aches go. It’s also moody, demanding and a royal pain. It’s always there, replaying fond memories, making me laugh, reminiscing. 

I can’t imagine life without it.

The Best Match...

Sometimes in life you get the opportunity to do something really good for someone else; to make a difference to the human family. I was lucky enough to do that. Today marks the sixth anniversary of my unrelated stem cell donation. It's an experience I will never forget. One that connected me with someone I would never meet, yet with whom I would share my precious DNA. It made the world smaller and my knowledge of what matters most, greater. This is my story.

I registered with the international stem cell donation network OneMatch, shortly after I moved to Edmonton in 1996. I attended a lunch and learn session at work and was impressed by the speaker's account of her own experience as a stem cell donor. I thought, 'how cool would that be to have the chance to save someone's life'. So my name sat in the database - waiting. 

In mid-June of 2007, I was navigating rush hour traffic when a seemingly random thought popped into my head, 'I wonder if OneMatch will ever call me?'. At the beginning of July, not two weeks later, they did. I was a potential match out of three candidates. They asked if I was still interested in being a donor. Of course I was interested! I told the caseworker right then, they needn't look further - I knew it would be me. The standard qualification process began. 

I was interviewed and sent for blood work. Once again, I waited. Finally, on November twentieth I was advised that I was indeed, the best match for the recipient. Blood stem cells were required by the recipient and the risks and collection process were explained to me. I would be required to administer growth hormone (GCSF) injections for five days prior to the donation in order to generate enough stems cells for the recipient. The over production of stems cells would likely cause me some discomfort and flu-like symptoms. The stem cells would be harvested via apheresis which involves removal of whole blood using an instrument designed as a centrifuge. The desired cells are extracted and what remains is re-transfused. I was told this would take four to five hours. A physical, more blood tests and in depth interviews followed.

At every juncture the caseworker asked if I was still willing to donate. Just a few weeks prior to the donation when the recipient was in isolation undergoing a radical treatment to destroy his/her immune system to enable his/her body to accept the donor stem cells, she asked again. She informed me that if I changed my mind now, they wouldn't survive. But still, the choice was mine. I forged ahead.

On January fourth, 2008 I caught the train to the University Hospital where I picked up the supply of growth hormone. The pharmacist handed it to me in a paper bag and said, "Look both ways when you cross the street, the contents of that bag are worth about sixty grand." I mustered a weak smile and thanked him. From there I walked gingerly to the Cross Cancer Institute for a self-injection tutorial and my first dose of GCSF.

I arrived around eleven a.m. and was directed to the chemotherapy area. There was no vacancy. Every seat was occupied. All of these people were in various stages of treatment for a life-threatening illness. I thought of my recipient and everything they must've gone through to battle their disease. Now I was their last hope and it was humbling. I felt more than a little overwhelmed. The nurse assigned to show me the ropes quickly found me a seat and my tutorial began. Thankfully, she was both patient and thorough. By twelve fifteen p.m. I had administered my first injection. I thanked the nurse, bundled myself up against the winter weather and headed back to the train. 

As I walked I began to experience a tingling sensation throughout my body and my mouth felt peculiar. By the time I boarded the train my neck felt stiff. I wasn't sure if these symptoms were real or imagined. When I left work at the end of the day, my legs felt like I'd had a rigorous workout. I ate supper, had a nap and awoke with a tremendous headache. The flu-like symptoms were upon me. 

Over the next few days between injections, I tried to maintain a normal routine. I shopped, got a haircut, even hosted a family dinner. The less I sat still, the better I felt. On walks my mind drifted to the recipient; what they'd gone through, what their age and gender was, whether they were married or single, if they had children, where they lived, was English their first language, what their passion might be. I knew nothing about them. All I really knew for certain was, they wanted to live. I felt the depth of responsibility as the bearer of such hope for this stranger and his/her family. I prayed for all of us and asked legions of angels to gather.

The day before I was scheduled to donate my stem cells I had to have another blood test to ensure I was producing adequately. The results showed I would need an additional injection. The extra dose put the flu-like symptoms over the top.

On the morning of January eighth, donation day, I could barely move. To stand from a sitting position and vice verse caused a pulsing pain in my large bones that took my breath away. My sister-in-law escorted me to the Cross Cancer Institute and deposited me in the expert hands of two nurses who took more blood to check my white cell count and the ratio of stem cells in my blood stream. They took my vitals and had me complete a standard questionnaire. Then, laying in a hospital bed with both arms outstretched on supports they connected the apheresis. The long needles were uncomfortable at first but I tried not to think about it. An anti-coagulant was administered to keep my blood from clotting. This leaches calcium from the body and soon I felt myself vibrating uncomfortably as a result. The nurses tried everything to boost my calcium. Ice cream, milk, copious amounts of Tums, but it was to no avail. So they quickly started an IV drip of calcium to counteract the symptoms or the donation would be halted. It was a moment of peril. Thankfully, the IV was successful.

Throughout the day the two nurses who cared for me and monitored my progress and the apheresis, scratched my nose, fed me the most delicious chicken pot pie I'd ever tasted, kept me hydrated and cheered me on. While they administered to me I didn’t move. They offered me a bathroom break but I declined. I didn’t want to do anything to risk the process. I’d had weeks of bladder training and it paid off. Seven hours later, the countdown began until the indicator on the apheresis showed we had reached the number of stem cells required. We counted out loud. At the golden moment, we cheered and cried. The nurses secured the donation and disconnected me from the apheresis. Another nurse came in to whisk the donation off to the waiting courier. The room spun when I was finally helped up. I tried to scratch my nose, but I couldn’t will my arm to bend. 

On January ninth while I recuperated at home, the recipient received all four hundred million of my stems cells. I took the time to complete the post-donation questionnaire, signed the consent form for a second donation, if needed, and enclosed an anonymous letter to the recipient with my best wishes. A few weeks later I received an anonymous letter in return, telling me how well the donation had gone and how grateful they were. We were all so hopeful. If the recipient survived for one year following the donation, we could meet if we chose. Sadly, they succumbed to their illness within that year. To console me, the caseworker who called, told me that I'd given them the most precious gift of all - the gift of time.

Aside from giving birth, caring for my aging parents, and jury duty, donating stem cells has been one of the most rewarding things I've ever done. I learned so much about myself and what I value in life. I also learned a lot about stem cell donation. For example;

• Family members are not always the best match. 
• It's important that people of all ethnic origins register with OneMatch 
• The recipient and donor must share the same ethnicity. 
• Whether blood stem cells or bone stem cells are required is determined by the illness. 
• After age fifty registrants are put on an inactive list. I was forty-nine when I donated.

Since donating, I’ve had to make one small adjustment. Every year, for the rest of my life, I am required to have a precautionary blood test because of the use of GCSF. OneMatch sends me a friendly reminder. It’s a small price to pay. 

They say you can't buy time - but sometimes you can give it away. 

Me and my 400,000,000 stem cells
1-888-TODONATE

Lucky

I have a fridge magnet that says, "It takes a long time to grow an old friend". The person who gave it to me knows that first hand. We met on Halloween night in 1962. Fifty years ago! We trudged up Steinkey's cement steps clad in our seasonal get-ups and when Mrs. Steinkey went to put some bubble gum in my goody bag, I said, "I can't eat bubble gum!" And my newfound friend echoed, "She can't eat bubble gum!" Darlene didn't know I had six silver caps on my molars from the chocolate-bar-producing pocket in my Dad's plaid coat, she was just trying to make a good impression. It was a magical night and little did we know, it was the beginning of a lifelong friendship.

Me and Dar
Grade 5

We spent many Halloween's together. I remember the time my Mom took us trick or treating up on the hill by the hospital. The candy was better up there. We were both wearing old clothes found in my basement - dresses, shawls, bag-lady attire. This one house had stairs with no guardrail. From the top step we hollered, "Trick or treat - money or sweets!" The lady of the house swung the door open in an enthusiastic greeting and knocked Darlene right off the step. I watched her take flight in what seemed like slow motion. Her dress appeared to billow like a parachute before she became stranded in the rosebush below. Mom and I could hardly rescue her for laughing. 

We were a foursome by the time our last Halloween rolled around when we were teenagers. Betsy and Lorely had joined our troupe. We decided to congregate at Darlene's house because her folks weren't home. Too old to go door to door for treats the only option left was tricks. Darlene went to the fridge and found a single egg. We convened over this egg, and decided who was best to launch it at an approaching vehicle from the back step. Since I had the best aim I was chosen. We huddled together out in the dark waiting for the next car. I bounced the egg in the palm of my hand like a hot potato. Then, around the corner came a beam of headlights. We squealed with excitement. I drew back my arm and when I thought the car was close enough I threw that egg with all my might. I swear it sailed through the air with an audible whistle before it exploded right in the middle of the windshield. The driver slammed on his brakes causing us to scream and scramble over each other trying to get inside the house. We shut off all the lights and laid on the kitchen floor laughing - hoping the driver hadn't seen us and wouldn't come knocking.

Our friendship evolved as we grew up. We both married young and went our separate ways for a time - still reconnecting on the phone once in a while to confirm that our friendship was alive and well. Sharing pregnancies was an event that rekindled our friendship. It was my second and Darlene's first. We'd waddle to Taco Time for lunch and then over to the mall for a double licorice ice cream cone. What a pair. As luck would have it, we gave birth two weeks apart to the day. Darlene had her girl first and then mine followed. We talked colic and constipation. We took our growing daughters to movies, had birthday parties and sleepovers and seemed to have a built-in excuse for spending time together again. Lucky us.

Then my moving to another city seemed to threaten what we had worked so hard to rebuild. We were both afraid we'd lose touch and not see each other anymore. But the miles between us only seemed to bring us closer. We wrote letters, exchanged emails and visited each other as often as possible. We had the kind of friendship that could withstand the distance, and in spite of it, there have been few life events not shared. 

My husband and I were seated with the family at Darlene's daughter's wedding. We've shared the births of our grandchildren and the deaths of beloved parents and pets. The birthday card I sent her this year said, "We'll be friends forever! You know too much!". It's true, she knows me - heart and soul. And she loves me anyway. I like to think God put her in my life that night fifty years ago hoping we'd become friends - knowing that someday, I'd need a sister.

Lucky me.

The Gift Giver...

It's Father's Day and naturally it brings to mind my Dad. He wasn't academically educated or well-traveled but that didn't make him a simple man. He supplemented his grade eight education by reading everything he could get his hands on and he was one of the smartest men I've ever known. Dad was like an encyclopedia and dictionary all bound into one. He was my go-to-guy if there was something I didn't know. 

Dad was like the internet to me before it existed. As much as he prized knowledge, I don't know what he would've thought of surfing the web and dallying in cyberspace. It might've tested his patience a bit. I know he wouldn't have liked the threat to his privacy. He preferred to keep things close to his chest.

Dad was a thoughtful man. Not just in the thinking sense; he was a magnificent gift giver. Sometimes the gifts were extravagant, other times they were just heartfelt. I have numerous pieces of jewelry he bought for me and for my Mom; lovely, glittery, expensive, baubles that were dimmed only by the happy sparkle in the eyes of the recipient. He never forgot an occasion and once when I was sitting on the living room floor engrossed in a television program, he dropped a silver pendant watch in my lap as he walked by. He really didn't need a reason to give you a gift. He just did it. I loved that about my Dad. 

One would think he was an avid shopper, but he wasn't. He had select stores he dealt with; Carnelli's Sporting Goods, Black's Hardware, Harv's Jewelry, Ed's Studio Craft, Parker's Furniture, and they catered to him. They knew he was looking for the best value at an honest price. Dad didn't mind spending a good dollar, but he wanted to know he got a good deal. When his hometown grew and his favorite shopping haunts gradually disappeared, he took to catalogue shopping. He enjoyed browsing the pages of Signals, Wireless, Hammacher Schlemmer, Barnes and Noble and even Coldwater Creek catalogues all from the comfort of his favorite chair. 

We all benefited from Dad's generous gift-giving. One item I treasure to this day is the celtic resin cross he bought me inscribed with The Lord's Prayer. But the most precious is a doorknocker he gave me when we moved into our first home in 2002. "Peace to All Who Enter Here" is the blessing it bestowed to all who came knocking. Sadly, I had to leave it behind when we moved last year. As much as I wanted to bring it with me, removing it would've left two gaping holes in the new owner's front door. The glass front door in our new home had no place for it. I hope it's a gift that continues to give to the new owners. I think Dad would like that.

My Dad and I didn't always see eye to eye. Ours was a complicated relationship. But that didn't mean we loved each other any less. It could be, that made us love each other even more.

Therein lies the best gift of all.

It's a Wonderful Life...

Today is my birthday. I admit, I still get a little excited about it. Maybe it's because I never imagined living this long. Or maybe it's because I still look forward to the year ahead. I'm entering my fifty-fifth year. Holy crap!!!

But what's not to celebrate, my life is great. I'm married to a gem of a man. I have a loving family and amazing friends. I'm blessed to have children around me, those borrowed and those earned. Just last week I welcomed my third grandchild; a little boy we call 'Liam'. I have a sweet little part-time job and get to do what I love in my spare time, write, read, travel, and bead. Other than a few aches and pains I'm healthy.

I've come to the conclusion that these are the golden years. I get to enjoy stress-free living without the burden of rapidly declining health or career deadlines. I love the flexibility and ease of semi-retirement. I have the luxury of not having to wait for anyone to tell me I'm old enough to retire. I'm footloose and fancy free. 

Sure, there are some things I haven't done that I once thought were important to me. But as it turns out, with every candle flickering on my birthday cake my priorities have shifted. Skydiving and bungee jumping are out, walks with the dog and time with those I love are in. Lucky, lucky me.

If there's one thing I know, it's that age is irrelevant. So, if someone asks me how old I am, I'm going to quote a line from the novel, Let the Great World Spin, and simply say; "Too old to be an acrobat - too young to die."

Now I'm off to breathe in more of this wonderful life and blow out these candles. It's getting hot in here.