I am still here.

Hello, blog-land friends....

I hope you've not missed me much. The last time I posted, my life was drastically different than it is today. I'd just turned twenty-nine. I ate a steak and watched Anna Karenina with my husband and one of my closest friends.

Life was good. I was blessed. Truly, well blessed. And I knew it. We planned a trip to Montreal. It was to be the honeymoon we never took.

One day after arriving home from our trip...that I painstakingly planned for months...my sweet husband was dead. In the most violent, horrifying way I could ever conceive; my whole life was upside down. It would never be the same. Ever.

I lived in a daze for days after he died. The days melted into each other with the help of heavy doses of Ativan and crying myself to sleep. My sweet, beautiful DSH was gone. And he would never be back. No matter how I pleaded with God. Offered my own life in exchange for his. There was no going back on this one.

On February 26, 2013, I did something I never, ever imagined I would ever do. I gave a eulogy for the light and joy of my life. I said goodbye to a man who captured my heart; and I believed he'd taken it with him. I was convinced I'd died, too.

Many, many people came to his funeral. I was surrounded by love, and light. To celebrate the life of a great man who made my dreams come true, without fail, every single day.

But for those of you who could not be there and wanted to be, I share this here with you.

Eulogy for my Husband

I wanted to start this by thanking the Academy, but before I even wrote it down I could see my Mom's face. Then I swore I heard you laugh, my heart, so there it is. 

From wherever you are - and I hope it's somewhere with lots of food that isn't quite as good as mine - I hope you laughed. I hope you saw that I wanted to laugh for even a moment and that it made you happy. 

Everything about you made my heart sing, and everything about this moment makes me ache. There is no way to explain or make meaningful a life that turned my existence into life, a house into a home, or a smart-ass into a wife. 

You brought me to life, DSH. I had closed the door on life. Closed the door on happiness and joy. You yanked that door open and brought in life. My sunshine rose and set by you, because, wherever you went, you brought the light with you. For the first time in 25 years, I cared about the kind of person I was, and the kind of person I wanted to be, because of you and for you. 

You are not a person of grand gesture - in spite of how hard I tried to make you one. But I realize now, how important the little things are. How lovely and beautiful all of those little things are, that they are the things I already miss most. You cherished me in ways I didn't even know. That is the grandest gesture of all. 

I could stand here all day and talk about all of the things that make you the wonder you are. You are the kind of husband who carries his our wedding vows in his wallet. You are the kind of husband who says "I love you too" every single time (even the times I was testing you).

You are not the kind of man who would have left if given the choice. I believe that with all my heart. You deserved more than what happened to you. But you are more than that. You are so much more than what happened. 

I wanted everything for you, and I wanted to give you everything. I hope that what I did give you, above and beyond all was knowledge that you were chosen. You are special. In every sense of the word, I chose you. From the moment we met, I knew I was your wife. Even when you didn't know it. I was yours from the moment I laid eyes on you. It was a life-changing, gob-smacking movie moment. But it was real. And it's ours. Forever. Not many people get the kind of love that we do. But we got it, my sweetheart, and it's beautiful. 

If the truest love that's ever found is for yourself, I found love for me in you. I asked you to back a horse good for glue. You took the horse good for glue and gave her wind and drive to run. I was free. God, I loved that you loved me. I picked you. 

Wherever you are, I love you. 

Someday, I will look into those eyes again, those eyes that know my soul without a word, and I will remind you that you are chosen. Because you are special. 

You are a resplendent example of the love of one for another. A good husband, and a good man. You believed it was you who was undeserving. In reality, it was I who did not deserve you. Unworthy of love so deep and devoted, that sometimes, I didn't know what to do with it. But everyone here, and so many not here, already know what you did for me and why you are the wonder you are. That is why they are all here. They grieve you as I do, miss you as I do, and each and every person in this room wishes that they were not here today, not for this. 

Only you and I know what was really between us. I didn't always give you the steadfast support you gave me, my darling. I made it hard for you to love me sometimes, but you did it anyway. I didn't understand that I wouldn't be able to tell you forever how important you are to me, what you gave to me and that, really, you saved me from myself. 

I wanted to tell you, here and now, in front of all who love us, that your life will not be defined by this moment or the moments of the day you died. 

As I always do, I will carry on even if it means I will never again feel your breath on my neck, or hear you say my name the way you do. I will carry on with a glorious and shining example of love and life that I got to be a part of, that I am so proud of and would never trade anything for, except maybe just one more day with you. 

To everyone here today, I want you to know and to understand how much you mean to me. 

To my parents and brother and sister, who are amazing each and every day in so many ways, that inspire me and make me want to be more: You have been more amazing than I could have ever dreamed, if my dreams were as big and as beautiful each of you. Mom and Dad have lost a son, and my sister and brother have lost a brother. I will never know what that feels like, but I do know that you have given me grace and dignity in a horrible situation. That kind of love is so, so hard to come by. I am better for it, and I thank you. Thank you for all that you have done to make sure that I have the strength to carry on with determination for life. Not just today, but every day. 

I am who I am today because of all of the people who redefined possible. DSH was possibility redefined. He was my dream come true. Few people get to say they had that. But I did. With you, DSH. If you ever get lonely in Heaven, waiting for me, come and talk to me. I'm waiting to hear your voice. 

For my Irish family: thank you for giving DSH to me, without reservation or hesitation. For giving him whatever he needed to be the husband and friend that he was to me. He has touched the lives of so many, and that is no small credit to you. 

To each of you, who show your love every day, but especially today: I love you. DSH loved you, and we are better people - together and apart - for your presence in our lives. I wish for each of you the kind of love that DSH gave me. May each of you know what it feels like to love this way. It is real. It is true. We are living proof. 

There will never be enough words to communicate how much I loved you, but I will put it on my list of things to do. 

When I leave here today, the fact that DSH's life on Earth is over will be real. Carved in stone and indelible on my heart.

The tiny Band-Aid of comfort that this provides for the gaping wound on my heart is no match for your love, DSH. Your laugh, your beautiful beaming smile are no match for the momentary pain of today. I cannot talk about you without talking about me because I feel like you are as much a part of me as my eyes, or my hands or my heart. 

But for now, I carry your heart. I carry it in my heart.

I remember: after reading this, that my mom sat next to me with tears in her eyes and told me that what I'd said was beautiful.

I saw my Dad cry, for perhaps the second time in my life.

We left the funerary space. When everyone was gone, I wrapped my arms around that urn and cried with a ferocity I have never before felt. And for the very last time, I told you I loved you and kissed you good-bye.

And I walked into the arms on my family (some I am related to and others I am not). Without them, I would surely be dead.

I post this for you, for them...but most of all, for myself. A reminder that I must continue. I am still here.

Thank you, cyber friends, for sharing this space with me.

All my love to you. xx

Paradoxical Birthday Commandments

Hello, my cyberfriends!

Today is a special day. It's Thursday. I have the day off of work.

It's also my birthday. I'm 29.

I'm sad. I should be planning all kinds of shenanigans to celebrate another year in my life. The things I have done, will do and want to do. There are many things to celebrate and many reasons to be very happy. I know how blessed I truly am, and I am happy for that.

I am happy to live in a country where I can do what I want and be who I want to be. I am proud that our home is a place where everyone is welcome to come, and be whomever they want to be. We have worked hard to foster that.

But today I am sad.

Today is my birthday. It is true. It's my Mom's birthday, too, really. Your first baby's birth is what made you a Mama, and my Dad. Happy birthday to my parents.

It's also a death day. Today is the day that my Mom and Dad mourned the loss of the baby I should have been. The healthy, able-bodied baby that was born exactly on time, maybe a little late. Because she likes to sleep in.

My birthday makes me sad. Sad to think about what I could have been and the things that I could have done without any chains. My chair is my chain: the very thing that gives me the freedom to move and be independent is seen by others as something to be embarrassed or ashamed of.

I talked to my Mom today. I talk to my mother every day...but today I cried. And I told her how sad my birthday makes me, of all the things I could have done, or the kind of person I might have been, had I not been sentenced.

It's a crime no one committed, but I am serving time. I got a life sentence, and this is my jail. It was an accident. Something that happens; there is nothing I can do but live my life the best way I can and hope that at the end, it was worth all of the things my very young mother gave up to make sure I grew to be healthy and happy.

I know what little of what she gave up. She would never tell me that it was a sacrifice for her to raise me. She wants me to know that she did it because she wanted to, no sense of obligation or requirement. She has tried so hard to help me learn to love myself - as myself. She tells me all the time (as do many others) that she would 'never trade up', and that I am the person I am supposed to be: "Little Miss Sunshine", she said, "you still haven't learned to accept yourself".

My father's approach to life is simple. He says "fuck them. Live your life for you. People are assholes." It is a cleaner, Dad-like way of saying, "I love you. So who cares? Jimmy crack corn and we don't care". My dad and I would never have the "my birthday makes me sad" conversation. He doesn't know how to live his life based on what other people care about or think of him.

Isn't that amazing? I wish I knew how to do that. To say that I really don't care what you think of me, and to live my life that way.

Everywhere I turn, there are messages (silent and spoken) barriers (real and attitudinal) and general disdain for the lives of people who are different - not just disabled.

How do I tell my mother that I have learned to accept everything and everyone else because I want so badly to be accepted by everything and everyone else? You can give unconditional love, but you are never guaranteed that the love you receive in return comes without conditions. Mother Theresa's paradoxical commandments say, "love them anyway".

So...I love anyway. Because I have great examples of love.

I have spent most of my life defying what everyone said I couldn't do. I will freely admit that some of the things I have done, were just a "so there! Just because you said I couldn't...give me one good reason and I will do it anyway!"

Maybe that's a bit of my Dad in me.

To everyone celebrating a day of birth today, you are loved. I love you, even if I have no idea who you are. You have no reason to want to be anything more than the wonder you are. You are accepted and loved by me, a perfect stranger..because we're given "faith hope and love. The greatest of these is love".

I hope to find love this year. For myself.

Happy birthday.

Love. xo

The first Ever World Cerebral Palsy Day!

Hello friends!

Today is World Cerebral Palsy day. The first. Ever.

Disclaimer: I'm a bit crankier than normal today. Here's why: as a present for World Cerebral Palsy Day, my doctor gave me antibiotics and a urine test. For a kidney infection that I have apparently had...for weeks. The knife hot pain in my back at 4 am was enough to wake me up and go to hospital.

So while I wait for the next dose of pain meds, here's a little something for YOU for WCP Day.

Part of me wants to jump and down, the rest of me wants to stuff World CP Day.

Here's why: we have: Mental Health Day. Black History Month. Autism week. Eating disorder awareness week. We have 'spread the word to end the word' - the anti-'r' word campaign.

If there is a minority anywhere in our culture, we have a whole day on the freaking calendar dedicated to you and whatever affliction, non-WASP culture, environment, religion, belief or moray you subscribe to or come from.

Where is the 'Yay! You're *NOT* special!' day? Oh, right. Every other day is Yay! You're not special day! Yay, you're not different day!

See, here's the thing: I am so torn about this. Lots of people would say that they are proud of who they are and whatever condition, package or make-up they come in. And they should be. I am proud of who I am and who I will grow to be...

I am not proud to have CP. I am not proud to have something that makes me so obviously different from you. A birth defect is not a source of pride.

If you buy a television and it is defective, you take it to the store and they give you your money back and apologize to you. A store clerk says, "I'm sorry about that. Here. Let me get you another one".

They don't tell you to be proud of your broken television. There are no 'World Broken Television' days. They have a spot for them, though. It's called the dump. Where broken things go that no one wants.

This is not advocation for eugenics.

No one ever apologized to me: '...sorry that you are part of a culture that sees you as broken, and that this culture views broken things as disposable. Sorry that you are talked to with disdain and abject pity. Sorry: no matter how hard you try or what you accomplish it will never be good enough.'

     I seem to apologize an awful lot, without much to be sorry for.

No one ever apologized to my mother and father: '...sorry that you have to raise a daughter whom other people will treat as different, weird and unworthy. She will have special designations, labels and treatment her whole life. Sorry about what that will do to your marriage, your lives together as a couple and the strength of your family.

     What ever happened to that doctor? I bet he still has a license. I doubt I ever cross his mind.

No one ever apologized to my brother and sister: ...'sorry. Sorry that everything takes longer and is more time consuming. Sorry that you feel like your needs as kids, and maybe even adults are sometimes overlooked and/or forgotten because there is so much that your special sibling needs just to get through life.

     I hope that you get what you need now. 

In spite of never getting an apology or seeing the people I love most get the apologies they deserve so very much: I don't want one. I don't need one.

This is not a pity party.

If it's not an advocation for eugenics and it is not a pity party, then what is it?

It is an admonishment. It's a great big: f*** haters!

Things like Black History Month, Mental Health Awareness Day, Gay Pride, Spread the Word to End the Word exist because we, as a culture do not treat people as they deserve when they do not fit our tight little impossible, wheelchair-inaccessible-mentally/physically healthy-gender secure-"beautiful"- English speaking-heterosexual-intelligent-wealthy-non-smoking/drinking/addictions of any kind-you get the idea-mold.

They are salves. They are 'let's just forget all that and move on because we know better now' salves that stink. Putrefaction in a pretty package.

It is real. It is there. Even for those of you who do not see it. And especially for those going through it. Denying it does no good. Celebrating it underscores (at least for me) and highlights the "I am different from you in a way that no one wants to talk about without being uncomfortable".

So we accept it for what it is and we try as hard as we can to move forward, but not on. No matter what you do you can't move on. Moving on suggests leaving 'it' there and moving on without 'it'. You move forward and you drag it with you. Because you have to. You haven't a choice.

So we have one day. In some cases a month or a week. What are we to do the other 364 days, 11 months or 51 weeks every year?

We will do the same thing we always do. Wait for the next elevator....take a 45 minute detour because the subway stop is not accessible....be unemployed/under-employed. Bristle at empty compliments and praise exalting bravery for common-place things. Sometimes, we will cry, rage, and triumph. I will pretend not to know that you look at me and feel bad for me - whether you admit it or not. We will forgive your ignorance because you supposedly don't know better. Or you should.

Today, on World Cerebral Palsy Day, I choose to see it as moving forward.

But it's not pride.

I am not awesome because I have Cerebral Palsy. I am not awesome in spite of the fact that I live with Cerebral Palsy. I am awesome. Full stop.

Good-night, lovelies! xo

Frontline on the Shore

Bonjour, blog friends!
It is a steamy, smoggy city evening. I am writing, enjoying a quiet evening with DSH. But I've been thinking....

Usually, when I think...you get to read about it!

Last night, I was up late. Really, really late. Tossing and turning, thinking about eating toast and peanut butter for the sake of increased serotonin...hopefully leading to sleep. Instead, I did what I have been doing a lot of lately: watching documentaries. I watched seven or eight of them consecutively, ranging in subject: entymology and the agricultural importance of honeybees, colony collapse disorder  as a result of monocrops and agribusiness (in honeybees), neuroplasticity and the treatment of OCD, PTSD and schizophrenia....you get the idea.

All of this learnedness with the swipe of a library card. Oh, dear! I love, love, love (!) that you can type virtually any subject into a library search engine and get a few hundred call-number returns! There is something so satisfying about making a choice to watch something that will shape or change your understanding of the world and how you fit in it - and it's free!

I can't imagine choosing 'Jersey Shore' or 'Big Brother 29' over 'The Nature of Things' or PBS' 'Frontline'. Can you? Maybe you can. I don't know.

At any given time, there is a stack of 10 to 15 books on the bedside table that scream to be read as fast as my eyes can fly across the page. I use and abuse (using the term abuse with levity and as much deference as can be afforded!) the library to a point where it has become almost embarassing. I go to book sales, tag sales and thrift stores; read a chapter or two of a book (DSH will not book shop with me anymore), then, if I like it, put it on hold at the library. I have not paid for a book since 2007.

Sometimes, the librarians will save things that they know I would be interested in, or that they have read and want to hear my sass-mouthed opinion about (don't even get me started on all that Bella Swan garbage, all you Twi-hards!) - it's the best kind of provocation ever.  Other times, the library's digital collection will send me alerts of new, interesting things that have come out that I might like.

A few weeks ago, I got a 'you might like this' message from the library database. The library computer-bots thought that I would enjoy a documentary called 'How to Die in Oregon'. I agreed with the computer-bots and put it on hold.

Thus, the documentary-marathon at Casa Sunshine began...

You can watch the official HBO trailer here:

The video discusses the 'Death with Dignity' law passed in the state of Oregon in 1994. Later, I-1000 passed in Washington, is heavily covered.

I started to think about what I would want to happen in the event of a terminal diagnosis or catastrophic medical event where there was no hope for my long-term survival with compromised dignity and quality of life. I wonder do you out there, cyber friends, know what you would want?

Then I thought some more. Something like this requires some heavy thinking, I think.

Back to the library...where I found this:

This trailer is for a video called 'The Suicide Tourist', about a man with motor neuron disease (aka ALS or Lou Gherig's Disease) who travels to Zurich to die. He uses the services of Dignitas, where physician-assisted suicide is legal for people with terminal illness.

I felt most for his wife. It was clear she loved him, and accepted him the way that he was. I am not sure she would have been able to go on caring for him forever, but I got the sense that she would have tried - doggedly - because of the love she had for him. It was obvious, at least to me. She supported his decision as his own, with grace and humility, love and peace in the knowledge that her husband was doing what he thought best for himself.

It reminded me a lot of my relationship with DSH. I call him a Saint because he is one. He accepts my body and my limitations for what they are and would never want (I hope) for me to be different than I am. I strongly believe that he would rather have me in his life as a physically limited person than not at all. He accepts the barriers, inaccessibility and condescension of others for what it is. We snicker at the stupidness and ignorance of others.

But in the back of my mind, I wonder: at what point will all the laundry and the sickness and the helping and the burden of it being burdensome become so much for me that I just can't punish him anymore? No matter what he loves about my mind or my sass-mouth. Is that what Craig Ewart was thinking? I can empathize with that. I've been there. Done it. Blogged that.

I spoke with my dear friend Marguerite*, who is an active member of the 'Death with Dignity' movement in Canada after supporting her mother and sister through terminal illnesses. I was sure that this was something that I supported - if it is your body, it is your choice - and wanted to get involved.

You all know that I am Little Miss Super Volunteer...wherever I can lend a hand I always will. This seemed to make sense - I was sure that I wanted this kind of option available if ever I were to need it.

I needed more information. So I went where I always go. My friendly library branch.Too bad there aren't DVD's on how to be a mayor without alienating everyone. I know at least one person who could use that. Then again, he probably doesn't have a library card.

Then, I saw this:

This documentary follows a woman named Lisette. She is eighty, in good health and completely lucid. The doctor supporting her stated many times that she is healthy and has 10-15 years of excellent health, etc ahead of her.

She purchased pills to commit suicide overseas; and has purchased enough to kill herself two or three times over.

She repeats over and over that 'eighty years is long enough to live' and that she is 'bored'. She had the idea that she did not want to live longer than eighty years in her head and was going to die before then (she states this multiple times as well). She refused any kind of counselling or intervention that would concentrate effort on how to ease her boredom.

Your body, your choice. Right? Right. Here's the thing: I have a problem with this. 

The doctor himself states that he has reservations about supporting this suicide because of the message she is sending.

What is the message? Vanity? A weariness of life?  Apathy?

I feel like Lisette is a fulcrum: how I felt before seeing it and how I felt after. Death with Dignity legislations were hard-fought by people who were staring down death and did not want the embattled route. They were sick and wanted desperately to be alive: to meet grandbabies, teach their daughters the secret Christmas bar recipe. They did not go gently into that dark night. They raged against the dying of the light (Dylan Thomas).

In another 'Frontline', called 'Facing Death', we see a cancer paitent, knowing he has only days - if not hours to live - agreeing to another round of chemotherapy for myeloma, wanting a shot at even a miniscule chance to live. What would he say to Lisette?

You can watch the trailer for 'Facing Death', here:

What am I saying, here? I have no idea. Do you? Leave me a comment, if you do.

Either you support it fully - for everyone, even those whom you think may be misdirecting the cause, or you don't. Right? The question is, in polarizing issues such as these, is there ever a middle ground? Can I support people like Craig and Cody, yet dissent in cases of people like Lisette or am I making a judgement or a statement of worthiness in so doing?

DSH says he doesn't know what it means, if anything. Except, maybe, that a little 'Jersey Shore' might be a nice break from all of this information.

I wonder if you can get that at the Library....?

Good night, lovelies....xo

Auld Lang Syne...

Hello, blog firends...

Greetings, and Happy 2012! Blessings and good wishes to all of you.

It has been a while, and I have been feeling the urge to blog. I have been sitting here, thinking, "do I write about this? If I put this out there for the world to read (and hopefully proffer comment upon), does it negate the good of what has happened?

I guess now would be a good time to explain what it is that I am talking about before my head explodes from all of this "what if'"-ing.

We have a friend across the street. He is an older man, from Ireland. I think he has some kind of chronic illness (of this I am also unsure). He has two sons (who are old enough to work) and a live in friend (who is also capable of working - these may or may not be important facts: I have yet to decide).

I have always sent over my baking run-offs (extras), and little nibbles of new recipes I'm working on. I believed I was being neighbourly - and we always have extra baking that I hate to see go bad. I know that things are tight for them. I know what that feels like, and I always appreciate the little gestures from the people in my life who love me and want to bring a bit of sunshine to a cloudy day.

Then, a few months ago, the oldest boy came to our house with a note. The note said that they were hungry and had no food. It asked if I could spare a loaf of bread.

I was stunned into silence.  I could not imagine how humbling an experience like that must be. I didn't know what to say. Except for, "of course.  We don't have any bread, but I will give you something to eat."

We took a shopping bag full of food and sundries, whispering hushedly on departure for home that we had been truly fortunate to be in a position to help a friend, no questions asked.

And then, it happened again.

And again.

And a few more times after that. Then, after the last time, I gave him the contact information for an intake worker at a city foodbank.

Each time, the oldest boy would come to my door and stand silent while I read another note. Each time, Dear, Sainted Husband would silently implore me to say no. I would direct DSH to fill a bag with whatever we could spare¸ and be thankful that we are able to spare it.

And he would continue to stand there silently; collect the food and leave without a word.

DSH and I would then fight: he would say that we should stop feeding them. He would tell me not to be so naive and trusting that it was coming from need and not convenience. I would argue that we are constantly trying to be good people and do what we believe is right and good. Why turn away from an opportunity to practice what we've been preaching?

Just before Christmas, DSH and I hosted a turkey dinner for a friend and her new partner. We ate only about a quarter of the turkey. After our guests had left, we packed up the turkey and all the leftover trimmings and brought them over to the neighbours across the street.

I'd felt very good about myself: spreading a little cheer during the holiday season.  They'd seemed excited to have a turkey dinner. I was happy to give it to them: I surely wasn't going to be able to eat it, and would be having yet another delicious dinner with all the trimmings in just a few short days.

Fast-forward to Thursday: another wordless note passed through the door. Silent collection and departure.

I talked to my Mom about this once before. And I can't help thinking that her comments were remarkably similar to those of DSH.

And now I wonder: is this what they mean about teaching people to fish? Or, should old acquaintance be forgot?

What do  you think, cyberlovlies?

Love to you...xo

Seeking: Volunteer hair!

Hello, my friends --

It's raining today. The clouds are dark and heavy. The sound of rain hitting the ground sounds like relief; it reminds me of someone sighing as they unload a heavy bag. I feel that same relief tonight. I am sitting here, watching a movie. I ate. I'm watching and doing nothing else. I am allowing myself the indulgence of doing nothing for one night: no meetings. No volunteering. No flurry of rushed e-mails and trying to cram as much as I can into my days as I can.

It's nice to sit. It's nice to take care of me for a few hours and to do nothing but enjoy myself. It's nice to sit and blog.

I have started writing this blog about a hundred times in the last month. I tried to write it during a training session where I learned that forty percent of Canadians are semi- to functionally illiterate. I've tried to write it after several disappointing wheelchair-related mechanical failures. I have tried to write knowing that there are people out there who really and truly read my blog (that are not my Mom!) and who really and truly like my blog (who are not my husband). I wish that, in and of itself was enough for me to blog every single day like a teenager with a diary. What a feather in my cap!

Here's the big question: how do I write about the things that affect and effect me without becoming redundant or preachy? It is my personal blog battle: to make issues that are important to me; important to everyone without becoming one of those people that nobody listens to anymore.

My battle as a blogger also translates itself into my personal life: how do I remain a staunch advocate for the things that I believe in and support without alienating people? Where is the line between advocate and whiner? Where and when do you draw that line? I'm not sure we always know the answer to that.

Sometimes I feel like I spend so much time advocating that my voice gets lost among all of the other advocates out there. So, I sat back and thought about it: how else can I get it out there? I need to find another way to advocate for myself and for the things that I believe in. So, I decided that this is what my blog should be used for. Social reflection. Thinking about what social action and social activism means to me, and using the blog as a spot to do that reflection.

After reflecting, you must be willing to act. To dust off, and get down to it. To be a part of the change that you want to see in the world, not just sit back and hope that it will happen someday. So I started volunteering again. I made a commitment to myself to become a bigger and more involved part of my community - to support the causes that are important to me; but also to support causes that are not as important to me so that I might learn about what it means to be someone who is not in my position.

So: I joined a choir. The Big Gay Choir. I wanted to align myself with people for whom I thought it was important to fight. By standing as an ally in a cause I had no vested, personal interest in to say, "what is important to you is important to me, because you are important".

And then BGC snowballed: I joined every committee I could to help support the choir. Committees turned into Pride; Pride to Second Harvest... 6 St. Joseph House, the Weekend to End Women's Cancers... you get the idea. Now, I look at my calendar each day...each week, and see nothing. No blank space. I have a meeting every night this week. I have a meeting every night next week (7 days, not 5). Today, while on the phone scheduling an intake meeting for a volunteer tutoring program, I was astounded to see (actually, physically see) that I have no free evenings until the first week of November. Really?!

And then, I went to the ladies room. And I cried. I cried so hard I shook. I've cried not for the loss of my free time (we don't have cable anyway), but for the fact that there is no real proof that any of the lost sleep; rushed e-mails and always being the first to say "I will take care of that" is doing one damned thing to change this world, or to change the lives of others.

At what point does it become less about giving back and more about leaving clumps of hair in the shower drain?

The good thing about clumps of hair in the shower drain? They give you the time and pause to stop and think: "tonight? I'm going to eat dinner, watch a movie and spend the evening with my husband". I'd volunteer for that any day.

The pen is mightier than the Transit Service!

Hello, my friends...
I have been ruminating over my recent selection of blog-worthy fodder. What should I post? What is my motivation for choosing to write on what I do? Is my aim to be impactful, funny or to use my blog as a medium for social consciousness and activism?

Like choosing doughnuts for a party pack: doughnuts are good no matter what they're sprinkled, stuffed or glazed with. Right? You'd think so. But it turns out that not all doughnuts are created equal. Some taste better than others. Some look pretty in the display case, but taste bad in your mouth (you'll recall the 'sour cream chocolate glaze'). Others, they taste so good, you'll happily eat one every morning. Then suddenly, there's a new flavour introduction, and the doughnut romance is on the outs.

Isn't it interesting? We fall so madly in love with the new and interesting so quickly, and just as quickly we fall out of love. Newer and faster; bigger and better. A taste sensation that will blow your mind and change your life. Funny, but all this pastry talk reminds me of politics.

Politicians: pick me! Pick me! I am better than the other guy! I look better than the other guy! I talk better than the other guy; I do more, spend less, and you get more for your money. Like a Timbit 10-pack for $1.99. How's that for political participation? I look at the people chosen to represent me and see a discount box of doughnut run-offs.

You might wonder what it is that I am getting at. Doughnuts and politicians. Well, here's the thing: one day after eating doughnuts every morning with your Orange Mocha Frappuccino, you discover biscotti. There are other options. They are part of the pastry family, but they walk the walk and talk the talk.

Last Friday, I discovered biscotti, in the form of Ms. Kathleen Wynne. After purchasing my Frangelico for hazelnut pots des cremes, we walked past Ms. Wynne en route home. I recalled my letter to the now infamous Regional Transit Company that shall remain nameless.

I copied that letter to every Member of Parliament and Member of Provincial Parliament in my local riding (not to mention every media outlet that I could think of, the Prime Minister and the Human Rights Commission), hoping to get some kind of resoultion and recognition for what I felt was an affront to my right to dignity and fully realized personhood.

It turns out that Ms. Wynne is also the Minister of Transportation (how's that for efficiency; killing two birds with one stone?). She got two copies of the letter (so I guess it wasn't that effective). I showed that letter to everyone. I wanted everyone to know what had happened to me; moreover, that it had happened and I was not taking this lying down. I would use the tools at my disposal to take a stand. For me and for everyone else who had endured being subjected to judgements based on the values of others.

People laughed (Yes. They laughed). They told me that I was wasting my time; all this letter writing was taking away from the beauty and joy of my life. I could make better choices for my spirit and sense of self by sloughing it off and chalking it up to the stupidity of others. But I was like a dog with a bone. I couldn't let this go.

I sent it. And I waited. And I waited some more.

And then it came: 'I have been in contact with the company. It is my position that the matter has been resolved satisfactorily. No further intervention from this office is required'. Or something like that. I was crushed. It seemed no one wanted to stand up and say that it was not okay to say that disabled people are a waste of space.

I left it alone. I thought maybe those people were right. My letter accomplished nothing.

Fast forward to election time. Rob Oliphant came to my door. He asked for my vote.

I told him that he would under no circumstances, get my vote. He seemed incredulous. I explained about The Letter and that I'd not received a response, even a perfunctory one. I showed him a copy. He said he'd never seen it (now it was my turn for incredulity: I knew enough about the letter writing process to know that MP's are legally bound to respond, even if it's perfunctory) I was very clear about my position: how can I support your candidacy or your positions if you aren't aware of mine?

I closed the door in his face. I admit it wasn't the most lady-like thing I could have done. I will also admit that I felt completely justified, maybe even a little vindicated.

I rejoiced in it! My belief in the power of the written word was renewed (even if only marginally)! Constituents have power! What we do and what we say means something. To some, it appears only as a drop in the bucket. To me, it was a VICTORY!

Fast forward again to pots des cremes. There she was, there in the mall. And I was conflicted: should I say something to her or should I just let it die (already!)?

The stand up and fighter in me said 'no way'. So, I talked to her. It went something like this. This is not, by any means, a verbatim relay.

ME: Hi. My name is Little Miss Sunshine and I am a voter in your riding. I wanted to talk to you about my letter. A letter that I sent to you about a year ago.
MINISTER: I'm sorry. What letter? You'll have to remind me.
ME: I wrote you a letter about Regional Transit Company.  I was abused, degraded and humiliated on a public vehicle. I sent you a letter. I asked you for your understanding.
MINISTER: Yes.
ME: I wanted to tell you that I was really disappointed by your response.
MINISTER: What was my response?
ME: You sent me a response saying that you thought they had done enough. Did they tell you what their solution was?
MINISTER: No.
ME: It was the cost of my ticket. $6. I felt like you were telling me that my dignity was worth only $6. I know you as an MP, and I know about the things that you stand for and the efforts that you have made on behalf of this community; I was expecting more. I felt let down.

We spoke for about 30 minutes. She apologized many times over (which I really didn't think was necessary). She also explained to me that she signs all of her letters personally (which apparently is not de riguer. I knew this.) We talked about some of the realities facing disabled travelers who chose not to employ parallel transportation options. That, in spite of millions of dollars in funding and retrofitting, accessibility is differently defined by those who are disabled and those who are not.

I told her about what happened with Mr. Oliphant. How I felt so empowered in doing what I had done.  My feelings of empowerment had been reinforced by this conversation,  being able to confront my disappointment and having it openly and respectfully acknowleged.

She encouraged me to continue my letter writing; that it is not futile. She looked me in the eye and shook my hand. I haven't felt that tall in a long time.

Good night, lovelies....xo