Moving on... An open letter to the new owners of our former home

I sat at this island on my wedding day as one of my best friends did my make up. 

Then I walked up those stairs to my bedroom, where my Mom helped me into the wedding dress that she wore - and that my grandmother sewed - 35 years earlier when she married my Dad. 

Then we walked out that front door as our neighbour stood by giddily to tell me that I was a beautiful bride, and to wish me luck on my wedding day. 

This house - and this neighborhood - have been at the centre of my life for the past 12 years. And if walls could talk, they would tell you stories. 

They would tell you that this very house saved our relationship. Before finding it, my husband and I were living in a tiny 1-bedroom apartment - MY apartment that he moved into. We were driving each other crazy. I'm not sure we would have lasted very much longer without divine intervention in the form of real estate. 

They would tell you that it is a bad idea to build a deck together. That day, we fought and fought and fought and fought and then fought some more. I was so mad that I didn't talk to my husband for the entire length of the deck building process. But 12 years later, that deck is still standing. And so are we. (It is also a great place to catch a few rays with a friend).

The walls would tell you that there ain't no party like a kitchen party. Countless gatherings have been had in this kitchen, at this island. 11 New Years Day Levees, Friday night tapas parties, casual potlucks, formal family dinners, birthday parties, and even the occasional dance party. Always we congregate in the kitchen. It's a good thing we tore down the hideous wall that was there before. 

These walls would tell you about how we grew our family. How we adopted one outrageously neurotic dog named Fergus, who barks at and herds all the neighborhood kids. And one fiercely independent and bossy cat, Sadie, who spends her days plotting how to catch every squirrel that dares to run through her yard. Within these walls, these two rescues became the very best of friends, and found their "forever homes".

These walls would tell you how much we love this neighborhood. How it has everything we need. Coffee shops, restaurants (you must, must, must try DiVino Wine Studio, and tell them we sent you), access to the Ottawa River, the canal and the Arboretum for running and snowshoeing, a yoga studio to recuperate from running. And it's only the shortest of walks to the neighboring 'hood of Hintonburg, where I get my nails done (look for Forbes Beauty Company on Fairmont) and where I get the best almond milk latte in town (Ministry of Coffee on Wellington). In the other direction, Parliament Hill is only a 25 minute walk. But on Canada Day, you don't even need to walk that far to have a perfect view of the fireworks. Just walk up to Lebreton Flats. It's one of the best views in town. 

Most of all, these walls would tell you about love. Because they were filled to brimming with love. This is where Hubby and I truly started our life adventure together. Every trip we've ever taken has been planned from a spot on the couch in front of that fireplace. Every life decision - from whether or not to take a new job to when to get a dog to when to get married - has been debated in this space. We have laughed here. We have cried here. We have fought and made up here. We made a life for ourselves here. It is where we truly became life partners. 

These walls provided the perfect setting for a pair of eager young professionals starting out in life. Leaving them behind is not easy. We love this house. It is a part of us forever. 

And now, we hope, that it will forever be a part of you. That you will love this house as much as we did. That you will put your stamp on it and make it your very own. That you will grow together here as partners. And that these walls will continue to have good stories to tell. 

Congratulations, and we wish you all the best. 

It's a girl!

Many couples that we know had the "Honey, I think it's time for us to have kids" conversation. We never did. We knew from the beginning that we weren't the parenting kind. That does not mean, however, that we have not had plenty of conversations about bringing life into our home. Only that we talk about bringing furry life into our home.

The issue, however, is that Hubby is a cat person, and I am a dog person. [Insert gasp here] So there was an awful lot of talking, but not a whole lot of agreeing. Here are a couple of sample conversations:

Me: "I grew up with a dog. It sure would be nice if I had one again."

Hubby: "No"

Me: "But you work long hours and I'm here all by myself. I need company!"

Hubby: "You work long hours too."

Me: "Not as long as you!"

Hubby: "That's not really true, is it?"

Me: "But I'll take care of it! You don't even have to do a thing! I'll walk it, and feed it, and pick up after it, and train it!!!"

Hubby: "No."

Me: "My friend just got a wiener dog and he's sooooo cute! Come on! Can we get a wiener dog?"

Hubby: "No."

Me: "Can we get a wiener dog? Can we get a wiener dog? Can we get a wiener dog?"

Hubby: "No. No. No."

Me: "Don't you even love me?"

[long awkward pause]

Hubby [furrowing his brow in deep concentration]: "Yes. But we're not getting a dog."

*****************

Hubby: "Let's get a cat. I grew up with them and I miss having one around."

Me: "Over my dead body."

Hubby: "They're not a lot of work, Jay. Not like that dog idea you are always going on about."

Me: "I hate cats. They're aloof. They lick themselves and then cough up fur balls everywhere. And they track their kitty-litter-soaked paws all over the house. Gross! I'm not having one here."

Hubby: "They're not that bad, Jay."

Me: "Yes. They are. They are assholes. They are just waiting for you to die so that they can eat your organs for breakfast."

Hubby: "What happened to you when you were a kid?"

Me: "Nothing. Why?"

Hubby: "You seem a little aggressive about cats. Why are you okay with the ones that we pet-sit for our friends?"

Me: "Because I know those little assholes are eventually going home."

Hubby: "You're cold, Jay."

Me: "Shhhhh..... I'm trying to watch the football game!"

*************

... and so on, and so on, and so on...

I thought I'd won the conversations would end when I finally convinced Hubby to get a dog, thanks in no small part to the crazy man running around our 'hood hitting women over the head with hammers. And as I watched the ever-deepening bond between Hubby and Fergus, I was sure we both felt that our family was complete. No more conversations about cats! Yay!

Our very first family outing, and the very first picture of Hubby and Fergus together.

Watching t.v. together

Best friends hanging out and playing in the Arboretum

But as it turns out, Mr. Fergus is also a cat person. After pet-sitting a friend's cat for a week (affectionately nicknamed Princess Kitty, but known as Sadie), we discovered that he absolutely loves having a cat around. Particularly this cat. When Sadie left, he pined over her for days and days and days on end, running up and down the stairs as he futilely searched every corner of the house for her, whining and barking the whole time. Which of course, Hubby used against me. Leading to this conversation...

Hubby: "Huh. Will you look at that. It looks like Fergus wants us to get a cat!"

Me: "Shut up."

Hubby: "Are you really going to say no to Fergus? Look at him! He's miserable and lonely. He needs a little friend around."

Me: "Shut up."

Hubby: "Really, Jay. What happened to you?"

Me: "I'm going to punch you in the face."

***********

Things only got worse for me when Sadie came to live with us for a year after her human got an excellent career opportunity in California. The deal was that she would take Sadie back when she returned to Canada. But with each passing day, Hubby became more and more used to having a cat around. And Fergus was more and more thrilled to have a constant companion and playmate (by playmate, I mean something that he could herd up and down the stairs). Even Sadie started to relax into her new setting, getting particularly attached to the F-Bomb, mewling and howling whenever he wasn't around for her to torture.

Soon, we were a mere month away from our friend's return. As the time drew nearer and nearer to sending Sadie home, I started to dread having to give her back. I worried that her departure would lead to a renewed debate about whether or not to get a cat. I worried that Fergus and Hubby would mope around the house for weeks on end. I even worried that Sadie would be a little sad without her big, dumb, high-strung friend around to mercilessly taunt.

Damn it!

And so it was that, over the Christmas holidays, Hubby and I had one more conversation about growing our family.

Me: "I don't know who will be more depressed when she is gone. You or Fergus."

Hubby: "Ahem.... Definitely Fergus."

Me: "I'm not so sure about that. You want to keep her, don't you?"

Hubby: "Ahem... ahem... Well, Fergus wants to keep her. That's for sure."

Me: "And you?"

Hubby: cough, cough, sputter, sputter "Yes."

*********

The next day, Hubby sent our dear friend a note that went something like this:

You love Sadie. And Jay and I love Fergus. I know that we all want to do what is right for our pets. They have become best friends, and I worry that separating them may not be the best thing for them. If you agree, Jay and Fergus and I have a loving home waiting for Sadie.

....

And so now, we have a cat.

I am still firmly in the dog-person camp. And I still get grossed out by her kitty-litter soaked paws. And I make Hubby clean the kitty litter because I refuse to touch it. But even I have to admit that she has weasled her way into a tiny little corner of my heart. The way she comes running to the door alongside Fergus to greet us when we come home. The way she cuddles up to me as I am doing my post-run stretching routine. The way she curls up in my lap when I'm watching t.v. or reading a book.

Fine! I admit it. I like her. And I'm glad that we adopted her into our home. She makes our little family complete.

She may be an asshole. But now she is my asshole.

Welcome home, Sadie. And thanks, JJ, for making it all possible.

Sadie has become the real boss. She gets the dog bed, the dog hides under the table.

Unless she is in a good mood. Then she will share.

I run with Fergus. But I do my post-run stretching with Sadie

A family moment - Sadie cuddled on my lap and Fergus at my feet

Hubby and his herd hanging out watching t.v.

A rare quiet moment - Sadie hunkered down for a nap. She is actually pretty cute when she sleeps.

Taking a break from chasing and swatting at each other. 

Road trip!

This past Sunday, Hubby and I were driving through Upper State New York, down the I-85, on our way to Philadelphia to see Pearl Jam play back-to-back shows at the Wells-Fargo Centre.

I know that you are surprised that I travel to concerts that don't feature the E-Street band. But I do it for love. Hubby is a HUGE PJ fan. It is his all time favourite band. Which explains all those awful law school pictures of him with long, scraggly hair, Doc Martins, and plaid shirts... And since Hubby followed me all the way to Europe to see Bruce, I figured it was only fair that I tag along for this ride. Besides, Eddie Vedder's got some serious cred with me. He and the Boss are tight! He gave this moving tribute to Springsteen when the latter was inducted into the Kennedy Centre. Plus he performed a few songs with Bruce at the Wrigley show in 2012 (I was there - I saw it with my very own eyes!). If he is good enough for Bruce, he is good enough for me!

And he is good enough for Bruce, who left the swamps of Jersey to come to the concert. See:

Confirmed sighting of Springsteen at the Philly Pearl Jam concert on October 22, 2013
Photo credit: @PJ_Updates (Twitter)

(I went weak in the knees just knowing that the Boss and I were in the same building, watching the same concert.)

Anyway, I'd never been to Philly, so this road trip seemed like a doubly good idea. Make Hubby happy by seeing his beloved Pearl Jam (once from the Pit and once from the nose-bleed section), and add another push pin to my map of visited U.S. cities. Win-win!

Yes, we were that close - First night from the Pit,
second row behind the rail. Eddie still looks good.

A different view on the second night...

With two of our evenings eaten up by hanging out with 20,000-or-so plaid-clad grungers, there was not a lot of opportunity to explore the Philadelphia night life or food scene. But our days were free to wander around and add to our knowledge about this city.

Here's what I knew about Philly before this week:

• there's a movie featuring a Bruce Springsteen song (you knew I was going to work that in somehow);
• the Fresh Prince of Bel Air and Rocky are from Philly;
• the Philly cheese steak is the city's most famous dish; 
• there's a big ole bell.

Thanks to our trip, I now know a few more things. For instance:

Philadelphians love their Rocky: Or at least they love that tourists love their Rocky. From postcards to tee-shirts to desk-sized bronze statues to books about how the famous Rocky steps of the Philadelphia Museum of Art have inspired millions to believe in their ability to do anything they put their minds to (including kitchily running the stairs), there is no shortage of Rocky in Philly.

And frankly, who am I to argue with a decades-old tradition of visiting the museum and running the stairs:

(There's a video of me doing it too, but Hubby wouldn't sing the theme song while I did it, so it's not as entertaining. He can be a jerk like that. At least he snapped some pictures of me jumping up and down victoriously after I smoked him all the way to the top.)

I still have no idea what a Philly cheese steak tastes like: I couldn't bring myself to eat one. Something about that gooey, processed cheese makes my stomach threaten outright rebellion. Instead, Hubby and I made our way to Reading Terminal Market, which we were told is the oldest covered farmer's market in the U.S., and got ourselves a roasted pork and provolone sandwich from DiNics. It was incredible. And the best part is that after running the Rocky steps, I had absolutely no guilt for having consumed all those delicious calories!

Love Park at JFK Plaza

Philadelphia literally means "brotherly love": I always knew that Philly was called the City of Brotherly Love, but I had no idea why. Are Philadelphians a particularly friendly lot? Is the city full of good Samaritans? It's true that I found everyone I met to be quite friendly and helpful. But it turns out that the word "Philadelphia" is derived from two Greek words - "philos" (love) and "adelphos" (brotherly). Thank you to the kind gentleman running around the Old City dressed like a colonial town crier for giving me the answer to this trivia question! And Sir, I hope you were an actual tour guide of some kind. Otherwise, you were just a touch creepy.

It is an incredibly charming city: Maybe it is because we stayed in the Old City, where narrow cobblestone streets are lined with beautiful old brown-stones. Maybe it's because of the history - Philly being the cradle of the American revolution - that seeps out of its every pore. Maybe it's because not one, but two rivers run through it. Maybe it's because of the multitude of universities. Or maybe it's because the city has taken great care to preserve its greatest relics and buildings. Whatever the reason, Philly stands out in my mind as the most charming American city I've been to thus far. (Sorry Boston. You had that title right up until this week. At least your baseball team is in the World Series.)

Nestled in among a block of skyscrapers

Residential street in the Old City

The tomb of many unknown soldiers - British and American - from the War of American Independence

The big 'ole bell has a big 'ole crack in it: Why? Apparently, because it was shoddily made. The crack rendered it unusable. Still, millions flock to stand before it and revel in its emanating aura of freedom. Having stood in front of the remnants of the Berlin Wall, Hubby wonders if perhaps the Liberty Bell's hype is exaggerated. Especially since, at the time that it rang through the streets of Philadelphia, the Founding Fathers all kept slaves. Nonetheless, the Liberty Bell - crack and all - remains an enduring symbol of independence and freedom, and an important part of the American psyche.

Like my Yuengling moustache?

Good American beer does exist: Canadians are known for being beer snobs. For good reason. We make good beer. While our American friends make that 4%-alcohol-crap that tastes vaguely like water. So yes, we enjoy haughtily making fun of Budweiser and Coors while we sip on our vast selection of microbrews and the like.

But it turns out that there is some pretty good beer local to Philadelphia. Like that from the hipster-iffic Nodding Head Brew House. Or Yuengling, from the oldest brewery in the United States. And unlike Budweiser, these beers are good. Like really good. I know because I had a few pints. A girl gets thirsty for a good lager when wandering the streets of Philadelphia.

I'm sure that I could have tried a few more local lagers at any number of breweries or Irish Pubs. And I would have liked to make it over to University City to explore the University of Pennsylvania campus (because I like to make myself feel old by hanging out with college kids). And there is a vibrant museum scene that would have been pretty cool to check out. And it would have been truly awesome to see a football game in Philly. But alas, Hubby and I only had a couple of days off before we had to make the 720km trek back to our everyday lives. And so it could be but a short road trip.

But we're already looking for our next concert destination. Any ideas?

"Fight like a girl"

Source of photo unknown

March is Endometriosis Awareness Month.

If you don't have endometriosis, or know someone who has it, you probably don't know what this is, or why there is a month dedicated to raising awareness about it.

Well, allow me to give you some facts about endometriosis (source: the Endometriosis Foundation of America):

• It is a reproductive condition that affects women. The endometrium, the lining of the uterus, grows in places it shouldn't within the pelvic and abdominal cavities (i.e., the ovaries, the bowel, the fallopian tubes, the area just behind the uterus). And just like the endometrium thickens and sheds through menstruation every month if an egg is not fertilized, so too do these little spots. Except unlike the endometrium, they have nowhere to go. So they just collect there, inside these various spots outside of the uterus, and form lesions. Lesions which often lead to painful side effects, like bloating, severe cramps, heavy menstrual bleeding, and painful sexual relations. 
• Most seriously, endometriosis can often lead to problems conceiving, or worse, infertility. In fact, 30 to 40% of women who suffer from this condition are unable to get pregnant, giving endometriosis the dubious honour of being one of the top three leading causes of infertility in women.
• The condition is often misdiagnosed as bad PMS, ovarian cysts, irritable bowel syndrome, or pelvic inflammatory disease. 
• The average age at which women are diagnosed with endometriosis is 27. When you consider that the symptoms manifest themselves most painfully during menstruation, that is a lot of years to live in pain without knowing what is wrong.
• 176 million women worldwide suffer from endometriosis. To put this in context, in 2010, 1.5 million women worldwide were diagnosed with breast cancer (Source: Worldwide Breast Cancer).
• Endometriosis is not perceptible by ultrasound. It can only be diagnosed with laparoscopic surgery. 
• There is no consensus as to the causes of endometriosis. Is it hormonal? Is it genetic? We don't really know.
• There is no cure for endometriosis. Yet there are a number of treatments. These include hormonal contraceptives, steroids to induce menopause, laparoscopic excision to remove the lesions, and as a last resort, full or partial hysterectomy.

I have endometriosis.

I would not normally use my blog to talk about something quite so personal. I prefer this to be a spot to tell more humorous stories, to make you laugh, or at least shake your heads and question my sanity. But then again, I didn't know that it was Endometriosis Awareness Month until I saw my Twitter and Facebook feeds. And to raise awareness, one can't be silent. Besides, I have been cooped up at home for 4 days now, because, in extremely fitting timing (a coincidence, I assure you), I just had my third laparoscopic excision surgery a few days ago. And there is only so much Netflix a girl can watch while she convalesces at home with her dog watching over her (especially a Canadian girl, because you Yankees get way better shows on your Netflix than we do). So I might as well tell a little story. It's not a funny one. But maybe it will make you think a little bit more about women's health issues. Which is never a bad thing.

Compared to most women, I was diagnosed relatively young, at the age of nineteen. However, my journey with endometriosis began a few years before my diagnosis. It began, in fact, when I started my period in the eighth grade. It was heavy and messy. It was irregular. It was extremely painful. None of my girlfriends seemed to be in that kind of pain. Yet there I was, begging my mother to let me stay home from school once every month-ish so that I could curl up with a hot water bottle and a handful of Advil. My mother worried. She brought me to the doctor. "On a scale of one to ten," he asked me, "what is your pain." ""Nine and a half," I whimpered. The doctor smirked a little, looked at my Mom, and said, "Don't worry, Julie. Teenagers are always a little melodramatic. Your daughter just has bad PMS."

A few years later, when I was sixteen, I was rushed to the hospital in the middle of the night with extreme abdominal pain. It hurt so much that I could not sit, lie down, or stand up without wanting to scream. Although I had just started my period, the level and location of the pain had us all convinced that my appendix was about to burst. I was even prepped for surgery. But when the test results came back, my blood cell count showed no sign of infection. The doctors and nurses scrambled to reassess. "Describe the pain," the ER doctor said. "It feels like someone is cutting my insides with a knife," I said. They kept me in the hospital for three days, poking and prodding me and doing all sorts of tests. When they let me out, the doctor said, "Maybe you had a ruptured cyst on your ovary. Or maybe you just have really bad PMS. But there's nothing else wrong with you. Advil usually helps cramps. Next time, try that before you come to the hospital." He sent me home.

My mother recounted this ordeal to one of her best friends. Rhonda was a nurse. She also suffered from endometriosis. She had it so bad that at the age of 25, she had a full hysterectomy. "She has all the symptoms, Julie," Rhonda said. "You've gotta push them. They won't take her seriously because she is so young. But if you don't push now, she could end up like me."

My poor mom had no idea what to do. I mean, we lived in a small town in Manitoba. It's not like we had a bunch of doctors that we could turn to for second opinions. But she tried. She talked to our GP, told her about her friend who had endometriosis and lost her uterus at age 25, and asked for a referral to a gynaecologist. "Don't be silly, Julie," the doctor said. "She's far too young. Women in their thirties get endometriosis, not teenage girls. She just has bad PMS. Let's put her on the pill and call it a day."

I went off to university. The pain continued. On more than one occasion, in the middle of the night, I had to call a taxi to rush me to the emergency room, because I would wake up in abdominal agony. Every single time, they asked me the same questions: "On a scale of one to ten, what is the pain like?" and "Describe the pain." Every single time, I answered "Nine" or "Like someone is stabbing me with a knife from the inside." And every single time, they gave me a couple of extra strength Advil and sent me home.

I started to read about endometriosis on my own. I tracked my symptoms, what I ate, how it impacted me. And I just knew that I had it. So I made it my mission to find a doctor who would take me seriously. I went to six of them, trudging along my symptom journal to show them proof that this was more than just bad PMS, that this wasn't just in my head, and that I lived my day-to-day life in real and considerable pain. None of them believed me. All of them sent me away.

And then came doctor number seven. Like all the others, she started into the same speech: "Why on earth would you think you have endometriosis? You are far too young for that!" Only this time, I would not, could not, accept no for an answer. With anger dripping from my voice, I told her that I was sick and tired of everyone telling me that I was too young to know what was going on with my own body. I told her that it was unfair that all of these doctors asked me to just accept my pain and live with it. I told her that I wasn't asking her to do the diagnostic surgery just so I could get out of doing a couple of mid-term exams. I told her that I knew that something wasn't right with my body and more importantly, that I deserved to know what it was. And I told her that I was scared. Scared that if it took me another ten years and thirty more condescending doctors like her, I might end up like Rhonda.

"Do you want children," the doctor asked?

"I don't know," I screamed. "I'm too f$#?ing young to know. But I'd at least like to preserve the option."

So she agreed. A few weeks later, at the Ottawa General Hospital, I woke up in the recovery room, groggy as hell from the anesthetic, when a nurse handed me a note that said, "You have stage 2 (of 4) endometriosis. Lesions on your ovaries and in your cul-de-sac (the area behind the uterus). We cauterized them with the laser. Make a follow-up appointment for 4 weeks from now and we'll discuss next steps."

I cried. Yes, I was sad. But there were tears of joy mixed in there. As misplaced as joy sounds when one is diagnosed with an incurable condition, that is indeed a big part of what I was feeling. That, and relief. I wasn't crazy. It wasn't "just bad PMS". It was a real condition with a real name, which meant real treatment options and real chances of feeling better. It meant hope.

And, I would discover, diagnosis would also mean experimenting, frustration, continued pain, and a whole lot of unknowns. Because that's the thing about endometriosis. What works for one woman doesn't work for another. Removing the lesions should have, in theory, made things better, at least for a little while. Only it brought no relief. My symptoms persisted. Quite severely, in fact. I was in so much pain that my doctor, who by this point, I suspect, was tired of hearing me complain and whine, put me on danazol, a steroid that launched my body into menopause. At the age of nineteen. I grew hair on my chin. I gained fifteen pounds. I had hot flashes. I had frightening mood swings. At nineteen. No nineteen year old is psychologically prepared for that kind of torture. Whether it was right or wrong, I took myself off of the medication one month earlier than I should have. I skipped my next follow-up with my doctor. And I started looking for a new one.

This, in fact, turned out to be the best decision that I ever made. Because sixteen years later, I am still with the same gynaecologist. Unlike every other doctor I have known, he takes me seriously. He cares about what is going on, both inside of my body and inside of my mind. He painstakingly explains every option to me, draws me pictures of my uterus so that he can explain to me what is going on, calls me "dear" as though I really matter to him, opens his office doors to me at 7:00 in the morning if I need to come and see him for an emergency, and most importantly, admits it when he doesn't have all the answers. He understands that he is fallible, and isn't ashamed to send me to experts more knowledgeable than him when the time comes. It hasn't been easy and it hasn't been without some degree of frustration, but he has been patient enough to try everything that he can think of to help me manage my endometriosis. And for the most part, he has been successful.

I say "for the most part" because endometriosis has no cure. And so it can, and does, rear its ugly head every now and again. There have been more nights when I have landed in the ER. There have been experiments with different medications. There has been an IUD. Some of these medications have caused other complications, like polycystic ovaries and ruptured ovarian cysts. There has been a second surgery, to remove both a ruptured cyst that was choking off my ovary and the endometrial lesions that returned. Always, the symptoms lessen for a time - sometimes years. And always they, along with the pain, come back again.

Which is why, four days ago, I found myself in the hospital, undergoing my third laparoscopy in 17 years. After ten years mostly at rest, the symptoms returned with a vengeance. Normal, I am told, for a woman my age. Also normal, I am told, for the condition to re-appear after so much time has lapsed since the last excision. And so both the surgeon and I expected that he would open me up for a routine laparoscopy, find the expected lesions on my ovaries and in my cul-de-sac, cauterize them with a laser, stitch me back up, and send me on my way.

Except this time, things turned out a little differently. The endometriosis they expected to find wasn't there (good news). A walnut-sized fibroid was there instead (bad news). This fibroid can be removed (good news). But not without taking my uterus with it (WTF???).

So they didn't take it out. Because they didn't have my consent to conduct a hysterectomy. Instead, they sewed me back up and sent me on my way.

And now I am left with this incredible feeling of "Now what?"

Seriously. Now what? I'm relieved that there was no endometriosis, but there is still pain. Is that pain caused by this fibroid? Will the pain remain if they can't remove the fibroid? But if the only way to remove the fibroid is to take out my uterus, do I really want them to go there? Or do I just suck it up and live with the pain? And what kind of option is that anyway? Why should I have to choose between shouldn't-have-to-live-this-way and not-ready-to-make-such-a-big-decision? And most of all, why can't I catch an 'effin break???

That's right. There's a little bit of self-pity. It isn't enough that I lived through nights in the ER, hospitalizations and seven doctors before someone took me seriously enough to check for endometriosis. It isn't enough that I went through steroid-induced menopause when I was far too young and ill-prepared. It isn't enough that in a decade and a half, I have swallowed a cocktail of hormones, that surgeries have been unsuccessful and have had to be repeated, and that I still deal with discomfort and pain on a monthly basis. Now I have a walnut-sized fibroid that is forcing me to decide whether or not to keep my uterus? Seriously, who the hell did I piss off?

Now those of you who know me might be saying to yourselves, "But wait a minute, Jay. You don't even want kids. So you don't need your uterus. Is this really such a big deal?" And the answer to that is "Yes. Yes it is a big deal."

I can't explain why. And I'm certainly not proud of this fact. But like it or not, a woman's identity is wrapped up in layers upon layers of sexual and reproductive identity. This is why I was so desperate in my earlier years to be diagnosed. The image of Rhonda, who lost her uterus at age 25, shook me to the core. I didn't want to, as I saw it then, stop being a woman. Even now that I know I don't want kids, I still take great comfort in the thought that this is a conscious choice that I made, not an option that was removed from me because of lesions and cysts and fibroids.

I have spent the better part of my adult life trying to separate my self-identity and self-worth from my reproductive system. I have tried to equate being a woman with being a sister, a daughter, a wife, an aunt, and a friend, instead of with having a fully functioning uterus. Being in a loving relationship and realizing that I don't actually want children really helped. Or so I thought. Until faced with this latest choice to make. And now I don't quite know what to do.

Which brings us back to Endometriosis Awareness Month. Social media didn't exist seventeen years ago when I was diagnosed. But now, virtual communities of women who survive this condition have popped up all over the place. They write blogs. They run forums. They tout slogans like "Fight like a girl" or "I have endo, endo doesn't have me." These networks allow us to talk to one another, to ask questions, to seek advice, to inspire, to cry with one another, to offer support, and most importantly, to offer hope, the kind of hope that can only come from knowing that you are not alone.

In a few days, I'll be back at work. In another couple of weeks, I'll hopefully be back to running and going to the gym and even (sigh) yoga. In four weeks, when things will have mostly returned to normal, I'll sit down with my surgeon to discuss next steps. I don't know what I am going to do, or what I will decide. But I do know this. Those slogans are right. I am not defined by my messed up uterus, whether it is inside of me or not. But I am defined by the journey that it has taken me on. I am a stronger, better, more self-assured woman because of what I have learned about myself along the way. And so there really is only one thing to do... In fact, it's what I have always done this whole time...

Keep on fighting. Like a girl. Because I will always be a girl, no matter what happens next.

Love is in the air...

Am I the only one who finds Valentine's Day stressful?

February 14th has always been the most stressful, angst-ridden day of the year. From the time that I was in grade school until now. 

First there were all those silly little Valentine's Day cards that I had to fill out and give to everyone in my class. Even the people that I didn't like. Which was particularly stressful because I didn't want to give someone I didn't like the impression that I liked him by giving him a suggestive Valentine's message. Remember what happened to Lisa Simpson when she gave Ralph a Valentine's Day card... He fell head over heels in love with her and she couldn't get rid of him!

And then there was the receiving of said Valentine's cards. When I ached with every ounce of my being for the guy I had a crush on to give me the biggest, most beautiful, most love-proclaiming card, only to watch him give it to my best friend instead. And only to find that the guy who I really didn't like gave me his biggest and best Valentine's card. Because he's been crushing on me since Kindergarten... 

And then, in junior high, I was old enough to start dating. Except everyone else in my class was dating and I still wasn't. And so come Valentine's Day, I had to watch all of my girlfriends receive roses and chocolates from their boyfriends, while I spent recess hiding out in the bathroom because the guy that I didn't like - who was still crushing on me - brought flowers to school to give to me... 

And then there was high school. When I finally had a real boyfriend and I stayed up every night for weeks on end agonizing over the perfect gift to get him (a gold bracelet with his name engraved on the back - which in hindsight was uber tacky, but it was the early nineties...). Only to find out that he'd forgotten that it was Valentine's Day, and that during his spare, he had to run to the pharmacy and grab some cinnamon heart candies and a small stuffed bear to have something to give me at lunch. Gee... Thanks....

And then there was my first adult relationship in university. My first serious relationship. At least I thought that it is serious. Which is why I spent a week planning a romantic dinner in my apartment, complete with the gift of that stunning watch that he had been eyeing for the whole semester. Except that I never bothered to tell him that I wanted to spend Valentine's Day with him, figuring that this was a given in a serious adult relationship. Only it was not a given for him. Nor was it a serious adult relationship in his mind. Because he had already made plans to hang out with his buddies and watch the hockey game. Did I want to come and have a few beers? No? Alright, well, enjoy your chicken cacciatore...

And then there was my third year university, when I was not in a relationship, but decided to make plans to go out for dinner with my best friend - a girl - anyway. Only to arrive at the restaurant and have everyone assume that we were a couple (the waiter congratulated us on being so open about our relationship and then asked us how long we had been together). Because two single girls can't possibly go out to a nice dinner together on February 14th unless they are a lesbian couple...

Even now, as a married woman who is completely head over heels in love with her husband, I find Valentine's Day stressful. There is so much pressure to "do something", to look at this day as special above all others. To spend ridiculous amounts of money on lavish gifts and dinners and flowers. To show everyone how much you love each other with extremely public displays of affection.

Last year, I ended up having to travel to British Columbia for a meeting on Valentine's Day. I didn't get back until February 15th. One of my colleagues almost had a heart attack thinking about me spending Valentine's Day alone in a hotel room, far away from my husband. "That's so sad, Jay!" she said to me. When I told her not to worry because Hubby and I have never really celebrated V-Day anyway, she looked at me like I had just told her that I had murdered her family. "You mean you never celebrate Valentine's Day? But it's the most romantic day of the year?!?! I am sooooooo sad for you!"

Now don't get me wrong. I get that lots of people want to go out of their way to do something special with the one they love on Valentine's Day. And I don't have a problem with that. If it means that much to you, go ahead and do something wildly romantic. But isn't this notion that Valentine's Day is desperately lonely unless you are with someone you love just a wee bit melodramatic? I mean, Hubby and I wake up together almost every single other day of the year. We tell each other every day - whether we are in the same city or not - that we love each other. We surprise each other with "just because" gifts at random times of the year, for no reason other than because we want to make each other smile. And we make time for each other - even if it is only a few fleeting moments - each and every day. Do we really need February 14th?

Social convention says that we do. (Then again, social convention says that we should get married and have kids. We almost didn't even bother with the marriage part, and we all know how I feel about having kids). But social convention is just going to have to accept that Hubby and I are decidedly unconventional.

And so on Thursday, millions of kids across North America (and possibly elsewhere - admittedly I am not very familiar with Valentine's traditions the world over) will go off to school with a backpack full of cards to hand out. High school students will walk through the hallways holding hands, and maybe make out a little when the teachers aren't looking. Florists, jewelry stores, spas and chocolatiers will be endlessly busy. Amateur chefs will turn their kitchens upside down to make the perfect Valentine's Day dinner for their lovers. Others will make reservations at the fanciest of restaurants and leave the mess-making to the experts. A few people might even get engaged and have a dramatically romantic story to tell all of their friends. And that is all wonderful and great and special and lovely.

As for Hubby and I, we will spend a night like many others that we spend together. He has already told me that he wants to make pizza, and that he will pair it with a bottle of Veuve Cliquot, since we have so many of these in our wine cellar. We will cuddle on the couch while we watch reruns of Yes, Prime Minister, which will make us laugh. We will probably be in our pyjamas. Fergus will probably be bugging us to play fetch. I doubt that there will be any roses or chocolate or jewels or gifts of any kind.

But I promise you that there will be no shortage of love. 

The same as all other 364 days of the year.

Fall back

A quick read on my Facebook and Twitter feeds over the past weekend has left me thinking that most people hate the back and forth between daylight savings and standard time.

My question is this:

Why?

My second question is this:

No seriously, why? Don't you have better things to worry about?

Okay, okay, I get it. Moving the clocks forward every spring means that you lose an hour of precious sleep, and yes, that kind of sucks. But isn't that a small price to pay for having an extra hour of daylight? For leaving work and seeing the sun still up relatively high in the sky? For having a couple of hours of patio time to kick back a beer after a hard day at work? For farmers having a longer day to get their crops in and to work in the fields? 

And don't even pretend that the extra hour of sleep on the eve of returning to standard time is not something that you have always looked forward to. Think back to your drunken university days, and I dare you to tell me that you didn't get extra excited to know that for one night of the year, all the bars were open until 3:00 instead of 2:00, giving you a whole extra hour to dance, to pick up, and to get slammed. 

And even now that we are all a little bit more mature, a lot more busy, and even a lot more stressed, the idea of an extra hour of sleep is positively intoxicating. Because let's face it. Who gets enough sleep?

Yet all day yesterday, Facebook was filled with complaints about the return to standard time. Pictures of the city skyline at the "new" dusk (5:00 pm). Taglines that read "It's time to get rid of daylight savings time" (which is funny because turning the clock back is the end of daylight savings time) or "Winter sucks" or "I want the light back" or the simple yet eloquent ":(".

But my favourite Facebook complaint yesterday went something like this: "I wish someone would tell (insert kid's name here) that turning the clocks back means an extra hour of sleep." Parents everywhere were up at 4:00 or 5:00 a.m. because, despite their best efforts to keep the wee ones up late the night before, the body clock does what the body clock does... 

Well, I have no kids, so this isn't a problem for me. And I guess I am a little bit unsympathetic. Especially as I selfishly enjoyed that extra hour of sleep with nothing to force me out of my warm bed...

The thing is that I love this time of year. The trees changing colours, the crisp chill in the air, hikes through falling leaves in Gatineau Park... But one of the things that I love most about this time of year is that I am a morning person. And by turning the clocks back, I get a few more precious hours, ever dwindling that they may be until December 21st, of sunlight in the morning.

This very morning, I woke up at 5:45 and was greeted by dark. I puttered around the house to find my slightly-more-insulated running gear (since it was -9 with the windchill), my running head-light, and Fergus' blinking white collar light. By 6:20, we were ready to go. I opened the door, and was instantly reminded of the return to standard time when I saw that the sky was decidedly brighter than it had been 20 minutes earlier. So I took off my head lamp, turned off the Beast's collar light, and set out for a brisk 8k run. When I got to the end of Preston Street, I was supposed to turn left to follow the path along the canal. But then I realized that we could actually run into the Arboretum this morning. This is, of course, Fergus' favourite place in the whole wide world, but we have not run through here in at least 4 weeks because it is not well lit. And it is never a good idea for a lone runner - even with a dog - to run through an unlit area. 

And so, for the first time in 4 weeks, the Beast got to run off-leash at 6:30 in the morning while we went on our run. And I got to enjoy another weekday morning in the peaceful Arboretum, which is undoubtedly a much better way to greet the day than the busy (although well-lit) city streets. And the best part of all is that, on our way back, the sun was actually up in the sky, and I actually wished that I had my sunglasses with me because it was so bright. 

Yes, it will be a little sad to come out of work today and to see the dusk settling in. And yes, the shorter days will soon win out and I'll be back to running in the dark - with Fergus no longer able to go off-leash - for a couple of long months. But I, for one, am going to enjoy these next precious few mornings of sunlight. And so is Fergus.

And so will the school kids, I would wager, who no longer have to wait for the school bus in the dark... So you see, parents, there are plenty of good reasons to turn the clocks back. 

Evolution

Do you know what is missing on the Internet?

Blogs about couples who don't have kids. And by this, I don't mean couples who have tried unsuccessfully to have children. I mean couples who have made the conscious choice not to have kids. Couples who are happy in a family that does not include little people. Couples who enjoy doing lots of fun stuff with other adults. Couples like Hubby and me.

I never really realized it until I ended up a passenger in the same car as Erica Ehm (yeah, that's right... I hang out with B-List Canadian celebrities.... You know you are jealous!). And what does a former MuchMusic V.J. do now, you ask? Well, click on her name and find out for yourself! She writes a blog about being a Mom. A "yummy mummy", no less! Offering piles and piles of advice to women who raise children. If you're a mom, you should check it out! It's a pretty good website!

And it is far from being the only one. Go ahead and Google any derivative of the word "mom" and "blog" and you will be bombarded with hits from almost every corner of the globe. Even dads are active in the blogosphere. Parents the world over want to talk to each other - and to the rest of us - about how wonderful it is to raise children. They give advice. They tell funny/sad/happy/infuriating stories. They give product reviews. They solve one another's child-rearing dilemmas. They debate issues like private vs. public education. They share pictures. They... Well, you get the point. There is no lack of blog authors out there talking about parenthood.

Which is totally great! If you are a parent and you are looking for advice, stories, debates, pictures, product reviews, etc... on kid stuff.

But what if you are, say, a couple like Hubby and I who choose not to have children? You might not care so much about where to find the most stylish maternity clothes. Or what the best running stroller is. Or that toys made from recycled materials instill social responsibility in children at a young age. Instead, you might want to share experiences with other like-minded people. For instance, you might want to chat with other people who spent the summer travelling across the northeastern US to see Springsteen in concert because they don't have to sock money away for their children's university education. Or you might want to post photos of your not-one-Disney-character-in-sight family vacation through the wineries of Provence and Bordeaux. Or maybe the words "mini" and "van" don't exist in your vocabulary, and you would rather read about how the sporty BMW Z4 Roadster handles on the highway.

Where do you go?

Sadly, there are very little places. I know. I Googled. And I found very few. And I don't even really follow any because they are, well, really bitter. Bitter because of all the moms and dads out there and the pressure that they feel to, well, breed.

The fact of the matter is that, although the concept of family continues to evolve, our collective psyche cannot shake the image of children standing at its centre. Take Modern Family (hilarious - I know. Who doesn't LOVE Phil!!!!) as an example. Three very different families, all of them with... yep... kids. Paunchy, middle-aged man marries a smokin' hot wife a couple of years younger than his own kids, and finds himself raising a step-son. His gay son is in a loving partnership, where something was missing until they adopted a child. And his daughter goes the more traditional route, marrying her high-school sweetheart and becoming a stay-at-home mom to 3 children.

... Maybe Modern Family would be more modern if there was a third adult child who gets a dog instead of a kid, and who travels across the continent with her husband - who she waited 7 years to marry - watching football games and Springsteen concerts...

Anyway, you are probably asking yourselves what this has to do with, well, anything. More importantly, what does it have to do Mr. Fergus.

Well, nothing, actually. And that is the point. I have decided that, as inspiring of a muse as Mr. Fergus has turned out to be, I have other, non-dog experiences that I want to share. And the monologue about family is because I realize that many of these experiences and stories are shaped by the life that I have chosen to live. And a key feature of that life is my family. Which includes no children. And which, quite frankly, allows me to do a whole bunch of fun things that would lead to hilarious stories if my blog wasn't entirely devoted to my furriest friend.

So it is time for the blog to evolve. I am carving out a space for other stories that I want to share. Some stories will involve the Beast. Others will not. But dog lovers, fear not. If you are only interested in puppy antics, look for the label "Fergus". If you don't find it, read anyway. You might be presently surprised that funny things happen to me when the Beast isn't around.

But be warned. The chances are good that I will be talking about Bruce Springsteen. Or football.

Dog park rules

I've written about dog parks once or twice in this blog. Maybe even three times. What can I say? I spend a lot of time in them.

All of the countless hours that I have spent in these parks has led me to one very important conclusion: dog parks are kind of odd little places. I mean, for the most part, the dogs are pretty normal. But the people who frequent the parks, well, let's just say not all of them are normal. Like the guy I met once who challenged another guy to a parking lot fight because the other guy's dog lunged at the Beast. I mean, yeah, sure, it was, er, um, kind of sweet, I guess, that he wanted to protect the Beast. But a fist fight? In the parking lot? With so much foul language? I mean, that is sooooooo high school.... (roll eyes here).

To be fair, the vast majority of dog park goers are not this scary interesting. But still the crew of dog-park-goers does form a subculture of sorts, differentiated from mainstream society by a series of distinct characteristics. Such as:

• a unique fashion sense: I call it the "dog park clothes" line, not to be confused with the lounging around in my Lululemons line. No, Lulus are too high end for the average dog-park-goer. The dog park clothes line consists of anything ratty and even slightly distasteful, but definitely NOT black (no matter how slimming), so that it can be worn freely in dog-slobber and fur-filled environment without fear. Rubber boots are optional. My own dog park wardrobe consists of a pair of jeans bought at Value Village (oh the shame) for 7$, and a pair of sweat pants with a leopard down the side (not leopard print, an actual leopard). 

• a distinct patois: Similar in tone to baby-talk in that it is higher in pitch than normal speech, but all that cooing is replaced with "good boy" and "find your ball" in a very excitable tone.

• a love of sporting various accoutrements: The typical dog-park-goer can be spotted from a mile away, because they have a leash worn across their chest (much like Chewbacca's ammunition belt), a poop-baggie holder of some sort clipped to their waist, and a fanny pack full of treats and toys. It's like they are daring others to call them "uncool".

But most importantly, as with all subcultures, the dog park crew has established an intricate set of rules that one must follow if they truly wish to belong. These rules are not written down anywhere. I have learned them through countless hours of observation. So I am doing you all a favour (you're welcome) and writing out the top ten here, so that you don't have to go through the ridicule and embarrassment that has been my last 9 months of trying to learn the ropes so that I can truly join this cult intricate and exciting social group.

10 - Judge all the other dogs in the park as inferiour to your own
There is not one dog in this park who is as handsome/well-behaved/fast/fun/insert-any-other-word-here-that-you-would-like as your own beloved pooch. So judge harshly and judge freely. You have the option of doing this on your own, by silently standing back in a corner, shaking your head, and muttering obscenities under your breath. Or you can pair up with a like-minded dog-park-goer and judge together. It's more satisfying that way.

9 - Judge all the other people in the park as inferiour to you
Maybe you think she's too strict with her dog. Maybe you think she's not strict enough. Whatever. She's obviously doing everything wrong and ruining her dog. Which means that her dog will probably end up in a shelter and someone else will have to deal with its shit. So you should judge that bitch. (Again, this can be done alone or in groups, depending on your mood). 

8 - Throw your bags of poop in the garbage can that is clearly marked "No dog waste"
Why not? Everyone does it. It is overflowing with a rainbow of colourful poop bags. So what if it is smells like, well, shit whenever the wind changes directions? 

7 - Ignore your dog
Seriously. If you want to be cool at a dog park, you have to ignore your dog, and either sit on a bench and smoke cigarettes with your human friends, or talk on the phone with your human friends. And you should dismiss all of the uncool humans who are debasing themselves by playing fetch with their dogs. Losers. 

6 - Make excuses for your dog's bad behaviour, but then do nothing about it
"Oh, he's a rescue" or "Oh, he's a herding dog" (ahem) or "Oh, don't worry, he's not actually going to pierce skin when he bites your dog's neck like that" are all phrases uttered at the dog park by people who then resume rule #7 immediately thereafter. Even when their dog eventually does pierce skin. 

5 - Bring food into the dog park at will, and expect all the other dogs to behave politely despite this olfactory overload
Well d'uh! Of course you should be allowed to slip into the dog park with an ice cream cone and be able to eat it in peace while surrounded by 10-20 dogs, 90% of which are quite likely food obsessed because, um, THEY ARE DOGS!!!  Then get mad at the dogs and their owners when you get surrounded and the Lab grabs your snack.  

4 - Brag about your latest dog gadget
Maybe it's a cool ball chucker. Maybe it's a glow in the dark collar. Maybe it's retractable leash with laser beams that come out of it. Whatever it is, brag about it at will to everyone who will listen so that they know just how much more you obviously love your dog than they love theirs, and then resume rule #9. And possibly rule #6 when your overly-spoiled and undisciplined dog starts biting another dog's neck. 

3 - Give children the dirty eye
Children have NO PLACE being in a dog park. Even if they are there with a dog. All they do is run around, make loud noises, and rile up the dogs. And then when the dogs jump on them, they cry. And their adults get mad at the dog and its owner. And there is usually an argument, which gets the kid and the dogs riled up even more until it descends into a messy, tear and bark filled downward spiral. Best to simply not let children come into the dog park. After all, they have their own parks. You know, the ones with monkey bars. 

2 - Give unsolicited advice. About everything.
"I think your dog barks so much because he's anxious. Why don't you bring him in to see a behaviourist?" or "Does your dog pull? You should get this harness!" or "Why are you feeding him Fromm's? You should definitely be giving him Origins!" It doesn't matter what the issue is that you do NOT need help with, someone will try to help you out anyway. Out of the kindness of their heart and for the good of your dog, of course. (Not unlike the unsolicited advice that other people give you when you are planning a wedding or raising a child...)

And finally, the number one rule of the dog-park subculture is....

(Insert drum roll here...) 

1 - HENCEFORTH, THOU SHALT BE KNOWN BY THY DOG'S NAME, AND ONLY BY THY DOG'S NAME
No one will introduce themselves to you by name. No one will ask you your name. No one will say hi to you directly. But they will introduce you to their dog. They will ask you your dog's name. And they will say hi to your dog the next time they see you instead of to you. Even if they spend fifteen minutes chatting with you every day for the rest of their dog's life, it is quite likely that you will never know their name. And don't make the mistake of asking. Because they don't know how to respond with anything other than a blank stare and a reiteration of their dog's name.

************************

So there you have it! Dog Park 101. Now you are guaranteed to fit in and you can navigate the dog park with ease (again, you're welcome).

Or you can do like I do: spend the whole time in the dog park playing with your dog, and occasionally chatting with a nice adult that you have just met and who actually knows your name because you were brave enough to introduce yourself to him.

Either way, have fun!