Why does it happen? - A not so happy tale...

Preamble, the grammar and sentence structure sucks.  I am writing similar to how I think, run on sentences and trailing thoughts.

Many of these thoughts are my memories, and as years pass they become jumbled - confused and maybe romanticized.

I was eight and my mom was sick.  With what I never really knew and what it meant I didn't comprehend.  Christmas 1980 was a sombre one, I don't remember much but I do know that.  I got a baton and was twirling it around like the majorette I would never become in the bedroom while my mom watched, hooked up to a tank via her nose.  I pranced....

Then she was gone... First in an ambulance, then just gone.  People came, cried, ate and left.  "She's dead", said they, "I know", said I.

Fast forward many years. Grandmothers passed, Uncles passed.  I attended funerals but watched - disconnected from it all.  Disengaged, isolated (perhaps not physically but emotionally).  It was like an abstract painting, you see it but you just don't understand what the hell is going on.

It's 1998 and I don't feel well.  Tired, bleeding and I look like a very plump Goodyear blimp with eyes similar to the ones of a  hemophiliac.  But I ignore it, and keep going.

It's 1999. My dad calls and is upset, someone from home saw me in Halifax and called him to say that I looked sick.  He said "Get your arse to the Doctor young lady".  I listen to my dad.

I went to a doctor, then another, then another...  News wasn't good.  The prognosis was...  Some months later I was in recovery and free of the disease.

Fast forward another chunk of years.  My dad is getting on - not feeling well.  He goes to the doctor once, twice, three times, four. Finally they find out what it is....

He's battling and some days he is winning and some days he is fighting to be himself.

Still an abstract painting though, but I sit and watch - waiting for clarity to come.

Another generation waits with me - grasping for the meaning.  Afraid of what is to come but perhaps not paying attention to it.

My nephew is smarter than I am.  He doesn't sit and wait - he does something.  This is him, helping Poppy fight now and Nanny Dora who lost the fight way before he was born.  I am not asking you to contribute - just look at an 11 year old child who plays sports, rides bikes and sometimes acts like an arse and know....  sometimes they get it.

Shave for the Brave - Daniel


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