My friendship with Kelly was not woven from daily calls or regular visits. It was an ‘every-once-in-a-while’ tapestry, stretching back to our high school days when we first met in the school’s smoking area. Through the years, there were periods of phone calls, visits, and parties, then months would pass with little contact. Years followed with no visits or verbal communication, but they were sprinkled with Christmas cards…Kelly was the more diligent sender. Our lives wandered in different directions; sometimes, it was life’s circumstances, but most of the time, it happened for no particular reason. 

One day, a Facebook find prompted a rekindled friendship, and we resumed effortlessly.   It was fun catching up.   I was delighted to hear Kelly had a new husband, a new career, and a new address.   She was happy.

A few years later, a random visit resulted in me purchasing Kelly’s and her husband Peter’s beautiful old north London home.

All became quiet again. This pattern evolved for much of our adult life until some force would cause a reconnection. 

The next ‘force’ came via Canada Post. At the time, I couldn’t have imagined this would be our last earthy reconnection.  

After not seeing Kelly and Peter for several years, I received letters addressed to them at my house, their previous residence. I did not think much of it at the time, but in hindsight, I found it peculiar or even cosmic that I would receive not just one but three letters from different senders. Kelly and Peter had not lived here for close to ten years. 

After several weeks of emails, Kelly and I caught up on what was going on in our respective lives.   I looked forward to Kelly’s emails. She had a unique way of telling a story, often writing about her advocacy against inequality, injustice, and ridiculous world events. Positive or negative, her writing style didn’t hold back, and her emails were packed with humour. 

With the excitement of an early spring, I felt happy. As with every year I anticipated the vast embroideries of new outdoor colours. Spring was always a time of fresh growth and new beginnings. A season where everyone seems to have a bounce and renewed life spirit…

But this year, spring brought a deflating wallop. An email arrived from Kelly in which she referred to as a black comedy. It had been written in the early morning hours. 

Kelly had been presented with the sort of news we all dread. 

I decided to pause my world and commit myself to supporting my friend’s journey back to wellness. There was always hope, right? Some cancers are curable. Maybe the doctors had mixed up patient charts. Perhaps the radiologists misread the results, or the maintenance staff were too busy to clean the MRI lenses that day. 

Week after week, Kelly received a myriad of tests, then speculations, then hints of predictions of what was to come. The messages from doctors became more dismal and less hopeful with each MRI. Until one day, a brave doctor finally responded, after Kelly insisted on hearing the truth, “You have days to weeks to live. With chemotherapy, you have months.” 

Kelly had a rare form of cancer that spread quickly. It was so rare doctors couldn’t identify it earlier. 

In my front office in the house Kelly and Peter had sold me a decade prior, I was screaming at my Herbie (ChatGPT) through the pounding of my keyboard, desperately seeking answers. Herbie’s responses seemed senseless. Perhaps he was baffled by my grief-distorted queries. I thought to myself, if Artificial Intelligence is so damn intelligent, where are the answers that will save my friend?  

Kelly and I continued to write almost every day…. well maybe it is better to say, Kelly kindly continued to respond to my emails. It was comforting for me because her responses reassured me she was doing okay. It saved me from unintentionally pressuring her to repeat the details of her dire situation. I still looked forward to her emails but, at times, had some anxiety about opening them in case there was any more black humour. 

I now had a new problem; one I had never experienced. I didn’t know what to talk about. For the first time in the 40 years, I had known Kelly, I felt awkward. Do I ask her questions about her illness? Do I accept what her doctors are saying, or do I put my head back in the comforts of the sand? 

Talking about myself would be the easiest thing to do. But honestly, boring Kelly to death seemed counterproductive. Some stuff I typically deemed report-worthy suddenly seemed trivial compared to her situation. It didn’t seem fair to talk about such events, given she was sick at home. Did she want to hear about my grandchildren, girlfriend lunches or travel plans? 

The answer to my problem came in early August. Amidst all the turmoil of Kelly’s life, she sent out threads into the universal winds, an email to her friends and family seeking assistance for a dream project….a bucket list item….her final wish. In her basement lay a dormant project…a dollhouse, awaiting assembly for over twenty years. 

Kelly’s quest began to find a person with a unique blend of patience, time, and talent in doll house assembly. She found such a kind soul, a new friend, who would be later affectionately nicknamed Dollhouse Dave. 

Kelly had a mission. I had the honour of being included. It was a unique opportunity to be part of her journey. 

And the silver lining….the dollhouse project gave us plenty to talk about while I was avoiding reality. We discussed what colours Kelly would choose for the dining room walls, which dishes to set the table with, how to arrange the autumn decorations on the front porch, Christmas décor, and how to best represent all the people and events in the house who were important to her in life.

Seemingly, not so long ago, our carefree younger days consisted of alcohol, cigarettes, and planning the following weekend’s social events of our teenaged youth. Spinning forward, those visits morphed into treasured hours with coffee, baby cookies, and dollhouse construction. Kelly refused help with household chores, preferring those shared afternoons of creativity instead.

Kelly stayed busy working on her new dollhouse, enlisting the help of her husband and available friends. Her emails became infused with positivity and enthusiasm as she immersed herself in decorating her dollhouse. The project breathed new life into her. She once wrote to me she was so excited about this dollhouse work. Kelly said it was the first thing she thought about when she woke up in the morning.

I began to nurture, no obsess a growing hope, seeing this project as a chance to defy the doctor’s earlier medical predictions. I started envisioning ways to expand the dollhouse, adding a granny suite, a garage, a pool, a pool house, a pool boy…anything that might prolong her excitement and, in turn, her life. 

By her design, many details of the dollhouse held significance in Kelly’s life. For example, ‘Dollhouse Dave,’ was represented in the house by a miniature toolbox. Kelly had figurines for each beloved cat and dog companion, and her best friend had a new pair of red boots by the fireplace. The house number at the front door was a tribute to the day she met her dear Peter. 

As a creative, expressive person, Kelly could weave a beautiful story, leaving lasting impressions. Created from an original cloth, Kelly directness, unique spirit, thoughts of others, compassion for people she did not know and love for her husband and her four-legged fur family were her defining traits. And her dollhouse legacy demonstrated all of this. 

During a visit to Kelly and Peter’s home one night, there was a brief moment which felt like old times. I was visiting my old friend from high school. In that instant, I had forgotten she had just completed a round of chemotherapy, I had forgotten she wasn’t sleeping or eating well, I had forgotten she was on potent medication. In that instant, I said, “Let’s have a glass of wine!” With a twinkle and a lighthearted tone, as if she were trying to eliminate sugar as part of a New Year’s resolution, she said, “No thanks, I am trying to cut back!”

Kelly hit a funny bone in me, causing an unshackled, ‘in the moment’ laugh. Only to be immediately handcuffed within seconds when Kelly’s reality slapped me. I scolded myself because I should not have been laughing. Kelly continued to smile, allowing me to enjoy the sense of humour she had always shared. She was not about to let a terminal diagnosis change that. 

So, you can imagine how honoured I was when Kelly presented me with a beautiful gift. My representation in her life’s dollhouse, was a miniature bottle of wine and a lovely set of wine glasses. 

Inspired by Kelly, I have started planning my own dollhouse for my life. A project I hope to work on with my grandchildren. 

Remarkably, Kelly lived another four months. 

In the end, I was delighted for my friend, who was able to fill her dollhouse with memories of friendships and a life well lived. Most of all, I am happy my friend shared many years with a kind, supportive husband …actually a prince of a man who insisted on caring for his wife despite some colossal challenges of his own. 

When Kelly transitioned in the wee morning hours of December, a life cut far too short, the world became a different place. While leaving a new canvas to the many lives she touched, there was an unstitchable void for those close to her. One thing is certain, the world is richer masterpiece because Kelly was here. 

Regardless of the type of relationship we had, my life too is better because Kelly was my friend. I am touched and grateful she wove me in her Dollhouse Tapestry of Friendship.  

Thank you Unsplash for the photo by Martin Sanchez

I was caught off guard when my phone vibrated, and the name “Marissa” was illuminated on my caller ID. This was the first actual call from my adult niece…ever.  Sure, we text, but that is also a rarity, except for annual messages for birthday wishes and Christmas cheers. It is not a complaint; that is just the natural order of our family’s universe. 

I had mixed emotions to see her name on my call display.  I was at first excited that she was calling me.  But within seconds, that excitement morphed into a perplexing ‘Oh no, why is she calling?’ Her generation does not make calls…they text.

With an uneasiness, I cautiously answered, “Hello…?” It was not that I doubted Marissa was on the other end; it was more like a ‘What has happened’ question.  My mind raced through a myriad of apocalyptic scenarios involving my sister (Marissa’s mother) or perhaps even my own mother.  What could be the reason that my niece dialled my number?

Marissa was calling from downtown, where she and her friend Hanna were channelling their detective skills.  The mystery they were unravelling involved Hanna’s lost phone which had vanished outside a bar the previous night.

Armed with the iPhone tracker application on Marissa’s phone, they pinpointed the location of Hanna’s phone to Richmond and King Street. It was a block away from where they were and the signal showed Hannah’s phone moving toward them.

Hannah and Marissa watched a crowd of people walk toward them trying to identify which person might have the phone.

Toward the end of the crowd a straggler walked sluggishly with a limp. The girls describe him to be wearing soiled clothing. He wore cut off jean shorts and a heavy blue sweatshirt. His hair was matted, with greasy ends dangling in his face. His hands neglected with dirt and scabs held Hannah’s rose coloured iPhone. The girls watched him walk right by them, both physically on the street and on Marissa’s iPhone tracker. 

Their call to the police non-emergency line to explain their situation had left them hanging with questions about call backs and what steps to take next.  They waited and waited and waited, but no return call came.

That is what prompted them to call me.  My ‘auntie sense’ strongly emphasized that they call 911, and under no circumstances were they to play Nancy Drew with the guy. But they already knew enough not to approach the stranger.

Our city’s downtown can be an unsafe place, and I was concerned for them.  “I am on my way,” I told Marissa and hung up.

Hanna and Marissa made the call, but the 911 operator essentially directed them to call the non-emergency line.”

I had a slight nagging feeling that made me question the wisdom of this lone venture. Without a doubt, my husband would have volunteered to join the mission.

But I was in a hurry.

I embarked on my journey downtown to rendezvous with the girls.  Unbeknownst to me, while I was enroute, the girls called Hanna’s missing phone.

A man answered.

My drive downtown from my house was typically a short ride, but that day it, turned into a chaotic mash of traffic.  I met a string of red lights, got entangled in construction detours, and waited at a railway crossing as a freight train leisurely passed by, then inexplicably reversed, moved forward again, and finally backed up all the way to where it had come from.  My anxiety spiked as I wanted to ensure the girls’ safety, but oddly enough, these roadblocks gave me a bit more time to plan my impending undertaking.

I needed money.  It had been a long time since I made a cash withdrawal. I began to strain my cognitive function to grace its presence long enough to enter four simple numbers needed at the bank machine. Without a financial incentive, continuing this quest would be redundant. 

I thought about my upcoming interaction with the person holding Hanna’s phone.  He is likely a frail elderly man swaddled in a raggedy soiled blanket.  He is slouching at the entrance of an abandoned business with an empty paper cup beside him, beseeching generosity from passers-by.

My grand plan was as simplistic as it was audacious.  I would casually walk over to the elderly man, engage in some light conversation, and offer him a crisp twenty-dollar bill for the phone.  Perhaps he had children or grandchildren somewhere, and he would be aware that losing the photos stored on the iPhone would be a distressing loss for a parent.

Based on what I envisioned, twenty dollars would be like winning a miniature lottery, right?  What could go wrong?  He couldn’t possibly be a threat; he was elderly, and we were downtown, surrounded by plenty of people, in broad daylight.  If, by some twist of fate, he tried to cause me harm, I had ‘youth-ish’ and ‘agility-ish’ on my side and could run.  Probably quite fast if so inspired.

It was a good plan.

To complicate this rescue operation, the clock was ticking…the phone’s battery was on borrowed time. Once it died, locating the phone would be a miracle.

I discovered the girls safe and sound, nestled inside Hanna’s parked car on the street.

As they recounted their interaction with the man over the phone, my initial plan required an upgrade.  He had demanded a hefty $200.00 ransom for the return of the phone.  I left the girls to find a bank machine and withdrew the $200.00. Although, I had no intention of parting with that much cash to this street ‘exploit-trepreneur.’

With the phone number provided by my niece, I called the guy to make the deal.

“Yeah,” came a youthful, dull voice on the other end.

He did not sound like the frail old man I had pictured.  Instead, he came across as incoherent, groggy, and far from someone to have a friendly conversation with.

It seemed easier to pretend I was the phone’s owner rather than introduce myself as Debby, the girls’ friend’s aunt on a mission, so I responded,

“Hi, I’d like to retrieve my phone, please,” I calmly stated.

“Ahhh.” , then a long silence.  “Yeah, $200.00,” he responded.

“I am sorry, but I don’t have $200.00,” I replied, relying more on my non-existent negotiation skills and the fact that I was not under the influence of anything.  I assumed I could think more clearly than the guy on the other end, who sounded inebriated on something.  I continued, “I only have $100.00, and the banks are closed today.”

“It’s an expensive phone,” he remarked.

I countered, “Not really.  I just want it back because it has my children’s photos on it.” He was right; it was an expensive device, but I did not want him to think he had a golden nugget in his hands.  I instantly regretted revealing the pictures’ importance; would he now exploit a mother’s eagerness to get them back?

Silence hung in the air.  “Okay,” he finally said.  “You can give me $100.00 now, and then you can go to the bank when they open on Monday to give me the rest.”

Oh good…an idiot.  I smiled to myself.

“Sure,” I replied with feigned enthusiasm.  “I can do that.” Surprisingly, bargaining with him turned out to be less difficult than I’d imagined.

On second thought, maybe I was the real idiot here.  I would soon find out if he hands over the phone with only half the payment.

Coordinating a meeting place posed an unexpected challenge.  Despite having a rough idea of what the street guy looked like based on the girls’ descriptions, I needed to confirm the person I was talking to was the same guy.  The man remained reluctant to provide any concrete details.

“How will I know who to give the money to?” I asked, sensing his hesitation.  The question seemed to spook him, leading to another prolonged silence.  Finally, he said, “Call me back in two minutes.” I agreed.

I followed up with four more calls.  No answer.

Plan C.  I will find him myself. 

I could hear my son Michael’s previous warnings about downtown echoing in my mind. “Do not walk alone downtown, do not talk to strangers, and you’re not physically able to take on someone who might be addicted to meth.  Alright, Michael, I thought to myself, “I will only scope out the situation and assess the danger meter.”

I managed to locate the man, and he was anything but fragile.  He looked quite young, possibly not yet twenty.  To make matters more complicated, he was accompanied by four other men and two additional bystanders with shopping carts just a few steps away.

This scenario did not match the mental picture I had painted.

“Okay, Michael,” I silently admitted, “I need some help here.” But the question remained, from whom?  The police were busy. I scanned the area for a foot patrol officer.  Eventually, I spotted two security guards.  I approached them, hoping for assistance.  Their suggestion was straightforward, “Call 911.”

Deflated but not defeated, I returned to the car to collect the girls.  Marissa had the missing phone’s location on her device, and the police would likely need that.  Together, we decided to make our way to the London Police Service walking patrol office at the Covent Garden Market.  I knocked on the door, but there was no answer.

With no other option left, I called 911 once more.  I could not help but feel a tad awkward about making the call for this situation again.  It was not exactly an emergency, but we needed a police officer.  Thankfully, the communications operator at the 911 office was helpful.  She emphatically advised against paying the guy. She directed us to a police officer just a block away.  The three of us sprinted toward where the officer was, caught his attention, and provided him with the necessary details about the individual possessing Hanna’s phone.

“Stay right here!” the officer sternly instructed us.  He ventured fearlessly toward the group of homeless individuals.  Secretly, I was scared for the officer’s safety.  He was alone.  There were several of ‘them.’  The officer then turned to us and gestured toward a guy, the suspect. Hanna nodded her head in acknowledgement because she recognized him, and she could see that he had her bronzed rose phone in his hand.

Clearly the homeless guy was unhappy about losing the phone, an altercation began, and my anxiety escalated.  Thankfully, from out of nowhere, two more police officers arrived to help.  After retrieving the phone, one of the officers walked back to where we were waiting, to return the phone to Hanna.  The officer asked if Hanna wished to press charges.  She declined, admitting that she had indeed lost the phone the night before.

While we spoke with the officers, another man who appeared to be homeless, dressed in a red jumpsuit, charged toward us but halted about four feet away.  He bounced nervously on the spot, presumably preparing to dash off if necessary. The man declared that the guy with the phone was innocent.  He said his friend had not stolen the phone but had purchased it from someone else.  He seemed worried for his friend who was still in discussions up against a wall, with two other officers.

We all felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude toward the officers for helping young Hanna recover her phone.  I had an urge to give them a giant “Mom-hug” for their heroic intervention.  However, given the situation, such a gesture of gratefulness might have been misunderstood…possibly landing me in handcuffs.

This was my fourth interaction with the police in recent years.  I was certain my honourary citizen’s badge was in the mail… until a visit with my son and daughter-in-law the next day.  They are both employed by the London Police Service. As with other discussions with them, I was slapped with reality.

The guy that had Hanna’s phone was well-known to the police.  And he is a dangerous individual.

My daughter-in-law, Lindsay, explained why the police no longer respond to small theft incidents and instead refer the public to a non-emergency line to report the loss.  This new policy was implemented after a tragic incident when a young man was shot and killed while attempting to track and retrieve his stolen phone. 

Lindsay and Michael went on to explain that there are numerous cases where lost cell phones and valuable items are used as bait to lure people into perilous situations.  Consequently, the police now strongly advise against pursuing stolen property.  Instead call the non-Emergency line at 519-661-5670 (TTY – 519-661-6472) to report your missing items.

To quote Lindsay, “I understand it’s frustrating to have your belongings stolen, but at the end of the day, it’s just a phone.  Expensive, yes, but just a phone.”

Great advice.

Thank you Unsplash for the photo by Tim L. Productions 

It was hot.  Not a whisper of a breeze, not a drop of water in sight and the merciless sun continued to scorch down on the black pavement I was standing on.  I do not normally perspire, but on this particular afternoon, I could feel the wetness playfully tiptoeing down my back and trickling down my face.  My parched throat was begging for relief.  I looked around for a water fountain or a tap but decided against searching further.  I had arrived at the park two hours early to secure that prime location and was not about to abandon it in the fast-growing crowd.

I resigned myself to a little dehydration. It was a small price to pay for this perfect view of the stage. Never have I waited to see a famous person. Today was an exception.

I was close enough to see him sweat.

Up first on the stage was a pre-entertainment extravaganza unfolding before my eyes. A Caribbean Bohemian music group began to entertain a budding and enthusiastic audience.  The lead singer bursting with a bubbly character belted out tunes with an island accent.  Her co-singer worked hard to encourage participation from the spectators.  He sang his heart out.  His moves were groovy as if his feet were fueled by a fusion of energy and mastery.  Their exuberance was infectious.  Despite the merciless heat and humidity, heads began bopping, arms flailed, and bodies bounced.  I looked around, and a childlike joy embraced me.  Everyone seemed happy.  The group’s lively performance was a testament to the remarkable power of music and its ability to uplift spirits.

Only thirty minutes ago, there were just a few of us here. Now I could not discern where the jiving sea of people ended.

Next, an Indigenous performance took the stage, accompanied by the booming beat of traditional drums.  The rhythm echoed through the air, evoking a deep sense of connection to the roots and traditions of the land.  This display of cultural richness left me in awe of music’s beauty and strength to unite us.

The master of ceremonies, our city’s local radio announcer, strode onto the stage with confidence and a warm smile to introduce an illustrious list of guests.

“Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen!  Welcome to this grand celebration of talent and leadership.  We have a dazzling lineup of featured entertainers, esteemed politicians, distinguished dignitaries, our beloved city’s mayor, and of course, the visionary founder of this festival.”

As each guest emerged from the wings, the master of ceremonies skillfully painted a picture of their achievements and contributions.  With a dash of humour, the MC kept the atmosphere cheery and engaging.  Regardless of their position or status, each speaker received equal respect and attention.  As they were introduced, they took their seats in a row at the front of the stage, waiting for their turn to speak.

Finally, as the last introduction echoed through the venue, the MC’s voice rang out, “Ladies and gentlemen, it is now my pleasure and distinct privilege to extend a warm welcome to our final guest…”

WHAT!?

An elderly lady in front of me slumped over in her chair.  Her body folded in half, and her arms hung aimlessly at her sides.  Moments ago, I watched her yellow sun hat bounce as she was doing the Caribbean Cha Cha.  Now her vibrant yellow sun hat rested on the ground like a lost saucer.  “This can’t be good,” I muttered to myself.

Despite the obvious nature of the situation, I graced the lady’s husband with my dumb question, “Is she okay?  Do you need help?” I shouted.

The man’s expression was a medley of panic, desperation, and relief that someone acknowledged this dreadful situation.  “Yes, she needs help, PLEASE!” he cried.

I mentally prepared for my heroic sprint, however, weaving through the thousands of vivacious packed-in partiers was like dream-waddling through waist-deep pudding.  Each step required flexible maneuvering around people.  Despite my repeated ‘Excuse me please…. emergency!”, my words went unheard due to the cheering and the excitement for the speaker on stage.  The sea did not part as I had expected, and the festivities continued.

My mind was frantic as I tried to recall where I had spotted the paramedics earlier.  How would I get them to her?  Would the paramedics make an announcement on the stage asking everyone to stop the show?  I distantly heard the master of ceremonies introduce the next guest. The speakers continued with their messages, unaware that deep in the throng, a woman lay unconscious.

And then, there they were, the paramedics, huddled around a makeshift first aid station adorned with fake palm trees.  I charged towards them.

Reaching the paramedics, I searched for the most important things to tell them first.  I know timing is everything.  In a breathless torrent of words, I blurted, “Elderly lady, Cha Cha, sun hat, collapse, over there, help needed, PLEASE!”

I wasn’t as calm and articulate as I thought I might be in an emergency, but nevertheless, message delivered.

With a sense of urgency, the paramedics immediately strategized their path to the lady.  They asked me what she was wearing.  Except for the prominent yellow hat, I did not know.  I said, “She will be the one slumped over in her chair.” and then assured them that I could lead them to where she was.

Just as the rescue team and I were ready to enter the boisterous crowd, the lady and her husband emerged from the mass like a fly who had just escaped the deadly trap of a spider web.  They were both weak, wobbly, and clearly shaken from the ordeal.  She was okay!  The man told us his wife had fainted likely due to the sweltering heat.  I breathed a sigh of relief.

I was delighted that she was alive and well. Having fulfilled my self-appointed duty as a bumbling hero….

BUT LADY!!!  I LOST MY SPOT! 

Scrambling around the back edge of the audience, I looked for a clear opening to a view of the stage.  Many of our city’s representatives and guests had already spoken.  Our mayor was now saying a few words.  Time was ticking, and I had to find a vantage point before the mayor wrapped up his speech. 

“I will need a tree and binoculars to see him now,” I sulked to myself.

Despite my best efforts, the stage was entirely obscured.  The mayor finished speaking. Resigned to my new status as a non-spectator, I stopped and focused on listening intently.  And there it was, the moment I had sacrificially sweated for – the long-awaited introduction.  The member of parliament’s voice belted out, through the microphone, over the thunderous cheering, “It is my great pleasure to introduce to you, my prime minister, your prime minister, the Honourable….

Shivers radiated through my body, and my eyes welled up with pride from behind the myraid of heads, hats and sun umbrellas.

I strained to hear every word as the prime minister delivered a powerful speech on unity, diversity, and celebration.  With eloquence and charm, he spoke about what it truly meant to be Canadian, embracing the freedom of our differences and cherishing our human rights.

The air filled with cheers, applause and a roar of excitement.  Beside me, a man unleashed his enthusiasm, driving his fist into the air, and bellowed from the depths of his throat, “OH YEAH!” His exuberance rivalled that of everyone around us.

His spirited display made me smile at him.  Noticing this, he stepped closer to me.  “The prime minister is a passionate man with integrity and great leadership,” he remarked, clearly impressed.

“Absolutely,” I nodded in agreement.

Dressed impeccably, this handsome man exuded sophistication.  His white shirt was crisply pressed, complemented by dark trousers and high-quality shoes.  Given the outdoor venue on a sizzling afternoon, he seemed out of place.  A lanyard around his neck bore the name of a prestigious national travel firm, but his name tag portion was tucked in his shirt, hidden from sight. I nicknamed him Teggy for the purpose of this story.

Glancing at his lanyard, I commented, “Great organization.  You must love your job.  I’m sure you meet many interesting people.”

Teggy replied with a smile, “Yes, I enjoy my work.  I am a customer service agent from out of town.  I decided to explore the city during my dinner break and ended up here.”

His interest in conversation was evident, and he asked if I wanted to join him for a smoke.

“I don’t smoke,” I responded, “and I doubt smoking is allowed in this park.  But I am happy to show you to the park exit where smoking is permitted.”

Teggy appeared happy with my response.

As we walked towards the exit, he unexpectedly interrupted my questions about his job. With a voice loud enough for others around us to hear, he asked, “Do you like younger men?” I found the question rather peculiar, and my intuition antenna started to twitch.

“Yes, I like all men… ah, I mean, I like all PEOPLE,” I quickly corrected myself, trying to diffuse any awkwardness.  Teggy shifted back to the topic of his job.  His question was disturbing, compelling me to think of a way to insert into our conversation that I have a lost husband in the park.

Once we reached the park’s exit, he lit his cigarette, allowing me to interject that I needed to go find my husband.  I attempted to walk away, but he continued to talk.  It seemed impolite to leave amid his narrative; besides, I love stories, and his tale was turning into a fascinating one.

He continued sharing his experiences from his life in Madagascar. There he served as a government ombudsman for the elementary education system.  He proudly emphasized that he was considered a person of integrity in his home country.

Pausing his story, he asked, “I am staying at a hotel a few blocks away.  Care to join me for a drink?”

Politely, I declined and repeated, “I really need to go find my husband.  We got separated, and he’s somewhere here in the park.”

Teggy seemingly ignored my response and continued talking.  The more I listened, the more my worries about his earlier strange question faded.  I became completely captivated by his enthralling story.

Puffing on the cigarette firmly clenched in his teeth, Teggy recounted an incident back home where Madagascar’s finance minister faced allegations of fraudulent activities.  “The people of Madagascar were angry and demanded accountability and the minister’s removal from office.  The president and the finance minister were friends causing the president to be hesitant to believe that the finance minister had done anything inappropriate.  Contacting me for assistance, the president said he would react to the fate of the finance minister based on my findings.”  Teggy continued, “As someone with an office of integrity and honesty, I was the only one in a position to conduct a fair investigation on the finance minister.”

Teggy asked, “Do you want to come back to my hotel for a drink?”

Was he not hearing me?  “No,” I reiterated, attempting to clarify that I had no interest in such an offer.  “My husband is probably waiting for me, and I need to …. “

He cut me off mid-excuse and continued.  “The president asked me to report back to him with the results of the inquiry in two weeks.  Because of his friendship, I was encouraged to find the finance minister innocent to maintain public trust.  The president said if I told the country that the finance minister is clear of any wrongdoing, they will believe me, and the charges will blow over.  It was the only way out for the finance minister to regain public trust in office if someone like me, a person of integrity, in an office of trust, declared him innocent.”

“Do you want to go to my hotel for a drink?”

This guy is persistent!  “NO!”  I said louder and stronger.  “I need to go find my husband.  But I do have one question.  “Was the finance minister innocent?”

“No,” Teggy replied.  “I discovered he was involved in many illegal dealings.”  The president was not pleased with me or my discoveries.  While Madagascar awaited my report, the president sent me to Spain for a week.  He wanted some time to think about presenting my account to his country.  The president needed to prepare for and manage the public reaction to the news.

He paused his story briefly to extinguish his cigarette, “come for a quick drink?”

He added, “I’ll be back next week.  How about that drink then?” I couldn’t help but find the situation comical.  In my mind, I was laughing.  “Look, Mr. Integrity,” I thought, “You know I am married! I am not interested in going for a drink with you!”

“No,” I retorted out loud, getting annoyed with the repetition.  But then I asked, “Were you not afraid that there would be some repercussions to you by solely reporting against your nation’s government?”  I really needed to stop asking him questions.

His reply was immediate and resolute, “Absolutely not!  If I must choose between my life and my integrity, I will always choose integrity! 

So, how about that drink?”

Amusement mixed with a sense of curiosity, I wondered, how would Teggy define integrity?   My patience waned; great story, but I was getting bored.  I glanced at my phone for theatrics; firmly but politely said, “It was nice talking to you, but I must go find my husband now.”

To my surprise, his demeanour dramatically changed.  In a tone that iced my core, he snarled, “Call him… tell him you will be home l-a-t-e-r.”

While my intuition radar had faded somewhat during his story, it was now poking me for attention.  I kept my composure and replied calmly, “Again, it was nice talking to you. Have a great visit to the city.”

I walked away.  Fast.

As I did, I considered my own integrity.  I had just lied several times to Teggy.  I did have a husband, but he was not at this festival, nor was he lost. However, I concluded that my mistruths were justified in the spirit of self-protection.

Throughout Teggie’s story, one that I enjoyed, I also learned that he had immigrated from Madagascar alone, having lost both his parents, with no siblings accompanying him.  His five years in Toronto had been solitary, and he was unmarried, with no children, liked Chinese food, and clearly liked to drink.

I did not know his name.

The only thing he knew about me was that I had a lost husband.

As I walked away from whatever his name was, I laughed at the irony of his integrity story versus his relentless invitations.  It was an interesting half an hour of my life.

Later that night, I recounted the strange encounter to my husband, who found the irony amusing.  My friend laughed the next day when I shared the story with her. The following afternoon, I repeated the incident to my adult son.  He did not laugh.  With a stern expression, he warned me about talking to strangers.

Amused by the role reversal, I laughed it off and said defensively “Michael, he was from out of town, I was just being friendly.”

Michael is a young police officer and has worked for the city police for the past few years.  In his short time with the force, he has already seen things a mother hopes her children never have to see.

“Mom,” my son said severely, “I have heard this story before.”

My smile faded, and chills slithered through me.

Michael continued with an unsettling seriousness that turned me ice cold.  “He lures you to his hotel, buys you dinner, puts something in your drink, and you become the newest member—no, the latest object—in the human trafficking world.”

Stunned, my heart quivered as I tried to process his words.  The fear I should have felt at the park slapped me with a wave of good sense.

“Of course!” I scolded myself for being so gullible.  “I should have known better!”

My mind flashed back to the presentations on human trafficking that I had attended at the police station just months ago.  Before that, I had naively thought human trafficking was a third-world problem.  I was genuinely shocked to learn that not only does human trafficking happen here, but our small city is a major hub.  

A flood of questions overwhelmed my thoughts.  Could I have unknowingly engaged with a monster who tries to deliberately dazzle unsuspecting women into slavery?

I thought about the incongruities in his story.

How long was his dinner break that he had enough time to woo women at a busy downtown summer-fest?   Why would a government have only one person investigate a high-profile government official?  Isn’t that usually the work of a committee?

The pieces fell into place.  Teggy’s stories about being a school administrator, a government consultant, and a man of integrity made perfect sense now.  After all, who wouldn’t trust someone who protects children?  Who wouldn’t be intrigued by tales of foreign governments and exotic lands? His statement, “integrity or die.” echoed in my mind.  Were these stories meant to manipulate me into trusting him, to make me believe he was an honest and kind person?

My once younger self was cautious.  I have since let my guard down and am no longer afraid of kidnappers or sexual predators under the safety of my years.  I had no intention or interest in going to his hotel.  But I did believe his stories! 

How many young people with an adventurous nature would believe a predator’s stories of trust, affection, or wealth? Had his stories worked on someone else?

Still, in disbelief, I asked Michael sarcastically, “What would traffickers want with an old girl like me?  To do their dishes?”

Mom,” he replied.  “Traffickers typically target young girls and sometimes young boys.  Victims can come from good homes and schools, difficult circumstances or be picked up in a park.  No one is immune. ANYONE can become a victim. Mom, don’t talk to strangers!”

Thinking back to that afternoon, I thought it ironic that as Teggy was captivating me with great stories, I watched the motorcade of big black SUVs pass by transporting our prime minister out of the city after his speech. What would the prime minister say if he knew?  A leader who is a committed advocate for human rights and who just publicly praised our prosperous city and our celebration of human rights, diversity, and freedom.  At that crowded festival full of laughter and celebration, the ugliness of human trafficking was in progress, just as easily as a walk in the park.

As I continued to reflect on the events of that day, I am indescribably thankful to be sitting at my desk now writing this story about an escape from the clutches of a perilous trap to a web of an unconceivable hell. 

Or….

Could Teggy have been genuinely lonely, only seeking someone to talk to on his dinner break, with no sinister intentions?

He did only ask for a drink.

If you believe someone is a victim of human trafficking, call the Canadian Human Trafficking Hotline: 1-833-900-1010.  In case of an emergency, call 911.

If you are or know an owner of a business, please ask if they would consider posting the below hotline information in public washrooms.

Please read the link below to learn more about human trafficking and how it happens.  https://knowhumantrafficking.londonpolice.ca

“Dave, if anything happens to my passport, I am sure there is a consulate somewhere in the Czech Republic.  I will simply go to the Canadian Embassy and get another one.”

This was my snippy response to my husband’s kind and well-intended advice.  Dave is an experienced world traveller, an all-star planner, and meticulous about processes.  However, given my 58 years on this planet, I can take care of my own passport.

When my passport went missing after disembarking from the first flight from Toronto to Frankfurt, I was not distressed about being stranded in a foreign country as one might have been. I was not upset that I could not speak the foreign language of that country, nor was I troubled that some stranger was in the process of stealing my identity. No…. At that moment, my first thoughts shot back to my snarky retort to Dave. 

It was obvious that my passport was stolen.  My mind raced to find logical suspects.  Was it a criminal entrepreneur disguised as a flight attendant?  Was it the good-looking-turned-creepy guy who sat across the aisle from me?  Or it could have been a team of crafty thieves aboard Flight 471 on a passport-stealing spree.

While curled up in a nap ball, squeezed in my tiny seat conducive to blissful sleeping, the passport perps maneuvered through the maze of clothing, blankets and pillows, unzipped my waist belt attached to my midsection that contained my identification, and stole my passport!  How fortunate for me that the thieves had the decency to leave my five credit cards and driver’s licence also stored in my pouch.  They had the courtesy to re-zip my waist belt closed and tucked me back in.  I slept through the entire ordeal.

Earlier, when we boarded Flight 471, Joey (my son and travel buddy) got comfortable in his reserved, best seat on the plane—one with ample legroom that could accommodate a polka dance with his European neighbour occupying the window seat.  Megan (Joey’s girlfriend) and I were last-minute add-ons to the flight and were relegated to a three-seat row further back in the plane.  A window seat for Megan and a middle seat for me.  As per Joey’s earlier request in hopes of all sitting together (and before he realized the magnificence of his current seat), I asked the passenger on the other side of me if she would consider swapping seats with Joey.  In retrospect, it is possible this was the moment when I misplaced my passport.  I had not settled into my seat and might have tucked my passport into the seat pocket in front of me.  I got up to show the lady where Joey sat for the seat swap.

Joey joined us in his new tiny cramped, no room-for-legs of a six-foot-something man spot.  Joey and I also switched seats so he could sit in the middle beside Megan.

Settled in the aisle seat, I relaxed and enjoyed the flight.  Upon disembarking, I double-checked the pocket in front of my seat for any possible forgotten items. 

Nothing.

We sprinted through the airport to the Frankfurt customs counter to catch our connecting flight to Prague.  I fumbled with my waist belt to present my passport.  My heart froze.  I rifled through my bags, searching for my passport.

Nothing.  This cannot be happening.

Joey conducted a second and third search of my bags.

Nothing.

A little dejected and absolutely rejected by customs, I sought assistance from an empathetic airport customer service agent who summoned the cleaning staff to search the plane for my missing passport in my aisle seat.

Nothing.

I insisted that Megan and Joey catch the connecting flight to Prague without me.  No point in us all getting penalized.  I assured them that I would figure things out and catch up with them soon. 

The airport customer service suggested I contact the Frankfurt police at the airport.  The police then told me they would issue an emergency paper so that I could continue my journey.  I was thrilled!  This would all be resolved quietly for €43 that the police required to process an emergency travel paper. 

At the time, I thought the Universe was teaching me a well-deserved lesson for my thoughtless comment to Dave.  But this slap on the wrist would soon morph into a full-on beating.

I did not have €43 in cash.  Dave had advice about that too, which of course, I ignored.  My VISA card, which is advertised to be accepted all over the world, would be sufficient.

It was of no use to the Frankfurt police. 

A two-police team escorted me to the money exchange office to buy cash.  That office would only give me money after I produced a passport for identification.  No other document was acceptable.  The police explained my situation (my assumption as their conversation was in German) …. but there were no exceptions.

Stay positive, Debby.

The police found an ATM machine.  I silently begged anyone or anything that was listening to please let me remember my PIN.  And voilà!  The machine gave me a €100 bill without a PIN.  Things were looking up.  I only needed €43 and considered giving the police the entire €100 for their kindness.  I decided against this fearing my gratitude might be misinterpreted as a bribe to foreign police officers in a foreign country and might land me in a foreign prison.

We returned to the money exchange guy to break my €100 bill for change.

VISA transaction for $148.36 (Canadian cost to withdraw €100)

It is only a withdrawal transaction; I will not have to ‘fess up’ to Dave about what happened.  My plan was to order a new passport when I got home, and the entire incident could stay in Frankfurt.  While I do not deliberately keep anything from my husband, this omission might be necessary. 

If only I had not made that comment….

The Frankfurt police gave me an emergency passport paper an hour later.  They told me it would get me where I needed to go and hurried off to exchange my plane ticket. 

Despite my best efforts, I missed my connecting flight and faced the arduous task of buying a new ticket.  It was not a simple exchange of tickets as I had thought.  I was considered a ‘no-show’ for the flight I missed.  I had to buy a new ticket for a new flight.  The kind customer service agent was sympathetic and waived the administration fee.

VISA transaction Lufthansa Airline $308.84.

Of course, this new revelation meant hiding the truth from Dave would be more challenging.

I was in a hurry to catch the next flight, so panic set in when I was forced to go back AGAIN through security (consisting of a line-up of about 300 people) to board the flight.  This time I was escorted off to the side for a full pat down; she left nothing untouched.  That was a first.

When I arrived in Prague, Megan and Joey were relieved to see me, and I was delighted to be together with them again.  Unbeknownst to me, Joey, who is more experienced in current-day foreign travel, later told me he was certain that I would be ousted back to Canada.

I was happy that I was with the kids again and ready to explore Prague!  As we drove to our hotel, I was awestruck by the cityscape and indescribably excited to be there! 

Prague is situated on the banks of the Vltava River and is divided into several districts, each with it’s own unique character.  The historic centre of Prague, also known as the Old Town, is a UNESCO World Heritage Site and is home to some of Europe’s most iconic landmarks and attractions, including the Prague Castle, the Charles Bridge, and the Old Town Square.

Prague is also famous for its Gothic and Baroque architecture, with many beautiful churches and buildings dating back to medieval times.  Some of the most famous buildings in Prague include St. Vitus Cathedral, the Church of Our Lady before Tyn, and the Municipal House.

In addition to its fantastic architecture, Prague’s lively cultural scene has various museums, galleries, and theatres like the National Museum, the Museum of Decorative Arts, and the National Gallery. 

This historic and culturally rich capital of the Czech Republic is well-known for its spirited nightlife, stunning architecture, and social attractions. The city hosts a range of bars, clubs, and music venues catering to a diverse crowd of locals and tourists.

There is something in this city for everyone, from history buffs to culture lovers, …and yes, a Canadian Embassy!

Regardless of the city’s magnificence and the marvellous time we had exploring, I had a persistent uneasiness.  That feeling was exacerbated by Joey, who suggested I contact the Embassy to ask if my Frankfurt-issued emergency paper would be enough to return to Canada. 

Nope.  

The Canadian government would not let me back in my country with the document from the Frankfurt police.  I can only travel on a document that is issued by the Canadians.  I was required to get a passport replacement as instructed by Martina from the Embassy. 

If I wanted to go home.  Hmmm….

VISA transaction for a cab ride to the Canadian Embassy, $31.50.

VISA transaction for photos for the new passport, $19.37.

VISA transaction for delicious tea and desserts while waiting for my appointment, $19.44.

A second uncomfortable feeling was growing.  My confession.  I started to consider how this narrative might be recounted.  If only I had not made that comment.

I was happy that Megan accompanied me to the Embassy.  She is better at using Google Maps than I am.  That meant she had to turn on her data for the day. 

Fido, $16.00 for the roaming charge.

Upon entry to the Embassy, Megan and I were instructed to leave all our electronics and guns at security in a box. No, we do not carry guns.

Once we were screened and allowed entry, Martina, the service person, asked me to complete multiple forms.  Meanwhile, Megan was approximately an hour and a half without her cell phone or something to read, except for the one exhilarating poster board in the office about COVID.

I did not know the telephone number of my dear friend, who I had listed on my passport as a reference.  As my phone supplements my memory, I was directed back to security to complete my documents using the information from my contacts folder. 

My earlier uncomfortable feeling transitioned to dread.  A confession to Dave is inevitable.

VISA transaction to the Government of Canada, $415.00 for a new passport.

Confession confirmed.  It will be impossible to keep all this from Dave. 

Oh, Debby!  That comment! 

Yet more complications from the Embassy.  Martina instructed me to report the lost passport to the Czech police and bring the police report to be attached to my file.  I was not sure the Czech police would do that since the incident was already reported in Frankfurt.  But I needed a passport to get home, so I played the game.

As I left, she said, “Hopefully, your passport will be ready on Friday.”

Hopefully?  I fly home Sunday.  The Embassy is closed on weekends!

I would miss my flight on Sunday and be forced to stay in Prague.

Again….hmmm.  Being stranded in this beautiful city would not be terrible!

Megan and I walked 45 minutes back to the hotel.  It was great exercise and a lovely way to see more of the city.

I had to get to the police station before dark.  Megan returned to the hotel, so I was alone and thought it wise not to wander around in a foreign country at night.  My phone would not charge with the European converter plug I had purchased at an airport convenience store.  My phone’s battery life icon was in the red zone.

I roamed, ran, retraced and circled the city streets looking for the Czech police.  There were prayers too.  I had to find them before my phone ran out of power.  It was only a short time before I got seriously lost.  I had yet to figure out how to get back to the hotel without my phone. 

I had tried to memorize my route.  The cobblestone spaghetti streets all looked the same.  The colours and styles of the exquisite architecture and buildings coordinated perfectly with all the other streets I had just walked down. 

And then, just like that, I found the police station.  As I suspected, they would not make a police report because the passport disappearance was realized and reported in Frankfort.  I sent an email to Martina to report this.

She sent me a message back with another problem.  She was waiting for responses from my references.  The timing was critical.  I asked Dolores and Megan (my references) if they could speak to Martina the next day. 

That meant Megan had to turn on her data again.  $16.00.

I, too, had to leave my phone data on until resolved.  $48.00

Relieved when by complete accident, I found my way back to the hotel, my anxiety led me straight to the dining room for a glass of wine.  The European delicacy with complimentary hors d’oeuvres served to me surely was a sign that the Universe had forgiven me for my flippant comment.

I remembered advice from a meditation podcast.  “Stay in the moment.” So, with that, I indulged in a second glass of wine in that beautiful Prague restaurant to think about how I would ‘budget in’ these unexpected expenses over the last few days.  I made a mental and brilliant note to myself.  “Make sure you include the word ‘budget’ in your apology note.  That is a word that will make Dave melt!”

I laughed as I recalled Joey’s invitation to go to Prague.  He said, “Come to Prague.  It will only cost you airfare!”

The following day Martina responded to my email, saying she would continue processing my application without the police report.  On the following Friday, I picked up my new temporary passport!

I am on the road to redemption.  It is over!   

Consequently, I spent much of the remaining time in Prague, double-checking, triple checking, and ensuring I had all my documents, cards and electronics.  In my spare time, I worked on an elaborate, detailed apology (to include multiple uses of the word ‘budget’) to send to Dave… ideally before he saw the VISA card statement!

Delivered via email, Dave read my unfortunate story, permeated with regret for my comment.  The best part of this entire ordeal came with his response.  When my dear Dave, who had every right to say, ‘I told you so’ and lecture me on lessons learned…he did not.  Nor did he mention the $1022.51, the cost of the disappearing passport. 

Classy guy!

But, of course, I can expect upcoming verbal pokes, grounded from carrying my own passport on future trips with Dave and calendar notifications to remind me to check the credit bureau for identity theft.

We safely returned to Canada and…

The Universe was not finished with me!  The Embassy in Prague directed me to return my temporary passport to Passport Canada when I returned to Canada.  Once I had completed that, Passport Canada would send me my permanent passport replacement.

No problem, I can do that.

The Canadian federal government went on strike.  Who knows how long that will last and what kind of backlog that will create. 

It appears as if I will be in Canadian captivity for a while. 

A good place to be.

Thank you Unsplash for the photo by Osman Rana 

While walking in our quiet neighbourhood, my friend noticed a man standing on the road.  His head was bowed, his shoulders squared, and his arms hung formally at his side.  His noble posture resembled a butler stationed at the grand doors of a palace, ready to greet arriving royalty.  The man’s attire, comprising of dark shorts, a shirt, and sneakers, contradicted his footman-like stance.

As we approached him from the sidewalk across the street, we could hear his deep, rhythmic breathing.

“Are you okay?” I asked.

No response.  Not a muscle twitched.  What we could see of the man’s face remained devoid of any movement.  He did not lift his eyes or head and gave no indication that he had heard my question.  Traffic had to swerve wide around him.  He stood there, rigid and unresponsive.  The man’s breathing was mysterious and clearly audible from where we were standing on the other side of the street.

My initial thought was that this might be a suicide attempt in progress.  Perhaps the man’s deep breathing was for calmness or to gather courage for what was about to happen.  He positioned himself with his back to the oncoming traffic.  Maybe this was deliberate, a way to avoid seeing the driver or the car that would assist his transition.

My son’s voice echoed in my mind, cautioning me against interactions with strangers.  His advice, shaped by his experience as a young police officer, conflicted with the undeniable fact that this individual’s life was in danger.

“Do you need help?” I asked.  Again, no answer except for his resolute inhalations.

Fear began to feed my imagination.  The man’s meditative lungful’s now seemed more purposeful…like an effort to soothe an impending eruption of rage.  My instinctive response, flight mode activated, urging me to prioritize my safety.

However, running felt futile; the man’s youth and physicality would allow him to outrun me in seconds.  The presence of other pedestrians—walkers, strollers, and runners—on the sidewalk offered some solace in numbers.

Yet, there was no change in his seemingly catatonic state.

I dialled 9-1-1.

Upon hearing our location, the operator informed me that the incident had already been reported, and the police were en route.

The ambulance arrived first, parking on the opposite side of the road.  The paramedic, wisely staying in the safety of her vehicle, made multiple attempts to capture the man’s attention.

No response.

Dusk began to envelop us, and soon the man in his dark clothes would be difficult to see.  Traffic in both directions cautiously maneuvered the narrow passage left between the ambulance and the stationary man.

Recognizing the possible danger of the situation, the paramedic driver circled the street and positioned the ambulance behind the man, shielding him from a potential collision.  She sensibly remained inside the vehicle, safeguarding herself.

Shortly after, the first police officer arrived.  I thought about the prevalent drug problem in our city and found it disconcerting to imagine what the officer might be walking into.  The officer, exuding an air of confidence, walked purposefully into this volatile situation.  From our vantage point across the street, my friend and I watched nervously.  Holding his flashlight on the man while keeping a cautious distance, the officer attempted to verbally coax him off the street.

No response.

Thankfully, a second officer arrived. Both officers maintained a calm demeanour as they spoke to the man.  They repeatedly informed him of their intention to guide him to the sidewalk.

No response.

The officers gradually moved in closer to the motionless man.  They urged him not to resist and emphasized their goal of moving him to the safety of the sidewalk.

At this point, I fully expected a positive ending.  I envisioned the man acknowledging the officers, extending his arm, and willingly allowing himself to be led to the back of the ambulance. From there he would be transported to the hospital to receive the care he needed to achieve a “happily ever after.”

To my complete surprise, the officers suddenly altered their approach.  With a flash of force, they seized the man, pulling him toward the sidewalk as if snatching him out of the path of a speeding train.

The man jolted out of his unresponsive state and erupted into a fit of furious resistance.  He fought off the two officers with untamed energy.  Within seconds, the three fell to the ground, with the man overpowering one of the officers.  I could hardly bear to watch.  Both officers yelled at him to stop resisting, with a warning of employing a taser.  The man’s resistance dwindled after the mention of the taser, and his struggle subsided. 

The police managed to restrain him, diminishing my anxiety.  Now that the situation was under control, I felt it was safe for us to resume our walk.  As we proceeded up the street, I glanced back and breathed a sigh of relief when I noticed the ambulance doors swing open, ready to transport the man to the hospital.

Curious, I later asked my son why there was such a sudden shift in the police’s approach to the man on the road.  He explained that the change in tactic was necessary to ensure the individual’s safety.  One scenario of a myriad of possibilities they were guarding against was the man impulsively bolting into traffic, endangering himself and others.

Once again, the quiet heroism of the police prevailed, averting a probable tragedy and saving yet another life.

Thank you Unsplash for the photo by Livia Widjaja

Written by Dave

My mother was 63 years old when a powerful stroke struck on the heels of a heart attack that left her without speech and reduced the use of her left side.  A small portion of her brain had died.  It was a traumatic loss and a strange juxtaposition for Jean, the obsessive talker and singer, not to have a voice.  But in time, in a way only a creator can design, she also received a gift.  It was barely noticeable at first.  Over time it germinated, took root, blossomed, and bore her the most beautiful fruit right up until the moment she died.

The strength, nourishment and vitality of this gift added more life to Mom “than all the king’s horses and all the king’s men” could ever have.  To me, this gift was a blessing, a blessing I call…Brenda.

The deficiencies caused by the stroke left Mom unable to care for herself, but we knew she wanted to remain in her home.  We had to hire nurses to provide 24-hour personal care.  Although Mom was comfortable in her home, financially, this was not sustainable, and we needed to find another solution.  Ultimately, the answer to this problem came from Brenda, one of Mom’s caregivers.  Brenda invited Mom to live with her.  Brenda, Brenda’s family, and Sam, the dog, warmly welcomed Mom into their home and included her on family holidays and gatherings.

On the morning of Mother’s Day 2002, I was excited to be able to spend the day with Mom.  Our first visit was to Brenda’s son Daryl’s house in Uxbridge.  Mom’s adopted family was in full attendance, and we enjoyed a magnificent brunch with Brenda and her family.

Following that visit, Mother’s Day continued to be a delightful affair.  Mom and I drove to Toronto, where we visited with our family, including my two older sisters and their children.  The crowd was rounded out by spouses and boyfriends, filling my sister Pat and husband Karl’s little waterfront condo to the brim.  After the festivities, my eldest sister Barbara brought Mom back home to Brenda’s, and I returned to my home in East York.

At about 8:30 pm, the phone rang.  It was Brenda.  I don’t know whether her voice was a bit off or some other consciousness touched me, but I had an eerie feeling.  I felt the message that was to come. 

Mom had passed.

In that haze that rolls over you when this kind of news hits you, I collected my sister Pat.  We drove up to the Uxbridge Cottage Hospital, where sister Barb joined us to say our final goodbyes.

My mother, Barbara Jean, was a spirited, full-of-life lady who lived a vibrant life in her own way.  I thought it poetic that of any day of the year, she would choose Mother’s Day to transition.  She had spent a lovely day with her adopted family, children, and grandchildren.  It was her day.

By the time Pat, Barb and I got to the hospital, Bob, Brenda’s husband, having reviewed some of Jean’s personal effects, produced a donor card.  We knew sending her off to the University of Toronto Faculty of Medicine was the right thing to do, as was the case for my father years earlier.

In the days following, Pat, Barb and I had to plan Mom’s memorial.  Scratching our heads for ideas and meaningful gems from her Salvation Army background, Pat wondered if Mom had left any wishes.  Perhaps stowed in a safety deposit box, she pondered.  We returned to Uxbridge with our family advisors, Jim and Reg, in tow.

At the bank, a clerk brought us a long slim deposit box from the vault and showed us into a private room.  We opened the box revealing five sealed envelopes.  Each envelope had a name carefully penned in Mom’s hand, one for each of us.  There was an eerie tension in the room.

While alive, Jean was known for a surprise or two, and no one thought death would stop her show.  Silently we opened our envelopes and read the personalized handwritten letters.  I was the first to speak, “Well, I’m a good person.” I said, folding up my letter.  Jim, standing across from me, retorted, “Me too.” All smiles, Pat, Barb and Reg chimed in with similar responses.  While buoyed by the accolades of Mom’s thoughtful words, we hadn’t found any wishes for us to fulfill.  Pat, who never leaves a stone unturned, asked Reg to confirm nothing was hiding in the box.  As he lifted the hinged end of the box, we heard the sound of plastic sliding along the box and bumping to a halt at the other end.  It was a cassette tape.

My siblings and I glanced at each other, eyes bulging in amazement, followed by mock panic.  “Where will we find a working cassette player in this day and age?”

As it turned out, I had one.  Pat, Barb and I returned to my house to listen to what Mom had to say.  Hearing her voice for the first time in fourteen years was surrealistic.  We could imagine our eccentric mother preparing to make this recording.  She would have been accompanied by her whiskey and milk, cigarettes, a comfortable chair, candles lit, suitable music, and probably a fire in the fireplace.

Jean’s First Wish

Mom’s recording revealed three wishes.  Her first wish was to donate her body to the medical community for teaching and research.  She was a nurse, and using her body to pay forward to the medical effort aligned with her and Dad’s sense of serving others.  Given we had already accomplished this, I looked at my sisters and said, “Done!  Give us a check!”

Jean’s Second Wish

The recording went on, “I would like to have my wake held at Inglenook,” she said.  Inglenook was the nickname Mom had given to her home (it means “a cozy place by the fire”).

This was a problem because her house was sold after she moved in with Brenda.  Except….as luck, karma, or some unexplainable force of Jean would have it, the house had been sold again to the Low and Low Funeral Home.  As if by fate, the Low family had built a chapel on the side of the home to accommodate up to 200 visitors at Inglenook, so Mom could celebrate her departure in style.  Bob knew the folks at Low and Low and arranged to have a service for Mom that weekend.  “Done!  Give us another check!”

Jean’s Third Wish

Mom wanted to have her ashes thrown off the bow of the Bluenose.  She had spent some of her formative years in Nova Scotia, and the Bluenose was symbolic of that life.  After Mom’s wake, years passed, and the last of the three requests remained unfulfilled.  I had picked up Mom’s ashes after the obligatory time at the School of Medicine and settled her in a suitable spot on my dresser.  And there she stayed.

In the spring of 2004, Pat and Karl returned from a sailing adventure, and our family gathered for dinner.  Pat announced, “I have three tickets for a day trip on the Bluenose.” We were all excited.

When Pat, Barb and I departed by car from Toronto, the only plan was to fulfill Mom’s request.  Interestingly, this was the first trip my sisters and I had ever taken together as adults.  It was the longest we spent together, without parents or children.  A pilgrimage of sorts.

During the drive to the east coast, Pat suggested we try to find a long-lost cousin, Mary Jane, who we knew lived in Nova Scotia.  We tried her last known number many times whenever we could find a public telephone, but without luck.  As we reached Nova Scotia, we decided to try once more.  Our voyage on the Bluenose was the next day, and we needed to get to Lunenburg.  We stopped in Annapolis Royale, and Pat went to find a phone.  Barb spotted a store that intrigued her while I waited outside.

Pat had no luck, so she and I went to retrieve Barb.  We walked into The Lucky Rabbit pottery store, where we thought Barb was.  But as we would find out shortly, Barb was at the store next door.

How fortunate our mistake.  The lady at the counter looked familiar.  Stunned, Pat wondered aloud.  Could it be?

“Mary Jane?” Pat inquired.  The owner of the Lucky Rabbit looked up.  By accident or the mysterious force of Jean, we’ll never know, but we found her.

After a lovely but short reunion with Mary Jane, we continued our journey to Lunenburg.  We found overnight accommodations to prepare for the morning’s voyage.  We all wanted the experience of throwing Mom overboard.  We needed to break Mom out of her sealed, virtually indestructible plastic case to divide the ashes.  No simple task.  Barb wanted to wrap Mom in a suitable newspaper and found a story featuring the Salvation Army.  It was perfect, given Mom’s Army upbringing.  With roughly equal thirds of Mom in hand, we were ready for the voyage.

Was throwing ashes off the Bluenose legal?  I’m sure Mom did not care, and as we prepared to board, I recalled the brig on this boat could only hold one criminal, so I valiantly told Barb and Pat I would volunteer to go if need be.  In the end, we each slipped our remains of her into the water, pausing with our private thoughts.  I smiled as I thought, “Roll over Neptune, here comes Jean!”

Later in the voyage, with the Bluenose healing heavily, I remarked to the bosun, “Is this a great sail or what!” to which she replied, “This is the best sail we have had all summer!” I had no doubt that Jean was filling our sails that day.

When we returned to the dock in Lunenburg, we found Mary Jane waiting for us.  She had driven across the province to ensure Auntie Jean had found her final resting home.

“Done!  Check number three.  Wishes granted.”

Epilogue

Having spent my life with Mom and witnessing a sense of her “gentle tug” during the “three wishes” journey, I know I will feel forever content that inside me, there is an indelible tattoo of her incredible spirit and influence etched upon my soul.

Of any kind!

With dreary spirits, I drag my legs into the store, embarking on the tedious trudge toward the stacked boxes of kitty litter. The mere thought of transporting those boxes from the store to my basement fills me with dread.

As I stop and stare at the towering stack of kitty litter, a strong young man enters the aisle from the far end. What perfect timing! Secretly, I hope he can somehow read my mind and gallantly dash over to offer his assistance. Each kitty litter box weighs a staggering 22.6796 kilograms, feeling to me like lifting cement cinder blocks. I need two boxes. He draws nearer. I have mentally prepared an enthusiastic response of gratitude for his imminent act of kindness. However, he pauses to inspect an item on the shelf. I dramatically take a deep breath and let out a groan. Both actions intended to attract his attention. Then bending at the knees like the powerlifter, I am not, I pick up the first box, fully anticipating his arrival to lend a hand. Holding onto the box for too long is not an option. I need some swing momentum to clear the edge of the oversized shopping buggy.

Exerting all my strength, I heave the box, aiming to swing it high enough to clear the cart’s edge. The bottom corner of the box nicks the cart, causing it to roll away ever so slightly. A flash of panic engulfs me as I envision kitty litter spilling all over the floor if I miss the cart.

I need another box.

The strong, young guy must be drawing near. My previously preformulated response of gratitude starts to fade into a sulk. With a pause and a sweeping scan of the stack of identical boxes, I take another dramatic breath in, still hoping for his help.

But to my surprise, there is nothing! My peripheral vision does not spot him. He must be behind me.

I hoist the second box, preparing to swing it, and just as it hangs in mid-air, I hear a tiny voice softly squeak, “Can I help you?”

Unable to stop my swing midway, I plunk the box into the cart, causing a rattling thud.

Although masked with a polite smile, my confusion is evident as I turn around. I notice the strong young man passing by me. He, too, wears a smile, directed at the adorable frail senior lady standing there with a cane, who had just offered her assistance.

I thanked her for her kindness.

Walking away with a smile, I realize that she had picked up something much heavier than those boxes—she had lifted my shopping spirits!