Former President John F. Kennedy once opined that, “the courage of life is often a less dramatic spectacle than the courage of a final moment; but it is no less a magnificent mixture of triumph and tragedy.”


After my mother’s initial diagnosis of cervical cancer, everyone in the family was understandably distraught. No one wants to hear that their mother has contracted cancer. My brother had been planning to be married just before we initially learned of my mother’s condition.

He naturally suggested that the ceremony be put on hold until she was well enough to attend. This suggestion had little impact, as my mother was going to have none of it. She didn’t care about the timing of her treatments--her son's wedding was going ahead as planned--and that was the end of the discussion.

Midway through her first series of radiation therapies, she boarded a plane and left St. John’s, Newfoundland, destined for Toronto so that she could attend the wedding. I remember being taken aback at the sight of her when she arrived. She was clearly unwell and had not really been in any shape to travel. During the course of the treatment she had lost a lot of weight and her skin was pale. She looked tired, her voice was muffled and very low. It was only at this particular moment that the magnitude of the situation struck me. It was then that Mom's ordeal became real for me. My mother had cancer.

Despite her physical appearance, she was perfectly giddy. Like a young child experiencing the world for the very first time, she embraced us all with the same generosity of spirit that we had come to know, love and depend upon. Nothing was going to stop her from being at her son’s wedding, and nothing, especially cancer, was going to get in the way of this happy celebration. The trip, she felt, was not at all about her, it was my brother’s special day and she was there to add as much joy as possible.

True to her fiery personality, she involved herself in as many of the preparations as her body would allow her to. I was lucky enough to get some alone time with her while shopping for last-minute wedding gifts. It was an absolute honour and a delight to capitalize on the precious time she had with us over that three days. The doctors had only permitted her a short stint so as not to interrupt her chemotherapy too dangerously. I loved shopping with her because she still had the insight to impart a mother's set of financial advisories upon me. She dutifully fussed and insisted when she felt I did not need to buy a particular black shirt, (because I already had one just like it) or that I really did not require more socks and underwear.

During the course of our private shopping excursion she also had the chance to relay to me a little bit of the experience that she had been going through. She was specifically impressed with the many of her fellow cancer patients. She told me about them losing their hair and having to dip their fingers in pools of ice water after intense treatment so that they would not lose their fingernails, and of many other physical ailments. She told me how grateful she was to have been stricken with a treatable form of cancer and she felt blessed just to be able to laugh and joke with the other patients as a form of mutual support and commiseration. She continued with this routine when she returned to Newfoundland for a number of weeks. She was then sent home to recover before her last planned round.

The road to recovery for Mom was a long one. She still feels some of the side effects today. However, she is now cancer-free and thriving almost three years later. Hers is a story of the courage to overcome the odds. It is a story of hope. She, (along with so many others) proclaims to us that cancer can be defeated. And this strengthens a faith that we are all taking important steps in the right direction.

Writing these blogs has been an emotional roller coaster for me, I must admit. Writing the one about my dear friend Jodie, in particular, brought fresh tears to my eyes. These blogs have been filled with my many emotions ranging from sadness to joy, from despair to hope, from fear to faith and from discouraging paralysis to enduring hope. This personal activity has truly reaffirmed my belief that the battle against cancer is far from a futile one. By virtue of the many who have passed on to something better and sadly departed from this world, the torch of strength and endurance has been kept alive. We are privileged and honoured to carry on in their memories and we are duty-bound never to forsake our obligations in this quest for a cure. As noted above, Kennedy hinted at the fact that what we do in our every day lives requires courage. I challenge my readers to have the courage to stay involved in the fight for a cure. Your courage will make a difference to the lives of many. May all of you be blessed in your journey.

Courage

Harvey was a strong and hard working fellow. He spent the majority of his life in a tiny outport community shadowed by the rugged set of coastal mountains which stand guard upon the Western shores of Newfoundland. Like most of his kin, he lived directly off of this imposing landscape. He hunted for moose in the fall of the year--an annual adventure which was always anticipated. Spring and summer brought the promise of another cod and lobster season. Many an hour were spent frolicking on a snowmobile in the winter--no matter what the weather, Harvey found great joy in the outdoor open air.


As a child, I recall him coming to live with my family for a period of time. He was jovial, easy-going and ever true to his Newfie heritage, which made him irrepressibly funny. He also adored his country music. When Harvey launched into a sing-a-long with certain favourite tunes, head bobbing and feet stomping, he would miss half the lyrics and always mangled the songs. These 'demonstrations' never failed to garner howls of laughter from my sister, brother and I.

His favourite meal was a Jigg’s dinner. This traditional Newfoundland dish typically consists of a combination of pickled salt beef, boiled potatoes, carrots, cabbage, turnip, and turnip greens. Bread pudding, dressing, peas pudding, and a cooked turkey, chicken or beef roast, (for good measure) results in a literal cornucopia of food. The entire list of ingredients is boiled together in the same pot for hours on end, and it makes for a truly hearty blend. Since becoming vegetarian, I can appreciate that the whole jumbled mess might easily strike some as unpalatable, but nonetheless, such were the makings of many a happy family meal! Even after Harvey moved out of our house, he continued to graciously accept our invitations to join us on Sundays for the weekly feast. His kind spirit was a welcome addition to any occasion.

What I also recall from those years was how much enjoyment Harvey took from Christmas. Although he was a man of modest means, he never failed to provide generous and exciting Christmas presents for us kids. His eyes gleamed as he watched us open our gifts on Christmas morning. And of course, his eyes gleamed again later in the day when we were served yet another coveted Jigg’s dinner for Christmas.

I was contacted by the Ottawa Regional Cancer Foundation on the morning of December 12, while still at work, and I am constantly amazed by how life manages to unfold. After getting off the telephone, I thought to myself: What am I thinking, agreeing to this? Me? I am not a blogger, and certainly no writer, either. I am a community activist. I had gone and gotten myself snared by the moment again, only this time, perhaps, I had bitten off more than I could chew! What would I possibly write about, and how silly would I sound to those people who have directly experienced the coldness of cancer? Could I do them justice? Nevertheless, I concluded that the worst that could happen was that I would end up looking ridiculous (again!) and the lovely people at the Courage Campaign would learn a valuable lesson about being careful with whom they ask to blog for them in the future.

COURAGE

I was recently visiting with a friend of mine who is a nurse. He is someone that I consider not only a friend, but also, a man who understands spirituality in the same sense that I do. He is introspective and often reflects upon his day through the use of meditation. On this particular day, I happened to notice an intriguing wall hanging placed near the entrance to his apartment. It featured a bright red Chinese symbol at the very top, and below that, in bold, capital letters was the word courage. Underneath was written: "Courage is not the absence of fear or despair, but the strength to conquer them."


Now I'm ever the stickler for a good quote and I was definitely drawn to this one. In our handy, paperless world of advanced technology, I whipped out my trusty BlackBerry and jotted the juicy nugget down for future reference. Who knew when I would need to sound smart or need to impress someone using a fancy quote? This one was simply too good to pass up.

So when I was first contacted by the Courage Campaign to assist with their upcoming events, the very same wall-hanging instantly popped into my mind. Eager to help, I knew that my chance to use the quote had appeared!

Courage, as I understand it, has many different meanings to many different people. It is wonderful that the word is so flexible and can be used to suit a variety of needs and purposes. Very few words summon the same emotional attachment as the word courage-- for it is by the very virtue of our attachment to it which gives it such great meaning. Its many definitions give it power. For some, courage is the ability to flight the battle. In this light, courage is seen to embrace all the valour of war and victory in conflict. For others, courage is simply about the ability to engage in the struggle, for it is the struggle that matters most, regardless of the outcome. And for others still, courage can be the power to admit defeat, to accept surrender and find peace in doing so. Whatever our association, it is plain to see that the word courage is as diverse as those who use it.

On July 25, 2008, I was in attendance at a social gathering hosted by the Public Service Pride network. These are monthly gatherings for queer civil servants and their friends that take place on the last Friday of every month. I was chatting with a colleague who was, at the time, a board member for the Capital Pride Festival. We were leisurely discussing, (and perhaps technically even gossiping) about the upcoming parade, when my telephone disrupted our lively conversation.

It was my mother calling, and so I politely excused myself to take her call.

I thought it strange that she would be calling so early on a Friday evening. She still lives in the small town in which I was raised, called Lark Harbour in Newfoundland. Even with the difference in time zones it was completely unusual for her to be ringing at that hour.

She greeted me with the same set of routine questions as always - wondering where I was and what I was up to. I told her I was out with friends at an event and asked her if everything was all right.

There was a bit of a pause, and then she told me she had been to a doctor's appointment that day. Thinking nothing of it, I asked how the appointment had gone. It was then that she informed me she had been diagnosed with cervical cancer. Feeling a flood of emotions wash over me, I stood silently clutching my BlackBerry. I understood what she had conveyed but I was confused as to what it all meant. This type of confusion quickly leads to fear--a fear that is amplified terribly by the awkward silence of such moments.

I knew what cancer was. I knew its implications and I understood the ramifications. What was baffling was how this could be happening to my Mother? Never before had the 'C' word hit so close to home for me.

Never before had I fully appreciated the gravity of the word. But now, it was my turn to experience the terrible initiation process that lurks behind the pithy phrase "cancer scare.”

Mothers have an uncanny ability to detect exactly how we are feeling at any given moment. Mom informed me that she was only calling to let me know about the situation and that I needn't be worried. She told me that although she would potentially have to undergo treatment, this was no cause for undue worry. But my fears would not allow me to fully trust her assurances.

Looking back, I realize now what an extraordinary person my Mother was, and is. Despite her own doubts and despair, she was able to connect with me and be there for me--even during one of her own darkest hours. As a result of this brave woman's ability to reassure me throughout one the scariest experiences of my life to date, I came to understand that courage is not the absence of fear, but indeed, a steadfast rallying cry by which we can come to face our fears and conquer them--together.