Never Dad-less

There’s no preparation I had as a kid for thinking of a Father’s Day without Dad around, prepping his barbecue for grilled steak even on his own day. I had no world without thinking of him in it.

Then you grow up, supposedly.

That photo was on the last birthday I celebrated with Dad, it taking place in the hospital in May, 2001. Two months after seeing a doctor about bad stomach pain, we learned it was invasive cancer around all his organs. Nothing could be done.

Eighteen years ago.

Even then he sported his self described “shit-eating grin.”

I need to work on my own version of that.

As I mull over what we’d talk about now. He’d want to know about life in Canada, he’d say how happy he is that I found Cori. We’d talk about the landscaping we are doing, he’s share his own yard adventures. He’d mention reading my blog. He read every single post I wrote. That’s what Dads like him do.

So I just try to listen for the echoes of his voice, his laugh. His quiet gentleness, his always being there Dad-ness.

That’s why it was extra special to have a visit from Cori’s Dad, Albert, today, we got to show him and Cori’s mom all the crazy things we are doing to our yard, turning it from a suburban expanse of boring lawn grass into an oasis of trees and native shrubs.

Albert is beyond legendary, his grace, can do attitude, things he overcame, and the way he gave everything for his family is a level of Dad-ness we can all aim for.

One is never Dad-less and one always can strive for a higher level of Dad-ness.

This I know.


Featured Image: Last Birthday with Dad, May 2001, in the Fort Myers Hospital.

Permanent Stay

You can now tag me #AlmostCanadian.

About 10 months since crossing the fenceless, welcoming border into Canada to live with, love, and marry Cori, the government has said I can stay.

Yesterday, a typical Big Blue Saskatchewan Open Sky Day, we drove to Saskatoon for the final interview to get my permanent resident card. We took the word “interview” as a possible quiz on each other; as it turns out, it was more of an approval of the paper work our lawyer had submitted for us in September.

This means I can stay here. The word joyous is an understatement, can you tell?

This Woman I Love

This Woman I Love flickr photo by cogdogblog shared into the public domain using Creative Commons Public Domain Dedication (CC0)

The other cards are lining up- I got a Health Card 3 weeks ago (still sorting out details on what it covers for my diabetes) and a Saskatchewan driver’s license today. The only thing I cannot do now is vote.

This opens the door for a possible summer road trip for us across the southern border.

Most importantly, it means a big step in the process of a forever stay here with Cori, under these open skies.


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Metronome of Diabetic Life

The period, in terms of the reciprocal of frequency, is 3 days.

Every 3 days comes a beep from the box hanging on my belt. It actually looks like one of those antique pager devices.

That’s the warning that the supply of insulin in my insulin pump is getting low, usually when there are less than 20 units left (from a full supply of 300 units).

This October marked my 48th year of living with Type 1 diabetes. Until 2006 that was a regimen of daily or my then 3 times a day injections of insulin. For too long [foolishly] resisted the idea of relying on a device attached to my body, thinking it would limit my activities. Actually the pump has made life more flexible, manageable. It made the cycle of medication change go from hours to every three days when I refill the supply and move the spot where it enters my skin.

I estimate I have done this 1500 times since getting the pump, but until now, I had never thought about this cycle in my life routine. Now I find something interesting about getting a life is moving reminder every 3 days.

Mostly, it’s a pause to think, has it really been 3 days?

What’s happened in those 3 days? Some days, like last week it presented a problem, because the reminder came on the way into town for a full day of errands. I should have turned back, but instead tried to rationalize eating less and being more active. What a mistake, my blood sugar level was way over 340 when I got home.

That’s not a good number.

 

 

My first summer as a diabetic kid was 1970. My parents did many great things for me, one of the best was sending me to Camp Glyndon, a diabetic summer camp. It was the place I learned about diet, insulin, exercise, how to manage it. But also, the diabetic experts assured us there would be a cure “like 20 years in the future.”

Um no.

I’m still pushing insulin in my body.

Every 3 days.

It’s not like a ticking clock, I intent a lot more 3 day cycles. But still every 3 days, I pause, swap the tubes, move the injection point, and get to wonder what will happen in the next 3 days.

The next one is tomorrow.

 

 


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