Hello my Blogville friends. Thank you for stopping by and joining me in a cup of tea and a read. Today I am drinking an orange pekoe tea with a drop or two of milk. It is my usual tea and I really need to get back into my usual routine. Trust me when I say, normal is underrated because when normal changes it is overwhelming!
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As you know, my husband and I were just on a beautiful East Coast of Canada trip. About two weeks or so before our trip I had some unexplained and sudden back pain. It was very random. The first time it happened, it mostly cleared up on its own but I made an appointment to have it looked at before our trip. At that appointment the pain flared up significantly and actually resulted in an unexpected short ambulance ride. 

So, after the ambulance was called, I ask the health care practitioner to please dial my husband’s number. Oh, and I suggest you rethink the face recognition unlock feature on your cell phone, lol. After a couple of attempts trying to line up my face, I just finally gave them my password (I mean, what secrets do I really have on my cell phone?). So they tried my husband; straight to voice mail. They tried my husband’s employer; straight to voice mail. Finally I conceded and asked them to try my eldest daughter. I mean, I needed someone to move my car, after all I only had 45 minutes on the meter!

I think it is noteworthy to mentions that I am an absolute fan of Emergency Responder television shows and watch them regularly. As a result, I know all about ambulance rides. Well, I thought I did until I had my own experience. 

So the paramedics arrived, assessed my pain complaint, and (though I hoped they would just stand me up and the pain would recede like last time) decided transport to hospital was in my best interest. You know, you do not really know how self-aware (maybe even a little vain) you are until you are about to be put on a stretcher and transported out of a busy office building and on to a very public street. 

Oh, and in the meantime, two of my daughters had arrived to witness my transport from the office to the ambulance. They reassured me they had my stuff and would get my car home. In the meantime, I gratefully noticed that the kind receptionist had cleared the waiting room of other patients so I was spared at least that humiliation. I will be eternally grateful for that.
So, of course there is someone in the elevator and they actually had to be asked to step out as the paramedics needed the space for the stretcher and themselves. Personally, I like to think that, in this scenario, I would just have stepped out automatically, or maybe even helped by holding the ‘door open’ button. The fellow in the elevator took a little convincing to step out but finally relented. Again, maybe a little vanity here, I literally covered my face with my hands as we left the office building and travelled the short, but surprisingly bumpy, distance to the ambulance. I mean, I’m sure it has improved from the old style manual lift and shove technique of loading the stretcher, but even the more modern and smoother lift and slide technique into the back of the ambulance was painfully jarring. An inappropriate word or two may have escaped my lips. Admittedly, not the first to have escaped since they arrived to help me. My apologies. 

The paramedics were absolutely amazing both in the medical office and on the ambulance ride. Their professionalism cannot be overstated. I have to note that when I am in distress, humour is my coping mechanism. For example, when I suggested that the fellow in the elevator or the people standing around on the street outside might have something for my pain that they could purchase for me, the paramedics simply smiled and said ‘no’. Despite that, lol, I honestly respect the job these people have to do and how well they do it. The ability to deal with someone in medical distress, and often the family members in attendance as well, with such calming and reassuring professionalism, cannot be taught. It must be alive within that person’s heart. I do not know the names of the paramedics who took care of me that day but I offer them my sincerest thanks.

Oh, sorry, my blog does not end here, although I wish it did. Again, as you know from my previous blog, “Go East My Friend” my husband and I were able to take our anniversary trip despite my little medical setback. Following our trip we planned to visit with our son who lives in Ottawa with his wife and toddler. I mean, we really needed to do some laundry as you can imagine, lol. Ok, seriously, it was a wonderful opportunity to visit on our way home; maybe even drop off a souvenir or two. 

However, in the middle of one night during our visit, due to my husband’s mis-step in an unfamiliar environment, an ambulance ride was required again. (I am sharing this with his permission.) I cannot tell you how relieved we were when the flashing lights announced the ambulance’s arrival in the driveway. It was absolutely incredible how these paramedics were able to get my husband up from the floor in one fell swoop with a preciseness that preserved his head and neck, as well as his dignity. What professionalism, training, and ability these young women modelled.  

Being the accompanying family member and not the patient offers a whole new perspective on an ambulance ride. So at 3:00 a.m. we were loaded into the back of the ambulance, my husband’s discomfort evident, as mine had felt a few weeks ago, from the jolting of the automatic stretcher roll-in. I was assigned a bench seat within his line of site, a comfort to both of us I am sure. The paramedic fastened a lap belt on me as we prepared for the journey. Each bump and dip brought agony to my husband’s face, superseding the pains shooting in my own back. What a pair we were! One of the paramedics sat just above my husband’s head, keeping an eye on his vital signs and chatting to keep our minds at ease. At one point I looked at her and said, “OMG this is rough, I thought all the roads in Ottawa were paved with gold!” The driver laughed and said, ‘I’m afraid not, and we are also currently in a construction zone.’ Now I’m not sure where all my taxes go lol! Oh, wait, they are probably paying for the construction! Ha!

Compared to my short, 10 minute ride to our local hospital, my husband’s journey was a little over 30 minutes to the hospital the ambulance was directed to. I felt great sympathy combined with empathy for him. I was also grateful that he was not alone, as I had been, during one of the most painful and confusing rides one can have. In my husband’s case, I can only recall one of the Ottawa paramedic’s names (Emma) and the ambulance number (4115) so I am unable to actually thank them personally. Therefore, I would ask that if you know a paramedic, please thank them for their service! My two experiences with them have been nothing short of positive while experiencing very negative situations. 

Home now, both of us healing, I thank you for stopping by to join me in a cup of tea and reading my story. If you want to share a comment here, I welcome you to do so. If you prefer a more private format feel free to email me at [email protected]. Stay safe my Blogville friends!

​Hello my Blogville friends! This will be a short blog but I still wanted to say hi and see how all of you are doing. 

Currently my husband and I are on a 45th Wedding Anniversary trip on the East Coast of Canada. We have been to New Brunswick, Nova Scotia and Prince Edward Island and it has been wonderful. 

I thought you might enjoy hearing some of our funny moments that often accompany travel. Well, at least when I travel they seem to happen with regularity!

For example, when we arrived at our Quebec hotel address, the GPS instructed me to turn left as we had ‘arrived at your destination’. Naturally I turned right instead and ended up driving in the exit of the McDonald’s drive through lanes. Something I hadn’t noticed before that day, if you drive through the wrong way, the order window is on the passenger side! Thank goodness I was not ordering anything. I was hoping no one noticed but I couldn’t be that lucky. Just like the car full of teenagers were, I would have laughed at me too! 

On another day I walked through a spider web. I peeled it off my face and hair as I walked to our vehicle. A little while later, as I was driving, I saw a spider walking down my glasses. It had just started crawling onto my nose as I pulled the vehicle over. I yanked off my glasses, sending the spider flying onto my husband. Now he’s freaking out trying to find the spider. As he’s slapping everywhere he thinks the spider might be he says, “Now I can’t find it. Why didn’t you just keep it on your face?” I burst out laughing and replied, “Gee I would have if I wasn’t driving!” 

Now you all know what it’s like to orient yourself to a hotel room as you are travelling right? At my age, several different rooms over several days offers a couple of challenges. Also at my age, overnight bathroom visits are common. I’m sure it will come as no surprise when I tell you that, instead of the bathroom doorway, I walked full face-on into a wall on one night. Ouch! Luckily just a tiny bruise near my eyebrow. I was laughing so hard I barely made it into the actual washroom doorway in time! 

Oh and about 50 percent of the time, on my way back to the bed following my nocturnal bathroom visits, I cannot remember what side of the bed I had crawled out of. The side of the bed I choose at each hotel is inconsistent as it is based on where the air conditioner is positioned in the room. In case you hadn’t noticed, hotel rooms are notoriously dark! I finally devised a trick- I feel my way along the foot end of the bed to determine which side is currently empty! Works 80% of the time. 

Ok but all kidding aside, travelling this beautiful country of ours has been breathtaking. We have seen incredible landscapes, explored historical lighthouses, were welcomed on board a bluenose sailboat, spent time up close with bald eagles and seals, and walked amazing beaches collecting sea glass and sea shells. These are just a few of our adventures out in Eastern Canada. I haven’t even talked about the food out here! Lobster Rolls top my favourites’ list!

As noted, this blog is a short one, but our exploring continues. I just wanted you to know I haven’t forgotten about you, my Blogville friends! Thank you for stopping by! Until next time. . .

Don’t forget that your comments are welcome here or by sending me an email at [email protected]

Welcome back to Blogville my friends, it is so nice to have you back for a visit! Today I am sipping on a chai tea because it has so many mystery ingredients, kind of like the biological mysteries of being an adoptee. Maybe it was my granddaughter’s birthday that inspired this blog, or more specifically when her other grandmother commented on how much my now eight year old granddaughter looks like me. It was at that moment I realized how lucky my granddaughter is to know who she looks like. As an adopted person, I had to wait 22 years to meet any biological family members that might look like me! That was just the beginning of my journey. Here’s how it went . . .


I grew up not knowing anyone I was biologically related to. I knew no one who looked like me. When I was 18 years old I met my true love. Two years later we married, and two years after that I met my first biological relative, our first child, a daughter. I’m not sure there was ever a baby more stared at in wonderment than she was. Maybe all adoptees feel this way when they meet their first child. I simply could not stop looking at her, seeking any resemblance to me. I was 22 years old before I met anyone that might look like me. She was later joined by three siblings, and by the time I was 32 years old I still only knew four biological relatives; my own children. Think about that for a minute. Think about no one ever saying, ‘you have your mother’s eyes, or your father’s nose’? It does impact on one’s sense of belonging. I remember once when I was quite young and someone said, ‘They (meaning the Children’s Aid Society) did a pretty good job matching you with your parents because you are built like your dad!”
I was just a kid and I remember thinking ‘what does that even mean?’ They were just mom and dad to me, if I didn’t look like them did that mean they wouldn’t or couldn’t be my parents? Did it mean I did not belong to my parents unless I met a certain criteria? What if my own newborn did not look like me? What then?


Soon after the birth of our fourth child, I met my birth half sister, who had also been adopted. I was 32 years old and she was 35. I later met her two sons, so I then knew three more biological relatives. A few years later I met my birth father’s adult children. I now had two more biological siblings, and two biological nieces. I was 39 years old. The next year I met my birth father. I was 40 years old. He could see a resemblance but I did not really see it, except in our eyes, our eyes were similar in shape and colour. He also noted that I have the same ‘husky’ voice as one of his sisters. Of note, people were right when they said I’m built like my dad, they just had the wrong dad. 


I never had the opportunity to meet my birth mother but eventually I met her four other daughters, and their children; suddenly finding myself among so many biological relatives! I was 60 years old. Yes, you read that correctly, I was 60 years old before this privilege was granted to me. I was invited to a family reunion of my birth mother’s extended family where I met generations of people I am biologically related to, but who did not know my half-sister and I even existed. They were never given the chance to know us until my half-sister and I were in our 60s. Meeting them was filled with both happiness at gaining all of these family members, and a sense of loss at how much of each other’s lives we had missed. 


Among these people were some who knew, and kept, the secrets of adoption. Among these people I felt both acceptance and curiosity. I caught many sidelong glances as they studied me, comparing my features to that of my birth mother’s. At the same time, I found a commonality and sense of belonging at this gathering through things like my long legs and my fair skin (Dutch ancestry), and even my sense of humour. Among these people with whom I share genetic material, I learned so much as they shared their memories of my birth mother. She became more than simple descriptors on a page written by a social worker. I learned things about her as a mother, a grandmother, a sister, a sister-in-law, an aunt, and even as a cousin. 


As you can see, I have come a long way from meeting my first biological relative when I was 22 years old, to today when my life is enriched by connections within my immediate biological family. I am now connected with both my extended family members through adoption, and my extended family members through birth. Though I have found a sense of connectedness with my birth family members through physical resemblance, I feel that I have an even stronger connection with my adoptive family members through life’s experiences. In my adoptive family, my cousins, aunts and uncles all form parts of my lifetime memories as a result of our having shared so many lived experiences. My cousins’ and my memories of mutual visits to our grandmothers’ homes when we were children are gathered in our hearts. These people knew/know me, and claimed me, as their daughter, their granddaughter, their cousin, their niece, and they knew/know me as me! My birth family will never know me like that.


I believe that human relationships are built on shared experiences.  There are good and bad relationships among family members no matter how that family was created; through birth, marriage, kinship, adoption, surrogacy, and so on. We can choose to focus on or blame any poor relationships on how we became members of our families, or we can accept that we have a relationship with each other, no matter how we arrived at it, and work together at creating and maintaining good experiences. 


With changes to openness in adoption practices it is the hope that my adoption life experiences will be prevented and that adoptees will be spared having to wait 22 years before meeting someone biologically related to them. Adoptive parents are certainly provided with more information than my parents were ever given, so there is hope that they can answer their children’s questions about their birth family as they come up. Pictures are even provided in many cases so a child can see for themselves where their features came from. When adoptive parents are provided with the tools they need to help answer their children’s questions about biological identity, those children are better able to form trusting relationships with their adoptive parents. Pictures truly are worth a thousand words.


Thank you again for visiting with me in Blogville. Feel free to leave a comment so I know you stopped by. As ever, you are also welcome to send me an email at [email protected] See you next time! 

Hello my Blogville friends. Thanks for joining me today as I sip my green tea with a little honey and lemon. I’m not sure that I will be able to write this blog, and even if I do, I’ll need to decide if it is a good idea publish it on my website. What I do know is that I need to write it. Writing helps me process things. If you are reading this blog you know what my decision is. NOTE: I offer you a Trigger Alert for grief and loss. Please consider your frame of mind before continuing to read.

As a preface to the rest of this blog, please know that I am a person who randomly tries to reconnect (and hopefully stay connected) with people who have crossed life paths with me. For example, I recently reconnected with one of my bridesmaids and now we chat monthly on the phone. I honestly enjoy finding old friends, seeing who and how they are now, and attempting to keep in touch. Sometimes it is enough just to find and connect with a person once, other times we stay connected and keep in touch. Yep, I’m that person!

So my story begins in Kindergarten about 60 years ago when I met my friend whom I will call J. We became fast friends and instantly ‘pretend sisters’ as each of us was cursed with having only brothers. J and I did everything together, well, as much as our parents would let us do. We lived close enough to each other, and to our school, that we would walk together pretty well every day. There was a fountain between our two addresses on the route to school where we would usually meet, and then walk the rest of the way together. In those days town children did not have a bus, nor did our parents drive us to school. In my case, my parents did not even own a car until I was 16 years old.

Our walks were fraught with the magic of children’s conversations making unrealistic plans about what our futures would look like. We planned that our houses would be across the street from each other, if not right next door, so our children could play together. Our husbands would be best friends or maybe even brothers! We wished for puppies and had to settle for goldfish. We wished for new bikes, she got one and I got my brother’s used one, and our bike adventures began. 

We would walk holding hands and swinging our arms in perfect tandem with each other. In the late spring as we passed a hillside house with a huge rolling lawn, we would look at each other and run screaming to the top before tumbling down together. The resulting grass stains hardly showed on our navy school uniforms but the elbows of our white blouses often gave us away. I am still amazed today how our mothers managed to get those blouses back to a perfect white every time, even the elbows! In the winter, naturally the draw to slide down that same rolling, then snow covered, lawn/hill was equally irresistible. Those walks to school were filled with the magic of young girls’ imaginations every single day. 

Even the best of friends have disagreements and we were no different. My fondest memories are of how we would use our parents as ‘weapons’ in our little ‘fights’. Her father, a food wholesaler, and my father, a railway employee were deployed in our imaginations to make the other’s life miserable. J threatened that she would have her father stop selling my family food so that we would starve to death unless I would acknowledge she was right about whatever we were arguing about at that moment. I, also looking to be right would inform her that my father would stop the supply trains where her father got the food rendering his wholesale shelves empty, and causing his business to fail. Our childhood omnipotence was rampant on the rare occasions we fought.

One of my favourite stories about J and I is the time that, in addition to Sunday services, we had to attend a Mass on our own as part of our Catholic Education curriculum, maybe it was for Lent or something, I’m not really sure. So one day, walking home together after school, we could see that there was a Mass going on by the number of cars in the parking lot. People were still going in so we knew it hadn’t started yet and we looked at each other and spontaneously decided to attend the Mass to complete our assignment. We would be the first ones in our class to achieve the ‘Attend Mass’ goal and we could proudly ‘tick that box’. So in we went, in our school uniforms, and took a seat in one of the pews. 

People in the church that day seemed quite sad, so we mirrored their sad faces. We guessed that they were not happy about attending an extra Mass either. People stood up and we followed suit, though they really blocked our view of the main aisle. We caught a glimpse of a shiny box draped in a white cloth rolling up the aisle but had no idea what that box might be for. I am pretty empathetic as a person, even back then, so I found myself tearing up at the increasing sobbing sounds filling the church. We sat through the Mass, even squeezing around that shiny box to receive communion, and snuck out a side door once the Mass was over.

Obviously these were the ‘days before cell phones’ so our mothers were quite upset with us by the time we got home. Apparently our dads had been trying to find us when we had not arrived home after school as expected. Not surprisingly, no one thought to check for us at the church  service. In hindsight, no one but the teacher was yet even aware of the new class assignment to attend an weekday Mass.

I remember explaining the class assignment to my parents and letting them know how weird it was to go to a Mass on a weekday. I asked them what was in the box because J and I were hoping they would open it and let us see but, to our disappointment, it had remained closed. I’m sure you can imagine my reaction when they explained what a funeral mass was, and delicately, what was in the box. The worst part at the time? The teacher did not let us count it as our Mass commitment. If I am not mistaken (it has been a while) I think we just ended up attending an after school Mass as a class. That funeral mass was J’s and my introduction to loss, and people’s reaction to loss. 

Speaking of loss, J moved on to a private school in grade nine and despite our tears and promises to remain best friends, life changed for us both. Her school was in a different community, and I cannot honestly recall if we even exchanged one letter or birthday card, despite our commitment to the idea of keeping in touch. As is the way of life, our commitment waned and it was many, many years later that J and I reconnected. I know she was invited, but I cannot definitively recall if she was at my wedding.

I think it was about ten years ago when I remembered that J resided in the large city that I would be attending for work, so I randomly reached out to her through social media, and we were able to get together. She came to collect me from my hotel and we spent some time on her sailboat, an adventure I had never been on before. At this point I had a growing family in Northern Ontario and she remained unmarried and living in Southern Ontario. I just love how the years melt away when spending time with childhood friends. Despite our promise to stay in touch, life got in the way, and we lost touch again.

Many years later I was visiting with one of my children and his family down south and I reached out to J again as they were now living in her city. She met my son, his wife and their new baby, then she and I went off for brunch. We spent the rest of the afternoon reminiscing. She showed me where she worked and we went to her gated community for tea so I could see her apartment/condo. It was a wonderful visit. 

About a year later we reconnected again as her brother had passed away and she would be coming north for his service/internment. I went up to the small community we had grown up in to attend the service. I met J’s friend, A, that she had travelled up with, and met some of her relatives and friends of her family. It was a peaceful event followed by a luncheon at a local restaurant. I got to know a few of the people who had attended the service and we shared some stories and laughter. When I had to leave to drive home J came outside and we hugged. She promised to contact me when she would be coming up to settle the estate and sell her family home within the coming weeks or months and I promised to make the short drive up and help her or even just to visit. We hugged again and I left for the drive home. This was last month.

A couple of weeks ago I was staying overnight in North Bay and contacted another ‘old’ friend to see if we could get together. We met for tea at a local restaurant and had a great visit despite the years between seeing each other. We talked about J and the loss of her brother as well as the fact that J and I had gotten the chance to see each other again. We talked about our J’s and my plan to get together upon her return to manage her brother’s estate. My North Bay friend and I also talked about getting together again when I would be passing through the next time. 

Here is the possible grief and loss trigger. Earlier this week I got a long distance call from J’s friend, A, who had come up with my friend for her brother’s funeral. Thinking J was driving, and so her friend was calling, I expected her to say they were on their way north to deal with the estate. Instead, J’s friend told me that J is gone, that she passed away. Fraught with disbelief I barely registered the details of what had happened to J. I can honestly say that I did not fully believe the friend until I received a link to the obituary and funeral information from her in my inbox. What her friend said is true, J is gone. The promise of seeing her again, is gone, in an instant, leaving me with a wish. I wish I had stayed longer after her brother’s funeral, that I had kept in touch more, and that I had told her what a good friend she had been when we were children. 

My message to you? Look around you, look at your life and see who mattered/matters then and now? Can you find those people or that one person? I am so grateful, despite the circumstances of losing her brother, to have had those precious hours with my friend before she passed so suddenly and unexpectedly. I am grateful to have had the chance to have a cup of tea with my other friend in North Bay, and I hope to have many more cups of tea with her. I am grateful to chat with friends by phone regularly and to keep up with their lives while sharing the details of my life with them. To use a pasta reference, we do not know if we have a strand of spaghetti or an elbow macaroni left in our pot so please do not waste one more minute. Find that friend, or family member and reach out. Paraphrasing Walter Payton, ‘Today is here, tomorrow is not promised!’ Don’t be left with a regret. 

Thank you for stopping by! Remember, I love reading your comments whether you comment here publicly, or whether you reach out to me via my email: [email protected]. I hope to see you next time with your cup of tea in hand, visiting with me in Blogville. You can tell me about reconnecting with your old friends! 
Hello my Blogville friends. Thanks for joining me today as I sip my green tea with a little honey and lemon. I’m not sure that I will be able to write this blog, and even if I do, I’ll need to decide if it is a good idea publish it on my website. What I do know is that I need to write it. Writing helps me process things. If you are reading this blog you know what my decision is. NOTE: I offer you a Trigger Alert for grief and loss. Please consider your frame of mind before continuing to read.

As a preface to the rest of this blog, please know that I am a person who randomly tries to reconnect (and hopefully stay connected) with people who have crossed life paths with me. For example, I recently reconnected with one of my bridesmaids and now we chat monthly on the phone. I honestly enjoy finding old friends, seeing who and how they are now, and attempting to keep in touch. Sometimes it is enough just to find and connect with a person once, other times we stay connected and keep in touch. Yep, I’m that person!

So my story begins in Kindergarten about 60 years ago when I met my friend whom I will call J. We became fast friends and instantly ‘pretend sisters’ as each of us was cursed with having only brothers. J and I did everything together, well, as much as our parents would let us do. We lived close enough to each other, and to our school, that we would walk together pretty well every day. There was a fountain between our two addresses on the route to school where we would usually meet, and then walk the rest of the way together. In those days town children did not have a bus, nor did our parents drive us to school. In my case, my parents did not even own a car until I was 16 years old.

Our walks were fraught with the magic of children’s conversations making unrealistic plans about what our futures would look like. We planned that our houses would be across the street from each other, if not right next door, so our children could play together. Our husbands would be best friends or maybe even brothers! We wished for puppies and had to settle for goldfish. We wished for new bikes, she got one and I got my brother’s used one, and our bike adventures began. 

We would walk holding hands and swinging our arms in perfect tandem with each other. In the late spring as we passed a hillside house with a huge rolling lawn, we would look at each other and run screaming to the top before tumbling down together. The resulting grass stains hardly showed on our navy school uniforms but the elbows of our white blouses often gave us away. I am still amazed today how our mothers managed to get those blouses back to a perfect white every time, even the elbows! In the winter, naturally the draw to slide down that same rolling, then snow covered, lawn/hill was equally irresistible. Those walks to school were filled with the magic of young girls’ imaginations every single day. 

Even the best of friends have disagreements and we were no different. My fondest memories are of how we would use our parents as ‘weapons’ in our little ‘fights’. Her father, a food wholesaler, and my father, a railway employee were deployed in our imaginations to make the other’s life miserable. J threatened that she would have her father stop selling my family food so that we would starve to death unless I would acknowledge she was right about whatever we were arguing about at that moment. I, also looking to be right would inform her that my father would stop the supply trains where her father got the food rendering his wholesale shelves empty, and causing his business to fail. Our childhood omnipotence was rampant on the rare occasions we fought.

One of my favourite stories about J and I is the time that, in addition to Sunday services, we had to attend a Mass on our own as part of our Catholic Education curriculum, maybe it was for Lent or something, I’m not really sure. So one day, walking home together after school, we could see that there was a Mass going on by the number of cars in the parking lot. People were still going in so we knew it hadn’t started yet and we looked at each other and spontaneously decided to attend the Mass to complete our assignment. We would be the first ones in our class to achieve the ‘Attend Mass’ goal and we could proudly ‘tick that box’. So in we went, in our school uniforms, and took a seat in one of the pews. 

People in the church that day seemed quite sad, so we mirrored their sad faces. We guessed that they were not happy about attending an extra Mass either. People stood up and we followed suit, though they really blocked our view of the main aisle. We caught a glimpse of a shiny box draped in a white cloth rolling up the aisle but had no idea what that box might be for. I am pretty empathetic as a person, even back then, so I found myself tearing up at the increasing sobbing sounds filling the church. We sat through the Mass, even squeezing around that shiny box to receive communion, and snuck out a side door once the Mass was over.

Obviously these were the ‘days before cell phones’ so our mothers were quite upset with us by the time we got home. Apparently our dads had been trying to find us when we had not arrived home after school as expected. Not surprisingly, no one thought to check for us at the church  service. In hindsight, no one but the teacher was yet even aware of the new class assignment to attend an weekday Mass.

I remember explaining the class assignment to my parents and letting them know how weird it was to go to a Mass on a weekday. I asked them what was in the box because J and I were hoping they would open it and let us see but, to our disappointment, it had remained closed. I’m sure you can imagine my reaction when they explained what a funeral mass was, and delicately, what was in the box. The worst part at the time? The teacher did not let us count it as our Mass commitment. If I am not mistaken (it has been a while) I think we just ended up attending an after school Mass as a class. That funeral mass was J’s and my introduction to loss, and people’s reaction to loss. 

Speaking of loss, J moved on to a private school in grade nine and despite our tears and promises to remain best friends, life changed for us both. Her school was in a different community, and I cannot honestly recall if we even exchanged one letter or birthday card, despite our commitment to the idea of keeping in touch. As is the way of life, our commitment waned and it was many, many years later that J and I reconnected. I know she was invited, but I cannot definitively recall if she was at my wedding.

I think it was about ten years ago when I remembered that J resided in the large city that I would be attending for work, so I randomly reached out to her through social media, and we were able to get together. She came to collect me from my hotel and we spent some time on her sailboat, an adventure I had never been on before. At this point I had a growing family in Northern Ontario and she remained unmarried and living in Southern Ontario. I just love how the years melt away when spending time with childhood friends. Despite our promise to stay in touch, life got in the way, and we lost touch again.

Many years later I was visiting with one of my children and his family down south and I reached out to J again as they were now living in her city. She met my son, his wife and their new baby, then she and I went off for brunch. We spent the rest of the afternoon reminiscing. She showed me where she worked and we went to her gated community for tea so I could see her apartment/condo. It was a wonderful visit. 

About a year later we reconnected again as her brother had passed away and she would be coming north for his service/internment. I went up to the small community we had grown up in to attend the service. I met J’s friend, A, that she had travelled up with, and met some of her relatives and friends of her family. It was a peaceful event followed by a luncheon at a local restaurant. I got to know a few of the people who had attended the service and we shared some stories and laughter. When I had to leave to drive home J came outside and we hugged. She promised to contact me when she would be coming up to settle the estate and sell her family home within the coming weeks or months and I promised to make the short drive up and help her or even just to visit. We hugged again and I left for the drive home. This was last month.

A couple of weeks ago I was staying overnight in North Bay and contacted another ‘old’ friend to see if we could get together. We met for tea at a local restaurant and had a great visit despite the years between seeing each other. We talked about J and the loss of her brother as well as the fact that J and I had gotten the chance to see each other again. We talked about our J’s and my plan to get together upon her return to manage her brother’s estate. My North Bay friend and I also talked about getting together again when I would be passing through the next time. 

Here is the possible grief and loss trigger. Earlier this week I got a long distance call from J’s friend, A, who had come up with my friend for her brother’s funeral. Thinking J was driving, and so her friend was calling, I expected her to say they were on their way north to deal with the estate. Instead, J’s friend told me that J is gone, that she passed away. Fraught with disbelief I barely registered the details of what had happened to J. I can honestly say that I did not fully believe the friend until I received a link to the obituary and funeral information from her in my inbox. What her friend said is true, J is gone. The promise of seeing her again, is gone, in an instant, leaving me with a wish. I wish I had stayed longer after her brother’s funeral, that I had kept in touch more, and that I had told her what a good friend she had been when we were children. 

My message to you? Look around you, look at your life and see who mattered/matters then and now? Can you find those people or that one person? I am so grateful, despite the circumstances of losing her brother, to have had those precious hours with my friend before she passed so suddenly and unexpectedly. I am grateful to have had the chance to have a cup of tea with my other friend in North Bay, and I hope to have many more cups of tea with her. I am grateful to chat with friends by phone regularly and to keep up with their lives while sharing the details of my life with them. To use a pasta reference, we do not know if we have a strand of spaghetti or an elbow macaroni left in our pot so please do not waste one more minute. Find that friend, or family member and reach out. Paraphrasing Walter Payton, ‘Today is here, tomorrow is not promised!’ Don’t be left with a regret. 

Thank you for stopping by! Remember, I love  your comments whether you comment here publicly, or whether you reach out to me via my email: [email protected]. I hope to see you next time with your cup of tea in hand, visiting me in Blogville. You can tell me about reconnecting with old friends!

Hello everyone, welcome back to Blogville. I’m so excited to have you visit again. Today I am drinking a tea called Gaba Guava as it is meant to boost focus. Let’s hope it works because, as you well know, I tend to wander all over the place in my blog posts. That’s ok, my husband has a tee-shirt that says, “Not all who wander, are lost!” Today’s blog is really directed towards adoptive parents. I am hoping to give them some insight, and perhaps a quick retort or two, into situations where people somehow feel free to speak their thoughts and opinions to adopting or adoptive parents. 


I have found that the general public starts the adoption process off on the wrong foot, usually by immediately sharing their opinion. I mean if a young couple (non-adoptive) mention that they are thinking about starting a family, I usually hear comment like, ‘that’s wonderful’, ‘children make life so much more interesting’, or even, ‘its about time’. I will admit there are exceptions to the rule, but one does not usually hear, “so, you are having sex’, or ‘you know you have to have intercourse to create a child’, or ‘I hope his sperm and your eggs are healthy’ or other such comments. Conception is mostly a personal issue people do not feel is theirs to discuss (yes, there are exceptions to every rule, I know.) It is like people forfeit their right to privacy when they announce that they are thinking of adopting. In fact, I am often surprised that adoptive parents even disclose that they are adoptive parents, or that they are seeking to become adoptive parents at all! In my experience adoptive parents are simply trying to share their pride or excitement but then they are often met with, well let’s just call them “uneducated” questions or comments. I just want to share a few of my thoughts, (look out) about how these, usually unsolicited, comments might be managed.


The first common statement that comes to mind is, “oh, so you can’t/couldn’t have children of your own?” I have commented on this in a number of my blogs as you know because that particular comment begs the question, ‘If not ours, whose children are they?’ To me, a great response by the parents might be, ‘Well actually, though they were/will not be born to us, they are/will be very much our own’. People who know me would expect me to facetiously add, ‘They even give us ownership papers’ (i.e. Final Adoption Order and/or amended birth certificates).


These same, considerate folks often follow up with, ‘Good for you, I could never accept a child that wasn’t born to me’. Ironically, there are people who do not accept children that were actually born to them, that is one of the reasons why adoption exists, or even potentially why some child abuse and child abandonment exist. Yes, I know these people actually mean they could never ‘raise’ a child not born to them, often without realizing that this means step-children as well! These are the comments adoptive applicants or adoptive families face too often. What should people say when they meet approved, excited adoptive applicants or when they meet adoptive parents? What can you say? How about simply “Congratulations!” Just like they do when they find out someone is pregnant or that someone has a new baby?


Oh, do not worry, I am aware of the folks that tell expectant parents the horror stories about their own pregnancies or childbirth experiences but I often find others nearby will caution them not to ‘scare’ the newly expecting or the new parents. Few people step up to stop folks from ‘scaring’ hopeful adoptive applicants or parents with a new child placed with them. If you overhear this type of thing, what can you say? How about saying, “I’m sure they will get (or have gotten) appropriate training about adopting. In fact, I understand that they learn more about parenting and child development than parents of biological children do!”


Another of my favourites, is the ‘bad blood’ thinking. This involves comments like “Really, aren’t you afraid there will be something genetically wrong with them?” I mean, there could be something genetically ‘wrong’ with anyone’s child right? Domestic adoptive parents are provided with a thorough Social and Medical History about the child and their birth family members. The information on these documents (including medical history) usually goes back two generations. When confronted with ‘bad blood’ thinkers, you might be tempted to say, ‘I hope, for your children’s sake, that insensitivity isn’t genetic.’ Instead, what can the new parents say? I think one acceptable response might be, “I know you will be (or were) lucky enough to able to interview your and your partners’ parents and grandparents regarding family health history and genetics before you decide(d) to have a birth child.”


One day I happened to be sitting on a bench at the mall waiting for one of my children who was shopping in one of the stores. I noticed a mom racing after a toddler who appeared to be of a different heritage than she. A lady blocked the toddler’s path so the mom could catch up and when she did the woman praised her for ‘saving that child’ through adoption. The young mom was spared having to respond when a man, obviously of the same heritage as the child, came out of the bookstore causing the toddler to squeal with delight and run toward him. Without comment or apology the offensive woman turned on her heel and walked away. The young mom looked over at me and rolled her eyes while I shrugged my own exasperation at what I had just witnessed, and the young family moved on down the mall. Conversely, I have actually overheard people who see families whom I know were created through international adoption say, “What? Weren’t there enough children in Canada available to adopt?” I mean, I want to recommend you retort ‘We were afraid a domestic child might be related to you.” But that would be almost as rude. What you can say instead might be something simple like, “I’m glad that now you are aware children around the world are in need of families.”


One of my favourites is what I call a “fishing” comment, like “What were their real parents like?” They often really want to know what kind of ‘bad blood’ your child might have running through their veins. I mean, I want you to say, “You’re looking at a ‘real’ parent, what do I seem like to you? Oh, wait, I guess you meant what were the birth parents like?” But I suppose that might be considered rude. I think what you can say is something like, “Well, I do know that their particular birth parents selflessly put the needs of their child before their own when they chose an adoption plan.” Or, “I do know that, true or false, the birth family must have felt an adoptive family could meet their child’s needs better than they could at that time.” Or you can even say, “I feel that the birth parents did not have the family, or even community, support necessary to safely raise their child.”


I can never seem to get over the concept of ‘real’ parents in adoption.I have been asked about my ‘real parents’. So many years later, I still hear people ask children about their ‘real parents’. Seriously? Don’t worry, your children see you as ‘real’ (defined as ‘actually existing, not imagined’). Your children know that, even if the people around them seem confused, you are their ‘real’ parents. Depending on their age and stage of development, they know that they have birth parents too, even if other people in society are not privy to that information. Families often look different, two-parent, single-parent, two parents of the same gender, blended families, multi-heritage families, biological children, step-children, children in kinship scenarios being raised by extended family. Phew, it can be a lot.

So, I respectfully suggest to you that, instead of guessing, you can say to children, “Tell me about your family.”


Thank you so much for stopping by and having a tea with me. I do love hearing your comments about what I write and if it impacts on you. Or just your thoughts. As ever, if you prefer a less public forum, please feel free to reach me at [email protected]
‘See’ you next time.