Share Your Stories of Dano

I write this while homeward bound from my brother’s final tragedy. Almost running from the mess he left behind.

I need to get home, to lose myself in familiarity.
That means getting back to the computer desk and writing things that inform, enlighten or entertain. Not bring you down. I am hoping this is the third tragedy meaning the rein of horror is over.
Long Live the days of laughter and good health, of births, weddings, joy and bliss.

And long live our memories of Daniel( Dano) Robert Harold Saunders:



The day was sunny, hot...the type of day that would bring my brother out of his upholstery shop, this time single-handedly dragging a couch to set on the edge of his parking lot. Across the street is Invermere's Rona building and the traffic to and from its premises was steady.

The cold beer in his hand suggested Dano was ready to quit for the day and was open for company. Having recently moved out of his house and into the bus parked beside his shop, we figure he preferred this to sitting in the bus by himself. We think this because Dan Saunders defined the word “socialite.”

No-one knows how long he sat there, but two men told us after Dano's funeral service that they had both, separately seen him seated there and stopped to join him on that couch. A few beers amalgamated into 2 cases.

They stayed there, enjoying the afternoon, laughing, joking.

Cars drove by, a few with Alberta plates looking at these crazy BC'ers as if to say, “Is that legal here?”, the look quickly changing to belie a “and can we join them?”

Yes, you could always join him. The more, truly the merrier. But while in his company, you may have been shocked to find all rules often ceased to apply. Dano wouldn't be contained by normal constraints

A pick-up truck with a bench seat bolted in the box, complete with seat belts. Yes, every cop in the world pulled him over, only to discover it was compliant.

An ardent champion of under dogs, he nursed a pet crow back from near-death. He hitchhiked across Canada twice.

He wrote left and right on his mitts forty years ago, long before it became a fad.

When his wife and teenaged daughter declared war, he moved into an apartment with the teen, trying to keep the peace. Who does that?

There was no box to think outside of. He was outside of the box himself.

Funny that thought would come to me. He made boxes inside of boxes for an art university entry project. It was fascinating. He was fascinating.

And he ends his journey in a box his daughter made, yes, the same teen, placed on a little side table at the front of a church.



My brother. So well known and loved that he took top billing over the grads of 2011 and graced the front page of the local paper, the headline saying “Goodbye Dano.” He wasn't a celebrity or public figure, but he was somebody everyone wanted to be a bit more like. Casual. Hakuna Matata. What will be, will be. No rain, no rainbows.



One man, the first born child of Bob and Dorothy's. Two children of his own. Born the third month and third day and died in hospital room number three. Four blood-relatives arriving from out-of-town, five months of being single again, six days between flying off a roof and landing inside a wooden box your daughter made for your ashes. Seven days at the Copper Point Resort for your grieving father. Eight, nine, ten times more I should have called him.

Fifty-three years old. Fifty-three hundred pictures, at least.

You may be gone but you are with us even more in death. You are over our shoulder, you're in our ear, you're in our sleep, our dreams, our nightmares. You influence our goals, our future plans, our resolve to be even more like you, more un-like you.


If you have a story about my brother that you would like to share, please send it and I will put it on this website, plus forward it to his children. His legacy of the legend he deserves to become is all they have left.

Waves of Grief Keep Crashing Overhead

The past has become a vortex sucking me downward until I am drowning in it. Memories keep playing in my mind, there are just so many. Fifty-one years of them. And the hardest part is that there won't be any more memories made. I am left with what there is and that will never be enough.
My grief for my brother has moved to a stage of anger. I am mad at the entire world, at my brother, at his wife, at the hospital, the doctors, the guy in the next bed that heard Dan had chest pains. I am mad at me for only leaving a message for him to call me back when I knew he was floundering.I wish I could put my fist through a wall. I wish I could physically hurt as much as my soul is hurting.

So I take it out on my husband. Everything he does is wrong. I snap at him for complaining about the computer, about his reaching for a bottle to console himself, for being overweight. None of it makes sense and I don't feel any better but I can't seem to stop myself. I'm like a lion with a spike in my side.
He doesn't say a word.
And to top it off there is a woman in my head still screaming her head off. She's like a constant siren, in so much pain that I can barely hear anything else. I am shaking constantly like I am freezing. I have a sweater and pants on even though it is over 20C outside. And I just can't seem to stop crying.

I understand death, how necessary it is in the circle of life. Nobody lasts forever and Dano was with us on borrowed time since his twenties. He lived life on the edge and we all know this is where you can end up. On a slab in a morgue days before we celebrate all fathers. I grieve double time for his children and for my Dad who is there trying to make sense of it all while I write this.

Our nephew's wife is expecting a child. She is five weeks pregnant and this gives me a ray of light inside all of this darkness. But it's not enough to cling to yet as the waves of  sorrow keep crashing on top of my head and under I go again.

Losing someone you love is so hard. It's at times like this that I have to believe that this is Hell. Right here on earth. That's why life isn't fair, isn't easy and isn't anything the way you think it should be.

I know I have to keep busy. I found some relief this morning when I went for a run. Feeling the air coming into my lungs, filling them, exhaling. I am alive and life is good. It was my mother's favourite saying and was on the t-shirts she wore in Palliative Care. Life is good. And it is for the living. And I will get over this and move on to the next stage of grief which is Bargaining. If I had only. I'm part way there.
Thankfully the stage after that will only be Depression before we get to Acceptance. It's going to be a while yet. That's the only thing I am sure about these days.

A Good-Bye To My Brother

Yesterday I got the call that I had to say good-bye to someone I have been on this earth with for 51 years. My older brother,Daniel Robert Harold Saunders, born on March 3, 1957 fell from the roof of his house and crashed onto his fence. But that isn't what killed him. He spent the next forty hours in a room at the Invermere hospital and on the third day, after getting out of his bed for physio, he had pains in his chest. He returned to his bed and went into cardiac arrest. An autopsy will have to tell us if it was from a massive coronary or a blood clot from the damage his legs sustained.
Either way, he is gone.
While he was in hospital, the family luckily had a chance to talk to him. My Dad and sister and I called. My Dad from as far as Fredericton, New Brunswick, my sister from Ottawa, myself from 14 hours away in northern British Columbia. Dan's recently- estranged wife and two teen aged children were able to see him as well and express, as we did, their feelings and love. That is more than most people get when a loved one dies from an accident. At least we have that to cling to in this darkest hour.
There is a movie playing in my head ,its the earliest memory I have and it begins with myself standing at the big picture window in our livingroom. I am 4 years old and I am waiting for my big brother to return from Kindergarten. He has only just left. Mom tries to distract me, wants me to play with my baby sister, but I won't be swayed. I stay by that window until he comes home hours later. I want to go to school too. In fact, I want to do anything and everything my brother does. I want to ski like him, to party like him, to get to know all of his friends.And I do.It takes me years but I catch up, never having been more than a heel behind his every step.
 He used to hate that.
As the oldest of three siblings, he would rule the roost quite firmly, chasing my sister and I throughout the hallways of our house when the parents were out, forcing us to lock ourselves into the bathroom or our bedrooms so he couldn't get at us. If he did catch us, we would suffer an Indian burn on our wrists, or other just "punishments"  that he deemed fit for annoying him.
 I used to hate that.
Then we both graduated from high school and within a year of each other, moved from Fredericton NB out west, him to Calgary and myself to Vernon BC. In June 1984 I called Dan, now nicknamed Dano, when I went into labour with Karly, my first born. He showed up at the hospital two days later, shirt unbuttoned, sandals on and a pot of geraniums only to discover I was still in labour and all by myself. He stayed beside me and watched my daughter being born. He professed to be messed up for three days after, telling everyone "I would never ask a woman to go through that for me." And indeed it took eleven years before his wife Julie went through that and Dano's daughter Jayme was born. Two years later Zachery arrived, both children near- spitting images of their father.
My brother settled into life as an upholsterer, being a master at the helm of an Industrial sewing machine. He was a hang glider pilot even after having trashed his body in a near-fatal ski accident while in his twenties. People used to turn their heads so not to see his launches, they were that scary. As were the landings, but he loved being up in the air. All that sense of freedom.
He also loved doing things for other people. He was quick to open a door, to lend a hand, to invite you over, pour you a drink. He would make a car load of family wait in a sweltering truck while he helped someone with groceries, probably someone he didn't even know.
He did everything he could for his family and they wanted for nothing. His daughter became a champion goalie, his son a champion at any sport he attempted like bicycling and snowboarding.
Dan was always there for everyone. Not usually on time, but he was there.
We got together when we could. A Christmas or two, a reunion, lately at our Mother's ash spreading last July and then when I was having my radiation treatments. He drove to Kelowna and made us dinner.The best guacamole appy I have ever tasted. He was so happy. After thirty years, he was finally pain-free from a new gadget he had found and bought with inheritance money from our mother. Sadly, he informed us he  had moved out of his home and into his camperized bus, because something needed to change and he decided nothing would unless he made the move. He was trying to move forward with his life.
Between raising a family and flying to and from New Brunswick twice for our mother's passing in 2009,  Dano was quite strapped financially and felt the world was crashing in on him. He never knew how to say "no." He would try...no, no, no...and then he would give in and say "okay." His biggest downfall was his big heart, a heart that killed him in the end. I imagine he would laugh at how ironic that is.
Everything demanded more from him and he would give. And give. And give until it became too much. He was put onto anti-depressants and seemed to be keeping his head above water.

Unfortunately, he was involved in a motor vehicle accident a few weeks ago and got himself a DUI.  He then crashed his bicycle and received three broken ribs. Things just continued to spiral downward. "Everything is such a mess," he told me. "I don't know what I'm doing anymore."
He ended up on the roof of his house. There was an audience, the neighbours, the police, the ambulance attendants. The rest you know.

At least now my brother doesn't have any more cares or problems. His head is high, his body unbroken, and he is on to the next phase in life after death. I have no doubt my mother and grandmother, both whom adored him his entire life, were there to greet him with open arms. As they will be there for my sister and I one day as well.
It makes death seem a little more friendly, when you have someone you loved so much, being there waiting. You almost look forward to it.
So  once again I am at the picture window waiting for when I will see Danny again. Wanting to be where he is.
Life has a funny way of coming around full circle.

I miss you already Big Brother. May you rest in peace...until I get there!

Pardon-ing My Period

It suddenly dawned on me yesterday that it has been six months since I've had to use any feminine hygiene products. Thanks to the Chemo and Tamoxifen, I have been completely period free for the first time since my pregnancies, which was almost thirty years ago. This is the moment I have wished for since the very day it started on August 10, 1972. I know the exact date because my mother did everything but advertise it in the local paper. Worse, she put the details in the back of my baby book for anyone to read over the next multiple of decades.

I should be celebrating, but for some reason there is a touch of regret in acknowledging the end of something I absolutely loathed for the major part of my past life.

I was the pig-tailed girl that raised her hand during Sex Ed in Grade Six to earnestly ask “but how does the sperm get to the egg.” Amidst a room full of tittering,I was sent home to ask my mother who handed me a booklet on “becoming a woman.” It talked about bleeding between the legs. It told me I had to start avoiding extreme hot and cold conditions because I might faint. It said I could now have a baby. A baby! I didn't even like to play with dolls. What would I do with a baby?

I was thirteen and a half when I finally got to learn first hand what all the whispering had been about. I was staying at my friend's lake cottage when I got that “baseball bat in the stomach” feeling. Some call it butterflies so they must be on a whole separate level from what I went through every 28 days. Butterflies are sweet and light and fluttery. These were huge tsunamis of pain that rolled through me from the back of my teeth to my toes. I would get sent home from school, not able to run from the nurse's station to mom's waiting car without soaking through the two-inch thick pads we used to have to wear back then. Pads that were held in place with a re-useable elastic belt you wore around your hips. I begged for someone to shoot me. To run me over. It was almost more than my mind could handle. It was disgusting and humiliating. It was gross and obscene and an impediment on my tree climbing and wrestling matches with the guys. Once a month. For 39.5 years. Times twelve. That is 474 cycles. Less two pregnancies, so 456. Okay, it also didn't return right after my daughter was born, while I breast-fed. My son was the result of that. So let's say 450 months. Times seven days for each slot and we are looking at being miserable for 3,150 days out of my life.

Let's not forget the 200 plus Double Fun Days when it wasn't marked on the calendar from the month before and so I was caught unprepared. It's not like it was rocket science but I just somehow refused to give my period the attention it deserved. Even at fifty I forgot and had to bum something from a friend. The “just ignore it, maybe it will go away” philosophy?

And now it has.

No more ugly tell-tale stains on my white jeans, white underwear, white dresses. No more worrying that I'm pregnant even though I told the surgeon I would sue him if it ever happened post-tubal ligation. No more having to call for spare supplies using my friend's CB radio from a remote location.

I'm still getting the cramping, the chocolate binging urges, the two days of snapping at my other half. But the worst, that smelly mess, is finally over. I made it out the other side with some spare money in my pocket. Farewell to “that” aisle in the drugstore and having to double wrap some of my purchases.

But as much as I hated the well-named curse, the “friend” who's arrival meant I wasn't pregnant after finding my diaphragm stuck to my husband's leg in the morning, I have to admit it gave me the greatest two gifts in my life. Karly and Lorne. It was something I hated, but understood. Something I had to work with so that I could be a woman and a mother. It was an ultimate trade off. Four hundred and fifty months of anti-inflammatories, chocolate bars and zits in exchange for two amazing lives that I will cherish until I die and then some.

It's not that bad of a deal when you look at it that way.

I guess the slight melancholy comes from understanding that I am officially what a friend used to call his wife, “an old spawner.”I'm now and forever on the backside of life, never again to reproduce another human being.” It's a blessing,” I tell myself. I can't find my slippers in the morning. How the heck would I look after another child?

No, it's bucket list time. Time to get done what I want to leave behind. Like this book of blogs, may it ever see the light of day in a library somewhere. So, here's to the next five, ten, twenty, who-knows-maybe thirty years ahead of being able to wear white clothes any day of the week.
A parting note to my period: I forgive you for everything you put me through.

Learn A New Language For FREE

It's Mid May and things are finally starting to right themselves. I'm back to swimming, running, trampoline-hopping and the physio for my whiplash is getting positive results at last.
I am loving the dairy and meatless "trend" I am on. The scales are going the right way for a change even though I eat all day, but it's fruit or plain almonds or a protein whey powder and fruit smoothie. Dinner will be mostly brown basmatti rice topped with the organic fiddleheads and morel mushrooms we picked ourselves this week. Until they run out which may take a month. Seriously! It was a great season for both.
So now that I have my health seemingly under control, it's time to work on my mind. Cancer is said to thrive on stress. So how to relax when you're an Attention-Deficit whirlwind? Well there is Yoga. Great stretching exercises. You can feel the tone that I lost the past 8 months coming back.
But I have found something even better for my brain that I am enjoying to the MAX. And the best part is it's FREE.
The North Island Distance Education School (NIDES) of Courtney, BC offers an on-line Rosetta Stone language course. Your choice of which and how many languages you want. There's no cost for BC residents and it's taught and facilitated by certified BC teachers. It's amazing! You go at your own pace with hands on learning. Within two days my Spanish vocabulary, that after twenty years of visiting Mexico still remains below fifty words, has grown to speaking full sentences. Possibly one hundred words by now. Wow!

The link to free learning is http://142.25.8.4/node/29

 Once you fill out the registration and send it in on-line, you'll get a  reply telling you the next steps. I managed to get everything filled out and started the course the same day.

Give it a try- It's a fantastic way to give your mind matter a work out. And who knows, it could be the very thing to keep that cancer at bay.
A new word a day
Keeps the Cancer Away...

I've heard of stranger things.

Hey Cancer...Suck On This!

Today I discovered the sad news that a friend of mine is following in the path of my Mother. Diagnosis: pancreatic cancer Stage IV- spread to the liver and other organs. This follows last weeks phone call that another woman I know has come out of the breast cancer program, after surgery and radiation and now needing reconstruction work. The news rattles me to the core. It's just happening to so many of us. What is going on and how do we stop this?
Yes, I admit it. I always thought it would never happen to me. I figured I was being "fairly" careful. But what I am seeing is a connection to all of us going through menopause at different stages. And when a cancer starts to turn on and reproduce itself, which means spread, there are some ways you can slow it down. Thump it on its head instead of feeding the damned thing.
How do we do that?
By making the inside of our bodies a breeding ground for the good guys- not the bad ones. Cancer thrives on dehydrated, acidic bodies. What does that mean?
Our bodies need a balance of acid and alkaline levels better known as your pH level. Health food stores sell litmus paper you apply spit or urine to to test your levels. But according to what I've read, imbalance and disease can set in when the body is dealing with too much stress and acid-forming foods. That's your refined sugar, processed products, red meat, alcohol, fries, pop, white flour, white pasta and white breads.
What keeps you alkaline? Green vegetables, fresh fruits, whole grains and believe-it-or-not something super simple. A half lemon  or 1 tablespoon of lemon juice in a cup of hot water. Lemon juice is acidic until consumed where it leaves an alkaline residue. Easy. And you're good to go for the day!

Dr. Robert Young has a book you might be interested in called The pH Miracle. In it he stresses the importance of maintaining a balance and even says it will promote weight loss, increase stamina and more important...it gives you a stronger immune system. And that's what we need. More armour for if a cancer ever does start to take off. Keeping it small will give the medical profession a chance to find it, remove it and then do everything they can to help ensure you never go through that again.
But you have to do your part as well. It's not enough to just think you're doing enough. Are you really? A few things just don't cut it.
Are you taking a multi vitamin daily to ensure you're getting everything you need? How about anti-oxidants? Getting enough of those every day? Why not take a green tea extract instead of drinking 30 cups of tea a day.
Are you exercising FOUR times a week for at least 20 minutes each time? Are you keeping hydrated with low sugared fluids? Are you eating organic or at least washing off all your fruits and vegis before cutting them or consuming them?

Get a book. Arm yourself with information and do whatever it is you can to make sure you'll be ready when and if that day ever does come that the cancer inside of you decides to wake up and take off with the rest of your life!

That Other Woman In The Mirror

We've been home from holidays for a week and it's like we've never been away.
 Life is a big long skipping rope- the schoolyard kind being cranked around by two pigtailed girls chanting out rhymes. You watch the rope come up and down once, twice and then you close your eyes and make your move. Whoosh, jump, jump. Did I make it? Yes, the rope is still coming down under my feet, I jump and it raises above my head. Ahhhh.
Now to keep up the jumping.

Everyone wants to hear that my life is back to normal. I say that it is but it's not really the truth. I'm jumping but life is never going to be the same again. The proof is in the mirror. There's someone else looking back at me and she's got her nose turned up in the air!

Well, she's one to talk. Look at her! Funny, her eyes look like mine. Same colour... a little sadder, perhaps. But she seems far older than my, what, 35-ish (heavy on the ish), oh wait, I'm 51 now, but she looks much older than that. Turtle aged, I say by the rings around her neck.

And her hair! I have tinsel straight hair that with the right product and wave of a roller brush and hair dryer morphs into a gossamer cloud that frames my face with golden highlights. But that poor woman in the mirror has something that looks like alfalfa sprouts standing straight in the air. It seems to swirl right at the top of her head and look, it does the same thing in the back. Reminds me of a re-permed nightmare I had to wear for three miserable months of my life. Curly, fuzzy poodle-locks. It cost me a hot boyfriend and a year of trying to lose the weight I gained after going on an extreme ice-cream sympathy kick.
And what colour would you say that was? Dyed-over grey with sun-bleached spiked tips. Wasn't that a California surfer style back in the '60's? For men?
There's fresh stretch marks around her lips. I see she's been over-eating. The pills she's on could cause that, although once a doctor tells you that might happen, you usually do make it happen. But I can tell she has no intention of slowing down the carnage or the treats. She celebrates that its Wednesday. And when it's Friday, well, that's double the pleasure day. Maybe a little ice cream with the chocolate baking chips.
It looks like it will be easy for her to say "whatever." Dive into a big bowl of whipped cream and not surface until her chin doubles and her new scars rest on her extended belly. So frigging easy to let it all go. Heck, she's old enough. She deserves a break. What does she want to keep fit for?

I don't want to look at her anymore. But I do. I take another look at that woman in my mirror. Another long, hard, good look. Could that really be me? And if it is, do I need  to start changing my perception of myself? Adjust my inner mental image to match what stands before me?

Well, pardon my language, but SCREW THAT!

That old lady and myself, we're pulling up the bootstraps and going to Plan B. In fact, we have been on the Plan for three days now. No meat, dairy, eggs, fish or chicken for a month. That's right. A little Veganism for a month to kick start that flab reversal. If the pills are causing me to feel hungry all the time, then I will let myself eat as much as I want. But it has to be vegetarian and that's the kicker. Try gorging on lentils and quinoa and see how fat you get. It will never happen! You do spend a large part of the day swinging on the opened fridge door before finding absolutely nothing you want and closing it again. It's good and it's only for a few more days, or so I tell myself.
I don't want a new wardrobe in bigger sizes. I really liked the way I was. The way I am less  a bit. A bit that I can regain with some work. It's not the first time I've had to do this.
 It is the first time I've had to talk myself into wanting to do this and that's the scary part.

And the hair, well I have an appointment on Wednesday to check out the options for this type of head covering I now have. It's like nothing I've ever seen before? More like what I figured black people's hair was like. It's thicker, coarser, wavier, stubborner, gel, wax and spray resilient.
The solution may be merely having to wear a hat until it grows enough to fall to one side or the other.

Either way, it's time to quit turning my nose up at myself. And I will tell that right to the woman in the mirror's face.