Originally intended to simply focus on book reviews, over time, KaliDesautelsReads has morphed into its own entity.
I write about issues that are near to my heart, be they political, feminist, motherhood, mental health, or, as the title holds, books.
A thirty-something Canadian woman in my mid-thirties, I have been “super married” to my high school sweetheart since 2006, and together we have two crazy, clever, kind, hilarious, wonderful kids.
My first book – How Not To Blog: Finding Myself, One Post at a Time is available on Amazon (in eBook formats for you clever tech readers, and paperback for those of us who love that new book smell!)
I have tried a podcast – it’s still on Apple and Google Podcasts – but writing is where my heart is.
My life changed dramatically when my husband was diagnosed with Stage 3 cancer in 2018, and I am now a writer for a leading Canadian Cancer Non-Profit.
I am lucky enough to have a family that loves me and pushes me to be my best, even if it is outside of my cushiony comfort zone. I have a village of friends that nourish me, mentally, and spiritually.
Welcome to my thoughts. Sit down. Stay a while. Enjoy a cup of coffee!
Repost from @bossladiesmindset – One day at a time. If you slip up, forgive yourself and then show up as her tomorrow and the next day,and the next, and the next, until you embody and become her.👑
Sometimes we hold our kids’ hands for their own good, but sometimes, we hold their hands for ours. Sometimes courage and hope can be found in their little hands, right when we need it. Little Man supported his Daddy as we headed in for another chemo/radiation appointment, eager to see the big machine that was helping to save his daddy’s life.
. ……………….
“‘Cause I’ve been watching you, dad, ain’t that cool?
Sometimes I forget things. I forget where I put my keys. I forget where I put my purse. I forget to gas up my car. I forget to download the music for my daughter’s dance class. I forget to sign my kids up for field trips. I forget to go grocery shopping. I forget to tell anyone that company will be over. I forget a load of laundry in the washing machine. I forget which day of the week it is.
My kids were very small when they told me I was a very good forgetter. I am not the mommy who is good at being on time, or having homemade cookies, or a tidy house. I am the mommy who is good at forgetting.
Sometimes the things I forget are not a big deal. Sometimes the things I forget are not going to make much difference to anyone but me. But sometimes, the things I forget are problematic. Sometimes they cause inconvenience or hurt or anger. So I forget things, and then the things that I forgot become things that I feel guilty about having forgotten. Sometimes the things I forget smack me in the face.
I remember vividly when I have forgotten. I remember the fear of turning a corner on a run in my own neighbourhood and being utterly confused. I forgot where I was. I remember clearly the guilt I felt when I remembered that I forgot to send cupcakes to my kids’ classes for their birthdays this year. I forgot that that was something I should have done. I remember the lightening bolt of panic when I remembered that I forgot that I had taken the same university course already and that my ability to graduate was in jeopardy. I forgot to check my courses thoroughly.
Sometimes I agree to things or make plans and I forgot that I have already made plans. Sometimes I have to apologize for double booking myself and for any disappointment or hurt that I have caused by my forgetting. Sometimes I do not want to face the consequences of my remembering that I forgot. Sometimes I want to forget what I remembered that I forgot, just to avoid dealing with what results.
I do not like forgetting. But sometimes the things that I want to forget will not be forgotten, and the things that I want to remember will not come back. I will never forget hearing the doctor diagnose my husband with cancer. I will never forget the moment that I realized that my Grampa has breathed his last breath. I will never forget the look on my daughter’s face when I lost my temper and yelled at her over something minor. I will never forget the feeling of sliding to the floor and crying when I was told my father needed open heart surgery. I will never forget crying on Christmas Day, in bed at 7 years old because I was moving away from my loved ones. These things would be better left locked in the attic of memory, where the due dates and birthday gifts that I forgot to buy are hidden; instead, I forgot what it sounded like when my Grampa would chuckle or play some sort of “instrument” by blowing out his cheeks while driving and humming. I forgot what it felt like to have my babies placed on my chest at birth. I forget what it felt like to walk down the aisle to my husband-to-be. I forget the precise weight of my babies on my hip. I forget the last time that I petted my first cat.
Sometimes I forget the things that I are important and focus on the less important. Sometimes I forget that my kids will not be kids forever, and that I need to enjoy them bickering in the backseat because one day they won’t be together in the backseat at all.
Sometimes I forget things. Sometimes I really wish that I wouldn’t. It has taken me all of my life to get to the point where if I have forgotten something to simply acknowledge it and accept the consequences. I am a recovering people pleaser. I will always be a recovering people pleaser, even if I go into remission for decades. I will always be fighting the gnawing urge to be everything to everyone, and to never disappoint anyone, no matter what.
Sometimes I forget things. Sometimes I wish wouldn’t. Sometimes I wish that I could remember everything pleasant and nothing sad, but then I remember that if I only remembered pleasant things, they would not be as pleasant, with nothing to compare them to. Even still, I wish I was a good person, a good mother, a good wife, a good writer instead of a good forgetter.
If remembering tells us who we are, then forgetting keeps us sane. If we recalled every song we’d ever heard, every touch we’d ever felt, every pain no matter how small, every sadness no matter how petty, every joy no matter how selfish, we could surely lose our minds.
I tried to cancel a Chapters order the other day. In a self-pitying moment of panic, I fell into a bad habit that I have been working on curbing, to varying degrees of success. When I panic, I tend to head in the direction of “retail therapy” : shopping to relieve the stress. But then the shopping causes me stress, and I often have instantaneous buyers remorse, as in this case. As soon as I placed the online order for a box of books, I realized that I am on one income right now and that I need that money for food, or medicine, or something else to care for my family. I don’t need to buy books on dealing with cancer, I can talk to support people and I can read online articles, and it wouldn’t hit my budget at all. I immediately cancelled my order, and I felt the relief of a notification stating that Chapters had received my cancellation request.
… and then today, the books showed up at my door. My shame at having given into my self-destructive habit was staring at me from my countertop. I opened the box hoping that it was something else, that maybe somehow a box of books had shown up as a gift magically from a book fairy. But no, this was a stack of books that I had impulsively bought and desperately did not want. I wanted them gone. I am feeling such stress in my life that adding shame for a stupid, impulsive purchase was not something I felt like I could handle. I needed that money back in my bank account IMMEDIATELY. I felt like I could not handle having them there to mock me. So I impulsively grabbed the box, told my family I would be back soon, and drove to the next town, where the book store was and returned the entire box untouched.
Shame is so much worse than guilt. As Brené Brown has said – with guilt you feel like you have done something wrong, but with shame, you feel like YOU are wrong. I am already feeling such guilt, and fear, and appreciation, and gratitude, and anger, and sadness, that I can not handle the addition of shame. I cannot be bad. I cannot be wrong. I needed to fix it.
And now I am going to change the passwords on all of my accounts to something I cannot remember, and rely on the kindness of others, who will allow me to pay them back if I need to buy something online.
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Feminism is the belief in equality between sexes. Feminism is the understanding that all people, regardless of gender, orientation, race, religious affiliation, or ability have something to contribute. Thanks to this belief, my husband is being treated, and, if everything goes according to plan, cured of his cancer.
This week, my husband began his first week of radiation treatment, compounded with chemotherapeutic pills to aid in the destruction of the cancer cells that have invaded his body. Every day that we have visited the radiology department, where we first met the doctor who guided us thoughtfully through the radiology department, I have whispered a prayer of thanks to Madame Marie Curie for her Nobel Prize-winning work on the discovery of radiology. I am grateful to this long ago pioneer of women in science, and her ilk for their life saving work.
As the laureate of two Nobel Prizes for Science, and the first female Doctor of Science in Europe, Madame Curie dedicated her life to the discovery and understanding of radiation and radio particles as they pass through objects, including the human body. Madame Curie was determined, in her lifetime, to cure cancer using radiobiology and she succeeded in the curing of surface and skin cancer lesions, before moving to the treatment of cervical cancer. Her death in 1934 was directly caused by her life long dedication, and thereby exposure, to the development of radiology.
The work pioneered by Madame Curie is today carried on, in my husband’s case, by Dr. Maha Almahmudi at the BC Cancer Centre. Dr. Almahmudi is the Radiation Oncologist on my husband’s team of doctors.
In 1875, Jenny Kidd Trout was the first female licensed physician in Canada. An active feminist of her time (read: white Christian), Dr. Trout worked to advance the medical education of Canadian women, declaring that it was her hope that one day each large town in Ontario would eventually have at least “one good, true lady physician working…” (http://www.biographi.ca/en/bio/gowanlock_jenny_kidd_15E.html)
In this vein, our family physician is a trusted and phenomenal woman. Dr. Prem-Smith has been our family’s practitioner for nearly a decade, and we are incredibly grateful for the pioneering efforts of women like Dr. Trout, and Dr. Emily Stowe, who advocated and opened doors for women in Canadian medicine.
In 1949, Dr. Jane Cooke Wright began work with her father Dr. Louis Wright, on the experimental chemotherapy treatments. Studying the experimental anti-cancer chemicals, and how they reacted with leukaemias and lymphatic cancers, Dr. Wright advanced the treatments to the point that several of her test patients went into remission. At 33, Dr. Wright became the Head of the Cancer Research Foundation. In 1971, Dr. Wright became the first African-American Female President of the New York Cancer Society.
Her work led to the current understanding of chemotherapy, including the Capecitabine tablets that my husband is taking in conjunction with his radiation treatments, to reduce the tumour in advance of his surgery.
Jane C. Wright at work, ca. 1950s Photographs and Prints Division, Schomburg Center for Research in Black Culture, The New York Public Library, Astor, Lenox and
Today, Dr. Ann Tan is the doctor responsible for Dave’s chemotherapy, as his Medical Oncologist. Dr. Tan walked us through the potential side effects of Capecitabine, as well as the benefits of it in conjunction with Dr. Almahmudi’s radiation protocol.
Elizabeth Gooking Greenleaf is recognized as the first female pharmacist in North America, opening her own apothecary shop, to work alongside her husband’s medical practice in the Thirteen Colonies in 1727. As there were no laws prohibiting a female from practicing as an apothecary, she set up shop and paved the way for future female pharmacists. A study by Donica Janzen, BSP; Kerry Fitzpatrick, BSP…; and Linda Suveges, PhD, shows that females now make up more than 59% of pharmacists in Canada. (https://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pmc/articles/PMC3676192/)
My husband’s pharmacists at the BC Cancer Centre, who spent time explaining the procedures and side effects of the Capecitabine, prescribed by Dr. Tan, were both women.
In fact, the only healthcare provider on My husband’s team who is not female is the surgeon who will remove the tumour, Dr. Carl Brown. That said, when we met with him, we also met with the colorectal Fellow who is studying with him… also a female. (http://colorectal.providencehealthcare.org/about/our-people/dr-carl-j-brown)
Feminism is the belief, or rather the fact that gender has no bearing on a person’s abilities or skills. A team of women are saving my husband’s life. A team of women, who have followed ceiling shattering women, are saving my husband’s life. Feminism is saving my husband‘s life.
So, when I silently thank Marie Curie, or Dr. Jennie Trout, or Dr. Jane Wright, for making it possible for there to be a Dr. Prem-Smith, or a Dr. Almahmudi, or a Dr. Tan, you had best believe that it is with sincere appreciation and ardent admiration.
Ok, so what happens when you are having the most. Challenging. Week. Of. Your. Life? You turn to your people. You turn to your mentors. (Rach, I know you don’t know me, but you are the most amazing mentor I could ever have! So thank you!!!) Hitting bookstores AND Audible on March 12, 2019, Girl, Stop Apologizing by the incomparable Rachel Hollis will be hitting shelves to follow up her New York Time’s Bestseller Girl, Wash Your Face. And as much as I am in love with GWYF, I am even MORE bananas for Girl, Stop Apologizing. I cannot wait for you to get a chance to read it!!
……..
Now Rachel and I are going to sit down with a glass of pink moscato, and process this week. (I have a good imagination, but with this book, I feel like I can hear her no nonsense voice, helping me through.)
In 1996, 9 year old Amber Hagerman of Arlington, Texas was kidnapped and murdered. The little girl had been riding her bike with her brother when she was grabbed. A witness told his family, and people began searching. Four days later, she was found dead less than 5 miles from where she was last seen. As of this writing, no suspect has ever been identified for her kidnap or murder.
From 1996 until 1998, people called in to radio stations to alert the community that a child had been abducted. Why? Because the more people who are alerted to watch for a specific child, who has been taken, or a particular car, or a suspected person, the better. The more people who are looking the more chance there is of the child returning home.
In Canada, Alberta was the first to adopt a province-wide alert system for missing children in 2002. By 2005, every other province had followed suit. In 2009, Tori Stafford, also 9 years old, was abducted, raped and murdered in Woodstock, ON, and an Amber Alert was never issued as her criteria did not meet that to launch the alert. Since her case, the law in Ontario, has been amended.
In recent years, Canadians had the choice to receive text alerts when an Amber Alert was issued, but in the past year, the government declared that police could simply send out an alert to cellphones when an Amber Alert happens. In 2018, only 5 AMBER ALERTs were issued, despite 649 missing children being reported, because the criteria for issuing an Amber Alert is so strict that 644 kids did not qualify.
644 abducted kids did not qualify as worth an Amber Alert.
644.
On February 14, 2019, 11 year old Riya Rajkumar did not come home from a birthday visit with her dad, Rapoosh Rajkumar, and this little girl actually fit the criteria of a child for whom an Amber Alert could be issued. The Ontario Provincial Police Department issued an Amber Alert to the Peel community, to which Riya belonged, setting off cellphones across the region just after 11pm, and 911 calls began to pour in.
The Amber Alert worked.
Except it didn’t. Because these calls were not from observant people who had seen his silver Honda Civic driving by, or that they had seen Rapoosh Rajkumar at a gas station. These calls were from citizens who were angry that their sleep was disturbed over a “non-emergency” such as a little missing girl, who was soon to be found dead in her dad’s basement apartment.
People called 911 to complain about an Amber Alert. To complain that their sleep had been disturbed by a child who was abducted and murdered. To complain that they should only issue an alert when a child will be found alive.
How does this happen? How do police, who have already had to jump through hoops to confirm that a child qualifies for an Amber Alert know if she is alive or dead? The purpose of the Amber Alert is to hopefully find her before she is harmed. I will get to my thoughts on the selfish entitlement that comes from feeling that someone else’s emergency is not your problem; but first, how can anyone think that 911 is the place to call and lodge a complaint? How can someone, such as the caller who actually did what the Alert was meant to do and called when they saw the father’s vehicle, leading to his arrest, get through to the police in time to help that child if we are using the emergency services line to lodge complaints?
How can we have become a society that is so ludicrously desensitized to individual plight that we feel offended when an Amber Alert is issued? We update our profile pictures to be Paris Strong, or Humbolt Strong, or Boston Strong, when multiple people are victims of mass casualties, and we should, but to then turn around and feel annoyance that someone’s worst nightmare is an inconvenience to you? One man went so far as to post publicly that he “doesn’t care that your kid is missing”. Why? Why doesn’t he care? We should all care. No, the Amber Alert does not rescue all children. No, we cannot always protect other people, but why can we not at least look at our phones at 11pm and keep our eyes open for a silver Honda with a little girl inside, who is about to end her birthday in the most horrific way?
Do not tell me that Canadians are kind, and welcoming and admirable and that we look out for each other, while dialing 911 to tell them that this, this little girl does not deserve to disrupt our sleep.
In the end, despite the ridiculous selfish, bordering on sociopathic, lack of care shown by Ontarians last night, the suspect, Riya’s father, was spotted by someone who understood what the Amber Alert is meant to do, and the police managed to arrest and charge him, finding Riya’s body in her father’s home.
The Amber Alert did what it was meant to do. Unfortunately, humanity didn’t.
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Two months. A lot can happen in two months. You could learn a new language, take up running, watch the seasons change. Babies can be pulled to sitting in two months. You could travel 3/4 of the way to Venus in two months. You could heal a broken bone.
It has been two months, less a week, since my husband was diagnosed with cancer. It has been two months since he began seeing all of the doctors. It has been two months since he has begun all of the tests. And yet… he has not begun treatment. He is not perceptively closer to getting better.
In two month, his pain has gotten worse. In two months, his anxiety level has increased. In two months, he has been assigned to a cancer treatment team. In two months, he has created wood burning art. In two month, he has played all the video games. In two months, he has become stir crazy.
In two months, he has also become an infinitely more patient parent. In two months, he has taught our daughter to wood burn. In two months, he has learned to slow down and cuddle his kids. In two months, he has remembered to kiss me regularly. In two months, he has taught our son how to play his favourite video game.
A lot can happen in two months. It’s easy to focus on the negative. It’s easy to feel frustrated and sad, but who wants easy? This is the time to learn the things that are hard. This is the time to slow down and remember what is important. This is the time to remember the cheesiest quote I have ever heard – “today is a gift. That is why it is called the present.”
Because a lot can happen in two months.
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It snowed today. In my part of Canada, that’s pretty rare, and I love when the flakes begin to flurry through the air. It’s a Sunday and we had nowhere to be. My kids were tired; my daughter had a cold. My husband has rarely left our bedroom in over a month, and so, we all climbed into the big bed and spent the day watching Disney and Harry Potter movies, while the snow danced outside the windows.
Sunday is not usually so quiet in our home. Our usual habit is to prepare for the week ahead, making meals, doing laundry, and getting errands done; but now, our habits are changing. When my daughter spent the drive home last night sobbing in fear, exhaustion, and the onset of a cold, I knew today would be quiet. When my son cried and feared he had been forgotten at his rock climbing class because I was not in the building when his class ended, I knew we all needed a break.
Like the unusual snowfall, sometimes the best thing to do, to get things back to normal, is to do something different. Leaning my head back on the headboard that my husband refinished years ago, before he changed careers to make working with wood his life’s passion, with my small son cradled in my lap, and my pale, tired daughter holding my hand, while she snuggled against her daddy’s shoulder, I knew that we were all exactly where we needed to be today.
The thing with major life events or traumas is to keep your routine as, well, routine, as possible. But it snowed today, and so we spent the day in a magical world where scary things are always defeated by love, by family, and by friends.
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Hey – have you met my new friend? This is Fear. He’s going to be shadowing me for a while. I don’t really know how long he plans to hang around, but the current estimate is about 8-12 months. Sometime last year, really in the Fall I guess, is when he decided to start hanging around, and by the middle of December he sat me down and said that he was going to be keeping residence with me.
I’ve really started noticing him over the last month. He has the funniest ways of getting my attention, including the ever popular waking me in the middle of the night in a cold sweat. Some ways include, but are not limited to:
A text alert from my husband while I am work.
A phone call from a number I don’t recognize.
My son’s barking cough.
My daughter looking despondent with no particular reason for it.
My husband unable to eat more than a couple of bites of food.
A deadline looming, while there are unknown doctors’ appointments popping up.
My husband’s pain painted on his face.
Bills that are due, while we wait for his EI Medical Leave to be approved.
This guy is really socially unaware, and is determined to demand attention. Please don’t concern yourself with him, and in fact, while he is shadowing me, if you could just pretend that he isn’t there, that would be great. I mean, I know he is there, and I know he is going to keep demanding my attention, but my feeling is that if I kind of treat him like a whiny toddler, and ignore his bad behaviour, maybe he will figure out societal mores and start to behave himself.
Fear is pretty stubborn, and he might not take the hint for a while, so please consider yourself introduced and you know, feel free to talk to me, but don’t acknowledge or feed the fear.
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Kali J Desautels 