What Connects Us

There are plenty of days that I feel like a bad mom, and few days that I actually am. Today I’ll take my prize as mom of the year because these moments of feeling that are far and few between. No parent is perfect. That should never be the goal. Our hope is to love them well enough that they love themselves. To give them experiences, and opportunities that inspire, excite and expand their lives. Sometimes that is as fun for us as it is for them, and sometimes it’s not. Sometimes it’s a true labour of love. Both my girls love music. Maya musical from an early age, sings and plays, and a diehard fan of the artists she loves. The girl who will line up at 7am when doors open at 1 just to get barricade. The one who knows every lyric to every song, and who is the very definition of a loyal fan. Seeing Gracie yesterday for a 4th time is but one example. Marisol is musical too, a sense of rhythm and musicality seen as much in her dance, as her eclectic musical taste. Following closely in big sister’s footsteps of wanting to go to concerts and shows and get as close to the artists she loves as mom will permit. So when 13-year-old Sol asked to go to Osheaga, I reluctantly agreed, telling myself it would be fun for me too, dreaming of sitting on a grassy knoll, further back, enjoying the artists while watching her and her friends take it all in. That did not happen. There was no sitting in the grass, or watching from afar. There was no sipping of drinks in the sun while the kids enjoyed the show. There was fighting our way through the crowd, vying for a spot, all while making sure everyone was safe and hydrated as we stood for hours shoulder to shoulder with fans decades my junior so that a group of teens could experience Osheaga the way they wanted to. Well they wanted to be barricade with big sister, but they’ll need to wait a couple more years for that. I might be awesome, but I’m not that awesome. So no, no grassy knolls, or leisure taking in of the sights and sounds. No chilling with the other moms while our girls enjoyed the show. We were in it, with them so they could be in it too. I had not been to Osheaga since I was pregnant with now 17-year-old Maya. I cannot say that I’ll have the stamina to do what I did yesterday again next year. For now, I am grateful that I got to be there, to see it all through their eyes. Tired feet and all. That’s the thing about being a parent. You never know how you do what you do. You don’t know how you work all day, then work a “second shift” once you get home. You have no idea how you endured the sleeplessness of those early years (or the later ones when you can’t sleep until your kids are home). It feels impossible to manage your life, and their schedules. You don’t know how or why you keep saying yes when your energy stores are low and your bones are tired. Taxiing, late night picks ups, making plans while making sure fun is had safely by all. It all feels impossible, until it’s done. Dreaming of grassy knolls, and watching from afar… yet even as I write this, the day after the night before, I feel the pang of future me missing these busy days and tired feet, of when I was right there in it, with them, so they could be in it too. PS: My kids will think this post is so cringy, and will likely roll their eyes as I reminisce. They won’t really understand until they too are in it so their kids can be in it too. PSS: I got permission from them to post included pics.

I know where happiness is found… It is found on the mat, and after a good sweat. It is not found at the end of overdoing, or in only putting others first. It is found on the dance floor, and in the music that pulls you in. It’s not found in worry or control. It’s found in letting go, and in leaning in. It’s not found at the bottom of the bottle or bag of chips, while it can sometimes be found in a little of both. It’s found in connection, and not in isolation. It’s found in creating space around me, and slowing down when things move too fast. It’s not found in saying yes when I want to say no. It’s found in lyrics that read like story and sing like song. It’s found in spaces and places where I can just be me. It’s found with people who feel like home. Happiness is found where time stands still, and inhibition fades. It’s found by the ocean, and in the salt air. It’s found where there is love and passion. It is not found in perfection. It’s found in pyjamas at the end of a long day. It’s found in a weekend without plans, and in a plan-filled weekend. Happiness is found in dancing on tables, and traveling with friends. It’s found in shared history and experience. It is not found in wanting to always be right, or refusing to forgive. It’s found in helping, and in accepting that I don’t always have to. It’s not found in thinking I am responsible for everything, but rather being responsible for myself. It’s found in my children’s smiles, and my husband’s gaze. It’s not found in the expectation that these alone should sustain me. It’s found in listening to Maya sing or strum her guitar. It’s found in watching Marisol dance and seeing her on stage. It’s found in a house full of teenagers, and in being alone. It’s found in adventure, and new experiences. It’s found in being taken care of, and taking good care. It’s found in routine and good habits. It’s found in a living a life of purpose, and having a career I love. It is found in family by choice and by blood. Happiness is found in the here and now, and the then and there. In the savoring and remembering. Happiness is found in writing it out to taste life twice. Happiness is the click of the keyboard, and the ink of the pen. Happiness is not mourning the passing of time, but rather celebrating as it passes. Happiness is loving myself more now than I did even a decade ago. Happiness is 50 years loved, and not 50 years old. This is happiness.

 

I have not always known you, or loved you,
and while these past 11 years are chalk full of memories, they still do not equal a lifetime.

Despite the brevity of our history, its depth is profound. I am so grateful for November 5th 1964. A sad and happy day like most days that matter.

I cannot imagine what that day felt like for our mom and dad.
I cannot understand what it may have meant to you.
But I can picture what it meant to Norm and Doreen…
What it has always meant to Michael.
They are your always Kitty.
Loving every version of you from baby Kathryn, to the amazing woman you grew to be.

Doug has had his own always with you, as have your three incredible kids.

How amazing now that Marissa gets a forever with Rachel, and with you as her grandma.

We both know about love and family that time matters, but it does not measure.

I met you when you were exactly the age I am now…. A fact that while hard to believe, means too much to forget.

At 49, you were already so many things to so many people.

Already a wife to Doug, and mother to Rachel, Joseph, and Isabel.
Already a sister to your loving brother.
Already a daughter to Norm and Doreen.
Already a friend and colleague.
Already loving many as your own, with an open door and open heart.

You lived a whole life before we found you, and it’s one that I am so grateful for.
I am so thankful that you always had love, and that what we brought was but a bonus.
That mom could be #2 Mom, and Dad a loving second father.
That we could be extras in your story.
I get to love you now, and spend forever making sense of it all.

Thank you to you and Linda for letting peace fill spaces where loss once lived.

Thank you for helping Tim, PJ and I to grieve by being another piece of mom and dad that remains. Thank you for being there through some of the saddest and happy days of these past 11 years.

I know I love my brothers differently than I love you.
They are my always.
Just as Mike is yours.

I know the grief of losing our parents is different too. You and Linda lost your moms and dads long before meeting ours. I pray that somehow they know how grateful we all are to have been given this second act.

I will never ever know you the way your always family has. And while just over a decade of discovery has felt like always, it is not that. It is something else.

You are my sister Kitty, and I love you in a way that still surprises me.
You are my sister.
Not always, but forever…

Happy 60th birthday Kathryn.
Your always and forever families are so glad you were born. I am as grateful for your first 49 years, as I am for all the years I get to live with you now.

My North Star… You do not rise or fall. You are a fixed, and unmoving thing, which has allowed me to make sense of all of the other moving parts of my life. If you could see yourself through my eyes, you would see someone who never, ever gives up, and who would do anything for the people she loves. You have loved me when I did not love myself, put me back together when I was undone, and fortified me when I was strong. We have stood up for, and by each other countless times since we were teenagers. You trusted me to do what was right for me, even when I couldn’t see the next step in the staircase. You have never judged me by my missteps in our 38 years of friendship. If I messed up, chose wrong for me, or forgot my self-worth for even a minute, you’d support and defend with such conviction that I’d eventually see me as you did: As capable of anything, and worthy of the best. Thank you for seeing me that way. Through you I am reminded to remember myself- who I am, and who I want to be. You still do that. You have encouraged me to stay true to what matters most, and follow my own path. You’ve been my compass, pointing the way home when I have felt lost. May we always be each other’s fixed, and unmoving thing Natasha. Hope this special birthday is as special as you are xo.

I met Heather when I was 8 years old. I had just started at a new school after leaving my previous elementary school due to ongoing bullying by a kid in Grade 6. By the end of Grade 2, I had morphed into a scared, insecure kid despite having had friends in my grade, and having previously loved going to school. All of this forcing a decision to start somewhere new. One of many examples in my life of a miracle disguised as a problem…. Heather was my first friend at St. Bernard. She was the first to come over and introduce herself, chatting excitedly, and making me feel so at ease. First to invite me to play with all of her friends at recess. First to pick me as a partner for a class assignment, and first to have me over to her house after school. With Heather, I immediately felt seen and important. Something, many who have had the privilege of knowing her could attest to- Friends, family, patients, and really anyone lucky enough to enter her orbit. Heather loved me back together a million times over in our 42 years of friendship. Heather, you are the most amazing example of what it means to be a friend. Thank you for being mine. May you feel all of my love and appreciation as you celebrate this very special birthday. Love you then, now, and always xo Shannon

While I’m aware I’ve chosen a title that has a real and heavy meaning in the wake of the wildfires in Kelowna this past summer. People I love, and people they love, touched directly or indirectly by the devastating fires. I won’t pretend to know what that was like. My sister, an eloquent writer herself, can write that story. Despite what the word might bring up for some, it is the word I will use here to describe something with shared qualities.

Today Marisol asked me what I was working on. I told her, an article. She asked what I meant by article so I explained, “like I used to write for my blog, What Connects Us”. Her response stunned me. “You had a blog? First I hear of this!” I had to look at the date to of when I last published to realize she would have been about 5 years old when I shared my writing on What Connects Us. I cannot believe I have not published an article in over 6 years. Those 20 or so blog posts, read and re-read by friends, family and complete strangers. A fully formed book outline complete with back cover and table of contents, and big dreams of publishing one day all faded into the background of my life as my career shifted, losses were grieved, and life picked up. Storytelling and working through through my writing used to be a big part of who I was, and how I healed the things that hurt. Writing was how I connected with myself and with others. The longest thing I have written in these last 6 years was my mother’s eulogy…. This makes me so sad. It makes me sad that my youngest daughter doesn’t know me as a writer, and that I have all but stopped doing something that mattered so much. Out of practice and feeling a little all over the place. Here I am writing again. Bare with me, and thanks for reading.

I am often told how calm I seem, or that I have a calming effect on others. This feedback repeated since childhood. These qualities, the foundation of a career that has spanned 2 decades. The truth is though, those who calm are rarely calm inside. Ask any mental health professional. We do what we do because we know, that for some, calm takes work. People closest to me might describe me as patient, loving, or slow to anger. But those same people know that when I feel, I often feel all the way, which is not always easy for them or for me. Would they describe me as calm or relaxed? I don’t think so. Anxious? Yes, sometimes. People who experience anxiety are quite good at masking it, but the very close to me see it in my rigidity. Feel it in my buzzing around, in my overdoing or overthinking. And while my people might understand that I get anxious from time to time, they still may not get what it really feels like. So here it is. What does my anxiety feel like? It feels like a wildfire…. Burning out of control, caused by intersecting environmental factors, starting from one small fire that spreads, or from a single ember of worry swept up by the wind igniting a blaze… When my anxiety is bad, it feels scary, and difficult to tame. It rips me away from my steady self and sweeps anxious me into the fire. Once there I feel the need to rescue, fixate and control. One worry leads to another worry, and then pulls in any, and all worries, past present and future. They don’t even need to belong to me. I will worry about your worries like they are my own. Whether you want me to or not. Anxiety does not discriminate. It is not linear or logical. It feeds off itself, and cares little about real or perceived threat. It doesn’t matter if I should be worried about x or y. It’s not rooted in fact or backed by evidence. When the wildfire comes, I feel trapped, alone, and afraid. A fear that feels so real, making my heart beat hard, my breath shallow and my chest constrict. Fear that pushes my « must protect button » even when there is nothing to protect from. Thankfully my anxiety is not always this intense. It takes breaks, can be well managed, and even goes completely away once in a while. It also doesn’t live in every area of my life. Thankfully. Despite choosing a career in helping, professionally I rarely feel anxious. In fact, at work, others worry does not impact me or activate me like it does in my personal life. I seem to know what to do with the fear and worry of others as a clinician. How to hold it. How to be present and calm no matter the wildfire the person is caught up in. In fact I can firefight with confidence, seeing the familiar and having a lived sense of what might be helpful. Personally, my anxiety can sometimes even feel like a weird superpower, enabling me to see risk that others don’t see. I tell myself it allows the people around me to worry less because they know I will always worry more. But I know this isn’t true. Anxiety lies. The good news is the fire isn’t always burning, and I don’t always believe what my anxiety tells me. Sometimes I really am ok and there is no wildfire. I share my vulnerability here not to worry anyone who cares about me. I share now to help you understand what feels so hard to explain most of the time. A worrier does not need your worry. Something I know well but completely disavow when it comes to worrying about my loved ones who worry. It’s like I can’t bare for them to be in their own wildfire alone. Anxiety makes smart people do stupid things. It makes us feel disorganized and irrational when we are often very rational and thoughtful. Having anxiety doesn’t make me weak. I have had to be stronger because of it. As most people with anxiety can attest, you become very accustomed to feeling this way, you learn to compensate, and manage, as it becomes ingrained in your operating system. Thankfully I have learned what helps. If I exercise it helps. If I avoid alcohol it helps. If I eat well and skip late night snacking it helps. If I loosen my grip on things it helps. If I live in the now it helps. If I ask for help it helps. If I have good boundaries and respect the boundaries of others it helps. If I write it helps. This same list though, when not done consistently, or at all, are anxiety fire-starters. The kindling that turns a spark into flame. Every single day I can choose to help or hurt myself. Every day I decide to either do what makes me feel better or feel worse. I either douse the flames with fire squelching habits, or set myself on fire. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not saying it’s all my fault or all my doing. Situational stressors, life events, and things that are beyond my control affect mood and anxiety. I didn’t choose to lose my mom to cancer. I didn’t choose to live without the person whose love extinguished every blaze. But this is not about her, or my grief. I felt anxiety long before any of that. I felt it as a child. I felt it before I had the words to explain it, or even knew what « it » was. It is part of me that can feel like all of me. Part I have control over despite how all consuming, and out of control it can feel. I can always help myself feel better. I am so grateful that I know this. I can practice gratitude daily, learning that fear and gratitude cannot co-exist. It allows a sort of taking turns, and a welcomed reprieve from worry. I don’t have to believe the stories fear concocts. I can change my thought and decide where I put my attention. I can take care of myself, helping put out the smaller flames before they turn everything to ash. Sometimes what I do hurts more than helps. I can pour myself into work, cycle between overdoing and avoiding, I can micromanage, and worry about things that are not mine to worry about. At times I can feel so pulled to help and fix… even when helping or fixing is not needed. In fact, sometimes my helping or fixing is the problem. Like trying to choke down the lump in my throat when I feel like crying, or trying to ignore my grief in the hopes that I won’t feel it. Anxiety only loses its power when I face it and then do something helpful about it. Otherwise, it is there scorching the earth beneath my feet. The very worse impact of anxiety is seeing how it can infect a home and a family. When worry is how I love it robs my loved ones of the confidence that they can help themselves. It threatens their sense of safety. It makes them think I don’t trust them when it’s about me not trusting myself enough to let go. When helping is how I love I can feel powerless when I can’t make things better, and crushed when my helping makes things worse. I don’t need to help or worry to love or be loved. I wrote this today for the same reason I wrote 6 years ago: To help myself through, to heal the hurt, and to connect with others. I wrote this today as an apology to those I have loved through worry, and whose worry has been magnified by my own. I wrote this so they know my anxiety has nothing to do with them or my belief in their capacity. Anxiety is just one part of me. It is not all of me or who I am. I am so much more than anything this fire can touch, and so are you.

I interviewed my father days after we found out he was palliative. He had only a few weeks left to live, and this reality set us all into a bit of a tail spin. While we knew time was running out, we also felt it slow down, like watching a hummingbird mid-flight. The day before I sat down with him, he was in a time warp of his own. In a hurry to drive himself for a haircut he said he needed, and to put gas in their car so mom wouldn’t have to. The pain he’d been experiencing had begun affecting his clear-headedness and balance, and when he got out of the car after his “necessary” road trip, he ended up taking a nasty spill. He could not get himself up and to the front door, so he just sat on the steps leading up from the driveway for a while. Later that day the doctor would say it was probably a broken shoulder, and that little could be done aside from wearing a sling and giving him something for the pain. Little could be done…. This seeemd to be the key to our distorted sense of time and urgency. He knew that soon he would not be here. He knew he’d want a haircut, and that mom needed gas. He wanted to feel normal. He wanted to be productive. He wanted to “help” in some way. He wanted to do something other than sit around and think about dying. The day after the fall he accepted he could no longer drive, or go out on his own. He admitted he had been hasty and foolish. As I sat down across from him on the couch with my coffee asking if he was comfortable, or if he needed something else for the pain, he asked me to interview him. “You’ve never interviewed me”, he said. “You’ve interviewed mom and Granny Mary. I think you should interview me.” He was right. I’d done a few interviews about my grandmother’s life, my sisters’ adoptions, and my mom’s experience finding them, yet I had never really sat down with him. He directed me to where I might find a pen and paper, and I asked if I could record our conversation. He agreed, and I asked my mom to give us some time alone. I knew that with her there she would naturally want to chime in, and now that I knew we were doing this, I also knew I wanted it to just be his words I would scribe. I started with his favorite food, song and what he liked to do in his free time. I think I started slow as much for him as for me. I had this overwhelming urge to breakdown, while knowing in my heart that there would be time for that, and this time was about him sharing what he seemed to want to share. My father wasn’t someone who often wanted to talk, so this was big and worthy of my full attention. I also knew that for him to really open up I would need to guard my fear and hurt over his impending departure. So I put on my cheerful interviewer face, and with each question inched forward from the superficial to the profound. I won’t share it all here. It will have its own place in my writing. It’s own chapter. For now, I want to tell you about one sweet analogy he gave that day that has stayed with me for the almost 3 years since we said our final goodbye. An anology that I was reminded of in a dream the night before last. “It’s like a doorbell Shan”, he said. “A doorbell?”, I asked. I wasn’t sure if the pain had muddled his thoughts. We had just been talking about how we, as a family, had really come together since closing the circle and finding my sisters. Our connection had deepened. He went on, “Our family has always worked that way. When one person needs something, they just call and someone else will answer. When you need me, I will be there. Always. Just ring the doorbell and I will come”. Silence filled the space between us. We both let his promise, and what it really meant sink in.

Since his passing, I have listened to the audio of that interview many times. I have held the notes I took on his blue computer paper using his pen and wept. How far we’d come in closing the gap between us. How I would love to sit down with him today and ask him to tell me more. Just hearing his voice brings me right back. Every morning I sit with my coffee to journal beside his picture. Every morning, I say “Good morning Dad”. I have felt him with me in countless ways, and have on occasion seen him in my dreams. A couple of these dreams featured doorbells. The dreams always seem to come when I need them most. When I have been praying for some solution to a problem, or for strength to overcome something in my life. The night before last the dream was of me being awakened to the sound of a doorbell ringing. It was night and I was in the apartment that I grew up in. While I was frightened for a moment as to who could be ringing the doorbell in the middle of the night, when I looked down the long hallway to the door a sense of calm washed over me. I could see a glowing white light backlighting our front door. I knew in an instant it was him, realizing it was he who was answering my call; at the door when I needed him. As soon as this awareness flooded my heart I woke up, my face wet with tears.

To all of you reading this who have lost your fathers, may you feel them close today, remembering all the ways you showed up for each other. For me, for now, I am going to hang on to that dream, and that interview, knowing my dad always showed up when I needed him. Always. While I know he can no longer reach me in the same way, I also know that our souls are still connected, and that that connection cannot be severed. I will take comfort in knowing, that somehow, someway, his wisdom and grace continue to guide my head and my heart. Thank you Dad for always answering my call.

This year, after the 2nd Annual Deanapolooza, friends and readers asked if I would write another article like An Evening with a Soul, written last year after the event. I laughed, and shrugged it off. The truth was, I couldn’t. I write to work through, inspire, and uplift, and I just felt so incredibly sad… That evening, after the concert, my husband and I sat talking about the night, the people we saw, and our friend Dean. While Pete had seen him since, I had not since last summer. Like so many others in attendance, I was overcome when Dean took to the stage, joined by his brother PJ, and wife Paula to say their thank yous, and hand out door prizes. The air went out of me, and it seemed like a while before I took another breath. I turned to the friends I’d been standing with, who stood looking serious despite the humour Dean’s brother tried to inject into his monologue. Our eyes wet, as though there was a communal lump building in our collective throat. Don’t cry, I told myself in vain as the tears rolled down my cheeks. We watched as Paula folded her arms around Dean, their bond like a separate entity in the room. Whether for balance, or emotional support, the two stood intertwined. I knew that look, I thought to myself. While I don’t know ALS the way that Dean and Paula, and their loved ones know it, I do know that look… The way her eyes tracked him, and watched his every move, her protectiveness, and the warmth in every touch. Dean is not the only one affected by the disease. She suffers right along with him, the way we do when someone we love is affected. The way I did with Dad. The way we all did.

Following the concert I did not write as I had last year just 24hrs after attending. I told myself, they don’t need my sadness. What right do I have to feel sad anyway, when they have shown such courage. They just need people to be. Be normal. Be supportive. Be themselves.

Last year, this time, I prepared to say goodbye to my father. It will be a year this Friday that he’s gone. I miss him so much, and in the weeks leading up to Deenapolooza I’d been a quiet mess, trying not to let my grief show. After all, how long can a person go on being sad, and why was I feeling like I was losing him all over again as the first anniversary drew near? After the concert that night I thought about Dean. I thought about Dad too… Why is it that we grieve even before someone has gone? I remember going through this with dad, and someone close to me saying, love now, grieve later. That night when I got home, I thought about feeling alive, and how much I had to be grateful for, “STOP whining, and live your life!”, I scolded myself. I had been so down thinking about Dad, so sad for Dean and Paula. I have a life to live. I am here, and so is Dean. Don’t grieve him, I thought. Don’t be sad for him. He is with us, in the land of the living, where his wife can still wrap her arms around him, and his children can still kiss his sweet face. Don’t be sad for yourself either, you wake up each day and get to live and love another 24hrs. You get to see your babies grow, and seasons change. Dad would want me to see the incredible gift that that is. He would want me to feel what I feel while never losing sight of the silver lining around every cloud. “All we ever have is today”, he’d say. I imagine Dean and Paula also understand this better than anybody. And so, I sat with my conclusions, but thought best still not to write. “Write when you are moved to write”, a little voice in my head nudged.

On July 1st there was another 2nd annual: The West Island Pond Hockey Tournament. The event brought together 100 hockey players, all connected to Dean in some way. Hot shots, superstars, and men who played the game in their youth, laced them up to raise money for a cause that has rocked a community. Having grown up a rink rat, with hockey still a huge part of my life, there is something unique about this day, and this tournament. A success, not just because of the money raised, or the scholarship that has now been born out of the tournament. Nor can the day’s success be solely attributed to generous sponsors, or the countless dedicated volunteers that made the day run seamlessly. No, the shining star last year, and this year, is the heartbeat of the arena as it fills with players, volunteers, supporters, parents, grandparents, wives, sisters, brothers, cousins, and friends to play a game, cheer on the teams, have a bite, raise a glass, and share a laugh. Not because we are sad for Dean, Paula or their families. But because of them. Because life is worth raising a glass to, and because making time to catch up with old friends is everything. The highlight for me was watching all of the children laughing, and chasing each other around, looking up at their fathers, uncles and brothers towering over them in skates. It was seeing my 8 year old daughter sending papa a text after we got home to tell him how very proud she was of what he, and the team of organizers had accomplished. The success of the concert, and the tournament lies in our coming together, and feeling together. It lies in connection.

Last year Dean played in the tournament. He walked around, and said his hellos, thanking people for participating. This year he did not play, nor could he speak, but his presence rang out over the laughter and banter that filled the noisy arena. He is still here, living, breathing, smiling and thanking people with warm embraces, and that twinkle in his eye. This year his son dressed in his place, bursting with pride as he took to the ice with the big boys.

As I left the arena, tired kids in tow, Dean attempted to blow me a kiss, locking eyes, exchanging words without uttering a sound. His message heard, mine too I believe, “Good to see you old friend. Take good care”. I did not leave the WIPHT sad. I left with a full heart. I left telling myself that events like these are important. Not just because of the money they raise, but because they bring us together, reminding us that we are never truly alone.

In the two and a half years my father lived with cancer, I hated when well meaning people would tell me not to give up, or let my dad give up, as though our opponent, the big C, could be outfought or outsmarted if we played the game right. It bothered me because I thought, what a message to send to someone fighting for their life. What a thing to say to a person who knows better than anyone else how precious each moment is, and who despite his tenacity, and positive attitude continued to decline. My father did not lose his battle with cancer. He was not beaten down by a more powerful adversary. His spirit won. He was more of a champion in his final days than any famous boxing champ he’d long since admired. And so, I didn’t want to write some syropy, fight the good fight article. No one needs to tell a person in the fight to fight. The more I thought about this, the angrier I became. Sometimes all we can do is feel, and I felt I had something I wanted to say about what I was feeling, I just couldn’t find the words. That is, until I sat looking through pictures posted on the tournament’s Facebook page. One photograph, out of over 200 struck a deep chord with me. I had yet to write a single word, but looking at this picture of Dean, and his father in-law I knew. Turning to Pete, I said, “I’m gonna write an article, and I’m gonna use this picture.” He looked over at me, interested in which picture I was referring to. “I’m gonna call it Fuck ALS.” He nodded a heavy nod. “Perfect”, he said, emotion quietly washing over his strong face. No disease will ever win over your spirit Dean. No disease will ever be the victor over the bond you share with your wife, children, family, and friends. Nothing will ever win out over the love you give, and receive. While the disease may be everything, it is also nothing, just like my father was so much more than his cancer. You are so much more than a man affected by ALS. So here it is, an article inspired by an image that made me laugh out loud, and cry at the same time of two men flipping the bird. Fuck ALS. It does not hold a candle to you Dean Stock.