This Attempted Life

In Repose

2016-11-22T11:08:00.000-06:00

I would like to say that life with an ostomy presented a manageable challenge. I would like to say I returned home hyped and ready to overcome this giant obstacle set before me. In other words, I would like to say that I was a positive, motivated and uplifting person who would now be an inspiration for others having the same experience.

I was not.

I returned home with both my small and large intestines protruding from my abdomen. My incision had healed substantially during my two weeks in the Victoria General Hospital, but I still required a daily visit from an in-home nurse to change the dressings and help us manage the ileostomy appliance.

Upon being discharged, my regime of medications continued. I was prescribed Tylenol 3 for pain, oral antibiotics and Prednisone. The latter was being slowly tapered off so I could safely eliminate the steroid from my system.

Physically, I was a totally different animal from when I had left our Tudor Village suite. I weighed a scant 125 pounds and could barely walk unattended. I worked hard to change that by regularly moving around the apartment with Coral or my mother at my side.

Soon, I was able to use the washroom alone and had learned to empty my appliance by kneeling at the toilet. My first attempts were messy and gross, but it was now my new reality. Figuring out how to live with the attachment was a necessity.

At first, the most frustrating aspect of the appliance was not managing its contents, but changing it every three to four days. Considering the drastic measures required to get inside of my abdomen, the wax seal on the ostomy bag was not sealing properly. It was uncomfortable, itchy and irritated my skin to an aggravating degree.

On top of that, when it was time to remove the bag and replace it with a new one, there was no way to control the excrement as it left my body through the stoma. I would beat my chest in anger as Coral and my mother attempted to control what was sometimes a gieser of poop shooting out of the stoma while it was uncovered by an appliance. The shit would roll down the side of my abdomen onto a towel underneath me, leaving me disgusted and extremely temperamental.

I am still unsure how Coral and Mom were able to maintain control of their own emotions. I didn't understand how they remained so calm during those frustrating few weeks, but have now realized they were doing it for me. They wanted me to know that if this was my new life, they were going to be there to support me in any way they could, even if it meant wiping crap from my stomach and constantly cleaning shitty towels.

Over the next month, I began to come to terms with my predicament and started to consider what my emotional and spiritual tones were doing to those who were serving me so willfully. My personality began to move back to normal, but was always tinged with depression, a lowered self-esteem and an overall poor attitude. I would be bright and conversational one moment, then quiet into a state of angry contemplation the next. It was a roller coaster ride.

As the summer of 1997 arrived, I remained in recovery mode, spending most of my day in bed or on the couch. As the long incision in my abdomen healed closed, I ventured outside for a stroll around our apartment complex or across the parking lot. That was the extent of my mobility.

By the end of June, it was time for my mother to return to her home in Whitewood, Sask. Coral was finished course work for the 1996-1997 academic year and was taking on more work at the private athletic therapy clinic.

I, meanwhile, began to acquire the skills I needed to care for myself, but still didn't have the ability to effectively maintain my ostomy. Cleaning and emptying the bag was not a challenge, but the wax seal and its tendency to leak was wreaking havoc on the skin around my stoma. The area was red, tender, itchy and burned when we attempted to change the appliance.

On top of that, the intestine's habit of constantly draining during an appliance change was pushing my temper to the brink of an all out explosion.

With Mom needing to return home and Coral taking on more work to make up for my lost income, we sought permission from doctors for me to travel to Whitewood through the first part of the summer. After being assured there was adequate medical service there in case of an emergency, they allowed me to travel.

It was healing to be back in the home where I grew up. The familiar atmosphere and my mother's incredible willingness to serve granted me an escape from my concerns about work, paying bills and, more importantly, Coral's emotional strain. After all, she needed a break from the whole "Chris being sick" scene, too.

Besides, she was getting quickly tired of one sickly side-effect of living with an ostomy appliance. When I slept at night, the gas produced by the work of my small bowel would release into the bag attached to my lower abdomen. It was like waking with a balloon stuck to my belly.

Before I could move anywhere, I had to release that gas; I had to deflate the balloon. I would open the clip at the bottom of the bag, making sure to hold up the opening so none of the appliances contents - other than the air - would spill out. The resulting "fart" was as distinct and disgusting as being thrown in a septic tank. Imagine your bowels were like the muffler of a vehicle. Not only does that mechanism control the noise produced by the engine, but it helps control the gaseous waste the engine creates when running.

The same goes for a bowel. Only in my case, I didn't have my large intestine to finish the process; meaning my "farts" - the air released into the bag - were unfiltered without the extra processing a regular person would have take place.

The stench was atrocious. It filled the bedroom like a bomb. Like Coral, I couldn't handle the smell either, but found myself - being a stereotypical male - using the morning gas releases as a sick joke.

Coral didn't find it funny at all.

The frustrations with the appliance continued in Whitewood. One day, as we attempted to change the bag for probably the fourth time in a week - each one was supposed to last four to five days, so I was going through way too many of the expensive ostomy appliances - my small bowel was especially active. We made two attempts at applying a bag, but each one ended up getting fecal matter beneath the wax seal, which would further aggravate my irritated skin and the bag would eventually stop adhering to my skin.

I had reached the end of my rope. As my wife, who had come to visit, and my mother patiently prepared another appliance for application, I twisted in the bed I laid on and put my fist through the thin wood-panelled wall. If I had hit a stud, I surely would have broken my right hand, further complicating my entire situation.

Mom and Coral stepped back a bit, but remained level-headed. They didn't say much about my outburst. They seemed to understand the strain of my new lifestyle was putting on me. Both of the most important women in my life were and continue to be the rocks I cling to when my world seems to be crashing in.

Trevor, who was working as a television journalist in Prince Albert, Sask. at that time, called saying he was in Whitewood and was wondering if it would be okay to visit. He swung by my parents' home in the afternoon.

I was sitting on the couch in the living room watching television when the doorbell rang. I got up and shuffled through the kitchen and into the porch to open the door.

Trevor's excited expression took on a tinge of shock when he saw me. He barely recognized the boney figure standing before him.

"Itchy," was all he said as he stepped into the house.

I tried my best to be jovial. We traded jokes and as we caught up with the story of each other's lives over the past few months. He laughed a little when I told him I couldn't sit on wooden chairs at the moment because it felt like the bones in my buttocks were going to come through my ass cheeks.

Trevor seemed beside himself and I tried my best to be positive and practical about my circumstances. Soon, he was back to being the guy I turned to in high school when I needed cheering up. We had almost totally lost touch with each other since then.

"One good thing to come out of this is I'll never have to worry about my weight again," I told him, hoping for a laugh.

"I think that's the least of your concerns," he said.

The line is funnier more than 15 years later because I have ballooned and shrunk several times over that period. Although I weighed a scant 130 pounds at the time of that visit, I have since exploded to 280, dropped 90 pounds, regained 70, lost 30; the yo-yo continues to this day.

Trevor was also a little uncomfortable with my seating position. My legs were so skinny, I could sit on a chair, cross them, then wrap the top leg around the bottom a second time. It resembled a pair of shoe laces twisted together.

By August, nine weeks after my emergency surgery, I was back in Winnipeg for a follow-up appointment with Dr. G. Although he felt I was recovering well, he was concerned I was "cushingoid" - gaining weight too fast due to an imbalance of hormones.

Ultimately, he put it off on the return of a healthy appetite and the removal of prednisone from my list of prescriptions. He also discussed the next steps in preventing the Crohn's Disease from returning.

Perforating Crohn's Disease - the type that causes a blockage and abscess like I had experienced - has a high recurrence rate with a likeliness that it will return soon after surgical treatment. Keeping the disease at bay required medication, which at that point had been prednisone, Pentasa and Asacol, the latter being another strong anti-inflammatory.

Due to the convulsions I suffered in the hospital related to prednisone and the steroids other terrible side-effects, that was a drug I wanted to avoid unless absolutely necessary; as in if I didn't take it, I would die.

I had taken the Pentasa and Asacol before, but it didn't seem to work as successfully as Dr. G. would have liked. Instead, he suggested metronidazole.

The drug is an antibiotic used to fight anaerobic bacteria found in several areas of the body, including the small intestine. At the time, there had been only one, three-month study conducted with metronidazole as it related to Crohn's Disease. It showed promise through the first year of treatment, but seemed to become less effective after two years.

Dr. G. suggested we try metronidazole at low dosages on a long-term basis. He felt the side-effects, which included peripheral neuropathy (nerve damage), were reversible but unlikely at the small dosage he was prescribing. After a year of taking the medication, I was to follow-up with him. If, during that time, Coral and I decided to have children, I was to stop the prescription.

Considering I was still paranoid about the disease's return, I was a pretty easy sell and began taking metronidazole.

As summer turned to autumn, Coral and I worked at becoming more proactive and positive about living with the ostomy. It was still difficult and frustrating, but I came to the realization that this would be a daily, moment-by-moment part of my life.

The skin underneath my appliance continued to deteriorate. It seemed like it was rotting away. A small hole in the top layers of skin was beginning to spread. By the fall, it was the size of a dime and growing.

I had also discovered that I required a new wardrobe, especially as I considered returning to work at the sports store. The location of the bag forced me to wear my pants high, like Steve Urkel on the television show, "Family Matters." If my pants were worn low, a belt would basically cut the capacity of what the bag could hold in half. If it then had any contact with the wax seal, there was a chance the appliance could be torn off while walking or bending.

Wearing my pants high was uncomfortable. It also caused further damage to my already-low self-image. That last thing I wanted was to look like an old man who hiked his pants up to his armpits because, well, he had an ostomy appliance underneath them.

Nevertheless, I discarded my blue jeans - especially after wearing a pair to a rodeo in Morris, Man. that summer which seemed to continually cause my wax seal to leak - and purchased about a half dozen pair of rubber-band waisted track pants and khakis. The latter were required as part of my work uniform.

I was welcomed back to the fold at the sports store late in the fall. Work-wise, things returned back to normal relatively quickly, although I required extra time in the washroom to empty my appliance and had to work around the awkward noises emitted through my stoma as gas worked its way through my small intestine.

I also had to put my manager in his place after a joke pissed me off so bad, I blew up on him in front of our entire staff.

By that time, however, I just didn't care about being insubordinate. In my head, I begged him to fire me.

Gutted

2016-11-17T12:07:00.001-06:00

I was told what happened when I regained lucidity more than a day later. The world as I knew it had changed more than I could have ever imagined. I immediately fell into a depression.

After going through emergency triage, it was determined that I was falling into septic shock. My organs were shutting down as my immune system fought off the horrid situation brewing in my abdomen.

"You husband is a very lucky man," Dr. M. told Coral after several hours of surgery. It was a cliched statement from a doctor, for sure, but fitting once the details of what he had to do came to light.

After making a one-foot incision from about four inches below my sternum down to my waist, doctors pulled open my peritoneal cavity and found it full of purulent fluid - liquid pus caused by infection. A large inflammatory mass was found on my lower right abdomen, which was dissected off of the right side wall of the cavity.

The surgeons moved down to the ileocecal region, the area of the intestine where the small bowel (ileum) meets the large bowel (cecum). There, they found an abscess cavity at the ileocecal junction, causing my bowel to be walled off and leak into my peritoneal cavity.

I was literally full of shit and required a thorough cleaning if I was ever going to survive the poison that had infected me through the hole in my intestine.

As doctors continued the surgery, they found more purulent fluid running between my abdominal organs. My small bowel was inspected from the ligament of Treitz; a muscle that suspends the bowel from just below the stomach. The condition of the intestine was normal in areas facing the inside of the body. However, the side facing the outside of the peritoneal cavity had secondary or chronic inflammation. Signs of Crohn's Disease were found in about a foot of small intestine leading up to the ileocecal junction.

The infection was so severe, the related fluids had started to solidify into stringy matter consisting of protein and cells, the medical term for it being fibrinous exudate.

Despite the serious condition of my small bowel near the ileum, the large bowel seemed Crohn's-free. The right and transverse part of the colon was still full of barium from the last x-ray, however.

After the thorough examination, the surgeons started cutting. More than 15 centimetres of my small intestine from my ileum back and the large intestine up to the mid-ascending colon were resected. The double layer of peritoneum - which suspends the intestines from the posterior wall of the abdomen - was heavily inflamed. It was divided and cleaned as well.

Before the surgeons continued their work, my peritoneal cavity was thoroughly cleaned - twice - by irrigation with saline.

When I later returned to consciousness, the lengths required to save my life were in plain sight. The main incision to enter my abdomen was still an open gash. Stitches were loosely tied just far enough apart to keep my guts from spilling out. The wound was left open as much as possible to keep me from being infected further than I already was.

My condition did not allow me to look down at my own abdomen, which I suspect is a blessing. I was mentally and spiritually depressed already. Seeing my insides might have thrown me over the edge.

The most shocking realisation was the new condition of my digestive system. Due to the severe inflammation, Dr. M decided to give me an ileostomy and a mucous fistula. My small intestine was brought through the skin on my lower-right belly to form a stoma. An ostomy appliance - a plastic bag held onto my abdomen with soft wax - was placed over the stoma to collect the feces that would travel through my small intestine once I started consuming food again.

This diagram shows where the stoma for my ileostomy exited my abdomen. The mucous fistula - which looks similar - came out roughly where the centre of the horizontal section of the large intestine is located. There was little doubt that my life was drastically different than before.

Meanwhile, the part of my large intestine that would have otherwise been attached to my small bowel was formed into a similar mechanism at the top of the entry incision, about four inches below my sternum. This mucous fistula would pass mucous related to digestion and gas from the unused large intestine. That stoma was covered with a cotton-backed patch that stuck to my skin with adhesive, like a band-aid.

Another small incision was made further to the right of my ileostomy where the ends of two, one-inch rubber tubes protruded from my body. This "Penrose drain" allowed fluids from my abdominal cavity to drain out. One of the rubber tubes ran through my peritoneal cavity to my pelvis, while the other pulled fluid from the area below my liver.

As I healed, the intestine could not process anything, not even bile. Alongside the oxygen-supplying clear tubes that poked into my nostrils, a secondary tube was pushed up my nose, down my throat and into my stomach to collect the acid and bile my body would produce over the next several days.

In other words, my only source of food was fed to me intravenously. Water was not even allowed to pass by my lips, leaving my mouth chalky and extremely uncomfortable. The only respite from this feeling came from a foam swap dampened with cold, ice-water and brushed against my lips.

Surprisingly, I felt little pain at this time due to the wonderful benefits of morphine. I was on a drip system that allowed me to push a button whenever I required pain medication. At times, I clicked that button every few minutes. The machine only fed me a limited quantity, but it was enough to keep me floating on a cloud for the first three or four days.

Two nights after the surgery, Coral and my parents were watching television at our apartment in Tudor Village. At one point, my cowboy hat fell off of a hat rack near the suite's exit for no apparent reason.

"Something is wrong with Christopher," my father told Coral and my mother.

Either by coincidence or by some mysterious power, the hat falling from its place was a sign that my "good condition" had changed.

Besides the severe complications that could arise from taking Prednisone, even more can develop while coming off of the steroid. A miscommunication had me pulled off of the medication cold turkey. By the second night of my recovery, my body was reacting badly to the lack of Prednisone now running through my body. I woke up in the middle of the night unable to relax my body. It seemed like every muscle was convulsing, as if I was being electrocuted.

I remember pushing the nurse-call button and attempting to explain my situation. She took my vitals, then later brought in a tablet to place under my tongue. The medication calmed me and I fell back to sleep.

I woke up the next day unaware of what had actually happened to me. My convulsions were actually seizures caused by the cut-off from Prednisone, which must be weened out of the system by slowly decreasing the dosage in stages.

Coral arrived to find my already sallow body beaten and bruised. Apparently, I had caught a couple of punches in the face with my own hands. Due to my emaciated state, my skin was thin and weak. Even a slight knock would have caused damage.

Dr. M arrived and explained what happened. My prescription for Prednisone was returned and I was properly weened off of the drug.

Although I wasn't entirely out danger yet, I had cleared a major hurdle. My life was saved - although changed in a way I could never have imagined - and the healing process had begun to successfully take hold.

The incision on my abdomen was left to slowly close as it healed. It was packed with saline-doused gauze to keep it as clean as possible. The packing was changed on a daily basis.

And the Penrose drain was slowly removed from between my internal organs. At the time, the process produced the weirdest sensation I had ever encountered. A nurse came to my side daily, pulling out the rubber tubing about one to two inches and re-covering it with new bandaging. I could actually feel the tubes move within me, like a pair of snakes waking and slithering between my organs.

Once I was healed enough to be removed from the surgery recovery ward, I was placed in a regular room. Here, the concern turned to the barium still sitting in the remaining four-fifths of my colon.

I had lost all self-consciousness regarding my body image and what doctors, nurses and visitors could see under the inadequate apparel presented by the contemporary hospital gown. However, the process we used to remove the barium - which, left as it was, would destroy my large intestine by hardening like concrete - left me embarrassed and emotionally drained. Coral and my parents were there to witness it all.

A large syringe with a rubber tip containing laxative was placed inside of the stoma to my large bowel. The laxative was slowly injected into me forcing my bowel to begin working its contents through my bottom end. I was moved precariously to a chair with toilet seat. A large bowl was placed below a hole in the chair to catch the refuse.

Laxative was injected through my bowel until it ran clear. I have to admit, the movement was a relief. Although I was immobile, I could feel the heavy barium concoction weigh heavy in my guts.

About a week later, I was moved to another room where I would continue my recovery in a less intensive atmosphere. Although the nurses in the recovery ward were not exceptionally bad, the staff on the new ward had happy, positive attitudes that lifted my spirits substantially.

Until then, I would have infrequent visitors, friends such as Cal and Tanya or Carla, a work-mate from the sports store. I would try to maintain a cheery demeanour, but generally fell into sobs by the end of our conversations. My emotional state was stirred by the obviously drastic change in my life and the combination of medications I was taking; anti-inflammatories, anti-biotics, Prednisone, ASA and morphine.

But in the new ward, I seemed to come out from under my cloud and began to realise that I was going to survive and return to my life with Coral, the love of my life. Just the thought of going home from the hospital kept me jovial.

There were still times when I'd get down, but I was reading voraciously through the final week of my hospital stay. One of the books was "Man's Search for Meaning" by Victor Frankl. The author was a neurologist and psychiatrist who had survived a Nazi concentration camp. The book outlined what happened to him during his stay in the camp and how he was able to live through it by analysing his experiences as they were happening to him. He was arriving at a theory to human thought and existence by living through the most horrific act of anti-human behaviour in the 20th Century; the Holocaust.

The book should have been a depressing read, but instead gave me hope. I began to think as Frankl did, considering how my situation would improve my understanding of life and how I could pass it on to others, including my unborn children.

By this time, I was starting to process food again, although only a liquid diet of soup, water and gelatin. My abdomen was still weeks from being fully healed, but I had not encountered a problem with digestion.

I was having problems with the diet, though. I was still extremely hungry after not eating anything solid for the previous several weeks. One evening, the smell of pizza wafted through the door of my room. The nurses had ordered a couple of pies for their dinner. When my nurse came in to check on me, I joked how they were punishing patients like me for bringing such a deliciously aromatic meal onto the ward.

"Do you want a piece?" she asked.

"Uuuh. I would love one, but I'm still on a liquid diet plan," I replied, suddenly frightened by the prospect of actually eating solid food with my digestive system in its current condition.

"You've got to try eating something sometime," she said. "It's probably better it happen in the hospital than at home in case there are any complications."

Although ostomy bag technologies have improved

drastically through the past 20 years, the above
example is similar to the appliance I dealt with in
1997.

What could I do? I relented and she returned a few minutes later with a slice of thick, pizza dressed with green peppers, mushrooms, sausage and pepperoni.

"Take small bites," she said. "Take your time. If you have any troubles, just buzz."

Coral helped feed me, but by this time, I was sitting almost totally upright in my bed for long periods of time. I was so hungry, I didn't require her help.

Four or five hours later, the food my body had processed began to appear in my ostomy bag. It was disgusting - although something I had to quickly get used to - but a relief considering there was no pain and I had actually been able to eat something substantial.

I celebrated the accomplishment, but remained frustrated at how my first serious bout with Crohn's Disease had left me.

I didn't understand how much my life had changed until I was finally released from the hospital on June 8, 1997. The frustration would continue to boil as I tried to begin a new life as an ostomy patient.

The precipice

2016-10-25T12:10:00.000-06:00

Photo credit: Winnipeg Sun

"Then I vomited again, the clear fluid with green flecks splashing onto the floor before me. A few people in front of my wheelchair darted away from me to avoid the projectile stream of puke."

Crohn's Disease wasn't entirely foreign to me at the time of my diagnosis. My mother's sister, Penny, was diagnosed with the disease a few years before. Her battle with it included daily consumption of "maintenance" drugs, a drastic change in her diet and, at times, unbearable pain that made her immobile for days.

According to the results of a test on tissue taken from my bowel during my appendectomy, I was suffering from Crohn's Disease affecting about 18 centimetres of my ileum - a portion of the bowel where the small intestine meets the ascending colon, or large intestine. The pain associated with the diseased ileum and it's location adjacent to the appendix led the walk-in doctor to her diagnosis of appendicitis.

Besides the biopsy of a portion of my small bowel, my diagnosis was also the result of a barium test, where I had to drink a thick, disgusting, metallic paste, sit for up to two hours while it moved through my digestive tract, then obtain x-rays to determine the efficiency of its passage.

Crohn's Disease is a chronic condition that causes inflammation in the lining of the digestive tract anywhere along the digestive system. This inflammation causes abdominal pain, severe diarrhoea, malnutrition, fatigue and weight loss.

The disease can cause numerous complications, some of them life-threatening. Inflammation can cause an obstruction in the either the small or large intestines. Ulcers, or open sores in the wall of the digestive tract, may also develop with chronic inflammation. When the ulcers extend completely through the bowel, they may develop into fistulas, which is the abnormal connection of tissue between different parts of the intestine, between the intestine and the skin, or between the intestine and other internal organs. Fistulas become especially dangerous when they allow fecal matter to leave the intestine and enter other parts of the body, like the skin, other organs or the abdomen.

Crohn's Disease may also cause anal fissures, cracks or clefts in the anus or in the skin around the anus. This condition causes painful bowel movements and infections. The disease is also known to cause malnutrition in its patients. Diarrhoea, abdominal pain and cramping make it difficult to consume food and maintain appropriate nutrient levels, while inflamed bowel will lose its ability to effectively absorb required nutrients. Crohn's patients are also at a higher risk of contracting colon cancer.

But this isn't the end of the list of side-effects Crohn's Disease patients need be concerned about. The ailment can also cause arthritis, inflammation of the eyes or skin, clubbing of the fingernails, kidney or gallstones, inflammation of the bile ducts and, in some cases, osteoporosis.

The cause of Crohn's Disease has not yet been found. The current thought is that the disease is caused by a combination of factors between heredity and a malfunctioning immune system. The idea is that a virus or bacterium is triggering the disease by forcing the immune system to work against the invader. Should the immune system be working abnormally, it will not only attack the invading virus or bacteria, but the healthy cells of the digestive tract, causing the inflammation.

At one time, diet and stress were thought to be a substantial cause of the disease, but not anymore. They are, however, considered instrumental in triggering relapses of the disease in patients with the disease in remission.

There is currently no known cure for inflammatory bowel diseases, which also includes ulcerative colitis.

In a report dated May 15, 1997, Dr. G. explained that the Pentasa was having little affect on improving my condition. However, the Crohn's didn't seem to be spreading further up or down the intestinal tract, meaning there was no need to prescribe further medications for the time being.

I weighed about 165 pounds at the time. I continued to suffer from severe abdominal cramping and a total loss of appetite. I tried to return to work, but my condition was growing worse by the day.

After explaining the situation to Dr. G. a week later, he replaced by Pentasa prescription with Prednisone, a corticosteroid that suppresses the immune system for the treatment of severe inflammation. On our first visit with him, he had mentioned the potential for its need, but hoped we wouldn't require the powerful medication. After assessing my condition a second time and seeing the continued downward spiral in my weight and general health, he decided it was a necessity.

While Prednisone has been shown to be effective in everything from arthritis to cancer, consuming the synthetic chemical is a terrible option in any case and, in my opinion, should be used only as a last resort. Many of the drug's side-effects relate to the patient's mental and emotional well-being. I've come to learn that a positive mind-set is integral to overcoming not only the ailment affecting you, but the stress associated with the entire situation surrounding it. Prednisone seems to do everything it can to mentally defeat you while "helping" ward off whatever is causing the inflammation.

The list of potential side-effects caused by Prednisone includes aggression; agitation; anxiety; blurred vision; dizziness; irregular heartbeat; headaches; irritability; depression; mood swings; nervousness; troubled breathing; numbness or tingling in the arms and legs; pounding ears; swelling in the extremities and other areas of the body; trouble thinking, speaking and walking; and weight gain.

There are dozens more side-effects on top of these, both physical and neurological.

In my condition at the time, I was willing to try anything. The pain was so severe, it felt like someone was churning a jagged knife around my abdomen from the inside. There was little I could do to fight it. It hit me most frequently at night, when I would just get up and pace the apartment, holding a heating bottle to my stomach or just rubbing my abdomen to try and trick my brain into feeling some other sensation than the unbearable pain.

My "tricks" rarely worked and by late May, I was a physical, spiritual and mental skeleton from the chronic torture, lack of food and inability to hold anything in my stomach.

I had another barium test ordered by Dr. G. After drinking what seemed like a combination of liquid steel and sewage, I remember laying in a dark ante-room in the x-ray ward of the hospital. I shivered in the soulless concrete surroundings. I tried to sleep, but the gurney they supplied me was hard and cold. I just laid there on my left side; which I was told would hasten the barium's passage through my system; trying to sweep away the depression that weighed heavy on my heart and mind.

An hour and a half later, I vomited the barium into a trash can near the exit to the room. I would need to choke down more of the sludge in order to get an accurate reading of the full-length of my digestive system. I cried when the nurse brought me another half portion of barium smoothie. She rubbed my shoulder in sympathy as she left the room.

I saw Dr. G. again on May 27. This time with my mother, who had come to care for me while Coral began taking on more work to fulfill our financial obligations. Dr. G. went through his general assessment and suggested we continue in the direction we were moving. My increased speed at which my condition was deteriorating, however, had both Coral and my mother questioning this assessment and treatment plan.

On May 28, 1997, I woke from a fitful sleep after suffering from another disrupted night of unbearable pain. My mother did her best to nurse me, but, really, there was little she could do but watch her son dissolve before her eyes. It must have been as painful for her as it was for me physically.

That morning, I woke unable to relax any part of my body. I writhed on my bed, only getting up to vomit more clear fluids from by bowels. I hadn't eaten anything solid or moved my bowels in more than a week. A simple glass of water wouldn't even remain in my system.

With tears flowing down my face from the pain and the frustration with the situation I found myself in, I asked Coral and Mom to take me to the emergency ward.

I was in a haze and barely coherent enough to walk down the stairs towards the foyer and out into the parking lot. Coral and my mother each took an arm and guided me to our vehicle - now a Suzuki Sidekick - and rushed me back to the Victoria General Hospital.

I spilled out of the Sidekick at the emergency entrance and stumbled into the building. Someone brought us a wheelchair, where I sat barely noticing the chaos of the conventional city emergency ward around me. Then I vomited again, the clear fluid with green flecks splashing onto the floor before me. A few people in front of my wheelchair darted away from me to avoid the projectile stream of puke.

I was handed a shallow bowl, but it was filled with even more of my stomachs contents - which, despite not being full for days, seemed to have a bottomless supply of bile and stringy, clear, acidic liquids.

Due to my condition, I was placed in a triage line for "urgent" cases, then rushed to the head of the queue as I continued to vomit. Once past the triage desk, I let my mind relax and fell into a cloud, only noticing the nurses buzz around my gurney and the touch of Coral's hand in my own.

A nurse taking my blood pressure winced and sighed when she saw the results. Coral caught a glimpse of the screen despite the nurses efforts to turn it away from her. My heart rate was dangerously high; my blood pressure frighteningly low. The nurse rushed away, returning not long after to hook up an IV line to start feeding my emaciated and dehydrated body with nutrients and fluids.

The same internal surgeon who performed my appendectomy arrived to assess my condition and explained that he may need to do extensive surgery to determine what exactly was happening inside of me.

Despite feeling a peace and relaxation I hadn't experienced in weeks, I didn't realize how close to the precipice I was. Coral remembers me hallucinating, talking to people who were not in the room. At that moment, with consciousness dimming and my senses deceiving me, my body was giving up the fight.

In my stupor, I didn't realize how close I was to dying.

Food equals pain

2016-10-13T10:59:00.001-06:00

We lived on a tight budget those first couple of years, but Coral and I grew comfortable with married life without the embellishments many young couples accrue today; the house, the camper, the recreation vehicles, cable television, a full pantry.

We did, however, grow tired of our living accommodations at Adamar Place - a 12-floor apartment complex just off of Pembina Highway in South Winnipeg. Most of its residents were senior citizens and didn't appreciate younger people having guests over for dinner or drinks. Some complained simply because the television was too loud.

At the time, there was little we could do with where we lived. Coral began work on her Masters Degree in Kinesiology and drew a small income with part-time employment at a private athletic therapy clinic across the city. I was still drawing a miniscule, full-time salary at a sporting goods store in St. Vital Centre. Between rent, utilities and the need to maintain two vehicles, the monetary intake could not keep up with consumption.

But we were happy. Our social circle included a decent group of young employees from the store and some friends from university who stayed in Winnipeg after they graduated. We met Steve and Kathleen while living in Mary Speechly Hall at the U. of M., where we also developed a friendship with Calvin and Tanya. Calvin was the Resident Assistant on the seventh and fourth floors during my two-year residency at Speechly. Coral and I would exchange visits with them at our respective apartments, grab a meal at an area restaurant, catch a movie or spend the night at a bar.

Although there were benefits to living at Adamar Place, including its close location to my workplace and the ability to simply grab my fishing rod and walk behind the building to toss a line into the Red River, Coral and I craved accommodations similar to that rented by Cal and Tanya. The couple lived in Tudor Village, a two-storey, alpine-themed conglomeration of apartment complexes located a few blocks south of the university. Coral and I left our names with Tudor Village management in the hopes that they would call with news that an apartment had opened up. In the spring of 1996, one did and we snapped it up.

Although the Adams's high rise apartment served its purpose; it was cheap, convenient, clean and had a pool in the basement that I used a total of two times; our new home was much more accommodating to our lifestyle. The tenants were younger and more patient about fellow residents with a spirited social life. Many attended university themselves, so there were times when we were the ones putting up with a loud party or a fight in the parking lot.

Nevertheless, we loved our new home. It was smaller than the previous place, but there were only two of us to be concerned about and it was a bike-ride away from Coral's work on campus. Cal and Tanya lived two buildings away, making it convenient for us to visit over meals and a few drinks on a Friday night or a lazy weeknight. And it had a wood-burning fireplace, which I used constantly during the winter.

Whenever we found the time, we ventured back to Saskatchewan to visit our folks or camped at White Shell Provincial Park with Steve and Kathleen. I found myself losing some of the weight I had put on during my two-year stint at the U. of M. This was partially due to our lack of finances. We couldn't just whip down to the convenience store for an unhealthy snack or to the fast-food place for a meal. We scraped by on what we could pick up cheap at the nearby Safeway.

I was also more active. Coral and I jogged two or three times a week on a middle school track located across the street from our apartment complex. That activity was something I took up in my senior year of high school, but stopped after entering university. We also enjoyed regular walks or bike rides through King's Park, a green space along the Red River a few blocks south of Tudor Village.

In the inventory room at the store, I found and purchased a cheap pair of inline skates - which were exploding in popularity then. When the ice and snow disappeared, I began skating the five kilometres to St. Vital Centre. I was getting leaner and stronger. I was still smoking, unfortunately, but my lifestyle was changing for the better otherwise. I drank less, and ate better.

Sometimes, monsters lurk in happy places, though. There was more to my weight-loss than I first suspected.

And, while our living accommodations were comfortable, they would serve as the setting for my first tour through hell.

--

The store I worked in had a managerial shuffle through the summer of 1996. An assistant manager left the company, while the manager who hired me was promoted to regional responsibilities and took over a struggling store located in Kildonan Place at the north end of Winnipeg. A young, co-manager from the Polo Park Shopping Mall location was moved to St. Vital Centre.

Although I had made inroads in impressing the previous manager, we still didn't see eye-to-eye on many things. Many of them were corporate regulations that he had no control over, but I felt his strict adherence to them - while he bent them for himself - was hypocritical and immoral.

The younger manager also stuck closely to these regulations, but he was more adept at handling complaints and situations with employees in a political manner that seemed to keep everyone content. In fact, our store began to grow due, in part, to a fresh attitude and an atmosphere of success developed by the new manager.

You will learn later that he could still be an asshole.

The change in management rejuvenated by own attitude towards my work. I didn't feel so intimidated and was more open about my ideas, concerns and suggestions. Although I was still a full-time, manager-trainee, I took it upon myself to take on more responsibilities and be proactive with what I thought would be a long-term career in the retail industry.

But in December of 1996, something else was starting to occupy my mind. Although I had continued to become more physically active, I was having unexplained abdominal pains that, at times, were unbearable. They were sporadic at first, striking me at work once or twice every couple of weeks as I ate my lunch; sandwiches made with bread we made in a machine at home. When the cramping hit, I would eat as much as I could, but generally found myself trashing most of my meals.

At night, I was generally fine. For some reason, these episodes primarily hit me at work. It wasn't long before they were happening everywhere at any time.

Nevertheless, I continued to socialize over a beer or two, and had a growing addiction to sunflower seeds, which would ultimately prove to be a dangerous combination.

The cramping in my abdomen - which focussed in my lower-right quadrant - grew more frequent during the final weeks of winter in 1997. The pain wasn't enough, in my niave opinion, to seek medical attention, but I continued to eat less, lose weight and suffer from severe low amounts of energy due to a lack of sleep.

Besides being unable to move my bowels on a regular basis, I was beginning to wake up in the middle of the night with torturous pain in my torso. It seemed to cycle in a clockwise fashion from the bottom right area to the top, to the left, back to the right again. No matter how much heat I applied or how long I rubbed my gut area, the pain would not subside for hours. All I could do was get up, rub my belly and walk around our tiny suite.

That spring, the City of Winnipeg was under serious threat of flooding due to a wall of water being pushed up through Southern Manitoba by the Red River. It quickly became known as "The Flood of the Century," particularly after the it sunk the city of Grand Forks, North Dakota. Television coverage of the disaster there showed a downtown core immersed in water while fires leapt from building to building in the city's commercial sector. About 46,000 people were evacuated from Grand Forks, and the damage from the flood motivated Manitoba's provincial government to move approximately 25,000 people from homes located on or near the Red River flood plain. Besides people, thousands of farm animals were transported to high ground, including more than 2,000 head of cattle and 45,000 chickens.

Thousands of volunteers stepped forward to help save people and property from Winnipeg to the Canada-U.S. international border 100 kilometres south. The Manitoba government also requested help from members of the Canadian Armed Forces and a shoring of members of the Royal Canadian Mounted Police. As the flood moved north, heavy machinery was commandeered to construct a 42-kilometre-long wall of earth to save the City of Winnipeg. It was named the Brunkild Z-dike and cost $10 million to finish.

The flood ultimately expanded to cover about 2,560 square kilometres and became known as the "Red Sea." The water caused about $3.5 billion in damages, $500 million of which occurred in Manitoba.

Despite finding myself in pain more frequently, I used the afternoon of a day off of work to help sandbag around a home sitting alongside the Red River near King's Park. I stood in a line of sandbag tossers for about three hours, rushing to keep up with the rising river level. At one point, I stood at the top of the dike slinging sandbags to the next person in line while the Red River rushed just two or three feet below my feet. The experience was both exhilarating and nerve-wracking.

It also taught me lessons I would use to help save my parents home from severe flooding along the Qu'Appelle River and its chain of lakes in 2011 and 2014.

By late afternoon, the pain in my abdomen had returned and I decided to go home. The idea that helping to stem a potential disaster may take my mind off my mysterious health issue and the painful side-effects did not come to fruition.

Coral and her athletic-therapist friend, Liane, continued to help southern Manitoba residents affected by the flood for the next two weeks. On several occasions, they stood along Canadian Forces members on the front of a pay-loader that carried them through frigid water to farm homes requiring sandbagging and continual water pumping.

Although I've always been a news hound and journalist at heart who craved being an eyewitness to major events, I missed much of the Flood of the Century. Most of it was spent at maintaining a sports store with, understandably, little customer traffic and trying to find ways to fight what was quickly becoming constant pain.

By early May, I couldn't take it any more. I had been suffering for a week without intermission and dropped about 15 pounds in the previous month and half. I sought help from a doctor at a walk-in clinic near St. Vital Centre. The doctor - an attractive-but-curt An young woman with very little patience - examined me without emotion. She disappeared for a moment, then returned snapping a rubber glove on her hand.

Although a rectal examination is not an unusual part of a general physical examination, especially for men over the age of 40, it was an entirely new and incredibly uncomfortable experience for me. After poking around for what seemed like five minutes - but was probably more like 30 or 40 seconds - she determined that I was suffering from appendicitis and required immediate attention. She wrote a prescription for pain medication and suggested I enter the hospital via the emergency ward.

After explaining the situation to my manager at the store, I went home and called Coral, who picked me up and transported me up Pembina Highway to the Victoria Hospital. We waited about three hours before I was finally assessed by a triage nurse. Carrying the written diagnosis from the doctor at the walk-in clinic helped move things along, somewhat.

While the growing pain and concern about what exactly was going on in my torso was not new, I was surprised to find myself so suddenly admitted to the hospital waiting for surgery. I was 23 years old and almost two years into a marriage that hadn't even been celebrated with a honeymoon yet.

This was not part of the plan.

But, all things considered, an appendectomy was a relatively minor procedure if the infected appendix was diagnosed in time. I had laproscopic surgery - which required only a two small incisions in the lower right corner of my abdomen - and the appendix was removed.

During his regular rounds the next day, the internal surgeon who performed the appendectomy stepped into my room and stood at the end of my bed. With Coral at my side, he explained that tests on my appendix showed it to be healthy. What he did see during the operation was about "10 centimetres of terminal ileum inflammation with creeping fat." Tests were still being completed on small portion of my bowel to determine what exactly was causing the inflammation.

I was released from the hospital with recovery instructions and a referral to a gastroenterologist; yet another doctor. In a period of days, I went from not even maintaining a family physician to having an internal surgeon and a gastroenterologist on my case.

My condition worsened during my recovery period at home. My appetite had lapsed substantially and when I did eat, I frequently vomited a couple of hours later. I was no longer finding it difficult to move my bowels, but now the pendulum had swung the opposite way. The movements were loose and frequent.

Nevertheless, I returned to work a week later, spurred along by a solid supply of Tylenol 3 tablets. Frankly, I was stoned most of the day. I zoned out in a quiet corner of the store most of my shift. When I did serve customers, I made mistakes punching in their purchases on the till. I laughed at myself and explained my lack of functionality to total strangers by saying I had just at an appendectomy and was on "some pretty awesome meds." I was also taking a daily regime of Pentasa, a strong anti-inflammatory generally prescribed to patients suffering from inflammatory disorders.

The store manager, who was patient with me despite my condition, tired of hearing me tell this to customers, so he put me on inventory-taking duties in the stockroom. I wasn't productive there either.

Dr. G., a gastroenterologist in Winnipeg, broke the news of my final diagnosis at our first meeting. I was deemed a chronic patient of an inflammatory bowel disease known as Crohn's.

The last threads of my belief that I was invincible - that I would lead a long, disease-free, healthy life with Coral - were instantly shattered. My mind clouded and my body went numb. This time, it wasn't prescription medication putting me in a state of delirium.

After living the first 23 years of my life without even a broken bone, I had suddenly become the victim of a chronic, incurable disease.

The shock and depression linked to the situation was only dulled by more pain. I knew then I was on a long, painful, arduous journey.

Image credit: thecrohnsinfection.org

Love committed

2016-10-11T12:08:00.000-06:00

Chris Armstrong didn't have a vehicle to drive the night we went to meet Coral and Dian in Rocanville, so we jumped in my boxy, beige, two-door 1980 Plymouth Caravelle; a boat of a vehicle I wish I still owned to this day. It was an awesome ride for a teenager with places to go.

And I finally had someplace to go.

It was early evening by the time we were speeding down the back-country grids on our way to Rocanville. Chris was wearing a t-shirt and jeans, which made me self-conscious. I was definitely overdressed for the night. I wore a green, collared shirt with a bolo tie, khaki pants and dress shoes. My thick mane of hair was slicked back with a part up the middle.

The style was the very definition of a nerd over-compensating for his lack of confidence. After being as real as possible the previous night, I was trying way too hard to impress her. Damn it! I was blowing it before I even got there.

Coral's casual apparel made me stand out even more. She also wore a simple t-shirt, denim shorts and glasses - which she was not wearing the previous night.

"I really wasn't expecting to see you," she said later, explaining that Dian helped her spritz her hair and do her make-up after telling her we were arriving any moment.

"But I told you last night that I would come if you wanted me to," I said, a little put off because she did not remember the final words we exchanged only 17 hours before. "It doesn't matter. You look awesome."

Coral just smiled and shook her head. I had an unsettling feeling that she didn't want me to be there.

After talking for a few minutes on the deck of the Hanna family home, we moved downstairs, where we all played a few games of table-tennis and drank Pepsi. It was a pretty innocent evening.

Later, we all moved to the couch where Dian put a movie in the VCR. I vowed to continue being myself, but I built the nerve to put an arm around Coral as we watched the video. Later, we held hands. Things were going extremely well.

By 1:45 a.m., Coral had to leave in order to meet her 2 a.m. curfew. I offered to walk her home, but she refused.

"I don't live far," she said. "My dad may be up waiting for me and he'll ask a lot of questions if I show up with a guy."

We stopped midway up Dian's driveway to say goodbye. I wrapped my arms around her shoulders and leaned in for a kiss. There was no way I was patting her on the shoulder again.

She didn't push me away. In fact, she pulled my head down closer. My legs were jelly.

"So," I said, keeping a hold on her after our first kiss. "Does this mean you'll go out with me again?"

Coral sighed, leaned her head a little and smiled wide.

"I guess so," she said.

We kissed again then she was on her way.

"I guess so?" I had just scaled a significant wall in my life by scoring with a smart, attractive girl from another town and her response to my proposal for a further relationship was, "I guess so?"

I have to admit that those three words concerned me. Regardless, I was terribly proud of myself. I had landed another date with a girl I was quickly coming to like - a lot. Considering my lack of luck with girls through my final three years of high school - I was the "Let's just be friends" guy - I was going to take what I can get.

The summer after graduating from high school was remarkable. I fell madly in love with Coral, something that happened quickly. In fact, it was only a few weeks into our budding relationship when I told her I loved her.

"You barely know me," Coral said with a chuckle.

"I know enough," I said. I really didn't know enough, however. I learned later that she was trying to find a way to end our summer fling before she entered university in Winnipeg.

Nevertheless, when I celebrated our graduation from Whitewood High School in September, she returned from Manitoba to be my escort. A few weeks later, she told herself she would break up with me after taking me to a Blue Rodeo concert for my birthday. She couldn't bring herself to do it, though.

Despite wanting to end our relationship - which I did not know about - Coral returned from Winnipeg to be my escort at my graduation from Whitewood High School in September of 1991.

I didn't see any signs of her hesitancy. I was so blinded by my feelings for her, even the slightest hint of Coral's discomfort with our relationship went unnoticed.

We stayed in constant contact by telephone through those months apart. Whenever I could, I drove to Winnipeg see her. When she was back in Rocanville, she always set time aside for us to be alone away from her family.

In Whitewood, I spent my time working odd jobs and hunting or fishing with Dale Sawatzki, the same kid who bullied me years earlier. We were now close friends. I also spent time with Tim Norick, a long-time friend from down the street who was finishing Grade 12 that year and playing for the Pipestone Valley Jets.

The rest of my high school crew was building their new lives in the city while attending post-secondary school, but I was not upset about having to wait a year before beginning my education. I had fun that fall and winter in Whitewood, enjoying the sudden freedom not having to attend school offered me.

I couldn't stand being away from Coral, though. I worried about her endlessly; not for her safety, but that she would find someone else.

Coral had to switch her studies to athletic therapy after being denied entry into the College of Physiotherapy. This meant she would spend more time with the U. of M. Bison athletes.

Male athletes.

Jocks.

Arrogant, in-your-face, sometimes steroid-filled hunks of meat that felt the campus was their domain.

This was the vision I held in my head, anyway. You can see why I - a nerdy, naive, small-town, geek - worried about her.

Despite her continued trepidation about maintaining our relationship, it blossomed and her need to be free of me disappeared through the summer of 1992. We shared another great summer together - which included attending a rock festival at Craven, Sask. headlined by Bryan Adams.

I was accepted into university, but not at the University of Saskatchewan in Saskatoon. In the fall of 1992, I began preliminary studies for my journalism degree at the University of Manitoba. In fact, I lived in Mary Speechly Hall in a room on the seventh floor directly below Coral's room on the all-female eighth floor. There really would be no escaping me. It's a good thing she had finally admitted that she loved me, because it would seem like I was shamelessly stalking her, which I was doing.

My first year of post-secondary education was less about education and more about breaking out. Although my upbringing was based on responsible freedom, I didn't partake in many of the activities many of the other teenagers in Whitewood did. I went to parties sporadically; I drank alcohol only on occasion; and I never took illicit drugs of any kind at any time.

But university life changed me. While I continued to refuse to take drugs, my intake of alcohol through my freshman year of university turned into abuse. I was partying constantly, even during the week. When I had difficulties in a particular class - as I did in French, Macro-Economics and Biology - I dropped it early enough to get a refund and spent it in the south-Winnipeg bars.

My living accommodations didn't help. The seventh floor of Mary Speechly Hall that year was known as the party floor. When there was nothing going on in either Speechly or Tache residence buildings, something was started in our dorm. When something was going on, such as an on-campus concert or social, the party ended very early in the morning in our dorm.

Considering it was my first year living out from under my parents' wings, it was a blast. Looking back on it two decades later, it's quite concerning. I held decent grades in the classes I did attend, but my time at the U. of M. became less about preparing for a career then drinking, socialising and being with Coral.

Nevertheless, I signed up for the 1993-1994 academic year, this time with Coral living off-campus. I returned to Speechly Hall where my misconduct continued. I didn't drop as many courses as I did the previous year and my involvement on the social scene was scaled back, but not enough to really make effective use of my education. By the end of my sophomore year - when I was supposed to be looking forward to starting my journalism degree at the University of Regina - I barely had enough credits to have a year of Arts education under my belt. I was spinning my tires and I knew if I stayed any longer, my dreams of being a journalist and writer would be lost.

Plus the drinking and a growing smoking habit was taking its toll on my body. I entered the U. of M. in 1992 weighing about 190 pounds; not in ripped, muscular condition, but very healthy. I left two years later a bloated 240 pounds due to a lack of consistent exercise, a cafeteria diet, alcohol and a laissez-faire attitude towards my well-being.

After finishing up my sophomore year, I needed to make a decision; either I attend a trade school to get a diploma in communications or I start mailing resumes to newspapers until an opportunity presented itself. For the latter idea, I was hoping that my work with both the Whitewood Herald through high school and two years with the University of Manitoba's, The Manitoban, would be enough to earn a cub reporting spot on a weekly newspaper somewhere.

I polished my resume and began applying to newspapers in Southeast Saskatchewan. I also had an interest in broadcasting, and submitted to advertisements for newsreaders and radio reporters in the region. While a lack of experience in the broadcast genre was going to make it difficult, I told station managers at interviews that I was willing to do anything to break into the industry. It didn't help. I failed to find a job over the airwaves.

I did, however, manage to get hired at the Weyburn Review, an old-style, large format weekly newspaper located in Weyburn, Sask. I loaded a couch, a bed, an old television and a plug-in frying pan into my father's truck and moved into a small, bachelor pad in the Prairie city.

I learned more about writing and journalism through the next several months than I had since my first published article six years earlier. At first, the editor - also a self-educated journalist - felt I was not worth keeping and wanted to relieve me after the three-month probationary period. The editor refused to treat me with kid-gloves and it was the best thing for me.

I stuck it out with the help of an advertising sales person who also did some reporting. He had my back during a meeting with the publisher that could have seen my termination.

The work was difficult and I was terribly lonely without Coral, but we visited each other as much as possible. At one point, I was working a weekend shift while Coral was in Weyburn for a visit. I had my work completed by Sunday afternoon and was planning some downtime with my girlfriend when I received a phone call to return to the office. The editor had seen some of my photography print-work and was very concerned. I left Coral and returned to the office, where I was summarily admonished for wasting print paper and producing poor quality photos in the darkroom. I had to stay and rework everything.

Frustrated by the editor's lack of professionalism - although he was right about the print-work, I was still a rookie in the darkroom - I called Coral and told her I had to stay at work. She packed her bags and came by the office to say goodbye.

After she left, I walked to the office washroom and cried. I was frustrated with my job and extremely lonely. Playing on the local fastball club and officiating hockey did nothing to make me feel at home. I knew then I needed to leave, but remained knowing that this may be my only chance to assert myself in print journalism without a diploma or a degree.

Ultimately, the troublesome editor left and was replaced by someone much more easy going. However, after just six months on the job, I was the longest serving reporter on staff. This put me in more direct communication with the publishers, who came to be even more difficult to get along with than the previous editor.

Although my journalist and writing skills were moving forward exceedingly well, I was miserable and decided it was time to move on.

Through the summer and early fall of 1994, I came up with a plan to escape Weyburn and began saving as much money as I could muster. I sacrificed meals and scaled back my cigarette consumption - the lone killer habit held over from university.

As winter began to show signs of approaching, I loaded my car for a visit with Coral, who was now living in another apartment while attending her fourth year of Kinesiology at the U. of M. Right behind me, in the back seat of my old Plymouth Caravelle sat my plan. It was a contained in a square box the size of a softball. Inside of that was a smaller box holding the result of the money I had been saving; an engagement ring.

I had failed to give Coral a birthday gift the previous July, so as I entered her apartment and pulled my bags into her bedroom, I threw the box on the bed.

"I was supposed to give you this a while ago," I said non-chalantly. "Happy belated."

Coral picked it up and started unwrapping it as I pretended to settle my suitcase and clothing into a corner of the room for my weekend stay. Tears started to roll down her face when she saw the ring-box inside. She immediately knew what was going to happen next.

I took the box from her hands, pulled out the ring, got on my knees and asked the girl I unexpectedly met at a high school dance to marry me.

I was kind of expecting a sigh and the words, "I guess so," but Coral was speechless. She sobbed and nodded her head "Yes."

On June 3, 1995, Coral and I were married at the St. Joseph Church in Whitewood. It was four years and two days after we first spoke to each other at the local Royal Canadian Legion Hall. It only made sense that we celebrated with a reception and dance in the room where it all began.

The Girl

2016-10-06T13:16:00.000-06:00

I had spotted her months before I met her. She was sitting in the bleachers of the Don McPhail Arena in Whitewood about a hundred feet away beside the girlfriend of Chris Armstrong, a friend of mine who played with the Midget 'AA' Pipestone Valley Jets. As the host team, the Jets were vying for the Saskatchewan Hockey Association Provincial Championships.

At one point during the final game of the tournament - which the Jets won and earned the 1991 provincial crown - I locked eyes with her from my position standing behind the end-boards in a corner of the rink. She caught me staring at her blonde hair cascading over her shoulders, I immediately turned my attention back to the game in front of me.

I noted how attractive she was, but had no thoughts about approaching her. I was too busy taking notes for the article I was working on regarding the tournament for the Whitewood Herald, my hometown newspaper.

Roughly three months later at the high school dance in the local Royal Canadian Legion Hall, I had totally forgotten seeing her at the hockey game. She attended the function with the same friend she was at the game with, but seemed to have come without an escort.

Since my "date" had wandered off to hang out with her friends, I got up the nerve to ask her to dance. My heart raced as I approached her, but I kept telling myself that the worst thing she could do was refuse.

Instead, she looked up me with her giant blue eyes and said, "Okay."

Of course, the song happened to be "Paradise By The Dashboard Lights" by Meatloaf; an inconvenient tune for three reasons. First of all, that particular song is about a teenaged guy trying to get lucky with a teenaged girl, making a promise to stay with her forever in order to get lucky, then dreading that decision for the rest of his life.

Secondly, the song's tempo is wide-ranging, going from solid-paced arena rock to a slow ballad and back again through to the end of the song. It was awkward dancing with a total stranger to a song like that.

Finally, the bloody single-release version of the song is almost eight minutes long. That should have given us time to chat a bit as we moved, but I was shy and nervous and the volume on the music was far too loud.

"I'm Chris," I said as we squared up on the dance floor.

She mouthed a reply, but I couldn't hear it over the music. I held a hand up to my ear and leaned in closer.

"Coral," she said with a huge smile. It was a name I had never heard of until that moment.

We danced a verse and a chorus in silence.

"Having fun?" I finally asked.

She nodded and smiled again.

In my mind, I felt she was out of my league. She was short, lean and athletic. Her long, blonde hair was curled into ringlets with a lock of it knotted into a pony-tail at the top of her head. She wore a denim vest with a red, plaid blouse and blue jeans.

She was "hot, hot, hot," as the father of another childhood friend used to say.

We exchanged "Thank yous" after the marathon-dance was completed and walked separate ways across the hall. That was easy, I thought as I joined Trevor at a table near the stage. He was my main chum in Grade 12.

"Who's the girl?" he asked.

"Coral-something. She's here with Dian, Armstrong's girlfriend from Rocanville," I said.

I was only thinking one thing at that point; get a second dance. After escorting home the girl I had invited to the social, I returned to the Legion Hall and took that second trip to the floor with Coral.

And a third.

Later, I sat beside her and chatted while her friends occupied themselves with their own conversations. Coral was from Rocanville finishing her final year of high school before moving to Winnipeg to attend the University of Manitoba. We danced again, then parted to continue the night with our own groups of friends.

This was a giant leap for me. I had never made such a thorough attempt meet a girl from another community simply for the hell of it. I was shy, self-conscious and not very confident with people I didn't know well. In my mind, all it was just a one-night introduction that would go no further than the doors of the Whitewood Legion Hall. I think that's why my confidence got a boost that night.

Dian Hanna and Chris Armstrong (left) introduced Coral and I
to each other when Coral attended a high school dance in
Whitewood without an escort. This photo was taken about a
month later.

I was wrong. Later, as the hall's main lights were turned on and everyone filed out of the Legion, I was helping Trevor move sound equipment when Chris Armstrong walked up to me.

"Hey, man," he said. "What are you doing now?"

It was an odd question coming from him. Chris was a friend that was two years my junior. We generally associated during games of shinny, road hockey, football or scrub baseball on the schoolyard. Once and a while, we'd joke around at one of the few parties I attended in high school with Trevor, but generally, our relationship was held to our interest in sports.

"We were thinking of going to the Can-Am. Why? What's up?" I asked.

"Just wondering if you wanted to keep Coral company for a while. The rest of us want to go hang out somewhere, but - you know - she's kind of by herself," he said. Coral had come as a fifth. Chris was with Dian, and Coral's other friend, Tryphena, also attended the dance with a guy.

"Sure," I said before really considering what I was agreeing to. In fact, I was caught so off guard, I didn't even have time to be nervous about it.

I let Trevor know that I wouldn't be joining him and the rest of our clique at the Can-Am Travel Stop - Whitewood's 24-hour gas station, convenience story and restaurant.

"What's going on?" Trevor said.

"That girl I met? I'm going to go with Armstrong and keep her company for a while," I said.

"Alright, dude," Trevor said.

"Itchaaaayy!" Rob said with a wry smirk across his face.

I smirked and told them I would try to catch up with them later. I followed Chris out of the Legion to a small, two-door car, where I was told to squeeze into the back seat. Coral, wearing that giant smile - with a hint of embarrassment in it this time - shifted so she could sit on my lap.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Yeah," was all I said.

Chris threw the car in drive and we headed north up Lalonde Street, Whitewood's main drag. After crossing the tracks, he hung a left at the entrance to Larson Ball Park and tucked the car behind the children's play structures near the public swimming pool. We spilled out and sat at a nearby picnic table. The six of us joked with each other for a few minutes, but it wasn't long before Coral and I were left alone. The other four split into couples and disappeared for what I suspect were heavy make-out sessions. Uncomfortable with the knowledge of that activity going on nearby, I asked Coral if she wanted to go for a walk. She agreed.

Under the glimmer of the streetlights that lit the park, Coral had a glow of innocence I had not noticed in the dim confines of the Legion Hall. We walked around the pool along the Whitewood Golf and Country Club lane back to Lalonde Street. Her hair brushed from shoulder to shoulder whenever she turned her head. The simple beauty of that alone tied my nerves in knots.

We headed south down Lalonde Street with no specific plan to walk in any particular direction. I just started asking questions, one after another, about anything that would keep the conversation moving forward. My anxiety subsided as we talked. We were just two kids getting to know each other.

Coral Ludwig was also 17 years old, turning 18 on July 31. She had two sisters - one older and one younger. Her father worked at PotashCorp Rocanville as an electrician. Her mother, coincidentally like mine, ran a daycare out of her home.

Coral was a provincial champion figure-skater when she was 13 and worked as a lifeguard at Rocanville's indoor pool. That fall, she planned to study physiotherapy at the U. of M. in Winnipeg.

But why was she playing the fifth wheel at a dance in Whitewood? She was recently dumped by a guy from Esterhazy, Sask., she said. Dian, her best friend, coerced her into joining them.

On my side of the conversation, she learned that I was also 17 and had planned to study pre-journalism at the University of Saskatchewan in Saskatoon before my parents and I determined we were not prepared to finance my education. I had decided to take the year off of school to work.

Coral also learned that I played competitive, senior mens' fastball and officiated hockey. She had known about the latter after attending several Pipestone Valley Jets games the previous winter. I was a linesman in the Saskatchewan Midget 'AA' Hockey League.

"You're the guy," she said, pointing her finger at me, a big smile spread across her face. "You're the one with the baby-face. I mentioned it several times to Dian."

Oddly, I wasn't offended by that. In fact, I was flattered that she had not only noticed me on the ice, but remembered my face, regardless of how somewhat-condescendingly she described it.

We continued to walk and chat for the next hour and a half. I made no attempt to do anything but be a gentleman. I didn't try to hold her hand and maintained a comfortable distance away from her side as we meandered along the streets of Whitewood.

For the first time in my life, I conversed with a girl I had never met before, keeping her the centre of attention and focussing on just being my authentic self. I didn't try to impress her and I was honest about my shortfalls, like how I was bullied most of my life.

It was nearly 2:30 a.m. when we returned to the park. It was a half-hour past Coral's curfew and she was concerned. They were still a half-hour drive away from her home in Rocanville.

Coral, Dian and Tryphena needed to use the washroom and walked over to the public facilities attached to the the pool house. I stayed back with Chris and Tryphena's date.

"How did it go?" Chris asked.

"Okay, I guess," I said, shrugging my shoulders. I still wasn't expecting anything out of the night. "She's great. I've seen her before; at some of your hockey games."

"I'm going to Rocanville tomorrow night to see Dian. You want to come?" Chris said.

Holy shit, yes! I didn't care what I already had planned the next evening. It was immediately canceled.

Coral had just spent about two hours doing nothing but talking with me and seemed to enjoy my presence. I had zero expectations from the night, but I was not going to pass up another opportunity to see her. Chris and I made plans for when he would pick me up the next day before the girls returned from the bathroom and we all piled back into the car.

When we arrived at my home on the south end of Whitewood, Coral and I stepped out of the car.

"Chris mentioned something about going to see Dian tomorrow night. Do you mind if I come out with him and see you again?" I said.

Coral's round eyes reflected the porch light above our back door. She grinned and nodded.

"Okay. I'll see you then," I said, then patted her on the shoulder.

I fricken' patted her on the shoulder! No kiss; not even a peck on the cheek.

Damn it! What a geek move! I was such a nerd. I don't know why I said goodbye that way. Doing nothing at all would have been better than a pat on the shoulder. Looking back on it, it seems silly and little demeaning to her; like I was saying goodbye to a child.

I heard giggling in the car as she opened the door and went back inside. Chris sped away while I watched the car until it disappeared behind the neighbour's hedge.

The last dance of my high school career had turned into quite a night. As I walked down the stairs to my bedroom in the basement, I wondered if I would be able to sleep with my mind racing about the next night.

Fight

2016-10-05T13:49:00.000-06:00

I was not what you would call a strong-willed child. I was a pushover; the follower; the one other kids turned to when they felt like being superior to someone. This fact is ironic considering I'm the oldest of four children.

I have two brothers, Ludger and Collin, with my youngest sibling being my sister, Holly. I guess my parents, Laurent and Wendy Istace, wouldn't stop until they had their daughter. Thank goodness she came on the fourth try. My father comes from a family of 18. I couldn't imagine having to get along with that many people in one house.

My weak constitution was brought out my first day of Grade School. At the Whitewood Elementary School in 1978, students in Kindergarten to Grade 3 shared an annex of the facility. I, like most children, was intimidated by entering this new environment. Although I come from a large extended family, having to associate with kids older and physically bigger than me was alien and frightening when I was five.

The first time I went to use the washroom, I ran into a large boy attending Grade Three. He and I were the only ones in the room. He giggled maniacally when he caught my eye as I headed to the urinal. The cackle of his laugh echoed off of the plaster walls, exaggerating their intended effect of frightening me.

"What are you doing here," he growled.

A tingle ran up my spine and the tears immediately began to spill.

"I'm gonna eat ya up," he said with a laugh.

That was it. I bolted from the washroom, charged down the hall to the school exit and ran a block down the street to my home and my mother's arms.

My Kindergarten school photo, which was taken after the incident in the bathroom with the Grade 3 boy and before the tormented bullying that followed me throughout Elementary and Middle School.

It was a prophetic start to my Grade School and Junior High School careers. I struggled to find friends and was regularly bullied by students in my class and kids attending grades ahead of me. As I grew older, I was challenged mentally and emotionally by my inability to relate with others. At recess, I was either the last player chosen or totally ignored when we split into teams for games. When I did find something to do on my own during the breaks, a pack of boys would back me into a corner of the school ground before verbally and physically tormenting me.

At the end of Elementary School and into Middle School - Grades 3 to 6 - I was picked by a pair of boys to be their regular punching bag. One of them, Dale Sawatzki, was a kid my father considered to be my generation's persona non grata; the shit disturber I was told to avoid making friends with. During recess, he would frequently knock me down and laugh as he walked away.

On one occasion, he removed my new hat from my head, tossed it in a puddle and stepped on it. I tried to seek retribution and engaged him with a punch. He put me in a quick and painful hold before we both looked up to see the vice-principal standing down the sidewalk from us. We were called into his office where we were shown a long, rubber strap attached to a wooden handle. I was already in tears when I entered the office, but when I caught sight of this intimidating device, I sobbed uncontrollably. After a short scolding, we were told to leave, both of us unscathed by the black intimidation device.

In Grade 6, Dale and a friend of his warned me during the day that I was "dead after school." They held their word and met me at the school exit. They took a tag-team approach to my annihilation, taking turns punching and kicking me into the exterior wall of the gymnasium. I refused to take part, doing my best to brush off the attacks while keeping a tight grip on my book bag.

Moments later, gravel sprayed against the chain-link fence at the entry to the schoolyard, my mother's white minivan careening towards us. Ludger had run home to tell her what was happening. The kids who circled to watch the spectacle of my destruction dispersed, allowing my mother to stride forth with an angry confidence I had never seen before. She grabbed me by the collar and screamed at Dale and the other boy.

Then she caught sight of a teacher standing on the steps near the Elementary School entrance.

"I can't believe you would stand here and watch this," my usually gentle and quiet mother yelled. "It's your job to make sure this stuff doesn't happen."

My mother saved me from the drubbing that day, but her appearance meant more abuse through the rest of the school year. From then on, I was the "momma's boy." One witty kid took to calling me "Itchy-Ass Istace" which usually raised my hackles or made me cry.

The name disappeared in Grade 7, but a new form of it returned by my own doing a few years later.

Instead of signing my given name on a high school Algebra exam, I thought it would be cheeky to sign it as "Itchy." By this time, I had matured enough to take more ribbing than I used to and some of the few friends I had called me "Itchy" or "Itch" in a jovial manner.

When the Algebra teacher returned the exam later that week, he plopped mine on my desk without questioning who the identity of "Itchy" was. On the top, a large, red arrow pointed to the moniker I had given myself with a simple number. "-10%" was all it said. The dock in grade brought me down to a 67 per cent total in a subject I had struggled with. I protested for the teacher to change his decision.

"Well, I didn't know whose exam I was marking," he said. "Put your name on it."

"But you put it on my desk. It's obvious you knew whose it was. Give me the 10 points back," I said.

"No," was his simple reply as he walked to the front of the class to begin a lecture regarding the exam.

The nickname has stuck with me since. More than 25 years later, my best friends from high school - Trevor Doroshenko and Rob Kay in particular - still call me "Itchy." Some of the people I met while attending the University of Manitoba do not know my real name. It didn't help that the Whitewood High School grad jacket I wore during my time there was embossed with the nickname.

This is Dale and I during one of the few good
times we had in Elementary School; a camping
trip to Moose Mountain Provincial Park, Sask.
in Grade 3. Despite our inability to get along,
we were forced to share a tent on the trip. Today,
we are very good friends.

Dale's bullying more or less ended in Grade 8 during a hockey game on the outdoor rink at the school. There were about 10 of us playing a game of shinny. During a break in the action, Dale told a joke that wasn't extremely funny. I mocked him with a false laugh and slapped the blade of my stick on the ice. His smile turned to a snarl as he grabbed me by the lapels and pushed me against the rink boards.

"You being a smart-ass," he said. By this time, I had overtaken him in height by about four or five inches. Still unable to muster the confidence to throw a punch, I let him spout for a moment.

"You think you're smart, don't ya," he said, pushing me a little harder. "Don't fuck with me."

"Dale, I'm not going to fight you," I kept repeating as non-challantly as I could. Growing impatient with our stand-off, the other players resumed the game.

Dale would not relent, however, so I saw no other escape than to attempt to push him away. He threw a punch but missed. I returned and connected, boosting my confidence substantially. I began throwing a flurry of punches backing him off towards the centre of the ice surface. The fight went back and forth for a few minutes, stalling when Dale caught me in a painful headlock that tightened whenever any of the other players attempted to break us apart.

My inability to contain my emotion remained and I began to cry due to both the pain and the embarrassment of having Dale get the best of me again.

But I fought on. Looking back, I would say it came out a draw, but I ran home joyful. I had successfully defended myself for the first time in my life.

"I've got to have a bath!" I said to my mother as I ripped off my winter boots.

"What's going on?" she asked.

"I got in another fight with Dale and he spit in my hair. I've got to have a bath," I said, a smile spread across my face.

She noticed my expression and gave me a confused look, but said nothing further.

Dale didn't bother me again. In fact, we became and are still close friends. In Grade 10, we got drunk together after being initiated into high school during the day and partying that night. It was my first experience with alcohol.

"You're a good friend, Chris," he said, giving me a hug as he, Trevor, Rob and Derek Blyth dropped me off on my doorstep after a three-mile walk home from the bush party. "You're a good friend."

Through high school, Dale and I whipped around the fields on his snowmobile or toured the grid roads in the area in his beat-up Ford Taurus. After graduation from high school, I took a year to raise funds for university while he sought work from his home in Whitewood. He and I were constantly together fishing in the Qu'Appelle Valley or hunting grouse, ducks and geese in the autumn.

Although he now lives and works in Alberta, we still keep tabs on each other. We try to get together at least once a year whenever he is back in the Whitewood area.

And my father, who believed Dale would lead me on the path to eternal damnation, now greets him with a hug whenever they meet.

I was sick the first week of my senior year in high school. To this day, I am not sure what kind of bug I was struck with, but I ate very little, had fits of vomitting and remained in bed for about eight days. I lost about 20 pounds during that time, making my appearance far different than the chunky, prep-jock-nerd who attended Grade 11.

I returned to school a week late with my clothes literally hanging off of me. Not long after, hockey started and I resumed my officiating career, this time in far better physical condition. I was always solid on my skates, but the lost weight allowed me to pick up some speed, allowing me to increase my work in the Midget 'AA' and Senior hockey divisions.

And the more games I worked, the more my physical make-up improved. For the first time in my life, the jock in me overtook the nerd.

At the end of our senior year, my classmates and I attended a camping trip as part of our physical education curriculum. When we returned from Madge Lake, Sask. on Friday, June 1, 1991, Trevor, Rob and I went to our respective homes, and cleaned ourselves up in preparation for our last high school dance.

I had a date that night with a girl who wasn't extremely interested in me, but agreed to accompany me nonetheless. We spent very little time together and soon, I found myself dancing and chatting with other friends. I walked my "date" home at about 10:30 p.m. then returned to the dance on my own.

I had to go back. Before returning my date back to her house, I had met another girl; one that would change my life forever.

Invincible

2016-10-04T13:42:00.000-06:00

The general convention of most narrative endeavours says you are not to give away the ending to your story on the first page.

Then again, every journalist worth their salt knows you never, ever bury your lead. The lead to this story is fairly obvious: I'm still alive. I'm still breathing, drinking, eating, joking, laughing, bitching and moaning.

My health and well-being - you could say my very existence - has been on thin ice on four occasions in my life. In three instances, the ice was so precariously thin, I am not sure how I didn't fall through and catch a glimpse of the other side.

But this is not a “life after death” story. I did not see a bright light, the face of Jesus, the Pearly Gates, Saint Peter or angelic beings. Honestly, I have no idea why I experienced what I have and it disappoints me to consider that there just may be no reason at all. Sadly, all I seem to have come up with is, "It just happened."

Nevertheless, I cannot let go of the idea that my multiple health struggles - physical, mental and spiritual - have meaning. My experiences have surely shaped who I am today, for good or ill.

I still seek answers to questions; Why have I suffered in this way? To what greater good is it? How can such mental and physical strain and pain provide any benefit for me and the people closest to me?

Why? Why? Why?

When my past comes up during conversations with people who know I'm a writer, most have wondered why I haven't written about it all; my health, my survival, my continued struggle. I have decided they were right to ask that question. If I am a writer, why am I not writing my way to the answers I seek?

I have been a journalist since I was a teenager. I have covered everything from federal and provincial politics to country fairs and weird-shaped vegetables. I have also written about the victories and defeats suffered by others with disabilities, diseases and general difficulties of all kinds. It is about time I tell my own story.

What will follow through the next few months are blog posts about my life. Some of it is anecdote, some diatribe and some therapeutic essay. It will reveal the good and the bad that dwells within me. This will be an egomaniacal endeavour at times, but I will not hold secret the embarrassments, tragedies, defeats and frustrations.

And there will be times when I reveal thoughts that lurk in the deep, shadowy corners of my mind. For this reason, I ask forgiveness in advance from anyone I have hurt during my struggle and, possibly, by telling this story.

I seek meaning behind my experiences. Sharing this story may help you or someone you know who is struggling. Please let me know about them or if there is some way I can help. This may be part of the answers I am seeking. I am willing to share my story with others to keep them from making the mistakes I made; to help them meander through a new life recovering from Crohn's Disease, brain tumours and the toll it takes on one's mental and spiritual state.

Something honest, good and wholesome will come from this attempted life. And the answer to my "why" may be in helping others discover theirs.

It's just minutes after my gamma knife radio surgery in January, 2014. I'm sitting in a foyer at the Winnipeg Health Sciences Centre. I can barely muster a smile due to the pain in my skull. If you take a close look into my eyes, you can see there is more than pain bothering me, however. I'm frustrated and exhausted from yet another battle over my health and mental well-being.

When I was seven, I loved Superman. On occasion, I wore a cape as I played alone in my yard during the summer months. One day, I thought it would be heroic and cool to jump off of a wet cardboard box over a running water sprinkler. The cape did nothing to aid my flight. I slipped and landed knee-first on the metal, vintage sprinkler. The impact cut my knee open enough to see the fat and bone through the two-inch gash.

My mother rushed out of our Whitewood, Sask. home when she heard me scream. As she bent down to cover my wound with a wet cloth, a look of grave concern crossed her face for an instant. There wasn't much blood, but she immediately saw the depth of the cut, scooped me in her arms and carried me to the hospital directly across the street from our house.

Five stitches and a lollipop later, I was recuperating on the chesterfield in front of our living room television.

This - and a mysterious, flu-like illness that struck me at the beginning of my senior year of high school - were the most serious health threats I encountered until I was 23. There were no car accidents, no broken bones, not even a tonsillectomy.

There were a few sprained ankles from poor slides into third base in minor baseball and a swollen index finger from blocking a slap-shot in minor hockey. Big deal.

None of it compared to what lay ahead in my early years of adulthood.

By the time I was 19, I held the idea that I was invincible. Nothing - not even an idiotic night with a 26 ounce bottle of Golden Wedding whiskey - could knock me down. While I watched others break arms and legs, fall to various non-life-threatening diseases and die in vehicle collisions, I thought my life was heading in a tragedy-free direction.

I sarcastically thought I really was my own version of Superman.

The facade of invincibility was shattered in the Spring of 1997. I was 23 years old and a year and a half into my marriage with Coral Dawn Ludwig. I suffered from severe abdominal cramping, was not having bowel movements and couldn't keep any food or liquid down for weeks. After removing my appendix and determining that was not the issue, the diagnosis was Crohn’s Disease, an affliction I had known about somewhat through my aunt who suffered from Crohn’s as well.

Before the emergency surgery to remove the affected small and large bowels, I lost roughly half my body mass, hadn’t eaten in days and fell into septic shock. My organs were shutting down, I was hallucinating and projectile vomited in the emergency ward triage. The surgeon told Coral that had I arrived an hour later, my condition would have been irreversible and I would have died.

That scenario left me with an illeostomy bag and a stoma for my large bowel for almost three years. During that time, I healed enough to have the ostomy reversed - thanks to a second opinion - and my intestines were reconnected in late 1999.

I had dodged the clichéd bullet; so I thought. Two years later, I started suffering from headaches so severe, I wanted nothing less than to cut off my head at the neck. This was before the triple vision, vertigo and blindness in my left eye struck.

It was ultimately determined to be caused by an atypical meningioma, a brain tumour growing between the brain and the skull. The neurosurgeon related the tumour to the size of a golf ball. A gelatinous, cellular mass was pressing against the right frontal lobe of my brain, forcing the left lobe into the optic nerve of my left eye.

Invincible indeed.

The tumour was removed without serious consequences, but once again, my health was putting a financial strain on my young wife and I. Plus, we now with the addition of a daughter.

I returned to work, believing I was finished with the tumour business. At least that is what MRIs said through the next five years.

And the Crohn's Disease was staying at bay despite my refusal to continue with maintenance medication. Considering both scenarios hit me before the age of 30 - when I was young and able to recuperate effectively - I had to be in the clear until I died of old age in 60 years.

It was wishful thinking.

Eleven years and another child later - a son - I suffered a grand mal seizure while working away from the newspaper industry as a plumber. I fell unconscious on a basement floor snorting for air. The owner of the home happened to be working on renovations in the next room. She found me and immediately dialled 9-1-1. It was March 13, 2013.

The meningioma had returned, to my extreme disappointment. This time, considering my experience in these matters, I seemed to take it in stride externally.

Internally, my spirit and emotions were being crushed. I tried my best to remain stable and positive. I believed it was instrumental in my full recovery from the previous tumour in 2002. Knowing there was little I could do but rely on our health care system to save me again, I consciously decided I would build my resolve and fight this thing like a warrior.

I had a second grand mal seizure in June of 2013, this time slipping into a creek and nearly drowning while fishing with my father. I will explain this episode in detail later, but I will say now that if it weren't for my father, Laurent, there would be no lead to be buried in this story; only a body.

I would have perished in that cold, murky water.

I remained in the hospital after the second seizure until my surgery about a week later. I remained in the intensive care unit for four days, but was lucid and mobile after three. Administrators were unable to find another bed for me in the neuro ward, so I remained in ICU watching and listening as people died around me. Not all of the patients perished, but enough make my stay there - setting aside the fact that doctors were working inside my skull just days earlier - extremely unsettling.

Ultimately, I demanded to be either moved to another ward, transferred to the South East Integrated Care Centre in Moosomin or sent home to recuperate. They sent me home to the consternation of my neurosurgeon, who was unable to assess me before I left.

Coral picked me up from the Regina General Hospital and I returned to Moosomin where I was cared for by my mother, Wendy, for three days. The following Sunday, I joined my parents at their home at Bird's Point, Sask. so I could heal in cottage country along Round Lake.

I moved back and forth from home and the lake until the end of June when I was mobile enough to watch over myself fully and begin pulling my life back together.

My struggle with the latest tumour wasn't completed, though. A small portion measuring about seven millimetres across was inoperable. In January of 2014, while the rest of the world was recovering from New Years parties, I was in a giant, round pod receiving Gamma Knife radio surgery to kill off the remaining alien globule in my skull.

This is the brief synopsis of where I'm headed with this endeavour.

To say my experiences have been all tragic would not be entirely accurate. I have found blessing among the destruction. Any good story has peaks and valleys. This one is a tale of depression, horror and disappointment glazed with love, victory and growth, both spiritually and intellectually. This is why when told I should put the whole thing into a book, the project was already bouncing around in my mind.

I have found that just speaking with or reading stories about people with similar experiences have been informative and, in most cases, motivational. It's my turn to share so, maybe, just one person thinking of giving up after a tragic diagnosis or mishap will know there is always hope.

Meanwhile, I have grown impatient with people who, in my opinion, need to reset their priorities; who need to analyze what really is a "problem" or "challenge" in their life. I will be the first to admit that everybody suffers their issues by degree; a small annoyance to one individual may be the end of the world as we know it to another. But coming from where I've been, one should understand that my perspective has changed and I get quite frustrated when someone treats a blessing like a curse.

A financial windfall lands in your lap, but you focus on people approaching you with their hand out, or you don't know how best to use the extra money? Boo-friggin'-hoo. Suck it up, throw it in the bank and enjoy your life and family.

Fired from your job? That's terrible, but there are other ways to make an income. And many of them may be more fulfilling for you.

Did you lose cash in a bad investment? That's inconvenient, but what did you learn from it? How could you do business better looking forward?

I know I have been impatient and course with people suffering with the curves life throws at them, but what I'm basically trying to get across is this: Someone is always worse off than you are; no matter what.

And when it seems like you're at the bottom, the only way to go is up, so what do we complain about.

I'm still guilty of feeling sorry for myself. I still have a short temper. I still have flashes of guilt for failing to act compassionately or be the bigger person when the situation requires it.

But I'm constantly trying to grow into the person I want to be and don't stew on my failures. After all, I've got an incredible family who loves me, stands by me and will do anything to keep me alive and well. What else can a middle-aged man ask for?

Well, maybe the knowledge that a comfortable retirement is taken care of, but besides that.

I want my story to lift your soul. I would like it to take you by the lapels, shake you and say, "It will be okay! We're all going to be okay!"

In the very least, I would like to share what has become of my life so far. I hope you can pull something from it, mould it in a way you can relate to and make you realize that Heaven may not exist on Earth, but love, joy, laughter, humility and compassion can bring us pretty damn close.

In fact, if I do anything right by sharing my experience, it would be to make this endeavour the beginning of a mission to serve others.

I haven't found the answer to "Why?", but I think I just got a little closer.

The Stoddart Hotel Slaughter

2016-09-26T12:10:00.000-06:00

From the novel Paco's Provision

The following is a key chapter from my novel, Paco's Provision, published two years ago in November. It is set in the early 20th Century, an era I have found both intriguing and dangerous in my mind's eye since I was a child. I love writing about it, which is why I'm working on another project based in the same timeframe.

Paco's Provision is still for sale here or look up Christopher L. Istace or Paco's Provision on your favourite ebook app.

The fictional town of Woodbine, Sask. is loosely based on the real town of Whitewood, Sask., located on the Trans-Canada Highway about 65 km west of the Manitoba-Saskatchewan border. The Stoddart Hotel is also based on a real, historic hotel and bar, currently named Poncho's Pub & Grill.

PETRUS AND BARBALA Laszlofi crossed the Saskatchewan border in a boxcar during a wild blizzard on Tuesday, November 22, 1924. They jumped a train in Virden, Manitoba after spending a few days earning money by shoveling snow for local business owners.

After failing to collect enough for a passenger car, Petrus decided to risk train hopping. They were so close to Saskatchewan; the land of opportunity where dreams become goals then reality; and he was impatient about settling into their new life.

The evening light was dirty grey when the wheels below them creaked to a stop near the grain elevator in Woodbine. The town seemed lifeless, but Petrus could make out a light-stand through the curtain of snow outside.

“We’re in a town,” he told Barbala. “It’s too cold to carry on. We’ll stay here.”

Barbala nodded with a frown. She was upset with Petrus, confident that the three of them would freeze to death in that rickety boxcar. Before the train had even left Virden, the wind was whipping through the cracks in the walls and the door was frozen ajar, making any attempt at maintaining warmth futile. Barbala seethed about their predicament as she, Petrus and Janos huddled together in the front corner of the empty car.

Barbala’s anger turned to relief when the three jumped off of the train after a frigid, four-hour ride.

“Huddle close, boy,” Petrus said to his son. “We’re walking toward that light.”

The family braced against the wind and snow, walking with arms to their faces. Petrus led the group, while Barbala and Janos held his coattail so they would not lose him. They stumbled through the blizzard for 10 minutes, finally stepping under a light that glowed over the façade of a brick building.

The Laszlofis walked into the Stoddart Hotel and brushed the snow from their jackets and boots. The lobby was dusty and unkempt, but one could see it held its grandeur at one time. An ornate crown molding and baseboard lined the walls. The ceiling was covered with punched-tin tiles. It was the last portion of the room still untouched by cobwebs and smoke stains. The wallpaper along the stairway in front of them was intact, but like the bannister leading upstairs, was blackened with wear. The carpet held its pattern in places, but was worn gray and thin.

Considering the condition of their surroundings, Petrus felt there must be some work they could do in trade for a room. They could spend the next day in Woodbine, then jump another train heading west later in the week.

Petrus removed his cap and stepped toward a large, oak desk just right of the doorway. A single chair sat empty behind the check-in kiosk.

“Scuse me,” Petrus stuttered when he saw someone heading up the stairs. “Help us?”

“I don’t work here. You’ll have to talk to Mr. Beachy. He’s in there,” the man said shooting a thumb towards the dining room.

“Thank you,” Petrus said, bowing a little.

He walked to the end of the hall and found a pair of closed French doors, their windows streaked with grease and dirt. Sawdust and clumps of dried mud lined the floor below. It crunched under Petrus’s boots as he stepped forward and knocked on the door. Peering through the dirty window, he could see shadows, but little movement. He heard the sound of men talking then a glass slam against a table followed by riotous laughter.

The door flew open revealing a bulbous man with greasy hair and a sweat-stained collar. Behind him, a pair of cowboys and three men in rumpled suits sat at a table playing cards in the center of the dining room.

“Yeah?” the man croaked.

“I look for Mr. Beachy,” Petrus said.

“Yes, yes. I’m Beachy. Waddya want?” Beachy said.

“We are seeking a place to stay for the night,” Petrus said, waving a hand towards his wife and child who remained near the hotel entrance down the hall. “We have little money, but we’re willing to work for our lodging.”

“No, no, no. This ain’t no hostel. Go find a church or somethin’,” Beachy said, swinging the door closed again. It’s window came to a stop an inch from Petrus’s nose. He turned and walked back to his wife and son.

“Stay here. I will take care of this,” he said to them before returning to the dining room doorway and knocking a little louder than he did the first time.

“Ah, fer gawd’s sake,” Beachy said as he turned the doorknob. “Get the hell out a here.”

“Need some help?” one of the cowboys at the table said when he noticed Petrus had returned.

“Naw. I’ll handle them,” Beachy said as he nudged Petrus away from the door and further down the hallway.

“Well, hurry up with it. You gotta earn back the 200 bucks you owe me,” another man yelled. The others around the table chuckled while another interjected.

“And the 700 ya owe your wife,” he said. With that, the laughter erupted.

Beachy waved a hand at the card players then closed the door behind him.

“Okay. Whaddya want?” he said, chewing anxiously on a cigar.

“I am Petrus. That is my wife Barbala and my son Janos,” Petrus said. “We come in on a train and would like a place to warm up and sleep. We’ll stay anywhere you put us and we’ll do work as payment for your hospitality.”

“This is your wife?” Beachy said, ogling Barbala as they walked down the hall. A dirty grin crawled across his face as he appreciated the woman’s dark eyes and soft features. Bet she’s got some big ole’ titties hidin’ underneath that jacket too, he thought.

“I think we can work out a deal,” he said after a moment. “Take your jackets off and hang them in the broom closet over there.”

The Laszlofis did as they were told and returned to Beachy, who lifted his eyebrows as he took in Barbala’s curvy, European figure.

“Can you keep your traps shut?” Beachy said.

“Pardon?” Petrus replied.

“Can you keep secrets? Like, can you shut up about whatever you may see in here tonight?” Beachy said.

Petrus nodded, nudging Barbala to do the same.

“Okay. You’re gonna serve the whiskey the rest of the night. If anyone asks about cards or poker or gaming going on in the Stoddart – whether you stay in Woodbine for long or not – you don’t say a gawddammed word. Get it?”

“Yes, yes,” Petrus said. “What about my son? Is there anything you would like him to do? He is small, but very helpful.”

“We’ll find him somethin’ to do. He can be a gofer, maybe. Someone says they need somethin’, he gets it,” said Beachy, who then turned to Barbala. “As for you; you’ll be staying by my side. An ornament of sorts.”

The hotel owner was about to reach for Barbala’s breast, but stopped himself. Petrus’s furrowed his brow but held the anger inside. If he did anything to defend his wife’s honor now, there was a good chance they would spend the night in a snowdrift.

Barbala crossed her arms when she realized what Beachy had intended to do.

“Get in there and grab an apron from behind the counter,” Beachy said as he opened the door to the dining room. He pointed at the bar before taking his seat at the table with the other men.

The Stoddart’s dining area was much like the lobby. Although messy and unpolished, ornamental oil lanterns hung from the ceiling. The bar and furniture was made of varnished hardwood, and large paintings of French royalty lined the walls beside others portraying fox and quail hunts.

The room needed attention, but Petrus guessed it was once a jewel that sat out of place in this tiny, Prairie town.

“What the hell’s all this?” one of the men said, eyeing the three transients suspiciously.

“They’re slaves, boys,” Beachy said. “You need anything. They’ll get it.”

He waved Barbala over to his side.

“Except for her. She’s mine,” he added.

“If you want to put her down as a bet, I’d say she’s worth fifty,” said one of the cowboys, grabbing his crotch and licking his long moustache as he looked up at Barbala. Tears welled in her eyes as she turned away in fear. She did not like this place.

Petrus was strapping on a dirty, white apron behind the bar and missed the incident.

“She’s mine, Rawlins. Keep you’re eyes and your paws away from her,” Beachy said, before turning to Petrus. “I don’t want to see an empty glass the rest of the night.”

Petrus approached the table with an open bottle of whiskey he found on the bar counter. There were six men playing cards. All but Beachy were drinking their booze from short, glass tumblers, which Petrus topped up.

The poker game continued while Barbala stood in uncomfortable silence behind Beachy. Petrus kept a close eye on her, a balloon of angst growing in his chest as the night wore on. He did not like the way the cowboy stared at his wife, but intended stay docile until any of them attempted anything physical to her or his son.

Janos, meanwhile, sat quietly on a stool near the dining room entrance. He was asked to run upstairs on three occasions; twice for a guy in a ruffled, brown suit who chain-smoked cigarettes and required another pack. The third trip was for a thin man who needed a silk cloth to clean the lenses of his small, round glasses.

Janos was nodding off when the cowboy named Rawlins noticed him on his stool leaning his head against the wall.

“Come over here, kid,” he growled. Janos jolted awake, but hesitated before crossing the room to the cowboy’s side. The man’s thick moustache was framed by a grizzle of facial hair. His teeth were brown and crooked. Janos felt a chill run up his spine when the cowboy grinned at him.

Behind the bar, Petrus stopped cleaning a glass and watched closely as his son approached the stranger.

“Come closer. I ain’t gonna hurt ya,” Rawlins said. Janos sidled a little closer, keeping his right shoulder ahead of him incase he needed to pivot and run.

When the boy got about a foot away, the cowboy whipped out his left arm from under the table revealing a shiny hook where his hand should have been. Its metal glimmered under the light of the lamp above the table.

Janos stumbled backwards, landing hard on his buttocks. The men around the table laughed.

The boy scrambled to his feet and raced to his father’s side. Petrus was already heading toward his son after seeing Janos hit the floor. The boy buried his face in his father’s hip and sobbed. Petrus glared at the one-handed cowboy.

“Aw, geez kid. I was jus’ playin’,” Rawlins said.

Barbala started to join her husband and son, but Beachy reached back and caught her by the hand.

“Now, now. He’ll be alright,” Beachy said. “You just stay here like you been told.”

Janos stayed away from the table after that, quietly walking around the room to get a closer look at the paintings.

By 1 a.m., half of the men had bowed out of the poker match, including Beachy. The owner of the Stoddart Hotel lost $500 then borrowed and lost $350 more from a couple of men around the table. He marched into the scream of a late-November blizzard to find his Buick. In his mind, he prepared for the scolding he would get from his wife for staying out so late. He, sure as hell, wasn’t going to say anything about the poor night at the poker table and required a good lie about what he was up to.

Back in the dining room, Barbala escaped behind the bar to help her husband. She was told to stay near the table, but only Rawlins noticed as she silently slipped away during a particularly high-stakes round of poker. The cowboy only smiled at her, adjusted his hat and puckered his lips in her direction. Barbala winced as she picked up the pace of her escape.

Rawlins had weaseled his way into the community of Woodbine by taking a position on a ranch south of town. He was at the Stoddart that night with Charlie, a fellow ranch-hand.

In Oklahoma, Sam Rawlins was a well-known cattle rustler who was secretly scouting the Woodbine area to steal cattle from Saskatchewan and drive them south. After he and four others bagged a few hundred head in the Estevan area, Rawlins was sent further north to find more poorly secured herds of cows and horses.

“Hey, you,” Rawlins yelled at Petrus. “Go in the kitchen there and cook us up somethin’. Find me a steak.”

Petrus looked towards the double-doors Rawlins pointed at, set down his dishcloth and walked toward the poker table.

“It’s okay with Mr. Beachy?” he asked.

“That bastard owes me a hundred bucks. I’ll make it okay with Beachy,” the cowboy said, snapping his hat onto the table with the tip of his hook. “Jus’ get in there and find something for me to eat.”

Petrus hesitated then sauntered through the kitchen doors.

Rawlins turned to see that Petrus was gone, then stood and strutted toward Barbala at the bar. His spurs clinked with every step and his dirty chaps flapped loosely on his legs, their straps untied at the end of the previous day.

Janos watched Rawlins carefully. His heart skipped when he saw the butt of the holstered pistol on the cowboy’s right hip.

“Sam. Get back here and sit down. Don’t go messing with those people,” the other cowboy said.

Rawlins just turned and smirked back at the men playing poker, then focused his attention on Barbala.

“Hey, darlin’,” he said, leaning close and catching a whiff of her. His breath reeked of whiskey and tobacco, making Barbala turn her face away from his intrusion. Rawlins chuckled as he stepped back and rubbed his stubbly chin while drinking in the woman’s curves. Barbala tried to move toward her son, but the cowboy shot his right hand out to block her way.

“Where you goin’?” he said. “Was thinking you and I could head on up to my room and I’ll officially welcome ya to Canada.”

Barbala tried to squeeze by him, but Rawlins remained solidly in place. The thin man with round glasses noticed what was happening behind him.

“Mr. Rawlins, sir. If you would please return to your seat. You have a hand in play and we are waiting on your move,” he said.

“Shut up, Fineberg,” Rawlins yelped without looking back at the table. “I’m foldin’. Lucky for you, too. I was holdin’ three queens.”

Fineburg stood and scraped what remained of his cash off the table.

“I will not be party to what I believe your plans are for that woman. I shall bid you all a good night,” he said, marching out of the dining room.

“What are you? Russian?” Rawlins said softly into Barbala’s ear.

The other cowboy shook his head and grabbed his money.

“I’m gone, too,” he said exasperated. “You best come with me.”

“Go on ahead, Charlie,” Rawlins said to his fellow ranch hand. “I’ll be up in a while.”

Charlie sighed then walked out the exit past Janos, who sat frozen on his stool while his mind raced about what he should do for his mother. He jumped from his perch and ran toward the kitchen.

“Si’down,” Rawlins screamed. He unbuckled a snap on his holster, drew his pistol and pointed it at the boy. Janos ignored the command and flew through the two-way doors into the kitchen.

“Papa come,” he yelled. “Papa come.”

Petrus tossed a spatula across the kitchen counter and followed Janos back into the dining room. Rawlins was working his nose into Barbala’s neck when they came in. Petrus began to run toward the cowboy, his fists clenched and his chest heaving.

Rawlins calmly lifted his pistol and pointed it at Petrus, the arm with no hand wrapped around the small of Barbala’s back.

“Come any closer and you’re goin’ down,” he said. “We’re jus’ going to have a little fun for a few minutes. You’ll get her back.”

Petrus stopped running and froze in place about 15 feet away.

“Let her go,” he grunted.

“Naw. We’re going to go upstairs and get to know each other. You and the boy keep cleaning. This place is a sty,” Rawlins said, nudging Barbala to walk in front of him towards the dining room exit. He kept the gun trained on Petrus as they moved.

Petrus knew he couldn’t let them leave the room. He ran to the doorway to block their escape.

“Get the hell outta the way,” Rawlins growled.

“Let… her… go,” Petrus said. Janos ran to his father’s side and clung to his arm. Tears rolled down his cheeks as he stared at his mother, who was also crying.

Petrus pushed Janos behind the bar counter that ended just to the right of the doorway. The boy fought to remain by his father at first, but relented and tucked himself underneath a sink.

Petrus took a quick peek to see that his son was safe behind the bar then retrained his focus on Rawlins. They stood about five feet apart, quiet but for Barbala’s sobs and Petrus’s deep, stressed breathing.

Rawlins remained calm, keeping his six-shooter aimed at Petrus’s forehead.

A moment later, Petrus bolted forward, grabbed Barbala by the arm and pulled her toward him. Rawlins pulled the trigger, but his pistol just clicked. He tried to pull the woman back towards him with his hook. Barbala screamed in pain as the sharp metal appendage dug into the flesh on the under-side of her upper arm. While Rawlins dug his hook deep to keep a hold on the woman, he lifted his pistol and fired again.

The gun only clicked.

Frustrated, Rawlins let go of Barbala and spun the cylinder of his gun against his left forearm. Barbala fell against her husband.

“Rotten, fuckin’ Canadian ammo,” Rawlins said, banging the gun against his steel hook then aiming it at the immigrant couple. He pointed his hook to his left towards the north wall of the dining room.

“Move over there,” he yelled.

Remembering that Janos was still behind the bar, Petrus stepped in front of his wife and held her behind him as they sauntered away from the door. He never took his eyes off of the gun. In his head, he conjured through a plan to knock the cowboy down and get to his boy.

Janos peaked above the counter. He saw his mother and father against the far wall, Petrus standing tall trying to make himself look bigger than he was. His face held an expression Janos had never seen on his father. Despite Petrus’s attempt to remain strong for his family, his son recognized the terror in his papa’s eyes.

Rawlins had his back to Janos, so the boy crawled along the floor to get around the counter. Petrus shook his head when he saw his son, and motioned with his hand to return to his hiding place.

Rawlins noticed and turned to see whom Petrus was communicating with. Petrus rushed the cowboy with a shoulder block, sending Rawlins flying onto a table and to the floor. The cowboy rolled onto his back and fired up at the shadow standing over him.

Petrus stumbled backwards. His sweater turned crimson in the center of his chest. He fell to his knees once he reached Barbala against the wall. His wife tried to hold him up, but he keeled over on his side. Barbala and Janos let out a horrific scream from opposite sides of the dining room.

“Gawddammit,” Rawlins said as he stood and moved toward Barbala. He tucked his hook under her chin and forced her off of her dead husband’s body. She struggled free and fell back on top of Petrus, wailing in terror and sorrow.

Fineberg ran into the room wearing pinstriped pajamas. He saw Rawlins reaching for Barbala a second time when the cowboy pointed the pistol in his direction.

“Get the hell outta here,” Rawlins screamed.

Fineberg backed out and closed the door.

Rawlins tossed Barbala against the wall and pinned her there with his left forearm. The side of the metal hook was cold and smooth against her nose.

“Run, Janos. Run,” Barbala gasped in Hungarian. The boy got up off his belly, his legs barely able to sustain him. He sobbed violently as he ran to the door, pausing to take a last look at his mother.

Rawlins looked back at the boy and spat on the carpet. Janos turned the doorknob and sprinted into the lobby.

“If you’d have just given in to me,” Rawlins said, turning back to Barbala with a snarl. He kept her pinned against the wall with his left arm while his armed, right hand swung loosely by his leg. He hung his head as he tried to decide what his next move would be.

“Please… please… please,” Barbala whispered through deep breaths.

Rawlins sighed.

“Guess I’m not having any foreign tail tonight,” he said, putting the barrel of the gun to her forehead and pulling the trigger. Rawlins stepped away and let Barbala’s body fall on top of her husband’s corpse. The blood on the wall from Barbala’s wound dripped to the floor and mixed with the growing pool of blood draining from Petrus.

In the lobby, Janos met Fineberg running back down the stairs from his room. A man and a woman followed carrying recklessly packed suitcases. The young couple raced for the door and escaped into the wind-blown night. Snow poured through the entrance after them until the door lurched closed again.

“Here,” Fineberg said to Janos, handing him a pistol. “Go through the café and the kitchen and quietly go into the dining room. I’ll enter through the front.”

Janos took off in the opposite direction of Fineberg, who headed back to the dining room’s main entrance. The gun felt like an anchor in the boy’s right hand, but he ran as fast as he could on his eight-year-old legs. He pushed through another set of two-way doors into the kitchen. The crack of Rawlins’s gun went off just as he entered the dining room. Fineberg laid in a clump about five feet from where he walked in.

Rawlins looked up and saw Janos pointing the pistol at him. Sweat poured from the cowboy’s forehead. His face was speckled with Barbala’s blood. The collar of his shirt was soaked with perspiration.

“Come on, boy. Just put that thing down and we’ll figure this thing out,” he hissed. With the two duds in his gun, he wasn’t entirely sure if he had any shots left.

Janos shook with terror. He could see, behind Rawlins, his mother lying motionless on her stomach over his father, whose death stare bore a hole into his son’s psyche.

Despite his fear, Janos took short, stuttering steps towards the cowboy, who was now digging in his belt for more bullets. The boy lifted Fineberg’s heavy gun in both hands and pointed it at Rawlins’s chest as he got closer.

Rawlins had one bullet reloaded in the cylinder of his firearm when Janos pulled the trigger.

***

“He got away,” Paco said, his voice wavering as he tried to maintain his composure. “I jus’ graze him enough that he drop his gun. I drop mine and ran as fast as I could out of the hotel. I almost stop and went back, though. I wanted to kill that man. I wanted to kill him so bad.”

Paco broke down and cried into the microphone. After a minute, the tape clicked and Paco’s voice returned with his composure regained.

“I hid in a church for three nights,” he continued. “After that, I snuck back into the hotel to get my coat and jumped the first box car I could catch. I went all the way to Vancouver and stayed there for a couple years, livin’ on the streets, workin’ on the docks. I was in B.C. for 15 years, then started for Alberta until I foun’ the courage to come back to Woodbine. That’s when I met the Wilsons. I still felt the spirits of my mama and my papa there when I arrived. The hotel look different, but they were still there.”

Paco went silent for a moment. Mike stared at the spinning wheels of the cassette tape. The old man recorded on it sniffled then blew his nose loudly into the microphone.

“I tell you this because you so curious about me. I could tell, Mickey,” he said. “You the only person I ever told. I was going to tell the Wilsons, but they gone away. You become like them. You become my family. You and the others at The Boony.”

Mike dropped his chin to his chest and cried. Tears fell in drops onto the tape machine in his lap.

“That’s my story, Mickey,” the old man said followed by a loud cough and snort as Paco blew his nose again. The sound startled Mike. He wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his shirt and set the tape recorder on the bed as it continued to run.

After two minutes of muffled sobs, Paco’s voice returned, wavering with emotion.

“Good bye, my friend. Wish I could’a got to know you better.”

There was a click, then the steady hiss that an unrecorded cassette makes when it plays. But Paco wasn’t finished.

“Do what you want with my stuff. Everything is yours. Everything; right down to the mattress. Always be willing to go the mattress,” he said with a chuckle.

The hissing sound resumed. Mike stopped the tape then slumped onto the bed. He wailed into Paco’s pillow, finally letting loose the sorrow pent up inside of him.

Twenty minutes later, he walked back to his apartment and cleaned himself up. There was little he could do about the dark patches under his eyes or the depressing wrinkles of skin on his face that seemed to appear overnight.

He was not in the mood for Chinese food or the company of the three friends waiting for him in the restaurant down the street. Instead, Mike made his way down to The Boony’s barroom in a stupor. He grabbed a knife from a drawer beneath the bar and stumbled to the table where Paco performed his final memorial ritual for his parents.

The pool of blood on the floor was difficult to miss. Mike wondered if the congealed and drying stain was similar to the one produced by the shooting of Petrus and Barbala Laszlofi about eight decades before that moment. Mike’s chest continued to ache at the loss of his friend, but the pain was exaggerated when he imagined what Paco’s boyhood terror must have been like.

How was Paco – an immigrant orphan with absolutely no one to rely on but himself since the age of nine or 10 – live with such vim, courage and strength? How did he contain his secret for so long, even in the community where the murder of his parents took place?

And how did he manage living with the memory? Every day for the previous 30-odd years, Paco walked into the room where he witnessed the awful event that drastically changed the course of his life.

As an adult, Paco must have had relentless nightmares after he returned. Mike wondered if they waned as the hotel and the people who came in and out of it changed through the years.

Mike’s respect for the old man grew substantially. In that instant, he held Paco in higher regard than his own father.

Mike turned to the wall above Paco’s ceremonial table. There was a faint, greasy stain on the spot where Paco had rubbed his hand on an annual basis for the past three decades. Without thinking about it, Mike jabbed the knife into the old plaster, cutting a one-foot circle around the stain. He carefully pulled off the drywall disc. Dust and chips of plaster fell to the table below him. Slats of wood were visible in the hole he created, which he bashed and hacked until they broke away and revealed a stud.

It was still there, after decades of cleaning, renovations and barroom fight destruction.

Mike used the point of the knife to pry the mangled piece of lead from the wood in the wall. It used to be a bullet. He was sure of it when it fell into his hand and he investigated the blob of metal closely.

It was a bullet that ended the life of one of his parents. Or was it the bullet that was meant to end the life of their killer; Paco’s failed attempt at imposing righteous justice?

Mike sat in the chair Paco occupied just hours before. He placed the shard of lead on the table and stared at it numbly.

“Mike?” Sally said from the entrance to the bar.

He didn’t move.

“Mike? Are you okay?” she said, walking to a spot beside him.

“He was a hero,” Mike whispered. “Paco was a hero long before he came here and no one ever noticed how amazing he was. No one took a second glance at the man.”
Mike leaned his head into Sally’s abdomen and cried. She wrapped her arms around his head and cried with him.

Troubadour Dreams available Sept. 21

2016-09-05T10:54:00.002-06:00

Troubadour Dreams by The Old 21

Here is the first single off of The Old 21's new album Troubadour Dreams. "Unrewarded" is available today at Bandcamp.com. The album will be fully released on September 21, 2016.

This album is the culmination of work that began in January of this year and we are extremely excited to finally see its full release on the horizon. More singles will follow in the coming weeks, but until then we hope you enjoy this one.

It was written by myself, with arranging completed by myself and Rob Smith. Lorne Frape is on drums, I am on vocals and bass guitar, Smith is on rhythm and lead guitars.

Album art provided by Lynsey Nobert Photography with a special thanks to Ken and Glenda Nixon for the use of their farmyard during the photo shoot.

The Old 21: Troubadour Dreams

2016-05-11T15:07:00.001-06:00

The Old 21 has seen an organically-driven shift in its sound. We hope you

enjoy our new edge when our sophomore album is released later this summer.

It has been about seven years since The Old 21 was formed out of a group of jamming musicians who fell upon a gig in front of 2,500 spectators. It was supposed to be a one-off show; a one-night stand for the five of us. However, the reception to our music as great and, as a quintet, we decided to move forward and book more performances at bars, halls and cabarets in the area.

A lot has changed since then. A five-piece group became a duo four and a half years ago when the keyboardist, bass player and lead guitarist decided they no longer wanted to play in the band. Nevertheless, drummer Lorne Frape and I carried on, booking shows from Virden, MB to Regina, SK. I began writing my own material and soon had more than enough to put together our debut album, "A Pretty Good Shot," in late 2014.

We are still a duo for live shows. Lead guitarist and vocalist Robert Smith joined us for a few months during the winter and spring of 2015-2016, but he was forced to return to Wales, U.K. in April. He will continue to work with us when recording new material.

Before he left, we completed the recording and mixing on our sophomore album, which will be released later this summer. The effort includes eight songs. Robert and I split the songwriting duties on half of the tracks, while the rest were written by myself. One is a much better version of Forgive Me One More Time, which was our lead release off of "A Pretty Good Shot."

Those of you who have heard the previous album will notice something different with the new one. Our sound is changing. We're growing into something unique and, in my opinion, better. We once considered ourselves a country-rock or folk-pop-rock group. That shifted with the addition of Robert and his incredible talent on lead guitar.

After some discussion between the three of us - and the organically-derived development of our new album - we are no longer working in the realm of the country genre.

The Old 21 is now a rock band. Although three tracks on the new album can easily fall under the country or country-rock banners, the others are clap-along, electric-guitar driven, indie-roots-rock tunes. They run along the vein of Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers more than Blue Rodeo or Steve Earle and this seems to be a natural direction for us to head in. Moving forward, our songwriting, instrumental arrangements and vocals will follow the tableau set out by the likes of Petty and John Mellencamp, alongside the rockier productions by Blue Rodeo, The Northern Pikes and Tom Cochrane.

We are extremely excited about this development and hope you enjoy the new sound on the upcoming album. For those who don't; well, we appreciate your past support and hope you can find something for yourself to like in our "still-classic" but heavier-toned motif. The pop-rock ballads will still be there, but we are following the path that seems to be naturally set out for us.

Stay tuned for more information about the new album - which will be available digitally through your favourite online retailer - and if you haven't done so, download the six songs on "A Pretty Good Shot" from Bandcamp.com. They are free until the end of May.

Otherwise, come out and get a sample of the "new" Old 21 at a live performance near you this summer. Or if you want to book us for a backyard barbecue, a house concert or a live performance for birthday, anniversary, reunion parties, please feel free to contact us through our Facebook page.

Once again, thanks for the continued support from all of you. Two runs of our first CD are almost totally sold out, something that went far beyond our expectations. We hope you liked it and are sure you're going to be blown away by the new stuff.

Peace, truth and honesty

2016-05-03T16:13:00.000-06:00

New Years 2015-16; one of the few nights of joy I have had in quite some time. I performed on bass guitar and harmony vocals with the Back 40 Drifters at a dance in Maryfield.

There is freedom in honesty. There is peace in telling the truth. Therefore, it is here where I will air a little laundry today.

"Freedom in honesty" and "peace in truth" are not new discoveries for me. I have always erred on the side of being thoroughly forthright with my intentions, feelings and opinions. In fact, you could say that the little guy in my brain controlling my capacity for honesty could learn to take a day off once in a while. In most cases, my opinions not only don't matter to those I am speaking to, but really shouldn't have any bearing on my own life. In even the most benign conversations, I'm too quick to spout off about politics, religion, business - life in general.

It has highlighted the fact that I have not been a happy person for the past three years.

Through that time, I have been in a bad way mentally and spiritually. I have quickly jumped to unsubstantiated conclusions, leading to overwhelming anger and anxiety. It has taken very little to make me feel inconvenienced. I have had no time or patience for people; and by people I mean almost everyone. I am conscious of my selfishness, but find myself constantly holding my ego above all else, regardless of how hard I try to curtail this trait.

And, I have had an all-encompassing feeling that the world is working against me.

Some off you may think this is simply a "mid-life crisis", but I would suggest it's more than that. I would suggest it's an aggregation of many crises hitting me at once since my second brain tumour diagnosis in 2013.

Despite my efforts to create an income from my passions; writing, singing/songwriting, music performances, journalism; I have had a severe feeling of failure, probably because I have failed at making any money. I am not too proud to admit that my wife is the main breadwinner in our home, but I have come to the conclusion that I have been grossly unhelpful with our finances. I feel I do not know where to turn or what to do - Get a job I believe I'll hate? Relinquish my independent/creative streak for said job? Spend what for us is a small-fortune in putting my writing and music career on track with only a small potential for reward? Find a place for myself in the business my wife and I have built with the chance that it could put us in the same position we are in now... or worse?

This is Crisis 1.

Crisis 2 comes from research I have been doing into brain injuries. According to what I have read, the area of my brain affected by both of the meningiomas can be detrimental to emotional stability. If this is the explanation for my quick temper and constant anxiety, how do I rectify it? Do I turn to medication; something I already abhor taking to quell the potential for seizures? Do I require long-term therapy, something we cannot afford and is a terrible inconvenience considering my already-too-numerous trips to the city for maintenance of the brain tumour and Crohn's Disease?

Crisis 3 resides deep inside of my psyche. It is part spiritual wandering, part religious disillusionment. After a basement wall collapsed on my father and I during the flooding of 2014, I stepped away from my born-again Christian faith, coming to the conclusion that it seems false and based on unsubstantiated myth and messaging. As my father and I scrambled out to safety, I did not feel the presence of a god or Greater Power spurring me out of trouble. My mind was almost blank but for thoughts of preparing myself to die by drowning. Besides the spiritual toll the experience took, I also suffered from post-traumatic stress disorder for months after, which may still be feeding my lack of emotional stability.

I need something bigger than this world to grasp to. I am not an atheist, but rather someone seeking a way to communicate with an all-creative power that I am sure exists. I have no idea what this power may be.

Finally, Crisis 4 is my seeming inability to find joy. There are flashes here and there; like when I play music to an appreciative crowd or when my children accomplish something I was never able to do at their age. But overall, I have found it hard to smile and laugh at almost anything. I have been bitter about my past, my present and what I see as my future.

But enough bitching. We all have struggles, right? It's time to find some remedies; some salve for these unseen wounds I have been carrying for far too long. The cure for the scarring that has left me angry, negative and depressed, leaving me begging my friends and family to forgive me for the snarl on my face and the tension in my words and actions.

Gratefulness

I am grateful for a loving, patient, understanding wife. I knew Coral was my soul-mate the moment I told her I loved her; which, frankly, was not very long into our relationship. I cannot comprehend how she has put up with my frenzied moods and the emotional turmoil I have brought into our home. She has been my rock through 21 years of marriage and continues to provide the perfect example of compassion, patience and a forgiving heart. Any other woman would have left me months ago.

Coral, you are my reason for being, especially after last summer when crazy thoughts of self-destruction (not suicidal tendencies, but a laissez-faire attitude towards whether I lived or died) would have destroyed anyone else without a partner like you.

I am grateful for and so very proud of my children, who continue to surprise me with their talent, intelligence, integrity and character. Although I am sure you have learned something from your father, I am also sure that most of the positive traits instilled in you up until this day have come from you mother. You have both been a blessing in my life and will continue to be, along with your mother, the central point of reflection that will stabilize my current emotional state.

I am grateful for my mother and father, who have always maintained the foundation from which I seek to understand the world around me. Outside of my wife and two close friends, you are the only people brave enough not to put up with my bullshit, stating concisely when I have crossed a line or when I am overreacting. I love you and thank you for everything you have provided my siblings and I.

I am grateful for the few friends who stay committed to grounding me regardless of where I am at mentally. (You know who you are, Chris and Trevor.) Your sometimes-brutal honesty hurts, particularly when it highlights my hypocrisy, but in most cases, you are right.

I am so grateful for my continued existence after four near-death experiences and for the wolves that are my ailments staying at bay for the time being. I forget sometimes that there is very little chance I would be here now if I had been born in a different time or a different place.

Otherwise, I have a roof over my head, food on my plate and gas in my tank. There is really little to be anxious about.

Meditation

In early 2014 - before all the rain and flooding came through this part of Saskatchewan - I was in a place of bliss so wonderful, it brings a tear to my eye thinking about it today. I was a leaf floating on the river of life. Few things upset me (too much) and I found joy in even the smallest activities. That window of happiness lasted about five months. The floods came and I let go of the rope holding me in that peace.

At that time, I had taken up yoga and meditation, which was instrumental in my finding that bliss. I have resumed the daily meditation practices and after a month, I am already beginning to see the benefits. For the most part, I am calmer, have a little more control over my negative emotions and feel a flicker of hope and optimism after years of pessimist thinking. I will continue to move forward in my new meditative habits, a new life set in mindfulness and the present moment. I still have my low points over the period of a week, but the small, positive baby steps I have managed are more than enough to provide a promising path back to who I once was; a happy, humble, patient and humorous man.

I have not resumed the yoga, but may do so one day. For now, I am seeking peace in nature; hiking, paddling, fishing, sitting by the campfire, or just being outside with bare feet on fresh grass. I have also found a great way to ease tension in the sport of disc golf, which - like ball golf - requires a quiet, tranquil mind and a purely positive attitude towards each shot in all circumstances. Just last night, after a troubling day, I hit the nearby disc golf course and returned home with a completely fresh perspective.

I will chase these activities, whether alone or with others who share the same interests. Should I follow this path alone, so be it. I am finding the mental and spiritual benefits far outweigh the social aspects of these sports. I need healing in my mind and heart. When others want to join me in these endeavours, they will only enhance the pace of the healing process.

In other words, I will take care of my inside and that will show on the outside when I'm out socially. I pray those who choose to spend time with me will remain patient.

Passion

Music has not only been an outlet for my negative mindset, but it has also been a panacea on the days when things are going especially bad, both physically and mentally. If I feel ill, I go to my studio, turn on the mic and guitar amp, and within minutes feel the nausea disappear. I can be angry, anxious or stressed and it seems melt off of my shoulders after three songs. When I'm together with my bands - both The Old 21 and The Back 40 Drifters - I feel I am in a place where I was born to be.

And that's the key, isn't it? To just be.

Writing also helps, whether it be journalistically, fictionally or on this blog. Most of the time, writing feels like work; a struggle to be battled and won. However, once finished, there is a crystal clear feeling of accomplishment, which goes to one of my four crises; my thoughts of meaninglessness, hopelessness and worthlessness.

I am a creative person. Therefore, when I do not create anything for an extended period of time, it weighs on me like a boulder. Hence, I have began a new novel, The Old 21 has just finished recording our second album and I hope to be more communicable through this blog in the future. I am constantly reading about writing and writers. Lately, these things have stuck in my mind:

1. If you are a writer, you must write; and

2. Putting just 1,000 words a day onto a page is holistically remedial.

Despite the need for a steady income of some sort, I will continue to plug away at these talents and passions I have been granted. I dream of them being financially fruitful one day, but their value in my life is more than monetary.

Finally, the outdoors and adventure have been particularly advantageous to my healing. I will continue to participate in the many activities I have come to enjoy since retiring from playing sports like fastball, recreational hockey and golf. I have come to a point in my life where exterior competition is not as important as the interior sense of accomplishment I get after hiking 20 kilometres in a day, or catching a batch of fish after finding my own, secret honey hole, or paddling for a few hours on the Qu'Appelle River.

Here, too, I am just being.

Conclusion

I think it's time to pull in the laundry. I am proud of myself for being forward about what has been a trying time for me. I have been carrying the weight of my unbearable emotional state for the last couple of years, and writing this post was terribly uncomfortable for me. This is difficult information to share with everyone.

However, if I may be selfish for just a moment; writing this post was less about letting you into my life than releasing myself from my emotional and spiritual problems. This was about me "coming out" in a way that I have rarely done before.

For those who I come in contact with on a regular basis, I hope you have a little more understanding and I thank you for your continued patience. For those who think of me as an asshole after dealing with me in some negative way, I ask for forgiveness.

But the most important person I require forgiveness from is myself.

Thank you.

The Blizzard

2016-04-15T12:56:00.000-06:00

by Christopher L. Istace

They were similar in so many ways.

Both were rotund, rugged and healthy 71-year-old men, married and living in comfortable homes near Tansi Lake, Sask.

Both had full and successful careers in the trades. One was a heavy-duty mechanic. The other was a carpenter. Although they were retired and collecting a full pension, both accepted odd jobs in the area – cash only, “under the table,” no cheques, no receipts. The extra money provided funding for beer, liquor and fuel – gas for the boat in the summer and the ice auger in the winter.

Because that was another characteristic they shared.

Gilbert and Rene loved to fish.

The winter of 2013-2014 was the coldest winter season in more than 30 years. The temperatures generally hovered below minus-40 degrees Celsius for days at a time. Many elderly residents living on Tansi Lake fell ill with cabin fever; a mental illness sending patients into a suspended state of folly. Alone in their homes, they would stumble over imaginary objects and talk to themselves endlessly.

One lonely widower allowed wild animals into his home just for the company. His visitors included minks, rabbits, squirrels, crows, ravens and, once, a coyote.

An elderly woman fell into permanent dementia, driven deep into her mind by the constant self-talk as the windows rattled endlessly in the stiff winter wind. Her cheeks stung in the biting cold when she had to use her bathroom; the commode being located in the deepest recess of the house where the heat from her tiny, electric fireplace couldn’t reach.

Nevertheless, from late December until mid-March, Gilbert and Rene would fish several days a week. They would don four to five layers of winter apparel, pull some bait from the deep freeze, jump on their four-wheeled all-terrained-vehicles and race across the frozen lake to a small, ice-fishing shack, which was located about 300 yards straight out from Rene’s house.

If you were a meal worm waiting in your small plastic bag to be hooked as bait, and you were purchased by Gilbert or Rene, you would conclude, after a very short period, that the pair’s participation in the sport of angling had little to do with the fish below their feet, however.

They loved to “debate.” At least, that’s what Gilbert and Rene called it. Anyone within earshot would define their conversations as fierce arguments. Civility seemed to take shore leave whenever they had a rod and reel in their hands. No one in their presence, not even their wives, can be faulted for mistaking their relationship as a constant battle between sworn enemies.

After taking note of who the latest cabin fever victims were, Gilbert and Rene would argue over theories about how their neighbors could fall into such a depressing state. By their ability to remain physically active – or by sheer stubbornness – they seemed to avoid the fever that struck what they called “the weaker-minded” human inhabitants of the North American Prairie that winter.

It helped to have the company of their wives at home. So did the comfort of their contemporary, lakeside houses.

Each evening before bed, Gilbert and Rene sat in their respective rockers in front of their respective kitchen televisions warmed by high-efficient, gas-fired furnaces supplemented by wood stoves. The wood-burning appliances were purchased more for their wives’ interior design preferences than for heat provisions. Gilbert and Rene kept them fired regardless.

The wood stove in their 40-square-foot ice-fishing shack – cut and welded out of an old, empty propane tank – had absolutely no aesthetic value, however. It was there to do its job; provide uninterrupted heat for the seven-hour angling sessions the pair endured.

Actually, there was no thought put into the beautification of any portion of the shack. Everything had a practical use or it didn’t exist.

Inside, shelves holding tools, knifes, and old fishing tackle lined the back end of the nine-foot-tall structure. A rack for two and three-foot ice-fishing rods ran along one side, while on the opposite sat a foldaway table below a small window. “Mother Hubbard’s Cupboard” hung high in the corner by the entry. Throughout the shanty, hooks, screws and nails protruded from the two-by-two studs that made up its frame. Shovels, ice scoops, an axe and more fishing rods hung from them.

In the back corner opposite the stove was a battery, which had its charge held by a small solar panel pinned to the wall outside. The battery ran the radio – always on JX 960, “Where it’s always Country, Country, Country in the Country.”

The battery also powered a line of tiny light bulbs that ran along the peak of the ceiling.

The anglers dropped their lines through a pair of one-foot-square openings in the floor on each side of the shack. The openings allowed enough room for a gas-powered auger to cut a 10-inch round hole in the ice beneath.

Rene constructed the building years ago. Gilbert bought in by helping move and maintain it through the long Saskatchewan winter months. Both claimed ownership. It was a primary topic of debate between the two, particularly when one suggested adding an appliance or new feature to the tiny shack.

“I think we could really use a percolator to make coffee on the stove, there,” Gilbert suggested one day. He preferred his name be pronounced, “jill-bear.”

“What in the good Lord’s name would we need to bring a contraption like that in here for?” said Rene, who preferred his name be pronounced “wren-ae.”

“Sometimes, I like a shot-a coffee while I’m fishin’. Something wrong with that?”

“Nothing except it being just another piece of trash taking up space in my place.”

“You’re place? I put in as much mind and trouble into this old shack the last few years as you did building it,” griped Gilbert, who called his shack partner “wren-ee” to be abrasive.

“But I built the friggin’ thing, didn’t I, Gilbert,” said Rene, who pronounced Gilbert’s name, “gill-bert,” to return the slight against his moniker.

“You may have built it, but how would it move around if it weren’t for the skids I put on the bloody thing. I sacrificed some good water skis so we could slide it around. Works far better than the treated, four-by-four lumber you so idiotically thought would do the trick. You have to agree with that, Rene.”

“I agree to nothing,” Rene responded, spitting into his ice hole as an exclamation point.

And so it went for hours at a time, meandering from one argument to the next. They rarely found common ground despite their many similarities and shared life experiences.

Rene adjusted the stove every so often, opening a small damper in the front to allow more oxygen inside, which stoked the fire when the shack cooled. Gilbert reached over his ice-fishing hole and closed the damper when he found himself getting too hot. The temperature inside the little shanty rose and fell like the momentum of the arguments over home-made sausage spicing, fish batter recipes, scalloped or deep fried potato wedges, proper window installation, the R-values required in garage walls, beer, or the Canadian Parliamentary Senate.

Their jigging tactics became a subconscious activity. The men absently lifted their rods to let their bait-tipped lure rise and fall to the bottom of the lake 30 feet below. Neither of them paused to consider their words as they fished. Their thoughts exited their mouths before any processing occurred within their septuagenarian minds.

However, silence fell upon them, mid-sentence, when one or the other felt the slightest tug or bounce at the end of their rods. In that silence, there was a peace between them, one watching the other as he dabbled the lure to see if there was extra weight on the end of the line.

“Anything?” one would whisper.

“Not sure yet,” the other replied.

Silence.

Jigging.

Silence.

“Bastard probably stole my bait, too,” they’d say if the weight of the fish disappeared. “But thinking Katherine Hepburn was a method actor is simply horse-shit. She was the same friggin’ character in every movie she was in. Only her character’s name changed.”

Their “debate” raged forward as if uninterrupted.

In the uncommon case when the lure was held between the jaws of a Northern Pike, a Walleye, a Perch or a Burbot, a flurry of excited cursing flew out of their mouths in paragraphs. On a calm winter’s evening, one could hear the mumble from these oratories from across the lake and mistake it for the singing of the spirit of the valley. The closer you got to the source of the sound, however, the more vulgar the diatribe became.

If the fish came through the hole and hit the floor, Gilbert and Rene would share a short celebration; a shot of dark, spiced rum drawn from a bottle in Mother Hubbard’s Cupboard. After clinking plastic cups, they would slurp their liquor while the fish flipped and flopped at their feet in a final quest for water and freedom.

A few minutes later, both lures were re-baited and at the ready just off the bottom of the lake, and the pair would argue over who would clean the beast and how best to debone it.

This particular “debate” happened every time a fish was caught. It never got old for them.

The clash was heightened even further if one or the other had a fish on and failed to bring it through the ice. While one screamed “You should’ves” and “You could’ves” from his chair, the other waved him off, shook his head and told him to choke on lake water.

This was the contemptuous relationship between Gilbert and Rene.

-----

The coldest day of winter arrived late. It was March 1, 2014; a Saturday.

Gilbert and Rene always fished on Saturdays.

It was about 12:30 p.m. when Gilbert loaded his four-wheeler and hooked up a sled to haul some logs for the shack stove. At that point, there was only the hint of a breeze from the west. Nevertheless, it was colder than normal and the old man donned a balaclava and pulled a fur cap tight over it. His mittens were as thick as boxing gloves and he wore three pair of wool socks in his over-sized winter boots.

Although the shack sat just 300 yards out from Rene’s back door, it was a two-kilometer trek across the ice for Gilbert. He had to be well protected on a relatively benign winter’s day. Anything below minus-20 was an adventure of survivalist proportions for him.

Gilbert didn’t think in these terms, however. He was at his home and the shack was on the lake. To get there, he just had to dress appropriately and warm the four-wheeler accordingly. There were fish to be caught; arguments to win. That was that.

Rene was already stoking the fire in the stove when Gilbert arrived about a half hour later.

“There’s more wood on the sled,” Gilbert said, tossing a couple logs to the floor. “I’ll dump it in the bin out back.”

“We’re not fishing outside,” Rene countered without hesitation. “Bring some of that shit in here.”

Gilbert shook his head, but obeyed.

He’s in a mood again. I can feel it, Gilbert told himself. There was a slight discomfort in his chest as he thought it.

After dropping a couple of armfuls of wood beside the stove, he moved to the back of the shack to dump the rest in the bin. Inside the small structure, the auger motor gurgled to life as Rene began to recut their holes in the ice. Gilbert was almost finished emptying the sled when he heard a bang, then a loud obscenity.

He raced around to the front of the shack where Rene stood over his auger buried deep into the frozen lake. Only the motor and its wide handles were visible.

“What the hell’s going on?” Gilbert said.

“The gawdamned thing won’t come out,” Rene said.

Gilbert stepped into the shack, pushed Rene aside and bent over to give the auger a heave. It didn’t move.

“The gawdamned thing won’t come out,” Gilbert said.

“That’s what I just said, idiot,” Rene responded.

“Well, how did this happen? You know you gotta keep pulling the snow out as you cut through the ice so it won’t plug up when the water gushes in, right?” Gilbert said.

“This ain’t the first time I’ve ever cut a friggin’ hole in the ice, man,” said Rene. “You think I’m stupid or something?”

“We gotta get it out before it freezes in there, eh?”

“You don’t say,” Rene said with a pie-eyed expression on his face.

Rene was in a mood before - actually, his normal, abrasive, tormented self - but this auger situation is going to awaken a monster of greater proportions, Gilbert thought. He didn’t see the point of sticking around to bear the storm of Rene’s frustration, but decided to finish his chore with the woodbin behind the shack.

Rene stood silently looking down at the head of the gas-powered ice auger, his hands on his hips. How in all of Saskatchewan’s glory was he going to free that machine from the frozen lake’s grasp? Five minutes later, the only movement he had made as he thought about an answer to the question was his unconscious habit of curling one side his long, grey moustache.

As if jolted alive with a shot from a taser, he moved with stern purpose. The plan he formulated may or may not work, but it was guaranteed the auger would remain lodged in the ice until spring thaw if he just stood there playing with his facial hair.

Rene strutted outside, mounted his four-wheeler and headed towards his home on shore about 300 yards away.

Gilbert tossed the last log into the woodbin then moved his own four-wheeler beside the shack, sled in tow. He noticed it was getting colder. The growing breeze made snow crystals dance along the surface of the lake. They hissed and tinkled, some of the snow banking along old drifts and neighbouring shacks.

It was early March. Normal highs were supposed to be minus-six degrees Celsius. It was now well below that at Tansi Lake.

The wind was now coming from the north and swirling easterly along the channel of the Qu’Appelle Valley. Gilbert’s round body was exaggerated by his bibbed coveralls and parka. His extra girth threw him off-balance when a strong gust arrived unexpectedly. Should it stay this way for another couple of hours, he was sure it would settle in and bluster through the night; one last fit of anger from Jack Frost.

Gilbert contemplated heading home then, but the auger was stuck and he felt obligated to help Rene, despite his shack-mate’s growly demeanor. If the pair was able to free the machine, maybe they could drop a line into the lake for a few minutes.

The cold began to bite into Gilbert’s cheeks, a sure sign that the wind-chill was rising and the temperature was falling. He stepped into the shack and closed the door. After studying the auger, he went into a squat and attempted to twist the auger free from the hole; the oriface he would have been fishing out of if Rene had used the machine properly.

The auger wouldn’t budge.

“That impatient, old shit,” Gilbert said, angry that Rene had probably ended any hope of dropping a line that day. He pulled a chair in front of the wood-stove and grabbed a fresh log from a nearby pail. The fire’s warmth allowed Gilbert to remove his hat, his gloves and the itchy balaclava covering his face.

A few minutes later, the rumble of Rene’s four-wheeler rattled the shack window. The door burst open and Rene stomped in, his hands full of wrenches and sockets.

“Don’t get that friggin’ fire too hot. Going to be working in here a while and I don’t want to overheat,” he grumbled.

“Yeah,” Gilbert replied sarcastically. “Better to get sweated up in the cold air. Nothing makes a man feel alive like a stiff shot of pneumonia.”

“Just get the hell out of my way,” Rene said, nudging Gilbert out of the chair. He worked at the bolt holding the motor to the stock until the nut was free. One good yank, and the engine was off. Rene hung it by the handles by Mother Hubbard's Cupboard where it was usually placed.

Gilbert sat back comfortably and watched with his hands interlocked and resting on his lap. There was little he could do at the moment, so he just enjoyed the warmth emanating from the black, home-made stove.

Rene stumbled outside, grabbed a chain and a hand-jack from the front basket of his four-wheeler and slammed it on the floor of the shack, startling Gilbert.

“That ain’t gonna do nothin’,” Gilbert said.

“Just stay there, shut your mouth and learn something, son,” Rene said.

He wrapped and locked the chain around the top of the auger stock then set the jack on a block of wood by the fishing hole. He hooked the other end of the chain on the jack’s lift. A drop of condensation from his nose fell onto the handle of the jack where it solidified instantly on the frozen metal bar.

“Geez, she’s getting cold out there,” he said. A gust of wind agreed with his statement, hissing through a gap between the stovepipe and the hole in the sheet metal roofing.

“You don’t say?” Gilbert said. “I should be heading home before it gets any worse, but I also wanna stick around and get a laugh out of this shit-show. I said before, that ain’t gonna work.”

Rene shot Gilbert a glare before locking a pin on the jack and starting to crank the handle. The floor creaked as the pressure built on the foot of the jack. The end of the chain on the auger slipped a little before catching tightly. For a moment, Rene’s idea looked promising.

Gilbert leaned over to see if the auger stock was lifting. It appeared to slip upwards a quarter of an inch, but upon closer inspection, he saw that the chain was just bending the metal shaft towards the jack.

“Whoa! Whoa! Whoa!” he yelped, putting a hand on Rene’s shoulder to get him to stop cranking. “You’re just bending it. That ain’t gonna do shit.”

Rene guffawed and started cranking the jack handle again. Three cranks in, the chain’s hold on the end of the auger released. The loud snap startled both men, making them stumble back against the opposite wall.

“Cripes!” Rene said, throwing his gloves at the jack, which had fallen over and was leaning on the rickety lawn chair that Gilbert would have been fishing off of if the day had gone according to plan.

Gilbert waited a moment, a smarmy grin crossing his face, before saying, “Told ya.”

“Don’t test me, you bastard,” Rene said as he retrieved his gloves and walked out of the shack.

Gilbert just laughed.

Outside, Rene sat on his four-wheeler and huffed in frustration. He was out of ideas on how to solve the auger problem.

The wind-chill held enough cold now that the air made Rene’s cheeks feel like they were rubbed with acid. He pulled the flaps of his winter hat over his face and put his back to the wind.

“Just leave the thing as it is for now,” Gilbert yelled from the door of the shack. “We’ll work on it tomorrow if the weather straightens out. It’s getting pretty bitchy out here.”

“Go home, you lazy shit,” Rene grumbled. “I’m pullin’ my auger out of that hole today if it kills me.”

“Stubborn bastard,” Gilbert said as he looked down the valley towards the west. The shadow of a thick snow squall darkened the mid-afternoon sun. The job very well might kill them both, but Gilbert decided he would stay and help regardless.

“What are you thinkin’ now?” he asked Rene.

“Nothin’. Just thinkin’,” Rene said. “I said go home if you want.”

“I heard ya,” Gilbert said as he stepped back into the warmth of the shack.

Rene looked across the lake and saw what Gilbert had noticed just moments before. It was only 2 p.m., but the bank of clouds on the horizon produced an evening-like shade across the valley. The wind was picking up, whistling across the snow banks that dipped, rolled and flattened along the surface of the frozen ice.

Rene felt defeated; by the stuck auger; by the growing cold; by the late-winter blizzard that appeared to be screaming towards him. He slid from the seat of his four-wheeler and walked into the shack.

“Shut ‘er down,” he said, pointing at the stove. “Going home.”

Gilbert had his head down the hole in the floor where he was chipping away the ice around the auger stock with an old, rusty meat cleaver he found on a shelf above. The activity would be fruitless, he knew, but he wanted to appear to be doing his part.

“We’ve got to get this thing out,” Gilbert said. “It freezes here, I don’t know what we’ll be able to do. Was thinking we’d get it out tomorrow, but with this storm comin’…”

“That thing is frozen in there already. Are you paying attention to what’s happening outside? Are you all-out numb to the cold?” Rene said, sitting in his lawn chair by the window. “It’s gawdamned frigid out there. Must be minus-25 degrees now and dropping. Who knows how cold with the wind-chill.”

“So, what? We just leave it until it melts through in the spring and slips to the bottom of the lake?” Gilbert said. “We gotta get it out. What if we moved the shack and cut around it?”

“I ain’t spendin’ any more time out here. It’s so cold, the clouds seem to be dropping outta the sky,” Rene said. “I’ll figure out that son of a bitch tomorrow.”

He slid closed the damper on the stove leaving just enough of a slit to allow the fire to burn down slowly.

“I should be letting you figure all this shit out, though, seeing as it’s your fault,” Rene said.

“What the hell are you talking about? Was I the one standing over that auger cuttin’ holes today?” Gilbert said.

“You realize if you hadn’t’ve been late, I wouldn’t’ve been drilling your hole. I thought I’d be nice and do something for you and look where it gets me,” Rene said.

Gilbert seethed with anger. He struggled to a standing position above Rene.

“What kinda friggen’ logic is that?” Gilbert said, lifting the large cleaver blade and resting it on his shoulder. “How is it my fault you couldn’t finish a drill you’ve done a thousand times before? You’re an asshole.”

Rene could see a red glow growing in Gilbert’s eyes. He noticed the white knuckles as Gilbert tightened his grip on the cleaver. He also wasn’t comfortable with the advantage Gilbert had on him, standing over top of him as he was.

Gilbert could feel his chest tighten with the purge of negative emotions spilling out of him. His anger and frustration with his shack partner was barely contained now. The cork had popped after years of pressure built from their tumultuous relationship. It wasn’t that they always argued; although they called it “debating.” It was Rene’s demeaning attitude; his inability to measure his words; his inability to apologize or admit when he was wrong. Rene was always right and he bullied those who thought otherwise.

Gilbert’s breath hissed through his clenched teeth while spittle dribbled from his lips and sprayed over Rene’s parka.

“Sit down before your hurt yourself,” Rene said, a little frightened by Gilbert's facial expression. Upon finishing the sentence, he saw Gilbert lift the cleaver off of his shoulder. Rene put his arms over his face to protect himself from the blow he expected to come and blindly shot a leg out from his chair in an attempt to connect with Gilbert’s knee. He missed.

“Sit down, you animal!” he yelled, an attempt at putting Gilbert back into his right mind. “Sit down and calm down, you bastard!”

Gilbert had only been reaching to put the cleaver back on the top shelf above him. He didn’t realize how his movement could have been interpreted from Rene’s seated position until he stumbled back and found a seat of his own.

Rene slowly lowered his arms from his face. He found Gilbert slumped in the chair across from him. Gilbert opened and closed his fists, an attempt at letting the rage inside dissipate. His jaw relaxed and he heaved a huge breath to calm his nerves. His composure was regained.

Outside the shack, the wind ripped into a howl. The small building moaned with the push of it. The fire’s dying flames made one last snap in the remaining dry wood.

“I’m sorry,” Gilbert said a moment later. “I’m not feeling like myself today.”

“Well, no friggin’ shit,” Rene said. He got up and slammed closed the damper, extinguishing what was left of the fire. “Pack up your stuff and go home. Pack up all your stuff. Everything. You’re not welcome here anymore.”

Gilbert looked down at his boots. He opened the zipper on his parka and tried to rub away the deep pain in his chest. He felt nauseous and leaned over to try and relieve the sensation. That made him dizzy, so he sat up again.

Rene slammed the door behind him as he stepped outside. He was getting away from who he now believed was nearly homicidal.

Does he have the fever? Rene asked himself. The others were going crazy. Why not one of them?

Rene turned the key to start his four-wheeler, but the machine only clicked and wheezed. He tried it again with the same result. He cursed into the wind and punched the wall of the shack beside him. It hurt his hand, so he ripped off his glove to see if anything was broken.

The wind howled now. The snow fell in swirling lines; at one moment horizontal, stalling in mid flight, down to the ice surface with another gust, then up again to resume its ultimate, unknowable destination. He looked towards his house, but it was hidden in the faded, afternoon light and the curtain of precipitation.

Rene slid off the seat of the vehicle and gave the back tire a stiff kick with his steel-toed boot. His toes came alive with a stinging tingle, stunned by the collision with the tire and cold from the dangerously low temperatures.

“You rotten piece of shit,” he yelled at the four-wheeler as he walked back towards the entrance to the shack. He opened the door and froze at the sight of Gilbert lying in an awkward position and motionless on the bare, plywood floor.

“Gilbert,” he said, closing the door behind him. “Gilbert. Get up.”

Rene leaned over and shook Gilbert’s shoulder. There was no response.

“You son of a bitch!” he yelled. “Not today!”

Rene rolled Gilbert onto his back, careful to make sure his head didn’t hit the hot, metal stove. The old man was unconscious, his hands still clutching his chest. Rene dug underneath Gilbert’s parka to check for a heartbeat with his palm. Although he felt nothing at first, there was a faint bump-bump when Rene concentrated harder.

Rene had heart problems of his own. In 1998, a heart attack almost forced him into early retirement.

But he was stubborn. He wanted and needed to keep working. He ate a healthy diet, gave up chewing tobacco and quit drinking alcoholic beverages for about four years. As he felt better, he began to take more risks again; a snort of dark rum here, a slice of pizza there.

Fifteen years later, he was feeling fine, but never left home without a bottle of glycerin spray. He had never had to use it himself, but on March 1, 2014, Rene pried open Gilbert’s mouth and shot two squirts of the chemical inside.

“That should get you movin’,” he said, putting the bottle back in the pocket of his coveralls under his parka.

He opened the shack door to give himself room to prepare Gilbert for transport. The wind pushed the door against Rene as he moved his shack-mate’s body to drag him outside, head first.

As he stepped away to grab the sled, the door came within a couple of inches of slamming closed on Gilbert’s skull. Rene grabbed it tightly and ripped it from the shack, breaking the hinges away from the frame. It required a fit of physical exertion he hadn’t performed in years and it surprised him when he did it.

Rene swung the door towards the west, letting it flutter and tumble in the stiff easterly gale. The blowing snow pelted his cheeks like thousands of pinpricks and he had to cover his face with his forearm to keep the ice crystals from hitting his eyeballs.

Feeling his way around the shack, he found Gilbert’s four-wheeler and detached the sled from the rear hitch. By the time he made his way back to the front of the shack, Gilbert’s head and face were caked in snow. Rene leaned over to clean it off. Gilbert groaned.

“Hang on, you bastard,” Rene screamed. “If you die here, I’ll haul you out and leave you on the ice like a burbot. The coyotes will have you cleaned up in a day.”

Rene knew Gilbert couldn’t hear or understand him. Nevertheless, he yelled a stream of obscenities at him as he pulled Gilbert out of the shack and dumped him onto the plastic, blue sled. A few scraps of bark and kindling that Gilbert had failed to toss into the woodbin still lined the bottom of it.

The sled was similar to what ranchers used to haul calves from the pasture to a warm shed. Gilbert was not only larger, but also far more uncooperative than a calf. He was dead weight and it took Rene another overwhelming effort to load the rotund old man.

Rene pulled the hood of Gilbert’s parka over the unconscious man’s head and zipped it tightly. He patted the semi-conscious man on the cheek to see if he would react.

Gilbert moaned again, but his eyes remained closed.

“Come on, asshole! Wake up!” Rene said as he shook Gilbert’s shoulders. There was still no response.

Rene felt his way to the back of the shed to Gilbert’s four-wheeler knowing that the keys to the machine were always in the ignition. The engine sputtered and coughed, but failed to catch. Rene threw open the choke and held in the throttle when he turned the key again. This time, the four-wheeler turned over for about five seconds, backfired, then died.

“Son of a bitch,” Rene screamed. He was wasting valuable minutes. As long as Gilbert’s heart was sputtering out of rhythm, the cold would drop his core temperature down dangerously low incredibly quickly.

Rene hiked up his coveralls, zipped his parka, pulled his winter hat tight over his ears and donned his giant insulated gloves. If Gilbert was going to make it, Rene would have to drag him to the house about a half kilometer away.

The snow was deep now. Rene fought to keep his balance with every step, his foot sinking six inches into a snow bank here; a foot and a half there. He could feel the energy draining through his thighs and calves as he trudged in what he believed was the direction of his house.

Rene was literally blind. All he could see in front of him was a moving, gray cloud of snow that slithered and swirled in the blasting wind. The rope from the sled wrapped around his waste bit deeply into Rene’s parka as he moved forward; step by slow, exhausting step.

“You’re a heavy bastard,” he screamed back at Gilbert.

Fifteen minutes seemed like an hour. Rene knew he should have been ashore by the boathouse behind his home by now. His waist ached from the strain of the rope. His head spun from trying to focus his eyes through the blizzard. His legs were beaten and powerless as the powdery snow deepened.

Rene stopped, put a hand to his cheek and, even through his winter glove, could feel it was frozen into a white, chalky block of skin.

A gust of wind meandered down the lake, rustling the stiff, bare branches of the trees along the shoreline. They snapped and groaned in the strain to stay upright. It was a powerful push that hit Rene from his left side and toppled him over.

Rene tried to get back to his feet, but failed. He gave a final gasp, then passed out.

-----

The beep of a heart monitor above him stirred Gilbert awake. Oxygen from a mask filled his lungs, making a hissing noise as the air blew into his face. About a dozen wires ran from several areas of his chest to a computer on a table beside him.

Berta stood and took Gilbert’s hand in hers, tears falling down her bulbous cheeks, which still shone with youth despite her age; 68.

From his position on the bed, Gilbert looked up and saw the girl he had met at a high school dance more than five decades earlier.

“Where am I,” he mumbled through his oxygen mask.

“The Yorkton Regional Health Centre,” she said, wiping her nose with the tissue in her free hand. The other held its grip on Gilbert’s fingers.

“What happened?”

“You had a heart attack. You crashed in the ambulance on the way here, but you made it,” Berta said.

Gilbert acquainted himself with his surroundings, the plain, white, sterile room confirming he was in a hospital. When the memory of him standing over Rene with a cleaver hit him, he opened his eyes wide.

“Where’s Rene?” he said.

“He’s in a room on the next floor. He’ll be fine,” Berta said. “He’s the one who saved you.”

“Can I see him?”

“I think the nurse and the doctor should look you over first. Rene is nearby. You’ll see him soon enough.”

Gilbert was stable, but would need to stay in the hospital for a few days, the doctor said an hour later.

“And Rene? What happened to him? Is he going to be okay?” Gilbert said.

The doctor laughed.

“Just worry about yourself for now,” he said. “You’ll find out all about your friend soon enough.”

Gilbert tried to lift a hand to scratch an itch under his oxygen mask. An IV tube attached to his arm stretched and tightened as he moved, surprising him and causing the beep on his monitor to skip. The doctor looked up, saw the rhythm return to normal, and scratched a note on a chart at the foot of Gilbert’s bed.

“What day is it?” Gilbert asked, his voice raspy due to a sore throat.

“It’s Monday,” the doctor said as he walked over to the window and opened the curtain to let sunshine fill the room. “And I think we’ve finally got spring on the way.”

Gilbert turned away from the light, but enjoyed the warmth a sunbeam provided to his feet.

I can feel my feet, he thought. He realized then, through the haze of medication and post-traumatic stress, that he really was still alive.

-----

“Look what you did to me, you SOB,” Rene said loud enough to make Gilbert jolt. He had been sleeping after a fit-filled night full of horrible dreams that included him hacking Rene to pieces with that old, rusty meat cleaver; laying on an uncomfortable blue sled; and the high-pitched whine of a snowmobile.

Gilbert turned to see Rene rolling into the room sitting in a wheelchair. His face was wrapped in gauze and his right leg stuck straight out in front of him in a cast.

“What happened?” Gilbert whispered.

“You had a heart attack on me, jerk,” Rene said. “You almost died in my dojo.”

“Your what?”

“My man-cave. My fishing shack. Remember? We were fishing,” Rene said. “Well, we were trying to fish.”

The memory of the meat cleaver jumped into Gilbert’s mind and he began to sob.

“Oh, jeezus. Here we go,” Rene said, shaking his head. It stunned Gilbert when Rene rolled closer to the bed, reached out and held his hand.

“I’m sorry,” Gilbert whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” Rene said.

“The cleaver. I was mad. You thought I was going to…”

“Ah, hell. Ooh blah dee, ooh blah dah. Life goes on,” Rene said. “Water, bridge; you know the saying.”

“How’d we get here?” Gilbert said after regaining his composure.

Rene explained how he was outside trying to start his four-wheeler when he came back and found Gilbert laying on the floor of the ice-fishing shack; how neither of the four-wheelers would start; how he had to drag Gilbert’s “sorry ass” back towards Rene’s home.

“I collapsed about where the end of my dock would have been if it was summertime. You believe that? So close; so far,” Rene said.

“Then what?” Gilbert asked. If that was the end of the story, they would both be frozen like discarded Northern Pike hidden in a snow bank.

“Charlie found us. Charlie Furgus. The plumber down the way,” Rene said.

Mildred, Rene’s wife, called Charlie when the worst of the storm moved in. She wanted someone to check on Rene and Gilbert since she could no longer see the shack through the blizzard from their upstairs sunroom.

“After finding the shack open and empty, he was comin’ back to the house on his snowmobile. The son of a bitch ran over my leg here,” Rene said, tapping a knuckle on the cast. “It’s how he found us. Never thought getting run over would save my life.”

“Your face?” Gilbert said.

“Frostbite. May need skin grafts. Got good drugs in me, though. Don’t hurt a lick,” Rene said.

Gilbert went silent, closing his eyes as he began to cry again. He struggled as he tried to roll onto his side to face Rene more squarely from his bed. Rene reached over from his wheelchair and helped him as much as he could.

Tears streamed from the corners of Gilbert’s eyes, dripping on the pillow underneath his head. He sniffled a couple of times before speaking.

“Thank you,” Gilbert said. “Thank you for saving my life.”

Rene’s eyes welled up. He used the collar of his hospital gown to dry them.

“Thank you for livin’, brother,” he responded.

Rene squeezed Gilbert’s hand a little tighter.

Gilbert squeezed back.

“Enough sobbin’. I got some shoppin’ to do,” Rene said, letting go of his hold on Gilbert. “It’s Wednesday. Doc says I get a day pass and if all goes well, he’ll give me a full release tomorrow.”

“Going home?” Gilbert said.

“Naw. Stayin’ in the city until you’re out, man,” Rene said.

“You don’t have to do that.”

“I know,” Rene said as he wheeled toward the hospital room door.

“What are you shopping for?” Gilbert asked.

“Can’t finish the fishin’ season without an auger, can we,” Rene said.

Disc Golf: A new, faster, funner way to play

2016-01-19T14:40:00.000-06:00

Disc golf is one of the fastest growing sports in North America.
A pair of facilities in at the Moosomin Regional Park and at the
Rocanville Cross-Country Ski Club are bringing this simple, fun,
relaxing activity to this area. (Above picture taken at the Rocanville
Cross-Country Ski Club facility)

Are you tired of spending hundreds - if not thousands - of dollars on equipment and membership fees to play the game of golf?

Are you frustrated with the amount of time it consumes; the packed courses; the less-than-courteous actions of some players; the lack of facility availability?

With the establishment of one course at the Rocanville Cross-Country Ski Club just south of Rocanville, and the scheduled development of another this spring at the Moosomin Regional Park (MRP), disc golf will be quickly catching the imagination of residents in the area.

Both facilities have been designed by members of the Parkland Association of Disc Golf, of which I am a founding member and participating course designer. Constructed in the late-summer of 2015, the facility near Rocanville includes 18 tonal-target holes running along a portion of the ski/hiking trails. Outside of purchasing your own discs - specially designed "frisbees" used for the sport that travel further and straighter than regular discs - and participating in tournaments, there few other costs associated with the sport.

Specifically, there are no green fees. You simply walk up to the first tee and throw. About an hour and half later, you can either head home or begin again. The game is short, simple and delightful as you meander through the naturally forested area or near the lake. The walk through the bush or along the water is itself beneficial to the mind, body and spirit.

Like ball golf, the disc version of the sport has tees and "holes." Starting at the tee-off area, players throw discs until they have hit that hole's target; either a basket with momentum-killing chains or, as in Rocanville and the MRP's case, tonal targets. Each corresponding shot is taken from the location of the previous throw's landing site and is counted as one stroke. The player with the least number of throws at the end of a nine or 18-hole round wins the game.

And, like ball golf, success in the sport is determined by smooth, efficient muscular mechanics and a calm, clear mindset. Clinics on how to play and rules of the sport can be scheduled through myself or through the Parkland Association of Disc Golf.

I will also, in the near future, be providing information regarding a once-per-week league night for Rocanville, Moosomin or a combination of both. You can also contact me through the link above to see how you can get involved.

Disc golf is a great way for the family to participate in a physical

activity together, everyone on equal footing in competition

regardless of age. On any one hole, my 14-year-old daughter or

11-year-old son can out-shoot their 42-year-old father. However,

a fun day outdoors is the primary goal of the sport. (Above

picture taken at Carleton Trail Regional Park's facility)

Disc Golf on the Prairie

The sport of disc golf has seen a dramatic increase in participation through the past 10 years. While there was one disc course in Saskatchewan in 2000, today, that number has grown to more than 20. The Parkland Association of Disc Golf has 14 facilities either in place or under development. They include:

Patrick Park Disc Golf Course (Yorkton)
Kemoca Regional Parr Course (Montmartre)
Shaker City Disc Golf (Benito, MB)
Springside Disc Golf Course
Carlton Trail Regional Park Disc Golf
Fort Qu'Appelle Disc Golf Course
SandyBeach at Good Spirit Lake Disc Golf Course
Lemberg Disc Golf Course
Rocanville Disc Golf Course
Melville Disc Golf Course
Asessippi Resort (MB) (under development)
North Ridge Disc Golf Course (Birtle, MB) (under development)
Stockholm, SK (under development)
Ituna Regional Park (under development)

Outside of the province, there are more than 100 courses dotting Western Canada and six more in the Yukon Territory.

There are many reasons why participation in the sport is exploding. As previously mentioned, the cost of playing (memberships and equipment) are low. In fact, most courses are located in public parks and there is no charge to play. It's also a fun way to get exercise in a natural setting, and people of any age and ability can learn the game quickly and participate immediately.

The courses at MRP and Rocanville are open anytime, and I am available to help you get started if we coordinate a date.\

Fun, non-competitive tournaments are being planned at both facilities this summer. In late June, the Rocanville Disc Golf Club will host its inaugural event, a doubles competition that is similar to a Texas Scramble in ball-golf.

In conclusion, the question is, "Are you ready to try something new?"

Members of the Parkland Association of Disc Golf are currently developing a community of people with a long-time interest in the sport or with an ambition to get into it. Check out their Facebook page or contact me for more information about disc golf and the various facilities in place and in development.

There's not better way to spend an afternoon than walking through

the trails, tossing discs and enjoying our natural surroundings.

(Above picture taken on the No. 8 fairway of the Rocanville Cross-

Country Ski Club facility.)

(Written with notes from Calvin Daniels)

Minimalism: Committing to the essentials

2016-01-12T14:13:00.000-06:00

For the past five to six years, a movement has been afoot to consider having less to gain more in life.

Fronted by Joshua Fields Millburn and Ryan Nicodemus (among others), "minimalism" is about decluttering one's life to the essence of who one is instead of what you think you are and what you think you need. It's about removing the possessions, habits and activities that do not add value to your life so you can focus on what does and, ultimately, garner a greater sense of physical, spiritual and mental well-being. Finally - and most challenging of all - it's about stepping out of the commercial jet-stream that North American society has become.

It was coincidental that I read the Fields Millburn/Nicodemus book Minimalism: Live a Meaningful Life just before disastrous flooding hit our area of Saskatchewan in 2014. While the floods affected almost everyone in our community, personally, the water washed out our business and damaged the basement of our home. A year and a half later, we are still recovering from it. The basement remains cleaned, but not repaired, and we have just purchased a property to renovate into a new location for our athletic therapy clinic. Those renovations began just recently.

During the summer of 2014, just months after reading about minimalism, my wife and I had the opportunity to fulfill some of the suggestions provided by the philosophy. At home, we emptied our basement, filling the garage with its contents. From there, we determined what was and was not worth keeping; both from a redeemable/repairable standpoint, but mostly from a needs standpoint.

This is our post-cleanup basement following the flooding of 2014.

Our home was not hit as hard as our business, which was a total

write-off and torn down.

In the end, we filled our half-ton truck twice with the "stuff" we deemed unnecessary in our home and lives. For me, the function was freeing. A load was lifted from my shoulders; the load being the unsightly condition of a basement full of things we rarely if ever used yet thought we should keep "just in case" we decided to (exercise equipment, kids' toys, entertainment equipment, wood trim and other household renovation materials). All were things that just took up space; things we were constantly walking around and cleaning around.

We did the same thing to the paraphernalia in our garage, leaving us with enough room after for me to install a heated music studio to rehearse in.

"But if you are adopting minimalism, why add more to your life, like build another room in your garage to fill with 'stuff'?"

This may be a valid question - one which I've had to answer several times after purchasing things that may be seem to only add to a lifestyle I have deemed "minimalistic."

The truth is, minimalism isn't about ridding yourself of absolutely everything. It's prioritizing your life around the people and activities that mean the most to you. Singing/songwriting is my part-time career. My wife was tired of having my band rehearse in our living room. A studio was a relatively inexpensive investment.

Otherwise, friends who do not understand minimalism have attempted to call me a hypocrite based the purchases of hiking equipment, fishing equipment, disc golf equipment, tools, and other items.

The fact is this "stuff" adds value to my life. I love the outdoors. I love to be able to do my own home repairs. I love to simply walk out to my garage, flick a switch and begin rehearsing with privacy and a full sound system.

Alternately, satellite and cable television does not add value to our lives. We do not own a subscription. A jacuzzi on our deck is not important to us. It remains empty and unused, relieving me of the maintenance associated with it.

Nevertheless, there are still things (possessions and activities) I need to re-assess. I golf, at most, twice a year. Do I need those clubs sitting in the corner of the shed when I can simply rent a set? I have gone downhill skiing three times in the past five years. Are those skis and boots downstairs really necessary? Can I sell them and bank the money for something more important?

And there's more. It will take a day - a warm one in the spring - to go through everything and determine what I really deem valuable and what I truly use regularly. Those things that are not important can be gifted to benefit someone else, sold for a bit of pocket cash or just trashed. It's out of my life and my mind.

Trust me, the process of simplifying is not a simple one. I freely admit there are things that one has emotional ties to but have no true value. However, I have come to believe that those things - most of which sit in an empty bedroom in the basement - are never seen or talked of, let alone pondered. It may be I only think they have emotional value, when they are really just material evidence of memories I already hold inside of me and are therefore unneeded.

At its core, minimalism is living in the present. I know I love hiking, fishing, disc golfing, playing music and writing. Those things associated with those activities that bring me joy - or tools that make my life easier (a snowblower or lawnmower, for example) - can remain a priority. Everything else is unnecessary clutter. Getting rid of it is freeing and leaves me feeling enlightened.

Minimizing has been extremely beneficial in my life. It may (or may not) be in yours. All I know is that from past experience, the less "stuff" I have had, the more I can focus on what is truly important to me.

Minimalism, however deeply I take it, can free my heart, soul and mind for what is useful and meaningful. It opens a spiritual space inside of me that puts people over possessions, love over greed and family-time over meaningless pastimes.

Judge me for being a hypocrite. I don't care. I have been and continue to determine what is important in my life and will scale down to the bare essence of it all instead of continually adding things thinking the next one will make me happy.

I already know what makes me happy. It's not "stuff."

A little honesty for my return to This Attempted Life

2016-01-11T15:53:00.000-06:00

This is me on New Year's Eve, 2015;
the night I believe (and pray) the
tide in my life turned.

The term "funk" (as in "a dejected mood") is how I describe my life through the past several months. During that time, I attempted and failed to develop a commercial online publication; returned to casual employment that I do not find fulfilling; and garnered then lost momentum in a music career I thought was finally on the upswing.

Nevertheless, it appears the depression is subsiding. Hence, here I am, back at the keyboard submitting a post to a blog I have ignored for eight months. The fog seems to be lifting and my mind is, once again, beginning to arrive at ideas for my creative self to entertain.

I think the turn-around began on New Year's Eve, when my cover band played a party in a nearby community. The following day, my wife said it had been a long time since she had seen me smile and laugh as much as I did that night. I was in my zone, playing music with a great group of guys who take the business seriously, but maintain a loose, "good-time" attitude through it all.

I have generally been feeling better physically and emotionally since then. I pray I have turned the corner after three years of heartache due to serious health issues, emotional instability due to the experience, and the mental strain related to natural disasters that struck our region of the Prairies in 2014, which included another near-death experience and what I believe is PTSD following it.

But enough with the past. It's time to move on. I need to plan for the future, but focus on the present.

Generally, I seek to love more, do more, be more, meditate more, pray more and find more bliss. I will create and play more music. I will write for the sake of my natural ability to do so. I will spend more time in the wild, where I have over the past year reacquainted my association with what I believe to be God. I will set aside more quality time with the people I love most in this world; primarily my wife and children then my extended family and true friends.

And I will share more; here on this blog, through another online publication I am associated with, through my music and in my long-form writing projects.

This post, in essence, is the tip of the sword I hope to push through the demon that has ridden my back the past few years. My family has suffered enough. I have suffered enough. It's time to get up out of the dirt, brush myself off and be the warrior I have, in the past, touted myself to be; the man who has survived Crohn's Disease and two separate brain tumours.

Therefore, I scan the horizon before me and consider what is in my view right now.

At the moment, my wife and I are renovating a commercial property to replace our business, which was wiped out in the flooding of 2014. This has required a lot of patience and some effort, but it is a blessing to see this plan come to fruition. I am doing what I can to help with the project, first completing the demolition and preparation phase, then aiding our contractor where I can be of service.

Over the next five months, there will be bumps along the path we are walking, but I will meet them with a positive outlook instead of the immediate, negative, judgemental, angry reactionary means I have fallen to until recently. I must find my flow and remain steadfast in the knowledge that what happens to us from here on is neither good or bad. It just is.

In February, I will return to my guitar for the purposes of writing a solid batch of new songs for a new CD by The Old 21. This will require being productive daily, non-self critical and open-spirited; traits I haven't held in quite some time. Nevertheless, I look forward to the challenge and I am excited by the prospects of what will come out of the effort.

In the meantime, I will follow through on the creative writing ideas rolling around in my head. I am not comfortable with revealing what these are at this time, but I have two or three of them; one of which is further along its path to creation than the other two. I will chase them all and work with those ideas that seem to fit my mood and mindset when I sit down to research and write - again, on a daily basis.

On the whole, I am seeking an overhaul of my waking, walking, talking life. I understand the universal size of the task at hand, but wallowing in my past or worrying about my future doesn't do me or those around me any good.

I only have now. I only have this very moment; this instant where my consciousness meets what my human brain considers reality.

Shall I focus on that, I will conquer the anxiety, anger, apprehensiveness, self-loathing and self-pity that has boiled within me for some time now.

To those who I have wronged, I ask forgiveness; but in the end and above all, I must forgive myself in order to move on to this last half of my life in a loving, positive, productive, joyous way.

I thank you, dear readers, for your patience and hope you will continue to follow my trek in this world; through my music and through my writing.

A novel, an EP and now a new start-up

2015-03-05T15:24:00.000-06:00

My novel, "Paco's Provision," was released in late November of 2014. About a week later, the first

shipment of "A Pretty Good Shot," The Old 21's debut EP, arrived.

While I have sold a few ebooks, The Old 21's CD has sold briskly, giving us the motivation to put together another recording sometime this year. This requires some focussed songwriting time and further development of my recording capabilities in my home studio.

In the meantime, I have launched a new publication surrounding an interest I have had since I was 12, but have stepped away from due to work, family and ill health. Now that my body is back on track - there have been no further seizures related to the brain tumour found in my skull in 2013 - I have sought to immerse myself in the phyiscal, mental and spiritual elevation provided by the natural surroundings of Canada's wilderness.

As a youth, I hunted the Whitewood, Sask. area with friends, walking miles and miles of trails leading to surrounding fields, meadows and forests containing grouse, ducks and geese. On many occasions, we trekked up to 10 miles in an afternoon in search of game. I loved it.

When I left my hometown to attend university in Winnipeg, outdoorsmanship took a backseat to studying, partying and - in the summer months - work. Then I began my journalism career, moved back to Winnipeg to be with my new wife, and soon returned to Saskatchewan to start a business and a family. Getting out of town and into the bush had totally fallen off my radar.

However, after my meningioma diagnosis almost two years ago, I knew things would change. It was the third experience with a life-threatening health issue and I began to seek a new lease on life. After months of reading, praying, meditation and study, I was led back to my roots; back to the wild.

I am no longer a hunter, but have taken a great interest in other aspects of a life outside. The one aspect of that life I have held on to is fishing, which continues to be a pastime I participate in as often as possible. But in recent months, I have taken a particular interest in hiking and backpacking, something I have been motivated to do since reading "Into Thin Air" by Jon Krakauer about 10 years ago.

There is little chance I will be mountain climbing any time soon, but I have to admit the book moved me to do something in our natural wonderland. This idea perculated in me for quite some time, finally blossoming into a real desire to long-distance hike.

In January, while purchasing a wood stove for a fishing shack, I impulsively threw a set of new snowshoes in the shopping cart. I have put more than 50 kilometres on them in the past month and a half. The longest was a ten-mile route to the Pipestone Valley above Moosomin Lake south of Moosomin, Sask.

Last month, my wife and I visited Maui, where we walked three to four miles along the beaches of Kihei almost every morning, climbed five miles up a small mountain ridge and traversed a challenging, six-mile path on a lava field called The King's Road.

It was all so exhilerating.

Upon my return home, the idea struck me; why do I not combine my writing and journalistic skills with this new (old) passion for sportsmanship and wilderness adventure.

The West-Can Trailsman - west-cantrailsman.blogspot.ca - was born about two weeks later. The blog/e-zine features articles, anecdotes and photographs of rural Western Canada and the activities that drive us to enter it. It covers everything from hiking, backpacking and kayaking to snowmobiling, hunting and fishing. I am in discussions with two contributors from British Columbia and hope to bring more on board from Manitoba, Saskatchewan and Alberta in the coming months.

Meanwhile, I am seeking ways of monetizing the site in order to derive an income outside of my work with The Old 21. It will be a challenge, but I have the time and enginuity to make it work, I'm sure.

Please wander over to the The West-Can Trailsman and tell me what you think. I look forward to hearing ideas on how I can improve it, further tailoring the blog to the likings of the contemporary outdoorsmen and women I know are out there in droves.

Otherwise, read it as motivation to get outside yourself. Being there has been instrumental in my rehabilitation from the tumour and a near-tragedy I was involved in during the flooding of the Qu'Appelle Valley in 2014.

Thanks for your continued interest in This Attempted Life and I hope you continue to follow the sporadic posts I have been publishing.

The Old 21's debut EP available today

2014-12-05T12:09:00.001-06:00

The first run of A Pretty Good Shot, The Old 21's debut EP,
arrived on December 5, 2014.

This day - a day drummer Lorne Frape and I have been waiting years for - has finally arrived.

I have in my possession the opening run of The Old 21's debut EP, A Pretty Good Shot. A second run of about 80 more CDs will be available next week.

The arrival of the CD is the culmination of work that has spanned the last five years. Besides collaborating with a friend in high school, I (Christopher L. Istace, singer/songwriter, guitar) began writing songs of my own about a year after the formation of The Old 21. At that time, the band contained five members (vocals/guitar, drums, lead guitar, bass and keyboards) that played cabarets, bars and dances in the Moosomin, SK area. Many experiences since then have been mistaken for setbacks. They have turned out to be blessings. Today, the "group" is a duo that has played shows in Regina, throughout Southeast Saskatchewan and into Manitoba.

We had a hiccup with a CD recorded earlier this year, but with the extensive help of recording engineer Larry Gabrielle and artist/recording engineer/advisor Ross Cashman, Lorne and I hit the studio again early this fall. A Pretty Good Shot is the result.

The CD includes six tracks, including the first song I wrote performed with the original Old 21 formation; "Rock in The Distance."

The premier track on the CD, "Forgive Me One More Time," was written in February 2014 in the midst of a flurry of songwriting. The song portrays the redemption I sought from people close to me following a troubling year that had me in turmoil mentally, spiritually and emotionally.

The remaining tracks include "Break In," "Trouble Inside," the title-track "A Pretty Good Shot," and "Back For More." The latter is a rock-a-billy, break-up tune written by Trevor Doroshenko, who has graciously allowed us to perform and record it.

Although there are small tweaks we will make for our next CD - we plan to begin work on an LP sometime in 2015 - Lorne and I are proud of what we have accomplished with A Pretty Good Shot. We both hope those who have followed our work enjoy it and share it with others.

Lorne and I would like to say a special "thank you" to our wives, Angi Frape and Coral Istace. Without their patience and support over the past few years, we would never have come to this point.

A Pretty Good Shot is currently available for $15 through our Facebook page, myself at christace@icloud.com, or comment below and we will find a way to get one to you.

"Paco's Provision" on sale today

2014-11-28T10:48:00.000-06:00

My debut novel, Paco's Provision, is available now available online
via most major ebook retailers.

For Mike Massey, his dream of owning and operating a bar and restaurant is supposed to come easy. After purchasing The Boony in Woodbine, Saskatchewan, he seems to be on his way to successfully claiming that dream... and more.

Paco, a mysterious old man who lives and works in the historic hotel, seems to epitomize the soul of the place. His simple lifestyle and fearless demeanour teaches Mike there is more to life than the financial bottom-line.

Meanwhile, Mike discover's there is more to Paco - and his association with the old hotel - then the old man lets on. Mike's world begins to collapse with Paco's violent death. Then, the implementation of new government regulations cripples The Boony's business. Mike - a man who has previously had business success come easy to him - finds failure unbearable. His dream is becoming a living nightmare.

A promising relationship with his first real girlfriend ends, The Boony is on the verge of closure, and he sees no way out but through the bottom of a liquor bottle. But even after his death, Paco's spirit of survival lives on.

It's here! It's finally here!

I have accomplished the dream I have held since I was 13 years old. It took me almost 30 years, but I have published a novel. As of Friday, November 28, 2014, Paco's Provision is available for sale as an ebook at:

Barnes & Noble;

Kobo Books;

BookShop;

and other major online retailers. It will be available through Amazon for Kindle users and iBook in the near future.

I wrote Paco's Provision in 2007 in between jobs as a full-time print journalist. The book is a fictionalized story about the life of a man who used to live in Whitewood, Sask. Pancho lived and worked in what was known in my youth as The Hard Times bar and cafe. I worked there for a summer and came to enjoy his company, sharing a drink and a cigarette with him after a shift once in a while.

The story described in Paco's Provision, however, is totally the product of my imagination. Although it describes a family's immigration to Canada in the early 20th Century, that family is purely fictional. I simply thought of Pancho and made up the story of how he may have arrived in Saskatchewan.

The first draft of the story was spellchecked, printed into a hard copy then set in a drawer for five years. I had every intention of moving forward not the project, but family and employment obligations put any further work it on the back burner. At one point, I only remembered writing it when asked if I had ever contemplated writing a book. By then, I was a freelance writer working for several publications in Southeast Saskatchewan.

In 2012, I finally pulled it out and began an thorough edit. It was a mess, but the characters, plot and solid story arch were all there. Midway through a second look at the book, a serious health issue knocked me on my heels. As I recovered, I jumped back into the world I created, giving the book a two re-writes before handing it off for editing. I poured through the book again this summer and autumn, finally sending it off to BookBaby for publication in early this month.

Paco's Provision is the first book of many I plan to publish. I have the first draft of a second novel completed and a non-fiction book about my experiences with serious health issues through the past two decades is almost finished.

My next publication, however, will be Blizzard, a compilation of short fiction about life on the Canadian Prairies following an outdoor-recreation theme; stories about hunting, fishing, hiking, snowmobiling and other activities. The first draft should be completed in December, with a planned release date in the Spring of 2015.

In the meantime, please consider purchasing Paco's Provision, and if your inclined, passing a review on to the retailer where you purchased the book (Goodreads, iBook, Amazon, Barnes & Noble, Kobo).

Putting a challenging summer behind us

2014-10-29T14:24:00.000-06:00

It has been some time since I have posted to This Attempted Life and I apologize, to those who enjoy my writing. I hope to return to a weekly habit of posting updates on my music career and samples of my writing projects in the coming weeks.

The summer of 2014 has been a challenge, to say the least. Flooding in Southeast Saskatchewan has hit my family on three fronts; my mother and father's home was nearly lost to the deluge of water at Round Lake in early July, and our home and business were hit with flooding on July 10.

Round Lake reached levels of historic proportions as the summer season began. After holding back the water around my parents' home for a week with multiple pumps and thousands of pounds of sandbags, the flood overtook us and the house, filling the basement after a wall collapse. My father and I were in the basement managing pumps at the time of the collapse and it is only by the grace of God - along with the heroic efforts of my son and my mother - that my father and I survived physically unscathed.

Both of us were roughly three feet from the wall when it gave in. My father clung to the stairwell as the mud and water entered the basement, but I was pushed about 15 feet into the cavernous darkness. My first thought was literally, "This is where I die." But after finding some footing, my mind went numb and my subconscious took over. I scrambled through the incoming water and reached my father, who - also heroically - helped push me onto the home's main floor before my mother and I pulled him up.

Months later, I am still emotional about the experience.

The following week, Moosomin was hit with about 5 inches of water falling in roughly 45 minutes. Our sewer system held the rancid water out, but fresh water began seeping through the walls within a half hour. Mentally and emotionally, I was still reeling from my experience in the basement of my parents' home. I began to hallucinate as the carpets became saturated. The walls of the basement of my own home seemed, in my eyes, to tremble on the verge of giving in.

The vision was all in my mind, of course. After about an hour of focussed meditation and some fresh air, I was back downstairs helping vacuum water and manage a pair of sump pumps on each end of our house.

Considering the incredible amount of water - it flowed like a two-foot river down our street in a rushing current - I walked uptown to check on my wife's athletic therapy clinic. Water splashed four feet up the exterior walls as cars drove through a huge pool on the street corner the office is located on. Inside, the crawlspace was completely full and it was about a foot deep on the main level. I opened the office's back entrance and immediately saw water gushing up from the heat-vents. There was little we could do there, so I returned home to focus on our living accommodations.

In the months following, it has been determined that the clinic is virtually beyond saving. It is set for demolition early this winter, with plans to rebuild another facility beginning next spring.

Today, our home continues to dry out. I removed two feet of drywall along the floor of the entire basement through August and we are now waiting on the Provincial Disaster Assistance Program to determine if there is anything they can do for us monetarily.

Although our trial continues, the stress, sadness, anger and questions have began to wane. We are now focussed on moving forward on the rebuilds knowing that there was little we could do to stem the tide of material loss in this corner of the province.

Paco's Provision and The Old 21

On other fronts, I will soon be delving into final edits on my debut novel, "Paco's Provision," which I hope to have released as an ebook by mid-December at the latest. I wrote the book in 2008 and let it simmer for about four years before finally putting it through two re-writes through the past year and a half. I am proud of the accomplishment, but look forward to its publication as I would like to move on to another book of fiction I have begun.

"Blizzard" will be a book of short stories about hunting, fishing and the outdoors on the Canadian Prairies. The brunt of the rough draft for that project will be written through the month of November. There is no timeline for it's release, but should I stay disciplined, I would like to have it available in the spring of 2015.

Meanwhile, my music duo, The Old 21, is about 70 per cent finished our debut EP. We laid the final tracks on the CD last week and it is now in the hands of the producer for mixing and mastering.

The work includes all original songs written and arranged by myself with the exception of one written by Trevor Doroshenko; a phenomenally talented songwriter from Regina who has added to our repertoire on several occasions.

The CD should also be available by early December if plans do not go awry.

Beyond the books and the CD, I also would like to put out some recordings of my own - just me and my guitar plucking through some folk-pop songs I plan to write through the next few months. These may be made available through iTunes should the recordings - which I plan to do myself - meet the standards I have in mind.

All in all, I count my blessings. In 2013, I suffered two life-threatening seizures that were caused by a brain tumour, 90 per cent of which was surgically removed a year and a half ago. What remains of the tumour is swollen due to Gamma Knife Radiation treatment I underwent in January of this year. Then, I nearly became one of the few human casualties of the Biblical flooding of Southeast Saskatchewan in July of 2014.

The entire experience has sent me on an intellectual and spiritual journey since late last year. I have been deeply investigating - in a stimulating and emotionally healthy way - Christianity, God, consciousness, Buddhism, meditation, and ancient wisdom (specifically, Mayan and Eastern religious teachings). It's an interesting topic I may broach in future posts.

Regardless, I am extremely grateful for remaining on the right side of the grass and I am learning to appreciate every breath on a moment-by-moment basis.

This life thing; it's certainly worth living.

"Paco": A sip of my upcoming novel.

2014-05-23T12:04:00.000-06:00

What follows is an excerpt from my upcoming novel, currently titled Paco. I am hoping to release the book sometime this summer. Please watch for further details about its availability in the coming weeks.

By 1:30 a.m., the remaining patrons had left The Boony Bar, allowing Mike and Eric to get an early start on clean up duties. Mike was giving some beer mugs a final wipe with a towel and setting them on a shelf on the bar when he heard the old stairs leading to the lobby creak. Knowing it had to be Paco on his way into the barroom, Mike set down his towel and waited for the old Mexican to come through the door.

Paco appeared without his cap, something he always had on in public. He still wore his work clothes, spotted with white paint from the work he was doing above the urinals in the men’s washroom earlier that day. He walked straight to the bar in front of Eric. His eyes were red and swollen from weeping. He looked more tired than Mike had ever seen.

“Whiskey-wadda, no ice,” he half-whispered. It was a request he didn’t need to make, as Eric already knew the order.

Paco took his glass and limped solemnly to the table reserved for him. After setting his drink down, he stared at a spot on the wall. Tears welled up in the corner of his eyes. He wiped them away with his stubby, paint-splattered fingers.

Paco made a fist and rubbed a knuckle on some unseen spot on the wall in front of him. When he removed his hand, Mike spotted just a hint of a dent in the plaster where he had touched. Paco opened his hand and rubbed the spot up and down before taking his chair and sipping his drink. He buried his face in his hands, his shoulders shuddering as he began to cry.

Mike was frozen in place at the end of the bar. He had no idea why Paco was so emotional, but felt compassion for him regardless. Mike thought about walking over and putting an arm around the old man, but stayed where he was.

The creak and slam of the back door to The Boony pulled Mike’s attention away from Paco. The dark shadow that filled the doorway made a ball of anxiety form in Mike’s throat. Brian Langlois walked to the middle of the room, removed his plaid jacket and put his hands on his hips. An arrogant smirk crossed his face when he eyed Mike. His gaze moved to Paco sitting alone sipping his drink and crying.

Langlois rolled up his shirtsleeves and started for the old man. Eric began to move around the bar, but Mike held up his hand motioning for him to stop.

“I’m going to end this,” Mike said. Perspiration was already beginning to bubble on his brow.

“I’m right here,” Eric said.

Mike strode toward Paco to head off Langlois.

“What do you want?” Mike said, standing face to face with the thickly built former junior hockey player.

“I gotta settle a score,” Langlois said. He wiped his mouth with his thumb then wiped his thumb on the chest of his shirt. “I owe grandpa here a gawd-damned lump on the head.”

“Just leave, Brian. All this stuff between you and him – and you and I – it’s over. Just leave and don’t come back,” Mike said as sternly as he could manage. “Eric’s calling the police. Leave now and there’ll be nothing to lodge a complaint about.”

Eric scrambled to the end of the bar and grabbed the phone, punching the speed-dial button for the RCMP.

Langlois wasn’t going anywhere. He reached around Mike and nudged Paco firmly on the shoulder.

“What’ya drinkin’ old man?” he said.

Mike took another step towards Langlois. He stared up into the intruder’s eyes. Langlois glared down at him.

“Leave him alone and get out,” Mike growled.

Langlois pushed Mike hard in the chest, sending the smaller of the two stumbling backwards onto Paco’s table.

“Get the fuck outta here,” Langlois snapped at Mike. “I’ll take care of you in due time.”

Mike caught his breath and checked on Paco. The old man still had his face buried in his hands, seemingly oblivious to the tense situation developing beside him.

“Get up, you old bastard,” Langlois yelled.

“Get the hell out of here!” Mike screamed, returning to his position between Langlois and Paco.

Langlois laughed and pushed Mike even harder, forcing him to the floor.

Eric ran around the bar, but Mike shook his head at him as he got back up.

Paco stood, slurped the last of his “whiskey-wadda,” and stepped away from his table. He turned to face Langlois head on. The old man’s forehead barely reached Langlois’ chin.

“Mickey say you gotta go, you gotta go,” said Paco.

Langlois threw a jab at Paco, but the old man sidestepped the speeding fist, putting Langlois off-balance. Paco leaned over to the rack of pool cues on the wall and pulled one down. He stood calmly beside the pool table as if waiting for his turn to shoot.

“You wiry old son of a bitch,” Langlois said as he charged forward for another shot.

Paco flipped the cue over and clubbed Langlois in the ear with the thick end of the stick. The force of the blow made Langlois scream and paw at the side of his head. He looked at his hand and saw blood. It dripped from behind his ear, down his lobe and onto the collar of his shirt.

“You better go before you get hurt,” Paco said to him calmly.

Langlois shook his head to clear the stars he saw after the knock with the pool cue. He wiped blood from his ear again, looked at it then took a third run at Paco, who was standing about ten feet away.

As Eric jumped the bar, Mike dove to tackle Langlois before he got to Paco, but missed and crashed into a table and some chairs.

Paco quickly snapped the pool cue over his knee then pointed the jagged end of it at Langlois as the giant began raising his right arm for a punch. His fist connected with Paco’s chin just before his momentum carried both men over a table. They spilled to the floor, neither of them moving.

Mike rushed to Paco's side. The old man clutched his chest, his face twisted in pain. Langlois groaned beside them. Mike rolled him away. The pool cue fell out of a deep puncture in Langlois’ abdomen. Thick, red blood was already pooling on the carpet underneath him.

“Eric! Call an ambulance!” Mike screamed.

Eric raced back around the bar to the phone. Mike removed his shirt, balled it up and pressed it against the wound in Langlois’ belly. Then he turned his attention to Paco.

“Hang on, Paco,” he said, tears already coursing down his cheeks. “Please hang on.”

Paco grunted, unable to pull air into his lungs. When he did manage to, it was a quick gasp followed by a gurgle. The old man squirmed from the lack of oxygen and the unbearable pain in his chest.

Mike reached for one of Paco’s hands and squeezed it.

“Please, Paco. Stay with me. Stay with me,” Mike pleaded.

Paco’s face went blue, then grey. His attempts at breathing slowed. His eyes went dim. Mike was sure he was watching his old friend die and there was nothing he could do to save him.

Back to work already!

2014-03-24T12:17:00.001-06:00

After focussing on songwriting through the month of February, enjoying a quick vacation in Las Vegas and swinging from Regina to Yorkton for music/writing related events last weekend, it is time to fall back into a work routine.

Yes, it was fun flying by the seat of my pants - working here, playing there - since my Gamma Knife radiation session in January. But since my recovery from the Gamma surgery is complete and with spring upon us (I think), I believe it's the right time to put my head down, lock myself in my basement office and get back to re-establishing my new business.

Needless to say, it's been a hell of a year. March 7 represented the anniversary of a seizure that began the path towards the diagnosis of an atypical meningioma last spring. The time to move forward in full-force has long past. There will still be MRIs and doctor appointments to make sure my condition is improving, but they are months in the making. For now, my priorities are to regain the great momentum I seemed to acquire immediately after opening my freelance writing/music business in April, 2013.

Therefore, work has restarted on the second draft of my debut novel "Paco." I have found an editor and a potential cover artist for the book through a writer's group in Yorkton. I hope to have the draft ready for review by the end of April with an expected release date of mid-July.

Should you have any ties to Whitewood whatsoever, you may find the novel entertaining. The book is basically the fictionalized biography of a man who used to live and work in the town's old hotel and bar. I should note that the entire story is made up and no character is based on real people or situations, outside of my basic use of this old fellow as the face of a protagonist. The story comes purely from my imagination.

Meanwhile, I am open again for freelance journalistic work. I have written for publications in Esterhazy, Moosomin and Whitewood in the past, but have taken a particular interest in magazine work. This includes assignments from The Session, a trade publication produced by SaskMusic.

I am also available for contract work outside of the journalistic field. My background includes copywriting for advertising; the production of brochures and pamphlets; and editorial services for other writers wanting to have their work polished to a high sheen.

Then there's the music. After thoroughly enjoying performing at a house concert in Esterhazy, SK on Feb. 26, we hit The Windsor Hotel in Fleming, SK this Saturday, March 29. Showtime is 9 p.m.

Meanwhile, with the construction of our studio and the purchase of key recording equipment, Lorne Frape and I will begin preliminary tracking for an EP in April or May. The recording will include seven or eight of our favorite orginal numbers alongside a couple of brand new songs written in the past few weeks. We hope to have rough-cuts available for our June 14 show at The Lancaster Taphouse in Regina; if not, sometime this summer.

Until then, further shows are in development for Wawota, Round Lake, another Regina venue, Esterhazy and - although very early to say so - Yorkton. Follow along with us at www.reverbnation.com/theold21 and watch out for our new CD.

Last weekend, Saskatchewan's rising jazz and roots artist Belle Plain played a spectacular show in Regina. The concert was one of many hosted by Regina songwriter and The Old 21 contributor Trevor Doroshenko, who has brought the production of such an event to a high art.

The Old 21 also plays house concerts; the newest, most comfortable way to enjoy live music in Saskatchewan. The idea is simple: Invite a couple of dozen friends and family members; prepare some appetizers and refreshments (or make it BYOB); and set up some chairs theatre-style in your living room (or don't; it's really all up to you).

Lorne and I show up with instruments - and, if necessary, a sound system - and give you two hours of roots/folk/country music to clap your hands, stamp a toe or snap your fingers to. It's intimate, fun and gives everyone in attendance the impression that the artist is there to play solely for them. Should you want the party to continue after the show, we are happy to contribute even more music.

Among the many advantages are no lineups to the washroom, beer cooler or coffee pot.

Feel free to commentbelow should you be interested in being a trend setter in the province and hosting a night ike this. We are fully committed to help make each show a success and will provide further details on how to put it together.

Otherwise, please continue to support local art.

Pen, paper, mic and guitar: FAWM 2014

2014-01-31T16:48:00.000-06:00

Less than a month after receiving the master copies of The Old 21's debut EP, I am calling back the songwriting muse for February Album Writing Month (FAWM).

Beginning tomorrow, I and thousands of others around the world will attempt to write 14 songs through the month of February. I successfully participated in the program last year. About a half dozen of those songs continue to be played in regular rotation at Old 21 live shows. Two - "Trouble Inside" and "Edge of a Knife" - were recorded on the EP.

As a side note, at least two of them were eerily prophetic considering the medical issues I experienced just seven days after the end of February, 2013. A song called "Anchor Me," for example, explains how my wife has been the rock I have clung to through my health situations. It was one of the final numbers I penned before the end of the month.

As I do during National Novel Writing Month - where, through November, one attempts to write a 50,000-word novel - I will be forced to divorce myself from my inner critic. It is the only way to maintain a sustainable pace to write 14 songs through February.

In the end, I hope to create at least seven or eight songs worthy of further play, while the rest can become fodder for other ideas developed later in the year.

Regardless, FAWM is a fun, creative and spiritually exhilarating exercise. The online community goes a long way in making this so. The people involved in the program are extremely supportive, providing further motivation to polish the tunes to the point where they are worthy of public consumption. I look forward to choosing the best of the lot for a planned LP, which will be recorded sometime in 2014.

So here I am, once again leashed to my computer for an extended period, this time writing, recording and producing my newest musical creations. I plan to have rough-draft recordings of the songs available on Facebook and Twitter as they are ready. Some may not strike a chord with you, but I am hoping a few will brighten your day or allow you to escape your busy schedule for three or four minutes at a time.

Nevertheless, I look forward to the challenge FAWM presents and hope you will tag along for the ride.

A leap forward: Driving and Vegas

2014-01-28T12:18:00.000-06:00

Monday. Oh, blessed Monday.

Yesterday morning, I cried like a baby after learning my driver's license had been returned to me. It had been more than 10 months since I last drove after suffering from a tumour-induced seizure in March of 2013. The suspension that followed stripped me of my independence far beyond anything I could have expected.

To be honest, being forced to walk anywhere I wanted to go was definitely good for me. It was a bit of exercise to get me out of bed or off the couch during the recovery period following the surgery to resect the atypical meningioma.

However, the lack of a driver's license hindered my ability to enhance the freelance and music businesses I started after giving up my plumbing employment. It basically set the boundaries to my world to Moosomin-proper, unless my wife as available to chauffeur me elsewhere, like to the lake or the city.

I have long been an independent, proactive, self-starter. If I decide I need to accomplish something; be it a renovation, yard work or heading out of town for a football game or concert; I am impatient about getting at it. Without a license, I had to rely on someone else for the menial tasks of getting where I needed to be to get these projects accomplished. The frustration about the situation boiled within me, coming out in mood swings that were a burden for my wife and children through the past year.

Yes, I tried to maintain a positive mindset, particularly as it pertained to my recovery. This practice was integral to my victories over Crohn's Disease and a previous meningioma.

But as part of that recovery, it was essential that I attempt to maintain some sort of stable daily schedule. On occasion, my planned activities required travel. Instead, I was housebound.

There is a mental condition called cabin fever. It is real and I have suffered from it.

However, with the help of Amy Renneberg and Trevor Doroshenko from Henderson Insurance in Regina, Sask., my driving privileges were returned to me. I immediately jumped in my little-used truck and did some shopping uptown.

Oh, what a load off.

That's not all of the news from "Monday-oh-blessed-Monday," though.

During a visit with my neurosurgeon on Jan. 24, he confirmed that I was, once again, able to drive. He also gave me the go-ahead to travel and fly.

After taking the afternoon to investigate insurances, confirm a hotel room and book flights, my wife and I will be going to Las Vegas in March. The trip is the completion of an escapade we had to cancel last March after the seizure struck me down just seven days before the vacation was supposed to begin.

With this in mind, the trip booked yesterday will represent some closure to another medically challenging year.

I'm not a fool. I know my battle is not over. I must remain vigilant in maintaining a more healthy lifestyle. However, yesterday's accomplishments - my driver's license and a booked vacation - leave a sweet taste of victory on my tongue.

The biggest factor in overcoming what seem to be overwhelming obstacles is holding tightly to the idea that - despite the pain, inconvenience and mental anguish - you will get through them; that some things may have changed forever, but not everything has to.

For me, January 27, 2014 will be remembered as a day of victory; a day that proves the above statement; a day forever noted as "Monday-oh-blessed-Monday" in my life's story.

Thus, I return to work

2014-01-20T10:40:00.001-06:00

It has been more than a month since I last sat down at my desk with intentions of accomplishing meaningful work; be it freelance writing for area publications, my fiction and non-fiction book projects or preparing for an Old 21 show.

Today, I will be productive.

After celebrating the Holiday Season at Round Lake, Sask. then undergoing another medical procedure in Winnipeg, it is about time I step into my basement office, put my head down and return to the business I started in April of 2013. I will begin that task by continuing the second draft of my novel, "Paco," which I hope to have published online via Amazon and other ebook retailers before the end of Spring, 2014.

As I plow my way through that, I will also continue to work on my memoir, "This Attempted Life." That project is still a long way from completion, considering I have numerous interviews to conduct, then several rewrites. Regardless, I still need to lay down the final chapter involving what became of 2013.

Finally, there is The Old 21 and the exciting completion of our debut EP. The master copies were acquired from the mixer - thank you so much, Mr. Cunningham - on Saturday. Despite some rough points in a couple of songs, it turned out good enough to make my hair stand on end as I listened to it for the first time.

We are very enthusiastic about the CD's implications. It will allow us to expand our performance territory further abroad, including venues in Regina, Saskatoon, Winnipeg, Brandon and into Alberta. Having a sampling of our music to hand out gives us a much more effective tool in booking shows than our previous method; handing our business cards, talking over the phone, and directing people to our ReverbNation page.

( www.reverbnation.com/theold21 )

We will continue to do the latter, only now we have an audio sampling to say, "This is what we do. When can we come?"

We will have some of the seven recorded songs available for a listen on ReverbNation and Facebook in the coming few weeks. Otherwise, we will begin processing copies of the CD for sale at our shows or through me.

Betwixt it all - family obligations, the writing, the music - I am constructing a studio at my home, relieving my wife of the weekly turmoil surrounding The Old 21's rehearsals. That work begins next month, which will also include my participation in a songwriting competition requiring me to write 14 songs in February. It's just a personal challenge, but it should produce four or five decent numbers that can be worked into a growing catalogue of original music.

There are several irons in the fire, no doubt. And, should my freelance journalism work take off as it did last Spring, those irons are going to grow even hotter.

I'm moving on with my life again. Last year's medical emergency seems like a dream now. It held its tragedy, but there are so many blessings in the mix as well.