Well Beyond a Game of Broken Telephone...

It’s high time a few misconceptions were cleared up.

Yesterday for the umpteenth time (and I’m praying it's the last) I had an interaction with someone who expressed surprise that I was out in public – and miraculously able to string two words together. One more person who had been led to believe that I had lost all control of my mental faculties and was no longer making sense at all due to the brain tumours that supposedly had invaded my brain.

My brain is just fine thank you very much. My body may be falling apart, but I consider myself incredibly blessed to be spared the tumours that can infiltrate the brain of ECD patients and cause numerous troubles. My faculties are intact, as the many people I frequently interact with, have lived with and continue to laugh with can attest to.

Last year I went through a tragic grief process akin to dealing with the death of a dearly loved one; and it wouldn’t be unfair to look at our situation from that perspective. I hit rock bottom with the loss of my marriage, my home, my business and my health, I’m not ashamed to admit that. But lose my sanity? I did not.  Mental health professionals whose support I sought as I went through my grieving process applauded the strength that I demonstrated under tragic circumstances. And continue to do so.

For those of you who’ve heard or read wild stories that I know are being shared, you might wish to look up the definition of “projection” in the arena of psychology.  I can most confidently assure you that I’m still the same loving , serene and gentle woman; a person who despite all that has happened can find plenty of humour under incredibly trying circumstances.

My daughter and I are moving on. We’re done with the turmoil, the wild accusations, and the unconscionable name-calling that continues to revisit me through the gossip mill. Done with living with the anxiety of what the next day would bring during the outrageously expensive legal proceedings.

We’re pleased that this weekend we finalized the deal on an apartment that we will call our own, after three months of being without a home. Trust me – if I was in the state that may have been described to you it would have become quickly apparent to those whom we’ve lived with in tight quarters. We were welcomed with open arms when we had nowhere to go, and now my daughter and I leave these dear friends who have become our family. They’ll continue to hold a very special place in our hearts and lives.

We’re okay. We’re not in great shape financially; we’ll be sharing a small one bedroom apartment when my daughter is visiting from school, trying to keep my very old car glued together so that my daughter has transportation to her part-time job, and counting every last penny. We’ll have to do without a lot, my budget doesn’t allow for the cleaning ladies who’ve made my life much easier over the last year. Even basic cable TV had to be cut with the realization that I just can’t afford the deductibles on my pain and cardiac medications without resorting to limiting ourselves to the very barest of necessities (this shall be an interesting experiment given that I’m pretty much housebound).

My health continues to decline, the measures being taken at this time are palliative and on some days that’s hard to swallow (and perhaps the decision to move into an apartment by myself isn’t the best decision given my physical disability, but I’ve been left with no other options due to financial constraints). The new place will be ours and we’re at peace with our decision to leave the memories of the last two years behind us. But that’s all they’ll be – sad memories that we’re choosing to bury.

But for goodness sake, if you’re going to partake in the string of gossip surrounding the circumstances of my ex-husband’s decision to walk out on me – try to remember who you knew me to be before. Whether you liked me or not, I’m still me. I’m done trying to understand how someone who when handed an option to leave when I was first diagnosed (a very difficult offer for me to extend three years ago, but thought fair given my prognosis) assured me with a loving heart that I would never be left to deal with this burden alone can have adopted such a drastically different perspective in a very short time frame.

Before sharing the tales you may have heard, please take a moment to consider how it affects my daughter when derogatory comments reach her. Do you know these stories to be true without doubt? If you're not sure, just ask me. I'll be candid about the challenges I went through during  this time, others have told me that they've been of some value in facing their own difficulties in life. My daughter’s not in the dark to the fact that I have my faults; you’d never hear me say that I’m without them.  She’s already dealing with the fear (and not an unreasonable one) of losing me to this devastating disease. Isn’t that more than enough for a nineteen year old to deal with?