Tiny gifts

Sometimes the universe drops tiny gifts in your lap.

Sometimes a small victory, a shared laugh and connections made build one upon another to renew your confidence that life will always sort itself out.

Sometimes, when you express yourself from the heart; when you ask for a sign that someone or something is rooting for you and your family, the universe answers.

And it says yes.

My late friend Grace's book, about her battle with chronic illness, arrived on my doorstep just a week before my mother-in-law went to the hospital suffering symptoms which we now know are a result of cancer of the lymph nodes.

The comment from Grace's mother - a pastor at a tiny church in northern Canada - arrived just hours after I posted my ruminations on her life, her faith and the meaning of her reemergence in my psyche and my life. The e-mail from Grace's sister - who runs a centre for victims of sexual assault not far from where I live - came shortly afterwards.

Both these women, who I met just once more than 17 years ago, thanked me - me! - for what I had written about Grace and expressed how much my words had meant to them. And while I am profoundly humbled that something I wrote has brought them some measure of comfort, I am also gratified and awed that these connections, fostered across cyberspace, by way of this space, have brought me a renewed faith that my life, however trying at times, is indeed unfolding in the manner in which it was intended.

Yes, the end of last week was much better than the beginning, the timbre of which was characterized by this post about how inadequate I felt for having neither the energy nor the inclination to potty-train.

Just hours after I heard from Grace's sister and returned home to Rob and Graham after a much-needed, post-meeting wine and gab session with two work colleagues - wonderful women who I now proudly call friends - there was a surprise in store.

"Go ahead, Graham," Rob said. "Show mommy what we've been working on while she was at work."

And over to the potty chair my boy went. And with the biggest, proudest smile you have ever seen, he sat right down.

Yes, he was wearing a diaper. And yes, he was fully clothed. But Graham sat right on the potty, cheerfully and without apparent fear of the monsters he has long insisted reside inside.

I never thought such a little thing could make me feel so hopeful.

Hopeful not just about potty training, but about everything else, because Graham overcoming his fear and stubborn resistance so suddenly demonstrates to me that we are never truly stuck and that people and situations always evolve.

And I never thought that such a little thing could make me feel so proud: proud because it demonstrates to me that me and my little boy and my little family are capable of working on anything together and getting results.

Knocked Off My Knees

You're probably thinking that I didn't have the heart to read it.

But I did.

I read every word of Knocked Off My Knees, the book that my former university roommate and dear friend Grace wrote about coping with chronic illness.

I read every word of the book that I didn't even know existed until I attempted to respond to Grace several weeks ago, more than two years too late, and learned she had succumbed to lupus-related complications.

And while I felt my heart breaking just a little more with every page I turned, I have since carried Grace's words and her attitude with me as a kind of talisman against the fear and uncertainty that the spectre of cancer has recently visited upon me and my family.

Grace was my dormitory roommate in my first year at university. I met her just moments after parking the big beat-up, pickup truck I had driven, alone, to school in a big city several hours distant from my tiny home town.

It was 1989 and I was the stereotypical small town girl on the loose - big hair, tight jeans and too much makeup. I was there to party, make no mistake, so I hope I can be forgiven for admitting that my heart sank just a little when I met my roommate Grace.

Grace had sensible clothes, thick unruly hair and a face devoid of makeup. She was sweet and soft spoken, not loud and flashy. She had a way of pausing before she spoke, of really thinking about what she was going to say, that seemed awkward to me - someone who was accustomed to judging a person by the speed at which they could deliver snappy one liners.

Grace was, I soon learned, one of those rare sorts: a deeply committed Christian who actually weighed her every word and act to be sure they would do justice to her beliefs.

Grace lived her faith, truly lived her faith, and once I got over my shock - "You've never been to second base with a boy?! You can't remember the last time you saw a movie?!" - I came to deeply, deeply admire her.

I admired Grace because, although she chose to love God, there was nothing in her manner to suggest that she considered herself above the dozens of girls in the dorm, myself included, who chose instead to recklessly demonstrate a love of alcohol and parties and football players.

Grace didn't judge and she didn't preach: she didn't have to. There was a thoughtful confidence and calm about her, an inner peace - if you can forgive the cliche - that spoke volumes about the quiet rewards of unshakable faith.

After our first year as roommates I moved off campus, but remained friends with Grace. She visited my parents' home with me and I was a guest at her wedding, just half a year after graduation. But we didn't stay in touch much after that.

If I am honest, I will admit that there was a bit of a reluctance on my part to reconnect with Grace over the years. As time passed I put her on a bit of a pedestal. Throughout my lonely, single years as I struggled to find someone to love, I imagined her with a house full of beautiful and pious children and expected that she might pity me and my foolish choices.

Imagine my surprise, and my regret, when I learned in the book that she and her husband struggled with infertility for years and that lupus first struck, and left her a quadriplegic, when her first and only adopted child - a son - was less than a year old.

Grace sounds in the book just like I remember her: incredibly centred and pragmatic with regards to the injustice of her lot. Incredibly strong and full of faith. Knocked Off My Knees is not a philosophic rumination on living and dying, but rather a clear-eyed view of what patients endure and how they and their family members should conduct themselves, must conduct themselves, if they want to maximize the benefits of our medical system.

I think of Grace a lot these days. I wonder if her faith ever wavered after she fought back to recovery and published her book, only to see the disease return. I even wonder if she ever railed against God for not allowing her to live to see her son grow to manhood.

But I do not think that she did.

I also don't think she intended the book to make people feel sorry for her, but I am nonetheless overwhelmed with sadness at what she endured. Given that I was not able to offer any comfort to her during her time of need, I feel compelled to take away from her words some sense of meaning: I feel that I owe at least that much to her memory.

My life has not been easy these past few months. My beloved mother-in-law is fighting cancer and I am struggling to help both my husband and my son cope. There has been darkness these past few years that I have only hinted at here - sickness and stress and worry that has tested my strength and my marriage.

But I wonder if there was a reason why I decided, after all these years, to finally reconnect with Grace, the person who personified her name like no one else I have ever known. I wonder if I was meant, at this time in my life, to read her words and remember her strength and her faith and her calm.

And when I read this passage, at the closing of her book, I wonder if she isn't speaking directly to me.

"I don't know how healthy I'll be tomorrow or next week, or next month. But today I feel quite strong and well and am so thankful for that. All I can do is accept the unalterable, and wonderful, truth - it's in God's hands."

I like to think that she is.

Reconnecting with Grace

I had not had any meaningful contact with Grace for almost 10 years when I picked up a message from my university alumni office about two and a half years ago.

My old journalism school roommate was trying to track me down. Could they forward my contact information to her?

Of course they could! I called back right away, excited that Grace had taken the initiative to reconnect, something I had been meaning to do forever. I left a message and asked for a return call so I could get Grace's details as well.

I never heard back, from Grace or from the alumni association, and after a few weeks of happy anticipation, the idea of reconnecting got pushed to the back of my mind once again, filed away on the list of things that I absolutely would get around to, one of these days.

Until last night.

I was playing idly on the computer and Grace's face popped into my mind. This time, instead of just thinking "I really must look her up" I typed her name into a search engine and waited, happy and pleased that I was finally following through on something that had been nagging around the edges of my psyche for so long.

The first link I opened was her obituary.

My former roommate and dear friend died almost exactly two years ago after a painful battle with Lupus. The disease struck in 2002 when her first and only child - a son - was 10 months old. It included serious muscle inflammation and weakness that within months saw her hospitalized and essentially a quadriplegic.

Grace fought tooth and nail to recover and reclaim her life, I read. In 2003 she published a book about her struggle with chronic illness, dependence and her experience as a patient. In 2006, just months after she attempted to contact me, she succumbed to the disease and a myriad of resultant medical problems.

She was 37.

And so, after crying my eyes out for a little while I did the only thing I felt I could do: I bought her book.

It's due to arrive in 5-7 business days and when it does I will curl up with it on the couch. And through my tears I will finally stop putting off what I have been meaning to do forever, though I will do it in a manner I never, ever expected.

I will reconnect with Grace.