When she opened the door to the fridge repairman, she didn’t foresee all the doors on the other side.

In this series, you may have concluded I always cook dinner and I try to make healthy choices. That would be insane. And boring. Sometimes I head to the strip on Weston Road and pick up takeout and then indulge in trashy mags or fluffy series as accompaniment. But I still make dining an occasion. I’m worth it. And it’s not hard to do.

“Jack, can you make a list of your passwords for me please?”

I know I’ll need this list. I don’t know exactly when. Jack has metastatic lung cancer and two months ago, he was given two to four months to live. 

Google “hospice and guilt” and you’ll get screens full of links. Most take you to hospice websites, where carefully worded statements try to allay the feelings of those who are, like I was, in the unenviable position of being someone’s power of attorney for personal care.

I’ve eaten so much Japanese food that it’s become my comfort food. And none is as homey for me as ramen. So much so, I’ve taken to making versions of ramen at home. Not those packages. Gross. No, I’ve kicked it a tiny notch higher. Like this one.

I decided in January to read more to improve my writing. I committed to myself to read two books each month. In April, I shared with you my first quarter success - if you missed it, check it out here. I gave you my 2nd quarter picks in August, all Canadian fiction. The third quarter provided a more balanced selection - contemporary Irish  and American writers mixed in with Canadian, and a balance of fiction and non-fiction.

“Call me Jack,” he said, entering my condo, toolbox in hand.   

“Is that your name?” I asked.

“No. Canadians can’t pronounce it.”

“Try me.” I might as well chat to him. “Kitchen’s here.  Fridge makes a weird noise. Want coffee?”

After Life doesn’t shy away from things either - in this case, it’s widowhood. The opening scene is a woman with a chemo scarf on against a hospital bed headboard, saying “if you’re watching this, I’m not around anymore.” At the 1 minute, 14 second mark, I’m already crying. And it goes from there. I devoured its first season hungrily in early 2019 in the basement of the house where Jack and I had lived and laughed, and where Jack died just three months earlier. Gervais’ ability to get to the core of spousal death gripped me. I sobbed. I laughed. I loved the series. Seasons 2 and 3 followed, tracking my own grief experience in so many ways, although, to be clear, I didn’t contemplate ending my life, befriend a prostitute, or dabble in heavy drugs.

Our first stop was the 300 sq ft lakeview cabin at Glenn Burney Lodge on Georgian Bay just outside Parry Sound. We’d taken snacks and drinks for two days and nights of straight up R&R. After an evening of wine, chips, and TV, I returned to bed from my evening ablutions to find Kora snuggled in with Jack.