Between 15 and 20 per cent of all pregnancies in Canada end in miscarriage, according to estimates by the Society of Obstetricians and Gynaecologists of Canada (SOGC).
Everyone loves a parade. Especially me. Or, so goes the conventional wisdom of people who know me. After all, I was the Canada Day Parade organizer for a decade in my western Canadian prairie suburb.
Many people are looking forward to the upcoming Santa Claus Parade in our city, but I’m not. Far from it. I’ve only attended one time since I left the Executive Director job at the Chamber of Commerce — the organization that runs the parade. It’s just too painful.
Let me explain.
Our car was gone!
When we left the restaurant after celebrating my artist wife’s 30th birthday, we strolled casually to the parking lot with the fluorescent beams of light glowing above the pavement under the half moon.
As we rounded the corner of the building, our little Honda Civic was not there. The spot we had left our car in was filled with a black SUV.
Frantically, my artist wife whipped her head around in every direction hunting for any sign of our maroon-coloured little economy car.
I could’ve sworn this cooler was blue yesterday, I thought to myself.
Standing in our kitchen, I was looking at the small cooler we often use to haul gatorade, ice, and cooling towels for our son’s baseball. My eyebrow was gently cock-eyed as my mind tried to decipher what exactly I was looking at here.
The cooler was looking like a reverse Dalmatian. It had obvious white spots on what had previously been a pristine royal blue exterior.
Before I was married to an artist, I saw the world in simple colors.
Green was green. Whether it was your run-of-the-mill fescue grass you find on suburban Canadian prairie lawns or the coarse baize covering a billiard table, the color was simply green.
Same for blue. Whether it was the crystal-clear sky on a cloudless day or the inimitable, googly-eyed Cookie Monster, the color was simply blue.
Sometimes in writing these stories, I might take exaggeration a little too far and need to reign in my storytelling to not stray too far from the real-life inspiration.
My artist wife often acts as this check on my immense imagination that often takes the most modest and trivial detail and blows it completely out of proportion for entertainment purposes.
I might be tempted to call this reality check a “buzzkill” but I prefer to sleep in my bed and not on the couch.
Our wedding was held outdoors in the simmering, summer heat of the Canadian Prairies. However, we planned much of the wedding in the bitter, winter cold of those same Prairies.
It was 15 years ago this week that we took that walk down the aisle before racing off to Quebec City for the fun part. ?
Back then, my artist wife was still burgeoning in her career in those days. Neither of us really had a true grasp of the business side of her chosen vocation.