The Story Isn’t Always Pictured
One of the coolest things about having a smartphone is scrolling through the photo roll at calendar’s end and reflecting on the memorable moments of the outgoing 12 months, and determining whether or not those moments amount to a year worthy of mention.

A brief sifting through 2025’s photos reminds me that the year has had more than its share of family highlights: our daughter’s continued development into an incredible person, her boyfriend’s increasing presence in our lives, the welcoming of a new family member, our unforgettable 12-day Alberta vacation, and special visits with family and friends.

Then there were highlights that aren’t pictured: namely the announcement of another family member coming in 2026. Also not pictured were two relative lowlights; a pair of accidents that made life trying at times for Kim: a wrist injury early in the year, sustained via an awkward fall on ice during an otherwise wonderful day in Elora. My photos only show the beauty of the picturesque town on a snowy day. Then there was the fractured jaw at the start of summer, sustained via a freakish trip on the sidewalk during a morning jog. That incident nearly derailed our Alberta trip and caused Kim weeks of facial discomfort plus a few trips to the dentist.

Sometimes life’s lows render the highs nearly null and void. This was certainly the case this year. A photo or two may have been snapped for perpetuity but in truth none were needed because we will never forget what happened. In the first case, we knew what was coming months ahead of time and had ample time to prepare ourselves emotionally. In the second case, we had little time and place to prepare for a heartbreaking loss.

Sydney: 2006-2025
Our 19-year-old doggie Sydney passed away in June. The sweet white fluffball’s health had been going downhill for months and we knew it was time to call the euthanasia-at-home service. Our days with our Maltese Poodle were over. She gave us endless love and companionship over two decades and now it was time for her to rest. Sydney’s hearing was nearly gone, her eyesight was failing, her kidneys were shutting down, she had lost a fifth of her 18-pound maximum weight and her legs couldn’t even take her around the block at a snail’s pace any more. So, on a Saturday morning, she lay in our daughter’s lap while Ailsa stroked her back, and the injected medicine took her from us, quickly and painlessly. We began missing her instantly and haven’t stopped since.

People have since asked us if we might be getting another dog and our answer is something we discussed as a family at length long before Sydney took her last breath: No. Not now, not soon, not for a few years at least. Owning and caring for a pet is something we take very seriously and committed ourselves to entirely with Sydney. At this point in our lives, we’re not prepared to make that commitment again. Truth is, we had the best dog we could have ever asked for. No other pup, no matter how cute and wonderful, could take her place. Right now, none is worth waking up twice in the night for as she needs to pee yet again due to her failing kidneys. No other dog is worth $2,000 in vet bills as we try our best to keep her comfortable in her last months. Maybe one day we’ll be ready to love another fur baby, but for now Sydney is still too much with us still in too many ways. Especially now, our first Christmas without her since 2005.

Peter: 1928-2025
Kim’s Dad’s death hit us hard and quickly at the beginning of August. We’d lost other family members in recent years and we miss them all dearly. But all of them experienced a lengthy, often drawn-out decline in health that lasted years in a couple of cases. My Dad, for instance, passed away in June 2023 after nearly a decade of deteriorating health. Peter’s rapid decline lasted only a few weeks. Only after he died did we trace back a physical break down to episodes earlier in the year, which we thought were no more than a natural pattern of aging. The man was 97 after all. You can’t become that age without having a few down days here and there. You catch the odd cold or flu and it may take you twice as long to recover as the average 50-year-old.

Then came summer. We didn’t have any idea the end was near when he began to look frail and gaunt. He slept more and ate less. But he’d had periods like this in his recent past and he got over each of them. As our family doctor said, ‘Peter’s the Energizer Bunny,’ referring to the Energizer battery company and their TV ad that showed a stuffed plush battery-operated rabbit that just kept rolling and banging its drum. Peter’s internal battery, once seemingly ceaseless, was indeed wearing out.

Kim and I knew he was experiencing a down period when we left for our Alberta trip. Kim’s Mom and younger sister were planning to take him to the doctor to get checked out. No one thought of it as any more than a blip. Everyone in the family had earmarked Peter to live to 100. We knew he had it in him. For what seemed like forever, all indictors pointed in this direction. Peter would be our family’s first centenarian. Grandma Kathy died months earlier just shy of the century mark but surely Peter would hit it.

Then came the news, which we received via a difficult phone call in Edmonton. Kim and I were staying with my best friend and his family when she got the call from her younger sister. Peter visited the family doctor and was soon diagnosed with metastatic cancer. We were told there was nothing we could do and should try to enjoy our vacation. He’d be fine until we got home. We’d be back in about 10 days. That wasn’t too long.

However, within a few days, he was on the path to moving to a hospice home. Peter must have sensed things were dire because he loved his home and never wanted to leave it. Still, he gave his consent and was soon resting at the Carpenter Hospice here in Burlington. It is a wonderful place where anyone would be lucky to spend their last days. There, he was treated with non-stop care and attention. The visits from family were nearly non-stop. That frequency ramped up when we returned from Alberta.

Peter passed away peacefully early on a Tuesday morning. The Hospice called and everyone arrived quickly. My mother-in-law Marion (Nana) was suddenly on her own for the first time after 66 years of marriage and 74 years in total together with the love of her life. We were most worried about her and have been supporting her ever since.

The funeral service was a simple family affair with little fanfare, exactly what Peter wanted. Family had always meant everything to him and we were all there, at the funeral home in Dundas just days after he left us. We played the music he loved most, including Scottish standards with beautiful bagpiping filling the room, an apt tribute to his roots. We drew pictures on his pine box casket. We each made an outline of our hands and wrote a simple personal message inside the lines. We all looked at him one last time and, I believe, knew we’d remember him the way he looked for all his many years rather than the shell of himself that he’d become in his last few weeks. Peter was always a slight man; he was distinguished and well presented. He remained that way until his final breath, and right up to his final appearance there in the funeral home.

A Christmas of Reflection
I hadn’t thought about this before but it occurs to me now: Peter was probably glad that he passed away in the warm weather. Like my Dad, he was constantly cold and always sought the warmest seat in the room and the furthest spot away from any possible draft. So, it seems appropriate that they both died long before the onset of another winter, thereby sparing themselves from all that sweater-wearing and shivering. At least Peter had a nice fireplace in his basement for his last many years.

Also like my Dad, Peter was patient to a fault. They were both May-born and had many characteristics of a ‘typical Taurus.’ They were each stalwart and utterly reliable, and neither would ever act harshly out of anger. They both had a gentle sense of humour. Both had left their childhood homes for new pastures a continent away. And they both loved Christmas. But whereas my Dad never quite learned to accept gifts graciously, constantly joking that he didn’t need anything, Peter enjoyed opening gifts and seeing what new things he’d received. I have several photos from past Christmas mornings of him opening his gifts with obvious joy. They have suddenly become more important, just like the photos from Dad’s last Christmas.

Christmas morning has always been the hub of excitement at my in-laws’ home. This year was no different. Everyone that was supposed to be there was there, except for one who was ill. The ages ranged from 9 months old to 94-year-old Nana. She was perfectly collected during the morning’s gift exchange craziness, where everyone is given the gifts from their secret Santa, based on names chosen from a hat weeks earlier. It wasn’t long before the emotional moment: opening the gift Ailsa gave her: a 3D photo glass crystal block. Below the photo of Peter were the words: “Forever In Our Hearts.” Once she realized what it was, she broke out in tears. She’s always been emotional so this was not out of character. Fortunately for Nana, most of the focus was on the kids tearing open their gifts on the other side of the basement. She was able to collect herself before most of the family noticed her tears.

The previous evening Ailsa had given a similar crystal block gift to her Oma, my Mom: a photo of her and Opa together in formal wear from years back. She was similarly emotional, though perhaps a little more collectedly.

The rest of this Christmas Day was celebrated with the spirit of Peter all around. We didn’t have to say his name throughout the gift exchange, during our traditional breakfast or when we recollected later in the day for dinner, when more family and friends arrived. No one was forgetting about him, and I feel assured in the idea that we’d all been remembering him non-stop, in our own private reflections here and there, even before he passed away.

We would have been celebrating Peter’s life on December 28, with an Open House at our place meant specifically to honour him. It was all planned and ready-to-go: guests arriving within hours, food ordered, photos of Peter framed, music playlist ready to go, house cleaned. But the weather didn’t nearly cooperate with a distasteful combination of freezing rain and pounding rain. And at least five people invited were ill, including yours truly, and Nana, without whom the celebration wouldn’t have mattered much. So, we’ll try again at a date yet to be determined.

We’ll try to do the same things we always do as a family: come together from near and far. For most of us that means a short car ride of 20 minutes. In the case of our beloved family of five, it means organizing a road trip from Prince Edward Island, a challenging 20-hour drive away. They made it, just like they returned home when Peter passed away. We’ll see them again soon enough, as they return home for the next big family celebration. That’s how they want it and it’s how Peter would have wanted and always truly appreciated. It’s the way you prove that you miss someone. Going far beyond words. Making time matter. Easing the heartbreak of loss.