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In 2010, I had my last real doughnut.
It was an éclair from the Arborg Bakery when my friends and I were in town for a college project. I told them, “Before we leave, we have to stop at the bakery!”
While my friends cooed in doughnut heaven, I drove back to Red River College, scratching my itchy burning hands as they bubbled like pop rocks.
I couldn’t accept the obvious: I was Celiac.
When one of my aunts was diagnosed in the late 1990s, few people understood Celiac disease. In a nutshell – no gluten. Barley, malt, malt flavour, brewer’s yeast, dextrin. And more! Celiac is an autoimmune disease, and it runs on its own timeline – and it’s often hereditary. Stress or an overload of gluten can mess with your gluten filled life. After years of yummy puffy homemade bread, a body can revolt.
Continue reading “My Last Real Doughnut: The Celiac Realization”
On May 6th, 2021, I found out non-essential and elective surgeries were postponed for the month of May because of the rising number of COVID-19 in Manitoba. These postponed surgeries include hysterectomies.
This post contains the real word for “Mother Nature’s Bill” and “Crimson Tide.” Plus the real names of body parts rather than “hoo-ha.”
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“So, are you sexually active?” asked my gynecologist.
I tilted my head, pressing my lips together. Stifling a giggle. “I’ve had sex … and I remember sex.” We both burst out laughing. I said “I’m basically a virgin.”
Humour is my coping mechanism. I’ll laugh if I can’t find a street. If I almost lock myself out of the house. If I walk into a wall. I’m the one who couldn’t stop laughing because I was stuck in the Arborg Coop’s car wash.
This was a little different though as I sat on an exam table naked from the waist down with a thin piece of paper over me. I felt humour would break the ice as I awaited my third pelvic ultrasound.
My ultrasounds have never been the “fun, happy, you’re having twins” kind. If they were, I’d have the cast of The Sound of Music and their backups. Instead it’s thyroid nodules and two unnamed uterine fibroids.
Continue reading “When a Hysterectomy Closes the Baby Door, You Cope with Humour”
There’s a small white building at the corner of Hwy 8 and Provincial Road 222 in Hnausa, Manitoba.
When I was a child, that white store was Stefanson and Son General Store. However, most people called it Stefan’s. Stefan and his father, Sigurgeir, ran the business until Stefan went solo. Meanwhile, his brother John operated The Dog Patch in Arborg, an eight-minute drive from Hwy 68 and Hwy 8. However, Stefan catered to a different clientele. Cottagers. Campers. Fishermen. Kids at the beach. Teenagers who wanted to shoot pool.
I grew up near Hnausa during an idyllic time. When Hnausa Beach was a beach, not a Provincial Park. When you could enter year-round rather than a gate blocking access at the end of summer until camping season.
One constant was Stefan’s store though. The only thing that changed was the colour of the building. Until the early-90s, it had a Walmart blue door, matching the bottom half of the store.
Stefan Stefanson was a gruff and tough man with a heart of gold. Whenever he’d tally my Mom’s purchases, he’d allow my older sister, Jenn, and I behind the counter to choose from an array of chocolate bars, bubblegum, and novelty candies – such as candy necklaces.
During the summers, our Mom would make an early morning pit stop before dropping us off at Hnausa Day Camp. We’d arrive at camp with lipstick candy and lollipop rings. Stefan’s store used to have a go-cart track behind his store. As camp was winding down, the older kids could be heard for miles zipping around that track. Stefan shut down those go-carts in the mid-80s, deeming them a liability. Stefan’s was the only place to buy gas in Hnausa, but those tanks were more of a hassle. He let them run dry, and he kept them for decorative purposes.
Continue reading “Childhood Memories of Stefan’s Store – Chocolate, Candy, and Old Cornflakes”