Eleven years ago today Shiloh came into this world.

...sequel to yesterday's post...

I had gathered all my things the afternoon before, and made the two minute walk (or waddle in my case at the time), down the road to the back entrance of the hospital. All the kids from the compound were in tow, each carrying something, quite proud and happy to be part of the event and journey. At the hospital gate the guard tried to shoo them all away, but a few were allowed to follow me inside.

After the formalities of paying for everything, from bed space to intravenous bags, my Canadian friend and confidante, T and I were led to a fairly clean, private room.



We sat on the bed and chatted. We imagined what the baby would be like, what the birth would be like. My nerves ebbed and flowed.

In the evening my husband brought Kobi (Q) down the road to be with me. We all sat, we chatted. I hugged my boy. The nurse came and told me visiting hours were over. This was it. I was to be alone until the next day, after by baby was born.

I felt instantly terrified and sentimental. I wanted my family back. Aunty Maude! My mom. I’m sure I curled as much as I could into a ball and cried myself to sleep, hugging my belly and gathering the strength and bond the two of us needed for the next day.

In the morning I was wheeled down to the surgery ward, past the busy lobby, through the morning prayer being observed by all, made the obligatory stop and then proceeded to a smaller quieter lobby with a few people lying and sitting somberly on the hard benches.

The waiting ensued. I was supposed to be scheduled for 9am surgery, but on GMT (Ghana Maybe Time), I knew this was to be far later.

I was uncharacteristically calm. Serene. Baby thumped now and then to say hello and comfort me, in light of the dangerous events that we were about to submit ourselves to.

There was gathering momentum around the surgery as the time got closer, with nurses and other uniformed strangers moved in and out of the worn swinging doors. I was acutely aware of the dusty floors and hand marks on the walls and doors. Would they use sterile equipment? Would they handle any crisis that might arise with level headed expertise? Would they treat my baby with love and care while I lay there in a drug induced sleep?

The time came, the big white hospital wall clock showed five past ten, and a nurse came to collect my receipts. She pointed to a rickety wheelchair. “Get in”. I obeyed.

The room was blindingly bright. The light drowned out the dirt in the corners, and reassured me. It looked like a real surgery room.

I was heaved up onto a cold table while people shuffled around me. Soon I was connected to an IV and I remember asking semi-frantic questions about how long the procedure would take, where I’d wake up, did they promise to take care of my baby. I was largely ignored.

I looked around for my doctor, who appeared seconds before they injected the sleeping serum. His smile gave me an instant sense of calm. He was cool and collected and had an air of much needed authority. The curdled nervous mess of my insides became a smooth silky pudding. I slipped away while staring right into his eyes. All a mother’s trust thrown across the cold room in a glance that faded away with me.

I woke up dazed, with a heavy thudding pain in my middle. My eyes seemed crusty and my mouth was a harsh unforgiving desert. As I became aware of my surroundings I realized I was in a hospital room. There were three other people to my left. One groaned loudly. This sound was probably what brought me around from the groggy underworld. I wondered in a panic whether I’d been in an accident, what was wrong, why was I here?
Then as my mind caught up with my panic, I remembered everything and it all came rushing to me and up through my throat and formed into a frog-like yelp, “My baby!”
I’d apparently disturbed my bed-mates. One turned to me and talked loudly, as if I were deaf or a small child,

“You are in a hospital. You are fine. People are sick here, please do not shout.”

“Someone call the nurse that the obruni (white person) has woken up.”

Me: “But where is my baby? Where is my baby? I want to see my baby!” I was quite emotional, demanding, frantic. I feared the worst. What if I’d made it and the baby hadn’t? Why was I in a room with sick people? Why not the maternity ward?!

A nurse eventually appeared in the doorway, slouching against the doorframe, she looked at me with heavy lidded eyes. “Madam, you have to stop shouting! You will pull your stitches.” Her voice came across flat, monotone, slightly annoyed.

I was incredulous that no one would respond to my question. I started to cry. No one reacted. One of the other patients made a point of loudly turning over to face away from me. I was sure the baby was gone and that this was the dawning of the worst day of my life.

The nurse left the room and walked slowly down the hallway, her slothly footsteps becoming quieter and quieter, until they were gone. I was so alone, so afraid, so helpless. I considered getting up to go and ask someone in charge. I tried to move but was instantly overcome by shooting pains as my body attempted to twist. That was not going to be possible. There was nothing I could do but wait.

I called through my tears to each person who passed the room. No one was willing to help. Maybe they thought I was crazy. Maybe I was. I began to wonder. Where was my husband and my Kobi? Why wouldn’t they visit me? I checked the clock and it was after 1pm.

This was easily the most lonely I’ve felt ever, and it was the deepest, despairing emptiness that I shudder to recall it at all.

Then an angel appeared. A Canadian friend called G. I heard her sharp accent in the hallway and my anticipation of her arrival at the door was palpable. She appeared in the doorway, her face alive and bright, a huge basket with balloons and gifts and sweets in her arms. She looked so out of place in this dismal ward.

Her expression turned instantly dark once she saw my tear stained face and looked around the room. Still she came to me, dumped the basket and hugged me. Despite the pain, I grabbed onto her and the warmth of her embrace filled me to the brim. Definitely one of the best hugs I’ve ever had. I drank her in. Then she got to business and I was beyond grateful.

“Where is the baby?!” “why are you in here?”

All I could do was shake my head as more tears welled up and spilled, hot and frustrated down my puffy cheeks.

She squeezed my hand and assured me she’d go sort out everything and she ran down the hall.

I could hear her firm and then raised voice as she questioned the lethargic nurses down the hall. She was demanding, shouting now. And then silence. I bit my lip and waited some more.

An indescribably long time after that, she reappeared. Still alone but with a smile that gave me hope for the first time since I’d awoken.

“Well my dear, you are the proud mother of a healthy baby boy!”

I could have kissed her face off. My eyes lit up, by heart soared.

Me: “Where is he?”

G: “The nurses are just washing him and will have him up here in just a couple minutes, or I’ll go straight back down there and get him myself”.

She then went to work to gather up the shattered pieces of my sanity and cleaned me up, in anticipation for the arrival of my little king, Shiloh.

Three nurses came padding much faster than usual up the passage way and I heaved myself up into sitting position. I was gripped with both childlike wonder and a violent maternal desire to protect her young. Bring me that baby!!

And there he was! Wrapped all tight in a soft cotton blanket. His chubby tan face shining out the top. My baby! I devoured him. Grabbed the bundle of him and smothered him with a thousand kisses.

I felt in a bubble. I could hear nothing. The world was just me and my news.
I was at once amazed, frightened, ecstatic and numb. My baby boy had arrived!



They wheeled in a clear plastic bassinet for him to sleep beside me but I had no intention of letting him go again.

G had a mobile phone and we were able to call my mother. I barely said a word, and just managed to blurt out that the baby was a boy and that he was so sweet. I cried and smiled and blubbered. She did the same on the other end of the line…

I wanted to feed him right away but was informed by ‘nurse wretched’ that it wasn’t necessary as they’d given him a bottle of glucose syrup. I was furious. But at least he was with me.

Then G told me about her experience with the nurses downstairs. She had wandered around the surgeries and eventually found Shiloh, alone and unwashed, lying in a cold plastic bassinet. She was appalled and ran out calling wildly to the nurses. They were in a lunchroom, greedily pawing kenkey, fresh pepper and fish from a shared eating bowl. When she asked why the baby had not been cleaned and brought to his mother they casually explained it was lunchtime. I was beyond furious at the story, but at least he was with me.



I mentioned to G that I was sad and concerned my husband and Kobi had not come in yet to visit, she told me that they were refusing all visitors since it was not yet official visiting hours. I was furious, but at least Shi was with me.

Then G went to the nurses, now that she’d quickly developed a reputation as a no-nonsense obruni, and she demanded to know why I was placed in a room with sick patients. Apparently there was no room in the other ward. I couldn’t believe it! The man beside me had a rotting foot. My ailing roommates resented my eventual flow of visitors and Shiloh’s deep newborn cry. I was upset, but at least Shi was with me.

And when, in the night I had to call for the nurses help to use a bedpan, with the man beside me gawking, the nurse annoyed and unhelpful, my stitches pulling and stretching with excruciating pain, I was embarrassed and fuming inside, but at least I had my Shiloh with me.



Happy Birthday Shiloh. 11 years ago you arrived, causing me turmoil, crushing me with worry that I wouldn’t see you, and filling my life with more than a mother could ever ask, once you came. Beautiful, boisterous, ‘bad boy’. You charmed me from that first moment, and had me entranced every day thereafter. I only wish, more than a mother could imagine, that I had you here with me today.
>>>>>>>>>
Shiloh Devon Nii Kpakpo Mingle – January 9th, 1999 – June 22, 2005.
We miss you ‘like harmattan paw paw’. Every moment since you left us here without you.

Eleven years ago today my life changed forever.

Eleven years ago on this day I was huge. My ankles resembled over stuffed sausages, my cheeks hid my eyes.

I sat on a wooden bench in the Trust Hospital of Accra, sandwiched between many others in my bloated condition. The front door of the lobby was ajar, the power was out and air-conditioning was a far off dream. I wore chaley-wote (flip flops) and a multicoloured boubou, a tent dress that held me and my little one in, barely containing us as the sweat trickled down my back, my arms, my rotund tummy.

The sounds of the busy street permeated the hot waiting room, honking of cars, shouts of street hawkers and clouds of gritty dust made their way in amongst us.

After the lobby-wide morning prayer where we were all asked to stand (health status permitting), each of us was sent from reception to another cash kiosk where your appointment must be paid for in cash before joining the queue. Once paid, with our receipts in hand, the hours passed while we waited, some in silence, some clicking their teeth in exasperation, some chatting quietly, brought together by their shared predicament. So many women, so few doctors.

I was a volunteer and the only non-Ghanaian, non-African, non black lady in the building, apart from a Russian nurse that I’d heard about and had only seen once in my numerous pre-natal check-ups. I was not anonymous. But I was used to it.



Nine months before that, I had come home from a typical day at work. For me it meant moving around within the bustling craft market, sitting and chatting with the wood carvers, the painters, the trinket pushers about their needs and opportunities.

I took a tro tro into Osu, and walked up from the main road to the compound I shared with my husband’s family and various tenants. 54 of us in all.

The ladies sat out front of the compound gate, by the small shop that had been set up by a tenant, selling cokes and sweets and tiny plastic wrapped portions of peanuts and sugar and laundry soap powder.

They watched me approach and called to me. When I reached the group they were debating and jostling and laughing and it seemed I had provided the subject of their conversation.

“Kobi mami, (the name given to me affectionately in Ghana, as the mother of Kobi)

“Your face is looking tired”

“Yes look at her eyes!”

“And the walk. It is true.”

Me, clueless: “Good afternoon. What is it?”

In unison after a few giggles, “You are pregnant!”

They were all convinced also, in that African way, that it was a boy.

It seemed absurd. The consensus out of nowhere, the thought, the idea. Despite not having felt very well over the past few weeks, I shrugged it off. Later in the evening, we sat in our ‘chamber-and-hall’, the two rooms we had in the compound, connected by a doorway with a curtain, the overhead fan incessantly whirring above us. I turned to my husband:

Me: “Can you imagine, Aunty Maude and Josephine were outside with the other ladies when I came home today. They all said I was pregnant!”

Husband: “Well I’m not surprised. You are. I can sense it. It is good news, no?”

Me, with my cultural baggage fully in hand, wondering a.) how the hell does everyone know but me, and b.) how can this be my husband’s reaction, if it is indeed true?!
I headed to the pharmacy the next morning for a test. They explained that if you bought the test, they would do the test right there, and off they sent me to the grimy little bathroom in the back hallway. They took my urine to another room and came back with the positive symbol on the little stick. And there it was. They told me in a matter of fact way.

“Please the test is positive.”

“You mean I’m really pregnant?!”

“Yes please. Do you need a receipt for the purchase?”

So I walked back out into the baking heat of the street, dodging between the open gutters underfoot and the hive of life around me. I felt in a bubble. I could hear nothing. The world was just me and my news. The truth that it took a test to convince me, but that my African in-laws had known by intuition.

I was at once amazed, frightened, ecstatic and numb. My baby boy was on his way.



In the hospital on January 8th, 1999 I was very aware that my due date had passed and that there were dangers involved. My little kicking baby was in the breach position, and after giving my ribs a bashing for the past couple months, had not turned inside me.



My choice to stay in Ghana through the pregnancy haunted me on that hospital bench on that hot dusty day. What if I’ve compromised my baby’s chances? But he was a Ghanaian baby. His father wanted us to be here. His aunty, my angel Aunty Maude was a nurse and she wanted us there. She had always made me feel secure, calm. The hospital was a two minute walk from the compound, at the foot of our road, right on the main strip. It was a highly recommended hospital. But today there was a power outage. There were not enough doctors. The patients, like cattle, filled the hot pen. What was I doing?! Taking this whole African thing too far. I wanted to call my mom, so many worlds away. I had chosen a life that held no familiarity, no reference point for everyone I’d known back home.

So this was me, and I had shuffled up the benches over the hours, closer and closer to the door of the doctor’s office, until it was my turn.

I went in and was greeted with the doctor’s broad smile. He seemed tireless.

“Madam Holli”

“The boy is stubborn! I thought we’d have seen you in the delivery ward by now!”

He helped me up onto the rusty examination table and felt around with his warm hands.

“Ok, madam. He has not moved. The time is late. We will have to do Ceserean birth. You choose – tomorrow or the next day? I will make the booking.”

Oh my God. I had never envisaged a full operation in Ghana! The hospitals, the risks! The absurdity of choosing your child’s birthday?!

“Please, can my husband and aunty come in to the surgery? Will I be awake?”

“Sorry, no and no. This is a serious surgery and visitors cannot be permitted. They can visit you afterwards, during visiting hours.”

I knew right then this was not going to be like any of the C-section births I’d heard of in Canada. What happened to bringing your own music in, hubby with you, holding your hand, family in the waiting room to burst in a few minutes after the birth?!

My pulse pounded in my temples. There was no time, no other option in sight. I couldn’t run home to Canada. I’d have to trust this doctor and face this within the framework I found myself in. Baby nudged me back out of my paranoid frenzy, from within.

Me: “Tomorrow please. What time should I arrive?”

Doc: “You have to stay now, I will have them book you into the ward”.

I’d need to bring my own bed sheets, toilet paper, drinks, food, soap and towels, on top of all the normal things like newborn diapers and a carry home outfit for the baby….

My head was spinning. I told him my house was very close and I needed to go get my things.

So I walked back out into the baking heat of the street, dodging between the open gutters underfoot and the hive of life around me. I felt in a bubble. I could hear nothing. The world was just me and my news.

I was at once amazed, frightened, ecstatic and numb. My baby boy was on his way.



To be continued...

Oprah Out-earns a Country: my birthday and the poverty of a continent

This morning while nursing my mini-hangover (the aftermath of Grey Goose on ice, lots of sushi, unknown quantities of red wine and Irish coffee to finish), I happened upon the bill from my birthday dinner.

It turns out that to feed a lovely crew of 12, along with our share of drinks and sweets, we spent the equivalent of 10 months salary of my gardener.

Wow, that really puts things in perspective. Filling the bellies of 12 people in one evening… added up to 10 months salary for an average Ghanaian?!

Besides feeling like a true Expat – in every spoiled sense of the word – it sparked my interested to take a look at the disparities that abound all around me.

Today I found out that the annual revenue for the entire country of Sierra Leone (one of Ghana’s close neighbors on the West African coast) is USD $96million.


Oprah Winfrey alone made over two and a half times that… OF AN ENTIRE COUNTRY!!! According to Forbes list she pulled in $275million over the same period.

Tiger Woods and Madonna also out-earned Sierra Leone, with over $100m each…

Here’s another eye opening fact. The list below is the GDP per capita (ANNUAL take home pay) of the average person in these countries:

Ten Poorest Countries (based on 2004 GNP per capita in US$)

1. Burundi ... $90
2. Ethiopia ... $110
3. Democratic Republic of Congo ... $110
4. Liberia ... $110
5. Malawi ... $160
6. Guinea-Bissau ... $160
7. Eritrea ... $190
8. Niger ... $210
9. Sierra Leone ... $210
10. Rwanda ... $210

All of these countries are in Africa, and each figure is less than I spend at the Supermarket (in Africa!) every Saturday. People are surviving (really?!) on $200 per year?!!!

I feel a gratitude list coming on, but also a reality check.

Oprah’s 55th birthday this year (celebrated with a Mediterranean cruise for 1700 of her closest friends), cost $10m.

Equivalent to the annual income of over 100,000 Burundians.

Now I don’t feel so bad.

40 begins with life...

I woke up this morning pretty much like any other. The alarm sounds, we hit snooze for 10 minutes, cherishing every last second of cuddliness before the second alarm, and then the forcing of the feet to hit the floor, stumbling crusty eyed into the washroom. Face wash, pee, brush teeth and so the day begins.

Turning 40 is kind of like New Year’s Eve. It’s supposed to be a big deal of some sort, but when it finally comes and there are no miraculous, life changing events, you just feel disappointed.

I’m not sure what I expected to happen today. I knew there’d be lots of facebook Happy Birthday messages and some face to face wishes. I knew I’d be looking forward to sushi and some great company at supper tonight, but on a deeper level I have been conditioned to believe something – bad or good – would happen.

I’ve read a bunch of things about turning 40. They include predictions that your eyesight fails, memory falters, and that you become somehow more wise. For me, halfway through day one, I believe my eyesight is still 20/20, my memory has been crap for years so no change there, and I don’t seem to have acquired a new outlook or any profound wisdom.

I have been trolling the Internet for interesting things, quotes, epiphanies on turning 40. Here’s an example of what I found:

“The first forty years of life give us the text: the next thirty supply the commentary”

“Forty is the old age of youth; fifty is the youth of old age.”

“Mental powers peak at 22 and start to deteriorate at 27” (Depressing!)

“Somebody told me the other day that "Life does Not begin at 40. Life begins when the last kid moves out and the dog dies."

(Not sure how relevant this is, but I’ve got a year and a half till the last kid moves out and the last dog we had, found a new home years ago.)

I then found a site with a woman’s list of “The 40 things every self respecting woman must have by the time she turns 40.”

Thought I’d check out how I measure up:

THE TOP 40
1.) Peace of mind (and a piece of property) – I hope a boat counts as a piece of property.

2.) A will – does it have to be updated? I wrote one when I was 27…

3.) Willpower – I hope dieting doesn’t count here, cuz if so, I’ve failed miserably and I don’t see any miracles happening this year…

4.) A savings account in your own name – Got it! Had one of those since I was 14 though…

5.) A mammogram – can I blame living in Ghana on NOT having this done? Wow – it’s my birthday and I feel guilty now… will add this to my TO DO list…

6.) A manicure (not to mention a pedicure, a facial and a massage--all on the same day) – gonna book one of those! I have an excuse now ☺

7.) A set of matching luggage – I paid an unfathomable amount for a set last year and never use them together…

8.) A ticket to some exotic place to unpack it – Grenada – no ticket yet, but the boat is waiting… so I’m ok on this one.

9.) A great hairdresser, gynecologist and stockbroker – NONE of these….

10.) A passionate, fiery, unforgettable love affair – I’ve been living one of these for the past 8 years!

11.) A little black dress that makes you look five pounds thinner – definitely need to go shopping. I’ve never had one of these. I might have had little black dresses over the years, but none made me look thinner.

12.) A sense of humor, style and purpose – Humour sometimes, style.. um…., purpose – I purposefully live toward a life of freedom, adventure and relaxation.

13.) A selfish streak – shopping must fit in here somewhere…

14.) A spiritual foundation that gets you through a very bad night without going crazy – I struggle with this one, but I know my little boy shines through for me on those brutal nights.

15.) A facial foundation that gets you through a very long day – living in Ghana this would backfire into a sweaty pool of peachy pudding on my collar!

16.) A good bra - I’ve got a few – for every type of shirt (which is no easy thing, wearing a non-standard size you can’t find in any North American store! Thank the universe for British bra sizes!)

17.) A good spa – well there is one I’ve been to in Accra, but the masseuses and pedicurists are known to cause damage at times…

18.) A library card (used often) – this must be old. I’ve got the Internet!!!

19.) A credit card (used sparingly) – Yes on both accounts. I don’t believe in debt.

20.) At least one person in your life who says: "You call, I come” – got a few of those. Lucky me!!! You know who you are – and THANKS for being there!

21.) Good body language (multilingual!) – I think I’m pretty good at this. I used to know how to flirt too, but that was long ago ☺

22.) A broken heart and the knowledge you can survive it – been there, definitely survived and came out better the other side of it.

23.) A cause celebre (domestic violence, infant mortality, save the whales--your choice) – I find myself getting worked up over gay marriage rights…does that count?

24.) A personal relationship with a higher being – I believe it’s all inside, just not always easy to find!!!

25.) A personal trainer – I wish!!! I always convince myself these are the reason Hollywood girls looks great, and I get wobblier…

26.) Selective amnesia ("What Saturday morning meeting?") – I have this without trying.

27.) Gall – Yup.

28.) A good skin-care regimen – Lux soap and water? Maybe I should be doing more?

29.) The ability to converse on any subject without benefit of concrete knowledge or access to facts – working with mostly men in the Telecomms industry has made me a pro in this area…

30.) A shocking secret – I’m sure I’ve got a few, but with my failing memory, I’ve forgotten them!

31.) A pair of silk pajamas – whoever wrote this does NOT live in the tropics. Birthday suit suits me fine.

32.) A lifetime membership in at least one organization dedicated to uplifting women – I prefer to surround myself with women who I admire.

33.) The phone number of someone who is good with their hands – I have one of these in-house!

34.) At least one drop-dead, don't-speak-to-me-because-you-know-you-don't-know-me gorgeous photo of yourself – This is why I love photoshop! What wrinkles??

35.) A friendship that has stood the test of time – if by the test of time you mean since we were 5, then yes!!!

36.) One last chance to tell the guy you were crazy about in your 20s who treated you like cigarette ashes on the floor what you were too dumb to know when he walked out with your heart in his hands: "Thank you, thank you, thank you." – I’ve done this and man it felt good.

37.) A soul mate – when I was 32 I found mine and never looked back.



38.) Faith, hope and a good fantasy – these are always within reach.

39.) A dream – definitely have one of those!

40.) A plan to make it come true – Grenada, Shiloh, we’re coming!!!

So, as I make my way through day one of the rest of my ‘over 40’ life, I reflect on the things I’ve done, those I’ve chosen not to do, and how I have faced the life that’s come my way.

I’m happy and that has to count for a lot.

I don’t feel so bad on this supposed milestone day. Afterall, most people I went to school with (not surprisingly) turned 40 this year, and they still seem normal! They are surviving, thriving and getting on with life.

Even famous people turn 40 this year – ones we still find hot like Gerard Butler and Jennifer Aniston.

I think life is about taking what’s thrown at you and sifting through it. Taking the things that you like and throwing back the rose creams… I’m hoping that each year I get better at doing that.

It’s also about standing up, standing out, asserting yourself for yourself and no one else. Whether you want to be rich and famous or a good knitter, or something in between…

Life is the journey and the journey is all we have.

Sweet 16

Today my baby turns 16. I got up early with him this morning and hugged him as he was gathering his things at the door. I watched him walk away, out the gate and pictured him on his way to school. He's nearing 6 feet tall and his voice is getting low and he corrects me on so many things these days, but he is still my baby.

There was a time when he and I made up a family on our own, and despite the many changes that have happened, siblings that have come and gone and relationships, spouses and various others who have touched our lives, some days I still feel that special bond between us - the feeling that it's us two against the world.

He has always made a great companion. From the time he was born he observed so much around him and had a sense of calm that comforted me. He has always been comfortable in his skin and I admire that. Now, in the middle of adolescence, when kids struggle with identity, he knows exactly what he likes and what he doesn't and he has his own moral code which no one can compromise. All very admirable to me.

There comes a time in kids' lives when they finally see their parents as human beings, with faults and weaknesses, and can admire them for their true talents instead of the blind love that a child gives. They also say that parents will always see their child with the eyes of blind and unconditional love.

Between my son and I, I believe we've always seen each other clearly - faults, weaknesses, strengths - everything. And maybe because of this, I feel we share a love that is honest and open and real.

I am so proud of him.

He's been 'into' graphic design in a way that I could only imagine passion, dedication and patience in myself. He can put in 10 straight hours on an art piece - forget to eat or drink or speak. He thinks this is what he wants to pursue and judging by his talent and enthusiasm, I think he's on the right track. I'm still amazed though. Who knows at 16 what they want to be when they grow up?! Hell, I still don't know what I wanna be...

I've decided to share here one of his recent 'pieces' - he used two stock photos (below):





And came up with this:



Excellent if I do say so myself. Happy birthday Q!!! Love you.

Happy Birthday Shiloh

My amazing boy Shiloh died 4 years ago at 6 years old. What a statement, yet it's true. Today he would have been 10 years old. I can barely believe it.

I am crushed at times by the bitter sadness of not having him around us everyday.

But there's nothing better than celebrating those you love, and today I send all my love out to the universe for Shiloh.

A very special person sent me some words to live by today, that I share below:

Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal. ~From a headstone in Ireland

When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight. ~Kahlil Gibran

Now blow out your wishes and make a candle...

Birthdays, like New Years Eve are always anti-climactic. Everyone wishes you the best, and says have a great day! But what if it isn’t a particularly good day? Afterall, anything could happen. You could get your period and feel like a ten ton truck with a couple extra water filled tires hanging heavily around your waist, for example. You could get up, look in the mirror and see the dark circles of life settled deeply under your eyes.

You might just be facing a work day that is particularly stressful and have a pounding headache, and not enough time to grab a sandwich even for lunch.
It might just be that you find yourself completely alone on that particular day with nothing to do but contemplate all the far flung well wishes and your own self pity.
You might come home to a quiet house with yesterday’s chili in the fridge and reruns on TV…

Happy Birthday! I’d like mine postponed this year, and while you’re at it I’d like the number adjusted by 10 years.

I’d like a big surprise party so I could blush and feel special and then diamonds and other extravagant unnecessary luxuries to prove I’m loved. I’d like a chauffeur to pick me up and whisk me off to a spa for a day of full pampering and self indulgence.

But I’d settle for good health and savings in the bank. Uh oh, both those are in jeopardy this year as well.

Probably a good idea to skip the cake too, as the number of candles needed at this stage could crush the cake and start a fire!

Birthdays put so much pressure on you to be happy, be honoured and be remembered.

But what if deep down you know that you have a great family and friends who love you all the time and that you might get a random gift on an off day when no one is expecting you to, and won’t ask if you got spoiled on the big day?

Isn’t it just as good to have a great child, be in an amazing relationship, have a challenging job and dreams that are forming into tangible future plans? Is it not good enough to wake up to sunshine and warmth and two fried eggs on a plate?

Birthdays should give you a chance to reflect on how the year has disappeared and ask yourself what special moments you can remember. And then keep them with you. Birthdays should remind you that time is short and precious and irrevocable and that every minute, day, month, year you have should be filled up with your best. Loving those around you and laughing as much as possible.

I think I’ll dust off that bottle of champagne at the back of the liquor cabinet, pop it open and celebrate near 4 decades of an excellent life, and toast the effort to make the next 4 decades even better.