Category Archives: Love

Cue the dramatic music

Posted in Fun, Life, Love by

Oh boy, things are getting tense! I’ve been up since eight typing away at the keyboard – just a mindless chatty Cathy with my twitter, blog, email and facbook accounts open. This morning I woke up brainstorming a short story, flipping through perspective, sketching characters, and trying to figure out a start (startings are the most difficult things to approach). Essentially, a happy lady enjoying the morning.

Then walks in my poor husband with doom and gloom rolling behind him. His arms are resting behind his back, (he stands exactly like his father – just a taller 6’5 version of Laci) and he goes toward the window to look out. This poor guy, I can see his heaviness. Not sure if it’s his face, or his  quietness, or what, but Zsolt did not wake up on the lighter side of the bed.  Today is the 27th of April. His viva is the 6th of May. Like a shark through the water, it’s coming. Cue the dramatic music, cut to the hapless swimmer.

Duh-duh. Duh-duh. Duh-duh-duh-duh-duh. !!!

Don’t worry. If things get too bad, I’ll pull him out of the water.

A mushy self-discovery post

Posted in After treatment, Bumpboobs, Canada, Finding Home, Life, Love, Writing by

You know what? For the past five years – ever since meeting my Hungarian husband and flying away from Canada – for the past five years, I’ve been asking this difficult question: where do I belong? And it would keep me up at night. Honestly, I’d be awake trying to reason whether we should move somewhere in Europe, stay in the UK, go back to Canada, hijack things to Australia . . . when you’re in an international relationship, the concept of home and belonging are suddenly challenged. Growing up, I had no idea how much Ottawa was a part of my identity – and when taken away, there was this lingering question: Where do I belong?

This mini crisis peaked with the event of our wedding, one moment planned for Europe, the next moved to Canada . . . and still nothing was resolved in terms of the future. Zsolt and I had a dream: house, family, kids, day-to-day happiness and settlement. We wanted to settle. But where? I  began to imagine myself behind a wooden counter in a kitchen, with a red and white chequered apron tied around my waist and a hot pie cooling on the window ledge, which looked out over a lovely green yard with tall, solid trees – and everything would be just right. From the tidiness, to the location, to our lives. Everything, one day, would be just right . . . eventually . . .

And then I got cancer.

Which isn’t to say the dream of a clean kitchen disappeared. I still dream of a clean kitchen. And it isn’t to say the crisis of ‘where to live’ was resolved. Because we’re moving to Canada, but will we stay there forever – who knows?

However, getting cancer (surviving cancer) did change an essential aspect of my life.  I stopped asking: “Where do I belong?”

It suddenly felt like a stupid question.

Where do I belong? Duh. I belong right here – right now – in this moment. And what do I belong to? I belong to my passions, my writing, my Love, and myself.

It’s like a light was flipped on. In the past five years I’ve been hunting for my identity. It was challenged when I left Canada. It was challenged when I was married. It was challenged when I got cancer.

And so it was sharpened.

I am Catherine. I am a writer. I am a wife. I am a breast cancer survivor. And those are things that have no passport, no national identity, no alien status, and no dependence to anything beyond myself (and Zsolt, in terms of marriage). Where do I belong? Geez Louise, I belong within myself. Geography is a luxury, to be close to family a bonus, to have spectacular views, clean kitchens, pies on the windowsill – that’s all wonderful and welcome. But in this moment I’ve got my essentials. I’m where I belong, finally.

All right, today’s blog post is totally inwards, and so sorry for spilling this revelation all over the page. But it’s a good revelation, and nothing but experience could have brought me to this point. I suppose as things change, my identity will keep shifting and shaping, but at least right now, age 28, tipping over into 29 and feeling good, I’ve found myself. I’ve found my passion (writing, creating, doing). I’ve found the love of my life. And it all feels amazing.

Happy Easter!

PS. I might have found a sense of identity – but my apartment is still a mess! The other night – in the pitch black and total silence, there was a huge CRACK (I started screaming even before waking up from the shock of the noise and Zsolt had to settle me down). Turns out, my wardrobe collapsed onto the ground. Now there’s a pile of clothes tangled with hangers and shelving on the floor. What a way to get the moving purge started. I’ll need to pick through my clothes/tidy this mess and decide: Canada (to live), Hungary (to vacation), charity (to give me an excuse for more shopping). So, with a push from providence, the packing has begun!

 

Slowly saying goodbye

Posted in After treatment, Bumpboobs, Finding Home, Life, Love, Writing by

Ah the pain! I just wrote a page long posting in Word, only to absent-mindedly close the entire program (not saved) and lose my work. Blarg! Who says “blarg” anyhow? I think it’s a female. Maybe Felicia Day from the Guild? I don’t know.


Anyhow, this post was all about writing letters. Basically moving home (moving countries) means a lot of ties must be severed. In the past two weeks I’ve written some very final notices. Work involved a gushing letter – professional yet personal – of resignation that took a few drafts to achieve. Ever since a bad experience leaving a big employer (“pass me your vest and get out”), where I gave a thank you card and felt like an ass for the effort – I have hesitated in expressing too much gratitude.

But then, when people provide incredible support shouldn’t gratitude be shown? Yes, it should.

Therefore I started off my resignation letter like this:

“Many thanks for the opportunity. Should you have any queries, please do not hesitate to contact me. Kind regards, Catherine Brunelle”

And finished it like this

“You’re all so awesome, this place is awesome, our job is awesome. Everything’s awesome! And I’m going to miss every last bit of it. Hugs, Catherine”

Well, that may be an exaggeration – but you get the gist.

And then yesterday I wrote a letter to our landlady [if you want a good example of how to be a landlord, she’s it. Responsive yet distant. A very good combination in the world of accommodation.] and let her know we’re moving. Final month in Southampton: May. Beautiful sunny May when the roses bloom and smell like perfume. May, the month I felt my bump. May, the month my life changed. It’ll be post-cancer one year when we finally leave the UK.

. . . maybe we’ll come back, because apparently anything can happen . . . but for now, Canada and Hungary are waiting with open arms (of our parents).

So that’s the start of the letters. Next will come the papers for shipping, the agreements for money transfers, the ending of contracts and all thae inevitable red tape of life. Over the past four years we’ve settled in. Now it’s time to squirm out.

There you go – post about moving, take two. The ball is rolling and it’s only a matter of time.