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When I Die, Let Me Die Easy
Why my time’s up, I hope I go reading an amazing book — or even better, writing one.
Today marks two years since the world lost an amazing woman, my friend, Vi, and almost 18 years since we lost an even more amazing man, my dad, (aka my hero.)
Of the two, Vi did death the “right way.” Not that there can ever be a right way to die.
Vi was an extraordinary woman. Physiologically, if not chronologically, younger and more vivacious than most people my age, despite being on the cusp of 90.
She favoured skinny jeans, gorgeous boots, and funky sweaters. Her silver hair was perfectly styled in an asymmetrical bob that she wore with the aplomb of a model on the runways of Milan. Her eyes sparkled with a dry humor, and she was gifted in the art of repartee.
She regularly drove her SUV to Squamish from her home in North Vancouver, a busy, twisting mountain highway, to babysit her grandkids. Even in winter when the roads were slick with ice.
If I can be half the woman she was by age ninety, I will have lived my life well.
Her death was sudden, and so unexpected it filled us all with shock. No one expected this vibrant force of nature to just go to bed one night, tucked up with a cup of tea and a…
