A Slumber Party With My Comatose Dad
Who thought this was a good idea?
If your one and only party guest is in a coma, then there’s less of a chance they’ll leave before having cake. Not that they can eat the cake but, yeah, they’ll definitely be sticking around.
1986 brought traumatic downfall and catastrophic uprooting.
The year I was turning fifteen, things had started on such an upswing.
The previous December we’d driven across two provinces in our snazzy burgundy Buick — from Brandon, Manitoba to Ottawa, Ontario — to start a new life.
It was Mom and Dad, my younger brother and sister, and me. We left my older sister behind to finish up her high school semester, obviously, the three of us younger siblings were not in the crucial stage of our schooling just yet.
We could still start and stop our education willy-nilly.
It never got easier. We moved a lot.
Don’t ask me to remember what I lovingly made for dinner last Thursday evening but I have no problem remembering my outfit choice on the first day of grade seven at yet another new school. Ah, the polyester light grey slacks, pink blouse, lilac and yellow vest combo, my short hair curled and back-combed.
