Lam Unfiltered

On Saturday we hosted the Memorial for my sister. I have to say, it was a lovely tribute for her - she would have been so happy - she would have had a blast . Nieces and Nephews, sisters, great nieces and nephews - came from far and wide - through terrible weekend traffic - to honour her. I put together a small photo album, with photos from when she was a child, a teenager - a working career woman at the University. I wanted to create a picture of a woman who was more than her addictions - more than a fuck up. I wanted us all to see her at five years old - her life ahead of her - spinning in the sunshine. That photo ended up representing everything about her to me - her free spirit. I wanted them to see her sitting at her desk, smiling - organized and fully functioning. I think I succeeded. I am exactly 10 years younger than Marilyn, we were a family of 5 sisters but she was my only sibling at home, our older sisters married and out the door by 1970. She was the one I would ask

Lately as I age [gracefully] I wonder about all the things that happen to us with little or no notice, that the women of old never talked about. I was going to write about my eyebrows, and then decided not to - but on Facebook a friend posted about her own thinning brows - which caused many amusing comments to follow. It is crazy what people do to their brows. I remember my eyebrows, which were thick and dark when I was very young - the eyebrows I spent hours and hours plucking out - and how some while ago they seemed to become less striking and a little anemic. Eyebrows draw eyes to our face. Nature put them there to attract mates - much like dark bushy pubic hair - which might I add is also suffering from a bit of a recession . It is like nature is saying : You are returning to the childlike state - hairless and doughy. My mother did not explain to me as a young woman that I should revel in my hairiness, the women from her generation whispered the word 'menopause' in

When I landed in Lisbon I was very prepared. I picked up my backpack from the luggage carousel, removed my pack and poles from my cheap zippered Ikea bag, folded it, stored it and walked with confidence out of the airport and onto an Aero-bus. Well, almost that effortlessly. The ideal weight for me to carry on my back was 15lbs, and my backpack was closer to 20. No matter how hard I tried, when packing and re-packing at home, I could not cut any more items to make my bag lighter. I felt I really needed those 10 packs of organic oatmeal, the collapsible travel bowl and thermal metal drink container. I also had my travel purse, which only weighed 800 grams, but how to stuff it into an already full pack? I had not trained with my pack very much, and the first time I put it on at the Lisbon airport, I realized that I was going to have to get stronger, very quickly. [Later I found out I could store some of my unnecessary items at my pension for 3 weeks, which helped my pack weight immen

The first time I was in Porto, it was early April and Porto was still chilly and  very wet. Three weeks later I loaded myself onto a bus in Santiago and traveled in three hours what had taken me two full weeks to walk. It was a little mind-bending, and I watched out the window for signs of the path beside the highway. I emerged from the bus station like a mole from the ground, with a tourist map in hand. I scanned around for a landmark - and then began to weave my way towards the city centre. I don't know why I was so hesitant to take the Metro, it was right beside the bus station, but I think you miss so much when you are underground. You learn so much about a city by walking the streets. Once I saw Sao Bento train station, I breathed a huge sigh of relief, I was back in somewhat familiar territory. You have to picture me at a street corner waiting for the light to change. Mid 50s, massive backpack, travel weary and dusty from my walk across town - clunky blue hiking boots a

I come from a long, sad, confusing line of alcoholics. From the maternal grandfather who died in the gutter - to the mother who binge drank and the father who hid mickeys in his coat pocket, or sometimes the mailbox... Drinking to excess was a passage into adulthood myself and my nephew [who was two years older than me] were eager to experience. My parents and his parents were a part of the 60s cocktail generation. At the cottage, there was ample beer and wine on weekends, and a good time could only be had if you were well oiled. My nephew and I would fill our rain-coat pockets full of brown stubby bottles of beer and wander the dark cottage roads drinking them. I don't remember getting trashed on these walks, but it shows the complete neglect we experienced as children at the family cottage. As a mother of many children, now grown, I am heartbroken for myself and my childhood. It was hard being the 5th daughter of a woman who was so tired. Having me at 43, I can only imagine.

On Tuesday we drove into Toronto to pick up a couple of boxes my brother-in-law had set aside of my sister's belongings. We also were taking the iron bed we had provided for Marilyn in February when I realized she was sleeping on a mattress on the floor. How sad it was to get there and see the bed made, sheets and all. He said that we were to take it all - sheets - blankets - pillows. I think he couldn't deal with the bed. It was sobering for me to see all her clothes were gone - and all her toiletries, make-up. It was brutal, but such a necessary task for him to complete. I hope her things were donated, but I didn't ask. This has been surreal - seeing how quickly we are erased. We think we leave a mark, but really, once our stuff is gone - where are we? I suppose those of us who have children leave behind memories they have of us. In the boxes he had set aside were a sad mix of jewelry and photographs. It was a mess - like it had been tossed into the boxes. A huge ta

My sister recently died from an incurable lung disease - Idiopathic Pulmonary Fibrosis. She was diagnosed the autumn of 2014. The average person lives around four years after diagnoses, with the lucky ones being approved for and surviving a lung transplant. Although I think ALS is still the most terrifying disease I can imagine living with, Pulmonary Fibrosis is a close second. It progresses in steps. One day you can for example - get in the tub yourself, bathe and get out, and then the next day, you don't have enough energy to get out. Once the disease has progressed there is no backtracking. After coasting for a few years with very little disease advancement, this time last year she began to use oxygen when out and about. Marilyn and her partner were not Internet savvy. They did not have a computer and she had stopped working just around the time that it all became mainstream. If she had been able to research her disease - she would have lived longer. If she had been able to