We're missing his 54th birthday by just a few days. Yesterday afternoon he flew back to Vancouver after spending the last several weeks-plus with us. And his birthday coincides with Thanksgiving. Without his presence things would have been infinitely more difficult for us. As always after one of his visits we were left feeling emotionally drained at the geographic separation that exists between us, his parents and he, our youngest child.

He had flown into Toronto first to spend a few days visiting with his older brother and his wife, our daughter-in-law. He'd gone over to spend one of those evenings with my sister and brother-in-law, before taking the train from Toronto to Ottawa, where we picked him up at the train station. The following morning his father was scheduled for open-heart surgery.

There was only one day we missed taking the puppies into the ravine for their daily ramble and that, of necessity, was the day of the surgery, a hellish day if ever one existed. I got through that day in a haze of disbelief and eventual gratitude. Gratitude that we have the experience and professionalism of practised surgeons and other medical staff at the Ottawa Heart Institute.

Getting out into the woods in the days that followed while my husband was receiving closely supervised care was a relief, helping to ease the fear and trepidation, the profound sorrow and tearfulness that settled over me; lending hope the opportunity to make its way into the confusion of emotion that so overwhelmed me.

Our son is a comfort and a joy to us. He took the opportunity during our walks to investigate the creek in the ravine to see how the aquatic life is bearing up; his curiosity as a scientist never stilled, propelling him always to investigate these phenomena that we rarely give a thought to. He never ventures out without a backpack, to serve in any number of contingencies that might arise and these little excursions were no exception.

He also borrowed my camera briefly to take photographs that I would never snap, turning the tables as it were, on my everlasting proclivity to photograph so much of what I come across because so much of it appears worthwhile, notable and appealing to me.