It’s December 17th. We’re going to Montreal to have Christmas with family. The plan is to drive our car to a friends’ place where they will keep it in their underground parkade for the time we’re away, then they’ll take us to the airport.

At about 9.30 in the morning I come outside and walk to the car where it is parked in front of our building. I can hardly take in what I’m seeing. The front bumper seems to be lying on the ground. The closer I get the worse it looks. The entire left side of the car has been sideswiped, ripping the bumper off in the process.











I’m shocked of course, but not enough for it to slow me down; that comes later. Right now we have a flight to catch.

Don takes photos of the car. I get the duct tape and kinda sorta tape the bumper back into place. Our friends take us to the airport. I call the insurance people from the airport, and there are several emails and phone calls while we are in Montreal. We arrive back in Vancouver December 27th.

We are still without a car but that’s not really what this story is about.

Sideswipe: strike (someone or something) with, or as if with, a glancing blow.

During the months following Don’s stroke last May I’ve been letting myself feel all the implications of that: the fear, the grief, the losses, the change in our circumstances, the helplessness, the sadness. But it has taken the car being sideswiped for me, for us, to really get it. It felt like much more than a glancing blow. It felt as if we were both knocked sideways; thrown off our feet; felled.

You reap what you sow.
What goes around comes around.
What you put out is what you get back.

The first statement is biblical. It sounds like a warning but really to me it’s just an acknowledgement of how things are. The second two statements are more recent but the meaning is the same, and they are used so often, and with such carelessness, that they’ve become clichés. But all three contain the implication of responsibility. And sometimes that’s really hard to take. It’s one thing to be responsible for your behaviour, but quite another to take responsibility for what happens to you.

For my entire adult life I’ve had a searing commitment to taking that kind of responsibility; my approach is that I am as much responsible for what happens to me as I am for my own behaviour. The way I am in the world is what will be reflected back to me. The world I experience is a mirror of the energy I put out. The world I experience is a reflection of my thoughts, beliefs, expectations, and energy. I know this approach to life is not right for everybody, and that some people will be angered or offended by it, but it’s what works for me. It doesn’t mean things never go “wrong”. On the contrary, things going wrong are the times of greatest growth and insight.

It took the car being totalled for me to finally look deeply enough at the symbolism of what the world was reflecting back to me. It took the car being sideswiped for me to finally begin to get the message.

*Don’s hemorrhagic stroke.
*My diagnosis of atherosclerosis meaning I, who’ve been healthy all my life, am now at risk for a stroke or heart attack; made worse that the diagnosis came, suddenly and unexpectedly, at the same time as Don’s stroke.
*My ongoing digestive issues.
*The repeated attempts at identity theft via Don’s access to our bank accounts, meaning he has had to totally shut down all online and phone access.
*And finally the car: sideswiped, totalled.
2023 has been a lot.

What does it all mean? If everything is symbolic, and a mirror, then what does it really mean?

What follows is what we’ve discovered about ourselves. It is the story, mainly my story, but partly also Don’s, of the fears and beliefs I’ve been projecting out to the universe.

Don’s stroke was a catalyst for change. For both of us. A stroke of luck? Perhaps. There have certainly been silver linings.

For Don, who’s now 81, there has been a quiet acceptance that he has moved into a new phase of life. He’s recovered, almost fully, from the stroke, but he accepts that this time of life is the endgame, a time that is beginning to be about closure. Don’s son came to visit from Sweden knowing it could be the last time; we went to Montreal for Christmas knowing it could be the last time. Many things could be for the last time. The last time for visiting friends in the US, or anywhere outside of Canada, has come and gone, since the cost of travel medical insurance for Don would be prohibitive or non-existent. He could still live for many years, is likely to actually, but we cannot pretend that life is the same as it was before, for either of us.

Throughout the entire ordeal he never lost his sense of humour, even when he was so far gone that he didn’t know who I was. This selfie was taken in the hospital cafeteria six days after his stroke by which time he’d recovered enough to remember our names, and to mug for the camera.





Identity theft: twice in the space of about five weeks a hacker phoned our bank with enough information to convince them to change Don’s primary phone number. Then they attempted to access the accounts through online banking on Don’s laptop, and about a week later via his phone. Each time the bank blocked access and immediately notified us, so there was no actual breach by the hacker, but plenty of headaches for us. What was going on?

Since we were about to go to Montreal for Christmas Don got the bank to block ALL access to our accounts via Don’s phone or computer. We still haven’t reactivated this, and probably won’t for the foreseeable future. At worst it’s inconvenient since I can still access them, but the attacks affected us both at the time; we felt frightened and vulnerable. There were many calls to our bank fraud department at a time when Don was still struggling to find words, or to remember details. So we both looked deeply at the implications of identity theft. What was stolen? What had we lost?

Identity: a sense of who we are; a sense of self; a self-definition; a way of being in the world; an accumulation of experiences and accomplishments that engenders an inner understanding of our place in the world.

Don lost his identity as a driver. He enjoyed driving, and was good at it. It was something he was proud of, and a way he could contribute. It also gave him freedom.

More importantly, he lost his identity as a highly intelligent and mentally gifted person. He had always relied on his intelligence to negotiate life. Also, at an unconscious level he felt that it somehow kept him safe. He’s aware that his memory is not what it was, and he’s reading books about how to improve it. At the same time he acknowledges that with losing the level of intelligence that he enjoyed pre-stroke he was appalled to discover how arrogant he’d been about it; it’s only been seen in retrospect, and he’s been humbled by it.

As for the blows to my identity, they have been numerous.

Despite having done “everything right” all my life (diet and exercise), and been gifted genetically “everything right” (a family of seven women over three generations with no incidents of stroke or heart attack), I have lost my identity as a healthy person. The diagnosis frightened me, shifted me off axis in a way that has never happened before. I took on the world with a fearlessness in part because I’ve always been healthy. It never occurred to me that that would change. I’ve never had high cholesterol; the atherosclerosis was discovered by accident. And atherosclerosis is an old person’s disease. Oh how I rail against that!

Which brings me to the next blow to my identity. The loss of my youth. I’m 73. You’d think by now I’d have come to terms with it, but nothing I have ever seen or heard or been taught about aging and old age has anything good to say about it. In our society old women are just about at the bottom of the food chain. I don’t want to become the unwell elderly person, of little use, discarded by society. Ageism is real.

Despite the fact that I feel more at home in my body than I used to (how ironic), more grounded, and yes, much wiser, I’m not yet ready to concede that these are a fair trade for a failing body. Recently seen on a friend’s birthday card: aging is a conga line of body parts competing for who gets to retire first. We all laughed. But I only find it funny as long as it’s not happening to me! Unlike Don I find I am not ready to move into a new phase of life, and I’m grieving the loss of my youth and the apparent loss of my health (that silent inner stalker that could strike at any time).

Another blow to my identity is the loss of the idea of myself as the world traveller and adventurer. I am hopeful that I will travel again, that there are still adventures ahead for me, but there’s no guarantee. One of the big breakthroughs in this psychological exploration was discovering that the mind was attached to a “story” of future travel and adventure as some bright shining white light ahead of me that I would eventually stride into and be happy again. It has been such a relief to let go of it.

I’ve been shedding an old skin that I didn’t know I needed to shed, and when I did know, didn’t want to.

As for my digestive issues, obviously all of this has been a lot to digest.

So all this appeared to happen to me – my husband had a stroke, I was given a frightening diagnosis, I’ve been having issues with digestion, our bank accounts were attacked, our car was sideswiped and totalled. It felt like an onslaught until I delved into the deeper meaning. What did it symbolize? What was the mirror showing me? Understanding was the beginning of letting go. In seeing the deeper truths I began to be able to come to terms with it all and to move into a grudging acceptance. But know this (with apologies to Dylan Thomas):

I will not go gentle into that good night,
but rage, rage against the dying of the light.

Enough already! I have too much Life in me to live in fear of the next thing that could go wrong. Finally I feel like I’ve moved through the swamp, finally I’ve regained some equilibrium. Finally that inner energy once again raises a fist saying do not mess with me! Life lives itself through me, as me, and once again what I will sow is optimism, and positivity, and joy.

Without realizing that I’d even revoked it, at last I feel like I can give myself permission to be happy again. It’s good to be back.





A little Vancouver beauty to finish off, because beauty and joy are the same thing.












PS: Today I learned that the diagnosis of atherosclerosis was, um, shall we say, exaggerated. After an ultrasound the doctor told me I had atherosclerosis, I was at risk for a heart attack or stroke, and that I had to take statins, a drug that had me eventually feeling like I was ingesting poison. Today I requested a copy of the report (which my doctor had never shared with me). It confirmed what I’d suspected had to be the case, that the atheroma is mild, and probably no worse than most 50 year olds. To say I’m not at risk would be foolish, but there’s probably a greater risk of being injured in an accident. I’ve been at odds with this doctor for the 10 years I’ve been with her. This is the final straw. Having spoken with Don about my frustration with her many times over the years, I am finally resolved to look for another doctor. Onward!



Next post: Aussie beach culture!








All words and images by Alison Louise Armstrong unless otherwise noted
© Alison Louise Armstrong and Adventures in Wonderland – a pilgrimage of the heart, 2010-2024.