The Curse of St. Valentine

Valentine's Day is cursed. No, not for the fairly stereotypical reasons of love loss and heartbreak, but because most of the major tragedies that have happened to me in my lifetime have happened on or around Valentine's Day.

My Nanny, who died a very painful and uncomfortable death from colon cancer, passed away on Valentine's Day proper. When she died, I was nineteen years old, and battling my own disease, Wegener's Granulomatosis. And as I had lost my mum at fourteen, my mother's mother, my Nanny, had raised me pretty much through my teenage years. I loved her fiercely. I loved her for her strength of character and her commitment to her family. I loved her because she wore 'racing gloves' while driving her station wagon and drank Russian "wodka" at night. I loved her because she ate rum raisin ice cream, which I thought was the most disgusting flavour we served at Baskin Robbins. I loved her because she made my prom dress, taught me how to knit (sort of) and indulged my love of family history. I miss her everyday.

My mother's youngest brother, my volatile Uncle Jamie, died from the same disease, colon cancer, many years later—just the day before Valentine's Day. We grew up with my uncle, his wonderful temper, awesome rants about just about everything, and heart so big we were afraid it might burst.

My paternal grandfather also died around this time, just a few years after my maternal grandmother. He was my last surviving grandparent. I grew up thinking he was this strange and mythical creature. Oddly enough, he called me "Queenie" my entire life, and considering he never really knew my name (he got it wrong all the time), I thought that was pretty damn funny (he only had five grandchildren, I'm surprised he had such a hard time with it).

It's funny, my RRHB has pretty much given up on any notion of us having a romantic Valentine's Day. The whole holiday is so cliched and consumer driven that it doesn't really mean anything to me; it never has. But the overwhelming feeling of trepidation it brings when it comes near has me always thinking, "Okay, who's next?"

Thankfully, today it won't be me. I just got back from the fancy super-doctor who stopped the gross Septra medicine that was making me throw up. I'm only taking one drug moving forward and that, my friends, is a victory worth celebrating. Bring on the chocolate!