A Place to Share
These are real stories of grief, shared with courage and care—so that in reading them,
you may recognize pieces of your own story and feel a little less alone.
As we recognize International Pride Day, I’m honoured to share a deeply personal story of love and loss within the 2SLGBTQIA+ community. Grief is universal, but every relationship has its own story, and every loss deserves to be seen. Thank you to Suza for trusting me with this beautiful reflection of enduring love, profound grief, and the ways we continue to carry those we have lost.
Dinner for One a la Cee:
Schneider’s Red Hots Dipped in French’s Prepared Mustard – by Suza
The World Health Organization’s International Day of the Widow falls on June 23rd, ironically, the day of the year that I became a widow. Who could have predicted that twelve years later, I would be writing a piece with “Schneider’s Red Hots” in the title, but so is life.
Cee was a complex, sensual woman with a huge heart for nature (in all Her forms), sandwich-making, the underdog and seeking/confronting truth in self and others.
The honouring words of my dearly departed soul sister, Jody Raven, aptly describe my Cee
To find her in each oak leaf and acorn
In a raucous laugh, a nicely cooked sausage
In scents from before, memories lingering in the air,
Diaphanous.
To find her in strong words spoken, to care for and
Protect.
To remember
That is what death leaves us.
Her life is spoken here, sometimes with loss and
Tears, sometimes laughter
Her life still unwinds here as all lives do
We remember CeeTheOak
Two years before our first date, I laid eyes on her (across a crowded room, I know, how cliche, yet true) and I will always remember that exact moment, as it was incredibly visceral and is stored in my body memory. Now, important to preface here, is that I am the kind of femme dyke who is oblivious to being flirted with, I rarely develop crushes and I do not easily feel desire, as I am (too often) in my head.
So, here I am, it’s December 1996, and I’m in a room full of “granola” celebrants at a winter solstice women’s gathering
She stood out in the crowd, this soft butch, with softer eyes, dressed in plaid.
I can still feel remnants of this exact moment…a sharp inhalation of breath, my heart beat quickening and a sudden, dry mouth.
Sadly, it was a case of right person, wrong time, as I later found out she was in a relationship (yes, with one of those granola gals).
What I later found out was that prior to 1996 and that relationship, she had spied me in a crowd at Church and Wellesley (the queer hub of our city) and had asked a friend in HIV/AIDS care who I was. She was thinking about this HIV nurse and had seen a Reiki healer to ask for insight. He suggested she envision me and call me into her bed. Needless to say, I am a bit hard of hearing and I wish I had heard that call sooner.
The stars aligned and we finally had our first magical date of twelve hours duration on October 23, 1998. She asked me to read her “The Fall of Freddie the Leaf” (a children’s book on death and dying that she wanted to share with a friend who was palliative) and she sat behind me on the rocky beach and asked me to lean back into her. It felt scary. It felt right.
I brought up the topic of children on that date and she was clear that she did not want to have or parent children. I had just come out of six months of having constant “ovarian surges” where the mere viewing of a baby (any baby, anywhere) led to my ovaries pounding and the unconscious propulsion of my feet towards the infant.
So annoying and distracting!
Thank the Goddess that feeling subsided, but it was real in that moment.
Hallow’s Eve will forever be sacred to me. It is the night that the veil between the worlds is the thinnest. It was also our third date, me dressed as a lavender princess and her dressed as a raven, gallantly bowing down at my arrival and presenting me with a lavender rose. We walked through the crowds of Church Street and ended up dancing and having our first kiss on the dance floor of Buddies in Bad Times Theatre. The room spun around us and it felt as if we were the only people in the room. True magic and gratitude that I can still feel these moments, in real time.
We were together on this physical plane for a lucky (or as some might say, unlucky) thirteen years. It was not always an easy relationship and it was one were I learned to set personal boundaries and where my heart learned to love big. I experienced the love and acceptance of her biological family, which I treasured. She knew I was estranged from family of origin and was generous with hers.
Cee was big and bold in her living and in her dying. No one, including the emergency room doctors, could have predicted or diagnosed that her aorta had ruptured and that she was bleeding to death. We had precious moments before she went into surgery, just enough time for her to tell me that I was the best thing to have ever happened in her life. As they wheeled her away, I yelled out to her to focus on “green” (a healing colour for us both) and that I would meet her in the “garden”. She had just completed studies to be a horticulturalist, after 25 years of being a registered massage therapist, so the analogy seemed apt and more importantly, we both knew I wanted her to focus on life. A dear friend of mine later mentioned to me that it might have been helpful if I had clarified that the garden was on this plane and not in the afterlife. Painful to hear that as it was, but I, too, had wondered if the outcome might have been different had I been more specific with Cee and with any higher power that might have been listening at that time. The logical part of my brain knows I am not that omniscient or powerful, just stuck with missing what was and what could have and should have been…a lifetime together.
Throughout our relationship we would reminisce about that first date then that first kiss many times over, as a way of capturing and re-living the magic of the moment. We were both thankful that we wanted similar things: creating a home and life together and not having children (other than those that were hairy and four-legged). Cee was the first partner, in my life, that I had lived with. This was very “un-lesbian” of me, for I was not maintaining the firmly-set societal and community stereotype that dykes move in with their partners way too soon. In this way, I was very unlike my dyke friends, as I had only lived alone or with roommates, while dating different women. I did not feel safe and secure until I met Cee and after two years of dating I felt ready to share a physical home with her as my partner. Being integrated into her biological family was important and strategic for and to me. I have borrowed many mothers in my lifetime, likely to make up for lack of connection with my own biological family, through my own choosing. I feel I was born into the wrong family or that I extracted what good I could from my childhood and that it was my mission to find others who could love and honour me in my authentic shining. Cee had been out longer than I had been (more than ten years), yet had not really come out to her family of origin. It was empowering for me to tell her that when I met her family, I would not be introduced as her “friend” but as her partner. I did not fear losing her family, as I had already lost my own, but I was afraid of them knowing and loving a facsimile of me and our relationship. I feel proud to be queer and to live out loud. Those that can handle this can earn a spot in my found family. Cee found this initially challenging, but later reflected that our relationship was the healthiest of her entire family, including her two sisters and her parents. This helped me develop further pride in the authenticity and realness of our relationship, with all its ups and downs. My Mum and Dad through Cee were able to navigate their belief in god through Catholicism (and its associated queer phobic perspectives) and find a way to love their queer daughter and her partner.
Cee’s sudden death crushed me, pulling the rug of reality out from beneath me. I walked around aimlessly with this wet wool blanket of grief on my back. It was itchy, heavy, smelled like moldy, rotted debris and made it hard for me to lift my head and feet to move anywhere/nowhere.
In the early grief days, I recall friends coming over and gardening in the backyard (which was Cee’s passion) and placing a plate of food in front of me. I found it odd that I needed to be prompted to eat, as I am and have always been a very food-motivated human being (to a fault). I now understand why this ritual of feeding the deeply grieving is important, as I was fully engulfed in a reverie, a nightmare that I had not chosen and food was inconsequential. My appetite for life and food returned slowly and I sought out ways to honour my love through food, which was a focus for us in our relationship. Every deathiversary, birthday and anniversary I focussed on making or obtaining her favourite foods, for she was a lover of big flavours and thoughtful construction, gleaned from her father, who was a master sandwich maker. I do not have the patience for precision in most realms of my life, including cooking, so the best I could muster up was recreating one of Cee’s childhood comfort foods.
Picture me recreating Cee’s “recipe” as shown to me: boiling up (not microwaving) Frank’s Red Hots (no no-name weiner for my proud butch girlfriend would suffice). A firm outer skin, which popped around your teeth when pierced, was a sign of exquisite done-ness. A curling of the weiner ends indicated they were overdone…a big no-no. The piece de resistance was taking the freshly boiled Red Hot and dipping it carefully into a dollop of French’s Prepared Mustard on one’s plate.
Dip end into mustard,
Take one bite.
Repeat.
It seems simple, but yet so perfect.
I could control so little in my life, but I could enact this recipe and feed myself, in the depths of my wet, woollen grief.
Looking back, I have regrets that Cee and I did not have a child so that I, in my selfishness, could have a piece of her genetics still alive with me here, now. In reality, though, I know I could not have cared for another person, while in my state of shock and awe. I know we chose correctly in not having children and with the subsequent loss of each of our beloved four-leggeds over the years, I continue to lose parts of her over time, while holding onto the memories that I can still recall.
I was granted a second opportunity at love and for the second time in my life, I live with my love. Ange has an adult child she raised and two others from a previous relationship and we co-parent our three pets. I chose her for many reasons: her genuine kindness, her high Emotional Quotient, her humour and easy way, her ability to put together a very coordinated outfit and the fact that she did not know me in relationship with Cee, so as to avoid comparison. I did not want to parent a child, so her having an adult child worked for me.
It feels as if Cee is on the train station platform and I am on the train. The train starts to pulls away and with the passage of time her image gets smaller and smaller until her dot disappears…. but I know she is still there and always will be.
Your Story Submission
June 20, 2026
Father’s Day can bring forward many emotions – gratitude, love, longing, and remembrance. While we often think of fathers on this day, many of us also carry memories of grandfathers, stepfathers, uncles, mentors, and other father figures whose presence helped shape who we are. Their influence often lies in everyday moments, stories, values, and connections that continue long after they are gone.
In this reflection, Nash shares the experience of losing his grandfather, Saeed – a man whose life and presence left a lasting impact across generations. His story speaks not only to grief after death, but also to the regrets, unanswered questions, cultural expectations, and evolving understanding that can emerge over time. It is a reminder that grief does not always arrive when expected, and that meaningful support can help us carry loss in ways that feel more human and connected.
By Nash Hassan about his grandfather Saeed Hassan
When my grandfather passed away, I thought I was somewhat prepared because I knew he had been chronically ill for a long time. But after he died, I realized I had not really processed what losing him would actually feel like.
A few days later, it started to hit me that I would never see him again. I found myself looking through old photos and thinking about the life he lived. He was always active, walking to his farm, working every day, constantly moving. I honestly cannot remember a time when he truly slowed down.
At the same time, I started thinking about all the moments I never had with him. I wished I had spent more time with him, my father, and Edwin together. There were stories I wanted to hear and memories I wanted to revisit, but suddenly there was no more time.
Being in Toronto while he passed away in Lebanon made the grief even harder. Not being able to visit or say goodbye left me carrying a feeling that was difficult to explain. At one point, I remember quietly asking myself, “Is this normal?”
What stands out to me now is that I never thought about seeking support. In our culture, after the condolences and gatherings are over, people are expected to continue with life. Looking back, I realize support could have made a real difference.
Years later, Lynn helped me understand that grief is deeply personal and that there is no single “right” way to go through it. That awareness became especially meaningful after my wife lost her father earlier this year. It helped me understand that supporting someone through grief is not about helping them the way you think they should be helped but supporting them in the way they personally need.
What impacted me most was not advice or steps to follow. It was the space Lynn created to reflect, understand, and process things in a more human way.
That experience changed how I understand grief, how I support others through loss, and how I relate to my own experiences with it.
Your Story Submission
April 23, 2026
This loss carries many layers of grief — love, admiration, helplessness, anger, regret, and the deep ache that can come when someone’s death feels preventable. Callum’s grief reflects not only the loss of a younger brother, but also the pain of witnessing failures within systems that were meant to protect him.
There is the sorrow of losing someone extraordinary, alongside the heavy burden of wondering whether things could have been different. This kind of grief is often complicated by unanswered questions, moral injury, and the enduring wish to have done more sooner. Beneath all of it, however, is the unmistakable bond between brothers — a connection built on respect, love, and the lasting impact one life can have on so many others.
By Callum about his brother Daniel
My brother was an extremely resourceful, resilience and determined person. He provided so much transformational support to so many people. Due to multiple system failures and a serious lack of professionalism and accountability within healthcare circles, his life was lost. His death invoked a tribunal and resulted in multi-level court ordered changes in numerous areas of the system to prevent this from happening to someone else. I wish I had known more about what had been happening, I would have stepped in sooner and supported him and potentially prevented this from occurring.
Rest In Peace little brother, thank you for all the gifts you left everyone.
