Sixty-five years of life is the line that was just crossed when my mother retired from nursing and my father died.

We bought a huge cake shaped like a nurse to celebrate her grand career, and put part of it in the freezer to eat another day. A few months passed, and then my dad was due for a quadruple by-pass surgery at the St. Boniface Hospital here in Winnipeg.

I remember the night before the surgery, he didn't want to see me, as it would be too emotional for him. He said last words to my mother. Then the next morning we got a call and saw him for the last time in post-surgery. He was drowning in his own blood that wouldn't clot.

In the following years, I moved my mom to a new apartment, and started a long process of surgeries, cancer, and the eventual take-over of dementia.

I just turned sixty-five. The passage of that year does not mean that it's the beginning of the end of my life, but it does make me think. I plan to finish my autobiography soon, for my children to have, and then I plan on writing about the story of my mother's dementia.

People seem to be dropping dead lately, famous people and people I know. We're trying to recover from a scary two years of sickness and fear. Depression, suicide, fear and more sickness is ongoing.

I am still relatively healthy, semi-retired and working two days a week. Each day I put one step in front of the other. I no longer dwell on my looks, as my hair has gone whiter and my body is slower and weaker. I only wear makeup for special occasions. It's too much effort to keep up.

I dwell on my relationship with my husband, children, grandchildren and close friends and family. I still paint occasionally, but wait for meaningful moments to inspire me.

I have fallen twice in the past year. Once on my bike, and most recently on my icy front steps. I am so blessed that I did not crack any ribs when my back hit the cement steps.

It reminds me of another accident, several years ago. I like to walk for exercise, and at the time it was on a pre-dawn morning in the winter. I slipped on some ice, and felt my right foot slip upwards. It felt it was in slow motion that I realized I was going to land on my back and hit my head. No one would find me in the dark for quite a while. There was no way that I would be able to right myself. But then, my swinging leg started to go back down, as if someone else was controlling it. I was still on my feet. I was in shock. I was positive that my guardian angel had stopped my fall. An overwhelming sense of gratitude overcame me, and I started to weep, and took my steps directly home, thanking God for saving me. 

I painted an abstract of myself walking in the night, with light around me. You can see this painting in the background of the self-portrait I have on display. God has directed my steps throughout my life, and as I pass into my latter years, I trust Him to continue to do so. He is so good.