Canadian pride is like an angry blobfish

My brother and I have a… game? competition? whatever…. every year to see who will be the first person to fall flat on their behind in winter.

I usually lose.

Living in Winnipeg means the possibility of slipping and falling is pretty much year-round, thanks to the rather horrific state of our sidewalks and then six months of ice.

The past few years have been especially treacherous, thanks to a couple of winters with stretches of weather periods hovering around the 0C mark.

As any good prairie-dweller knows, this leads to a slow melting of the snowpack, which then turns to ice. Then when things begin to melt again, it’s ice with a thin veneer of water on top.

We are currently in that weather cycle.

Except this year, it wasn’t me who fell. Nor has my brother.

Yesterday, during a meeting, my husband called me on the phone. He does not like speaking on the phone. Even to me. I picked up, bracing myself.

He had fallen on his walk to work and couldn’t walk on his ankle.

I bolted out of the meeting (my co-workers were lovely about it, thanks folks!) and picked him up, literally, off the sidewalk.

Later at the clinic, as hubby was being looked at, I couldn’t help but think about the metaphor behind it all.

Despite knowing it was coming, and could potentially happen, it was still unexpected. Having your feet swept out from under you is always a shocking feeling.

As I write this, my husband is in the living room with his foot up, his ankle swollen like a grumpy blobfish, and his mood is about the same.

I think all of Canada currently feels that way.

But as I took care of my loved one in his time of need, I like to think we will all take care of each other.

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