Everything Comes to an End

Posted on August 8, 2025 by Gwynne Hunt gwynne1@telus.net

I have not been keeping up with my posts. Life has been difficult. My husband passed away two months ago. Towards the end it was brutal. I felt pushed to sign off on ‘end of life’ drugs. The doctor advised me over the phone there are 3 stages.; My husband had been in stage one for a very long time; three years. We advanced meds to help him rest and he entered stage two but that was challenged by every nurse and care aid at the Home.

“He is so sick. He groans at night.”

They called it bleating like a sheep. He kept the other residents awake calling for me, calling for help. I was told there was a circle of support who was waiting to swoop in and help us deal with ‘end of life’. I asked Dave if he was done and he said he would breathe until he could not anymore. I refused the pain meds to keep him asleep until the end. That is what Dave wanted. He went blind about a month before and it took me three weeks to get staff to put it on a chart that he could not see. They did not believe me.Stupidly asking if he was enjoying the show he was watching. One care aid stood in front of him and asked, “What colour is my shirt?’ he said, green. She looked at me smugly and said, “I told you he can see.”

When she left I asked him what colour shirt I was wearing which was white. “Green.” he said. We laughed and he told me she always wore green. He did not want to admit he was coming to the end. He wanted to stick around to take care of me. After 3 or 4 conversations abut the drugs that would give him peace he said to stop asking him. Finally, he could not stop crying as he was in so much pain. He had stopped eating and drinking. His body was breaking down; bruised and thin. I asked him one more time and he whispered, “I cant stand the pain anymore.”

It was like an old game show and I chose door number one. They came in and gave him the pain meds. He held my hand. He told me he loved me. He went to sleep. His breathing was shallow but they said it could be weeks still or at the very least days. I left and went back the next morning to see him. He had not woken and looked peaceful for the first time in months. I gave him a kiss and said, “See you later.”

I thought we would have more days to hold his hand, to tell him we loved him but within an hour I got a call. The nurse said Dave was dying and to come right away. I had been preparing for this for three years but the shock of those words dropped me to my knees. I took a breath, got up and phoned my son who said he was on his way to get me. My daughter in law and two of the grandkids were close by and turned up as well.

I knew there were not going to be any last words. His last words to me 24 hours earlier were, “I love you’.”

The five of us took turns holding his hand. We told funny stories and we laughed. But mostly we cried. Not a religious man at all, when Dave’s dad was dying we had waited for Dave to say goodbye. When he got to the hospital that day, he took is dad’s hand in his and said The Lord’s Prayer. I was surprised. His dad passed as we said Amen. I knew that was an important moment for him and so we all held hands and said the prayer. I wish I could say we were aware of the moment he passed but we were not. We kept checking to see if he was alive and then he wasn’t. We called the nurse and she confirmed that he was gone. The family left. They could not stop crying and wanted to give me a moment alone. I sat with him for awhile. I thought he moved but when the nurse came back in she said no. I kissed him, told him I loved him and walked out.

My family shielded me as we walked out. I did not want to see anyone or have to talk to anyone. I just wanted to go home.The last two months have been hard. I am a strong woman. Losing him after 56 years of marriage is the worst pain I have ever felt. I have lost many. By the time you are 75 that is part of life. Losing a life partner and best friend is heart wrenching. Dave was my biggest fan, supporter, and love of my life. Where do I go from Here?

So far I have been to a Memorial we planned for him that was beautiful. I put funny pictures and nice ones of him all around. His ashes were in an urn that once held my sister’s ashes. My son, daughter, a good friend and I all spoke. Telling funny stories and remembering what a great man Dave was. The reality sinks in when all the love is gone. Family go home. The death certificates have to be distributed, the phone calls made to pensions and debt holders. Still you think, “I am managing this. I am doing well.”

I am not. The bank called today. I cannot pay Dave’s debts. I went in the hole $1300 a month for three years keeping him at the home. I cashed in a life insurance policy that I had on me. Dave was my beneficiary so I felt I should just use the money to get through. A $25,0000 policy gave me $6,400. I opened a new bank account. In my name. That was my cushion because I knew it would get ugly. Death is difficult when the credit card companies and banks find out you cannot pay them back. They were not my debts. They were Dave’s. I have my own debts, mortgage and a life yet to live.

Nothing has been easy. One bank would not accept the death certificate as real. After his Line of Credit was closed, the bank today took his payment out of my account. They can’t do that. A couple of credit cards have gone to collections. There is no estate. That will not stop the bloodhounds though from trying to collect. I have been jumping though the hoops. I’m ashamed I cannot pay. I could sell the house but the mortgage is cheaper than the rent I cannot afford. I got a couple of small refund cheques I had trouble depositing as there were in Dave’s name. One bank told me if it does not say c/o in my name how can they cash it? I might be money laundering. The government might freeze my account. What? The new one in my name where I stashed the insurance money that belongs to me?

Being a child of poverty I still carry that shame. In grade twelve the teacher said,” All those on welfare stay to get your free books.” I was the only one who did not get up to leave. Guys threw pennies at me in the hall. I was horrified because I thought they knew I was poor. A wiser friend explained they thought I was a slut.That made me happier. Without writing another book I cold go on with more samples. Unlocking the Tin Box covered that topic in detail.

I’ll get through this. Maybe they will put leans on my house. I have a mortgage until I’m ninety. Who cares? None of it matters. I lost Dave. None of it matters.

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Writing in the middle of stress

Posted on November 21, 2024 by Gwynne Hunt gwynne1@telus.net

All I seem to write when I am stressed is poetry; angry poetry. There has been a lot of that in the last two years. Mt husband had a stroke and is in a Home;paralyzed on his left side with neurological brain damage. I visit him everyday but he is not the reason for my stress. It is the System. It is the way Seniors are treated. We not only become invisible as we age but we become tolerated. I have been letting this get me down, being a shadow person, afraid to speak up and then I wasn’t anymore. I have to advocate for my husband and other Seniors. There needs to be change.

There is ‘care’ depending on who is working that day or evening. Most Care Aids are wonderful people; some are not. Most of the Care Aids at the Home my husband is in will not put pants on him as they say his legs are too heavy (from edema). He is not given the dignity he deserves. But I have given up that fight because he does not care. I just try to make sure a blanket is covering him, he is not left sitting in his wheelchair in a hallway and that he is comfortable in his room.

There are a lot of rules to learn when a partner goes into a Home after a massive stroke. And there are a lot of costs the public, in general, do not know about. The first shock was when he had to wait 10 days to go from the hospital to the Home, I had to pay about a hundred dollars a day for his care. It is not covered. I have found that transportation is a huge problem. The first one was a wheelchair. I guess, if I ever thought about it all, I assumed wheelchairs were part of the privileges of being in a Home. that cost $10,000 of which we had to pay $2,000. The adaptive clothing is very expensive and we spent over a thousand dollars first day. You pay 80% of the resident’s income which I was living on. I had to financially divorce him on paper so I could apply for Guaranteed Income Supplement which still does not leave me enough to pay the mortgage, bills and repairs.

While the spouse is struggling to deal with the loss of a lifetime partner, you are faced with one obstacle after another. There is no help. If you are of low income, certainly things are paid for. If you are rich, you can afford the extras. Dave, my husband, was a working middle class man. He does not get any breaks. When he had to go for services at a hospital an hour\s drive away I was quoted $600 each way for Medivan plus $60 an hour for the two men who drove and transported him. I contacted every level of government I could think of from Senior’s advocate to MLA and found there is no help. I finally found out there was a grant offered that would help him.

Now when he needs transport there is Shuttle in town that costs $75 an hour, so most round trips for dental or anything else are out of town and cost around $300 for the ride. But at least they can take him. I tried to take him on the ‘notsohandydart’ one day and as I had to be the one to push him on, he did not get to go. The 200 pound driver watched me take several runs at the ramp and mutterd how he could not help me. Staff from the Home were not allowed either. I pushed Dave back inside crying; me not him. I just wanted to take him for an outing, some sunshine. There are little incline driveways out of the Home, so I cannot even get him on the sidewalk. It is even difficult trying to take him to the garden as the steep turn out the door and the door is not as large as it should be . . .we spend a lot of time in his room.

We play Trivia and he is sharp and funny and engaged. He is not interested in Bingo and only attends Music Trivia during Activities. I go everyday because I want to make sure his teeth are brushed, and his hair and he has dignity. Sometimes I find his remote for his tv on the floor under his bed and he is staring at the walls. Sometimes he is sleeping at the table where he just had lunch. I have to constantly search for his glasses. He has no control over these things. He often looks like they gave his wheelchair a push into the room and kept walking. He is supposed to have the call button on his lap. These are minor worries but they add up. I am faced everyday with the knowledge he is never going to come home. I cannot afford a $20,000 upgrade to the house. I can barely pay the mortgage.

I have had to take on a part time job but even then it is not enough as you cannot earn more than $5,000 a year or you lose your GIS. My life is getting smaller. I see Dave, sometimes I go for a walk before work. I have a large dog and a cat who are left alone too much. They are my best friends and the reason I hang onto a house I cannot really afford anymore. I have had to take on all the upkeep, bought 3 appliances since he went into the Home, but the mortgage is cheaper than rent. I cannot pay off our debts unless I sell. It is a circle of financial worries I cannot escape from. When Dave was having smaller strokes he was not always thinking right and he took out a Line of credit against the house. I have to pay it.

There should be an advocate at every Home in Canada who will help fine rides, medical equipment, clothes . . .I have bought a leg brace, nobody will put on him, a mirror for physio that never got used, neck pillows, firm bed pillows . . .we pay $25 for a haircut, $40 for a foot care person, $35 for cable, $10 activity fee and this all over and above the 80%. I believe 50% would be a more affordable amount to use for his care. The spouse not going into a Home is left with nothing. The resident gets feed three meal a day, the spouse left at home does not eat as well. The constant advocating for his dignity, his care, his transport, his rights wears me down.

I think most of us Seniors prepare for the loss of a loved one. We did. We paid for our cremations and service a long time ago. I have a small insurance policy for my children. Dave did not. His insurance only lasted for five years after retirement. He did not qualify for mortgage insurance. By the time we were in our fifties his health was not great and we did not qualify. We did not ever think about him going into a Home at 73. I have not yet found any support for Seniors in wheelchairs. He cant go anywhere and that is not healthy. I thought Care Aids took residents outside for fresh air . . .they do not. Even the ones who smoke have to be able to get out and in on their own. I have been told I cannot help and then when I ask for help for someone I am told they know the rules.

I have been yelled at by Care Aids and of course, reported them. Dave tells me he is yelled at sometimes but as he has brain damage I am told that is not likely. But I see the way residents are treated. Dave is treated better than he was but then I am there everyday. I am there so often, residents think I work there and try to grab my hand and ask for help. I am not allowed. I was banned from the dining room where I used to go and get Dave. I was too disrupted. I still go inside sometimes when I see him slumped over in his chair the only one forgotten. I do believe the majority of people who work there are great but there is always one or two . . .they are short staffed a lot and they do work hard, for the most part.

Most Seniors magazines paint this picture of elders going on lavish trips, hiking in the mountains, getting facelifts . . most of us are struggling with debt, a disabled partner and eating cereal for supper. I try to walk with or without a friend at least twice a week, I have a grandson who visits once a week, I have family close by, I work but only 10 hours a week, and I spend a lot of time alone. There are endless errands and chores just to keep the house from not falling apart. Today I have water seeping in under the carpet downstairs, a power outage two days ago, a tire replacement a few days before that but I know everyday I can go see Dave and I feel blessed. But that does not stop me from being angry that we worked hard all of our lives and there does not seem to be much help now.

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And on we go . . .

Posted on May 8, 2024 by Gwynne Hunt gwynne1@telus.net

Sometimes survival takes over and writers do not write. This is the saddest of times. I have been writing since I can remember. I stayed home from school for 3 weeks when I was 14 and wrote my first book. I would answer the phone when the school called and pretend to be my mom. It was easy. Mom was ‘sick’ as we called it. Every once in a while she took to her bed with a bottle of Johnny Walker and did not get up for a few weeks. That drunk lasted long enough for me to scribble my novel in my room. Dad was working as a telephone con man then, and was gone most of the time. He was selling subscriptions to magazine for the blind. I always thought that was funny. It was a fake magazine that was never delivered.

Other times when I did not write came suddenly when life got too hard. That happened a lot. Yet somehow I have survived and published four magazines, worked for newspapers, written thirty plays and five books. I have to write. Like breathing you can only hold your breath for so long. My thoughts need to tumble onto the pages or my head will explode. Since my husband of 54 years had a stroke and went into a home, I have struggled to survive financially, emotionally and physically. And then my sister died. They were my two biggest fans.

When I put my last ten years of poems together in Coddiwomple I thought I was back. It has been a year since I published that book. I read from it at a public reading once. I have gone to three writer events and tried to sell my books. Sold copies of all of them except for my last chapbook. It is the forgotten child. I do not believe anyone I know has read it, or shown interest in it . . .except for my daughter. I always have to remind myself that long after I am gone my words will carry on . . .my books (some of them) are in the Library of Congress, I hear from people once in the odd while that one of my books was important to them. rampage: the pathology of an epidemic

This book took me six years of research on missing and murdered women and children in Canada. Brave women I know walked across Canada carrying the names I collected based on the work of Mary Billy to Parliament Hill. Where they went then, I do not know. In the paper shredder perhaps? My daughter painted the cover and glued the names from the book . . .over 4,000 of them in the strands of the woman’s hair. She won the People’s Choice Award from Amnesty International at a Vancouver event. The women from walkforjustice are still walking and fighting to end the violence. I only have four books left. Lost files, publishers . . .I do not have an online copy. But I know it is an important work. Someday, someone will find a copy and care. Like I did when I found Mary Billy’s Femicide List on the dusty shelves of SFU.

Even though I am upset the publisher for Unlocking the Tin Box did a lousy editing job, I am happy with the book. Maybe a bit too raw, a bit too much exposure but that is me. A short while before I published I found out the man who I thought was my dad was not my DNA dad. The whole book really was about who he was and how it affected my life. It sent me on another journey and a lot of research to write Through My Lens. It is my favourite book; part truth, part of it made up. That is how I live my life.

My poetry books bruises & bad haircuts and Coddiwomple are full of surprises, even to me. I wonder sometimes who she was . . . the poet. Did she really suffer that much pain? The Adventures of Bob & Boo is a self published little book written about my grandson and I, illustrated by my six grandkids. One of the few books family actually read. That is the hard part knowing people you love have not read your work and they pretend they did. Worse then the ones who did read your words and disputed them, hated them. People who love tend to hurt you more then strangers who have no personal attachment to your words.

The point is, I guess . . .is that writers need to write. Nothing should stop you. Even now, going through the worst of times with the loss of my sister and seeing my husband lose our precious memories, I write. I write everyday in a journal. I write poems. I write angry letters. There is another book I know. When it will escape the confines of my rigid mind I do not know. The beauty of being a writer is that you are never too old. I encourage everyone to write their story. Regardless of social media hype, people still read. Hard cover books are not so popular but they still exist. Buy a book. Go to the Library. Celebrate the writers. It is not an easy job.

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On the road again . . .

Posted on May 24, 2023 by Gwynne Hunt gwynne1@telus.net

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Newest book

Posted on May 24, 2023 by Gwynne Hunt gwynne1@telus.net

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Reviews from goodreads.ca

Posted on October 20, 2021 by Gwynne Hunt gwynne1@telus.net

Kristen Hunt rated it it was amazing

A peek back in time from the raucous 30’s all the way to the mid-80’s “Through My Lens” offers a look into the life of 4 people who became intertwined during the great depression. We get a glimpse into the world of drug dealing, petty crime, and robbery and learn about the con man way of life.

“Through My Lens” is a love story of sorts, but also a powerful story of family, strife, adventure and nostalgia. Why not take a walk with Gwynne down to 358 Powell Street and meet Bohunk Marie, Gunvor, Ron 

Viki rated it really liked it.

Gwynne’s perspective on her family’s secrets was well presented and though I’ve been off reading from some time, I found I couldn’t put this one down. It’s an easy read although uncomfortable in spots with it’s raw revelations of those secrets. A definite must for your book shelf …moreflagLike  · comment · see review

C.J.rated it it was amazing
Aug 28, 2021

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Review of Through My Lens

Posted on July 13, 2021 by Gwynne Hunt gwynne1@telus.net

THROUGH MY LENS by Gwynne Hunt

Review by Elma Schemenauer

When Gwynne Hunt was 69, she discovered that her biological father wasn’t Ronald Robinson, as she had always thought. He was Harold Larsen. In her biographical book THROUGH MY LENS, she tells the stories of her stepfather, her father, her mother—Gunvor Berglund—and many people in their lives.

The book spans the years from the 1920s into the early 1980s, and takes place in parts of Ontario and Western Canada, especially British Columbia. It explores aspects of the Great Depression, military service, poverty, unstable families, alcoholism, and crimes ranging from shoplifting to forgery to drug dealing and scams of various kinds.

The three parents Hunt portrays in the book all came from church backgrounds, but rejected religious influences as they grew up. Though they often behaved in ways that were not admirable, honest, or morally upright, their story held my attention from beginning to end.

Hunt is a strong writer with good insights into personality and character. Examples:

-“Ron and Marie never settled into a happily married life. The two of them never settled into anything.”

-“She did not feel like the girl who grew up on the farm anymore, with morals and love in her heart.”

-“He turned every life experience into something grander than it was.”

-“He knew he had not lived up to his potential as a man, a husband, or a father.”

I’m interested in history so I especially appreciate Hunt’s historical references and insights. Examples:

-“During World War I he was a pigeon keeper, helping the war effort with training homing pigeons.”

-Regarding the Great Depression: “They were not all that sad about going to jail; three squares a day.”

-Regarding after-effects of military service: “He still had nightmares from the war. Harold never really knew how to reach out for help, not for his drinking and not for his trauma suffered during World War II.”

-“When they all started smoking, it was portrayed as glamorous and harmless.”

Sometimes I wish the author had written in a more chronological way, for example, when recounting the events of Gunvor’s earlier years. Occasionally I wasn’t sure what was happening, for example, regarding some scams the characters perpetrated. On the whole though, I enjoyed THROUGH MY LENS and recommend it. The newspaper clippings reproduced at the end are a nice addition.

Elma (Martens) Schemenauer is the author of 70-plus books published in Canada and the United States. One is YESTERCANADA: HISTORICAL TALES OF MYSTERY AND ADVENTURE. Another is the 1940s-era Saskatchewan Mennonite novel CONSIDER THE SUNFLOWERS. Both are published by Borealis Press of Ottawa. Her website is https://elmams.wixsite.com/elma .

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Coming Soon!

Posted on June 20, 2021 by Gwynne Hunt gwynne1@telus.net

Though My Lens has been shipped and should arrive within the week.

gwynne1@telus.net for an etransfer of $24 plus shipping (depending on where you live $12 to $18)

Visit my Youtube channel to see a book trailer and preview of the book.

Google gwynnehunt and click on Videos

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Review of Unlocking the Tin Box

Posted on June 16, 2021 by Gwynne Hunt gwynne1@telus.net

Review by Jannett Dunnett author of The Dwindling

Midway through this romp through time, from the 60’s to the edge of the book’s publication in 2019, the author’s sister states what I think this book is about. “It isn’t all about Maggie and Maggie’s world.”

But her sister is wrong. It is about Maggie’s world. And this is what makes the book such a compelling read. Its structure is stream of consciousness. We first encounter Maggie as a five year old, luring suckers to her carnie father’s fixed game of chance. The book ends with her reflections on being a grandmother and her way ahead on the brink of being 70. References to history season the story. The Cuban Missile Crisis, Vietnam War, the Beatles, the summer of love, and BC’s missing women reality are waypoints to orient the reader in time.

In this book, the reader can’t help but cheer for this preschooler, teenager, young mom, middle aged wife, and finally a senior, fighting for her right to make her own mistakes. Growing up in a hardscrabble BC family with two drunken parents, so poor that one Christmas the only food in the house was a can of spaghetti, Maggie evolves as she matures, always trying to do better than what was done to her.

Though the title, Unlocking the Tin Box, refers to artifacts from her father’s life, this story line is just one of many in this 400 page deeply detailed narrative. All the vignettes are strongly rooted in place. Whether in Vancouver, Kamloops, Hope, Terrace, Prince George, Los Angeles and ultimately on Vancouver Island. We feel the discomfort of these “dumps” on the other side of the tracks in vivid descriptions, like how one home was heated with burning tires.

I would have liked more reflection on this technicolor life. When it comes though, it is juicy. “I think dad was running away from his failures” , she says as she contemplates her nomadic childhood. Her child self sees her mother’s drinking through a lens of comfort, “mother’s best friend was a guy named Johnnie Walker”. She’s obsessed with the excitement of hitchhiking, and accepts her sexual exploitation and close calls with rape with the offhand comment “I never expected a good outcome when I was alone with a man”. Was her blasé attitude to sex, “it that all there is?” a result of her experiences, or did it make her vulnerable to abuse? The reader must decide. But the thread of her approach to life that makes this book come alive, comes from her father’s mantra, “If you’re ever getting run out of town…get out in front and pretend it’s a parade”.

I loved this book. It feels true. It deeply engages. It’s Canada’s answer to the best selling American memoir, The Glass Castle. And it deserves the same acclaim.

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Through My Lens takes a look back through the depression, the second world war and into the eighties by examining newspaper accounts. Gwynne has woven a fictional story linking the newspaper clippings together. There was an unsettling past, she knew that, what she did not know was the shocking stories that she would find through her research. Her stepfather who she grew up believing was her real father was a murder suspect, a drug dealer, a vagrant and a thief. In 1947 the largest drug deal to ever hit the West Coast involved her stepfather, his wife and stepson. In later years his ex-wife was called the Big Boss of Powell Street. Everyone knew Marie Robinson. Through family accounts and detailed written stories, she found out her real father was from Standard, Alberta. Her father had Great-Uncles; one who was a famous artist and one who was a world traveler and explorer bringing back rare seeds from Russia and China. Her mother had always told her to be ‘careful what you wish for’, she should have reminded her that she might not like what she found. Her mother rebelled from a strict upbringing and religion and after the loss of seven children went down a path that led her to alcoholism. Somehow the three of them; her mother Gunvor, her stepfather Ron and her real father Harold stumbled together. It is a true story with lots of fictional accounts. Gwynne Hunt THROUGH MY LENS Silver Bow Publishing $23.95, on amazon or it can be purchased through Gwynne at gwynne1@telus.net $24 plus shipping

Posted on June 7, 2021 by Gwynne Hunt gwynne1@telus.net
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