Letters from Rona / Sort by date

If someone you love is an alcoholic, one question is never very far from your mind: "Why is he doing this to me?" Maybe your drunk is a she, but that's a detail. All of these stories are essentially the same, and one of them is mine. Which is why, especially around Christmas, I turn for insight to alcoholic writers---John Cheever and Raymond Carver---who have told the truth about their illness. [more]

Today it struck me that I'm falling out of step with humankind. I've never been downsized, let go, laid off, packaged, terminated or otherwise exiled from the ranks of the gainfully employed. I left every one of my jobs when the moment seemed right, not when someone else decided my time was up. How quaint. [more]

There must be 150 singers in the Mendelssohn Choir, whose splendid performance of Messiah I've just seen. But I could still pick out the bobbing silver ponytail of my long-lost former workout buddy, Debbie Fleming, whose infectious joy became the highlight of my evening. [more]

In the first tentative phase of couplehood, every day seemed a contest between my way with domestic matters and my husband's. On top of all the everyday conundrums, we now had to negotiate Christmas. I had always assumed there was one right way to orchestrate seasonal cheer---and where I came from, we didn't wear tissue-paper crowns at the Christmas table. [more]

If there was ever a time to feel like a chump for taking HRT to manage menopausal symptoms, that time is now. The latest study underscores the link between HRT and breast cancer, while news breaks of a drug company paying doctors to affix their names to articles endorsing the controversial therapy. Yet I won't be quitting anytime soon. Here's why. [more]

For all of us with empty places at our Christmas table, this is the season of missing. I've been thinking lately about those of you who've lost someone (especially your mother) because it's clear from my daily Google statistics that grief brings many people to this site. Here, a found poem from the searches of women missing their mothers. [more]

I wasn't ticking her name off a list, expressing my knowledge of red-carpet trends or flaunting my generosity with that famous little blue box. I was just an eight-year-old with saved-up allowance in the palm of my mitten. And what I chose to buy was as fine a gift as any I have given. [more]

I'm not sure why I feel so optimistic these days. It's not as if the audacity of hope has yet crossed the border to Canada's capital. Here we're stuck with the audacity of arrogance and deceit, which is the price of electing the schoolyard bully for Prime Minister. Meanwhile winter's digging in and the economic news keeps getting worse. The one thing I can control is my mood. [more]

Have you heard about the big New York publisher that put a freeze on acquiring books? No, this isn't the latest joke from the sultans of satire at The Onion. It really happened this week at Houghton Mifflin Harcourt as staff at other houses lost their jobs in droves. [more]

The best part of being a journalist is interviewing people who have led extraordinary lives. I look back on some of them as mentors. For instance, the vital and exuberant woman who pursued her dream despite ovarian cancer---and whose victory gave me hope as I struggled with depression, the life-threatening cancer of the soul. [more]

I don't drive friends to the airport, bring them treats from my kitchen or even remember their birthdays but I have my own way of honouring their presence in my life. I write standout letters of recommendation. Here's how I do it. [more]

Although I've never Twittered or even texted and am rapidly acquiring the knees of a nonagerian, I share a bond with kids who have yet to take a legal drink. Some lowlife has stolen my iPod. [more]