I love my country.

I remember first learning in school about Canada being a mosaic. I remember learning that we embrace all cultures and all heritages and allow people the freedom to celebrate their history and rituals. I remember learning that while we embraced all people, we wove a beautiful tapestry. We were a mosaic.

And I remember learning of America the melting the pot.

And I remember thinking, “we’re better”.

I remember being in fifth grade, the year that the UN voted Canada the best country in the world to live in. And even though I wasn’t raised to be particularly patriotic, I felt proud and lucky. Lucky to live in a country so great it was considered the very best. Lucky to be a Canadian (although I do remember pondering at the randomness of it all. That I could be born here and be lucky but that another child could be born elsewhere and feel cheated…).

And while we are certainly not without our health care flaws…doctor shortages, unbelievably long waits in emergency rooms and clinics, even longer waits for surgeries and MRIs and Cat scans, just to name a few of the issue plaguing our system currently…I still feel so passionately fortunate that each and every one of those things is free. I have never received a bill for being sick. I have never paid more than two dollars for any procedure and that was for a strep throat test (and the nurse assured me that day that if I didn’t have the two dollars, they would perform it anyway). Each and every one of Michael’s treatments and visits from M and the physiotherapist and follow ups at the children’s hospital are also free. And the one time I did receive a bill… two actually…for Michael’s stay in the NICU, all I had to do was call and give them his health card number and the bill for more than my house was worth was automatically paid. They just didn’t have the card number on file.

Free health care is not a bad idea. And it’s hard to imagine it any other way.

I love my country.

I have never imagined living anywhere else. I have never even contemplated the idea of being anything other than a Canadian. And when the US decided that Canadians needed passports to cross the border and thousands of my fellow Canadians were up in arms and pissed off and feeling vengeful, I really couldn’t have cared less. I never traveled to the US. What the fuck did I care if I would need a passport? I remember watching a news segment showing the painfully long lines at the border and at customs and I remember the warning about allowing way more time than usual to get your passport when you applied and I remember looking at Rock and saying, “suckers”.

I’ve been overly patriotic. Not sure why. Maybe because so early on, I questioned the logic and decided it was silly to be proud of something so random. Or maybe because my parents were really proud to be Canadian and could go on a rant about our country if given the opportunity (actually, it was more my Dad that was like that…) but also considered a move to Texas when I was in high school because of the need for registered nurses there and the increase in pay for a nurse like my Mom.

Eventually, obviously, they decided against a move. And I recall my Mom telling me that she was having a moral issue and couldn’t in good conscious, given what she had studied and the vows she had taken upon entering the health care workforce, provide care for patients only if they could afford it.

I’ve never been patriotic. But every now and then, I have my moments. Like when gay marriage was made legal in Canada. That made my heart swell. And after pretty much any Michael Moore film, I get that increased pitter patter in my chest. And when Canada decided to stay the fuck out of Iraq, I nodded my head and felt a little soar.

And then I fell in love with an American. And those feelings of randomness that first sprouted in the fifth grade, blossomed.

But when my American Boy and I started talking about being together. When the pain of being apart started to wear on us and the idea of visits and phone calls weren’t enough anymore. When we first began hatching a plan to bring us together, under the same roof, I didn’t object in the least to his coming to Canada. “I have no intention of becoming an American citizen”, I said. And it was a true statement. We were, after all, better.

It was a true statement until I discovered how fucking picky Canada is. Doctors and lawyers, come on in (and who would object to an influx of qualified doctors, really? We sure could use some so let’s consider this janetk’s open call to doctors around the world…CANADA NEEDS YOU!) but the rest of you motherfuckers, too fucking bad. We need skilled workers, we say. But we make it damn near impossible to crack through and settle in.

And in the immortal words of Tina Turner, “what’s love got to do with it?”

So Don and I went back and forth, back and forth. Talking and scheming and planning and thinking. And while he was here in July, we decided to put it all on hold. It was just too hard for right now. It was necessary to keep plugging away in our respective lives and wait. Just wait for what was coming next. It hurt but was also relieving in some strange way. The stress of not being able to get into Canada and the fear of losing me forever because of it could finally dissipate some for him. And I knew where my children were going to go to school. And I knew what plan of action I needed to take for my family come September.

I would stay in my house.
I would get a job.
And a car.
And some child care.
Rock could move out.
And the year could begin.
The countdown until the more literal break.

Sounds like a pretty good plan, doesn’t it?

Except that it doesn’t account for fucked up parents.

So here I stand, right back on square fucking one all over again. Angry and hurt and confused. So confused. Because just when I thought I had a leg up. Just when I thought I had a workable plan. Just when I could see a glimmer of light at the end of the tunnel, someone had to rip the rug out from under me. And out from under my children, too.

Only this time, the feelings of living in a better country are being outweighed by the urge to say,

“Fuck. You. Get your asses down to the Service Canada office and get your fucking passports. Because I am so fucking out of here.”

Fuck. You.

It might mean leaving a country that I’ve always believed to be better.

But it will at least mean arriving in a country where I know I’m loved.