![]() ![]() Eventually I lost badly and had to watch from the audience as the winner, in an impossibly fluffy ball gown, sawed through Tchaikovsky in a flurry of bow strokes and crinoline. I wanted to win an orchestra competition in which the prize was to play with the Winnipeg Symphony Orchestra. Perform a cello solo.” In high school, that was the biggest dream I could imagine. ![]() “Ah, there it is.” I point to the page, holding it up for Toban to see. Then we were instructed to write down specific goals to achieve before our clocks ran out. We learned about running our own plays in the Game of Life. We would need to become winners, he said, like a ragtag group of young men he once knew who, in 1990, won the Canadian Football League’s highest honors as the Grey Cup-winning team. Shifting and harrumphing and rearranging blankets, I turn to my husband, Toban, and ask him, “Does this count as a bucket list?” I am carefully arranged on pillows to keep my weight off the chemotherapy infusion pack. #16 Take a scooter tour around Prince Edward Island. It stretches across many pages in blue ink, pencil, then a red scrawl as new fantasies were caught and bottled like fireflies. I fish around for inspiration in old journals of mine, and one night, right before bed, I find a list dating back decades. After all, what do I know about dying? I’ve never done it before. But I resolve to follow the lead of the Caitlins nonetheless. I attempt to take notes while they are talking, then find myself searching online libraries for the popularization of the term “bucket list” followed by a long period of processing my disappointment that it only became common after the eponymous Jack Nicholson, Morgan Freeman movie in 2007.
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