My mother’s departure has always left me conflicted. Over time, I’ve come to understand how trapped she must have felt—alone in that house with two kids at just 25 years old. But as a child, I couldn’t comprehend why, all of a sudden, I didn’t have a mom. I felt abandoned. Do I have “abandonment issues”? Probably. Five-year-olds don’t remember much, and my childhood memories are sparse—haunted by nightmarish shapes forming visions I’d rather forget. Even so, many experiences from that time linger in my mind. I’m certain this is why I turned to comedy and performance and why I continue to grapple with acceptance and approval. I became an overachiever.
I lived with four different foster families between the ages of 5 and 13. While the families changed, the schedule stayed the same: Sunday night to Friday night, I stayed with a foster family, and from Friday night to Sunday night, I was with my dad. He paid each family to provide me with a place to sleep and meals to eat.
On Fridays, Dad would pick me up between 5 and 8 p.m. We’d have a late dinner, watch TV, and I’d head to bed around 9. Fridays were special because they were short but sweet.
Saturday mornings started at 8 a.m. with Dad making breakfast—kippers and toast, pancakes, or bacon and eggs. His cooking was simple, but being with him was all I cared about. The day was often spent running errands: grocery shopping, paying bills, or handling other tasks. Sometimes I joined him; other times, I waited in the car. Lunch was always eaten out. While I cherished our time together, I remember feeling incredibly bored during those errands.
We’d usually get home around 3 or 4 p.m., and I’d either turn on the TV or head to my room to work on model kits. I didn’t have many toys since I was rarely home, but my dad got me into model-making early on. He later told me it was his way of giving my life a sense of weekly continuity.
Dinner was typically eaten on small personal tables in front of the TV. Sometime we ate in the dining room and there was a tv in there too. My dad had a tv in his bedroom as well. I loved watching Irwin Allen shows like Time Tunnel and Voyage to the Bottom of the Sea, while my dad preferred The Courtship of Eddie’s Father and Bewitched. He watched a lot of TV, and after I went to bed, he’d watch even more. Depending on where we lived, and if I could hide well enough, I’d sometimes sneak out of my room to see what he was watching. I caught glimpses of shows I later came to know as Perry Mason, Gunsmoke, and The Twilight Zone.
Sundays were activity-packed days, starting with a hearty breakfast, followed by walks, trips to the pool in summer, or tobogganing in winter. My dad made sure I stayed active. When I was seven, he enrolled me in figure skating classes, which became my Sunday morning routine. But as the afternoon waned and dinner approached, an uneasy sense of dread crept in, knowing the weekend—and my time with my dad—was drawing to a close.
After dinner, we’d get in the car, and he’d drive me back to the foster family. I hated watching him leave. I’d stand behind the curtains of the picture window at whichever house I was staying in, watching as he drove away. Sometimes I cried, sometimes I didn’t.
I hated Sunday nights.
The day my mom left, my dad found the most convenient family to take me in—a family just a few doors down. I can’t remember their name. I only recall him dropping me off with a small suitcase and being ushered into a room at the top of some stairs where I was expected to stay.
I remember a lot of people coming and going, smoke everywhere, and burning smells. Kids were running around, and there was a lot of laughter. The house felt chaotic—much messier than ours, with things strewn across the floors and halls. That’s it—that’s all I can recall. My dad told me I stayed there for a few weeks, but I have no other memories of that time.
Then I remember being dropped off at the home of the Champagnes. I lived with Mrs. Champagne, whom I came to call Auntie Flo. There was a Mr. Champagne, but I never really saw him. He was like a ghost, only present when I was asleep. Occasionally I would hear his hulking presence, speaking in low, muffled bass tones, as he thumped and shuffled his way down the hall.
And then there was her son, Brian.
Brian was significantly older than me, and I was required to share a room with him. My memories of that time are fragmented, but three specific moments stand out.
In one, I was made to sit on a stool in the corner of the kitchen for what felt like hours. It was a punishment for something I can’t recall. The stool was too high, so my feet dangled, and my thighs ached terribly. I think it is hilarious that I can remember being punished but cannot remember what I had done wrong.
Another memory is of attending Bayview Heights Elementary School while living at their home. I still have class pictures from that time, but I can’t recall any of the children or teachers. They’re just anonymous faces.
The final memory is the most haunting. In our shared bedroom, after the lights were out, Brian used me for his flesh-based “experiments.” He warned me that if I ever told anyone, he would beat me. I remember the terror and obeying him, but the details of what happened have been mercifully erased from my consciousness.
I lived there until I was 9. A four year blank. I have a lot of blank spaces in my early memory. It would seem that I prefered to forget.
My Mother
My father was an 8mm film enthusiast, and when our family was still together, he often filmed my mother, who was always the star. I didn’t see the films he had made until 2017, the year my father passed away. As part of settling his estate, I received a box containing about 30 films, slides, and photographs, most of which featured my mother. I have no idea why he never showed them to me before—perhaps it was too painful for him. Along with the films, he also left me 30 collector plates from The Franklin Mint. I guess he thought they were an investment, but it turned out they weren’t.
I never really knew my mother. I only saw her a handful of times during my life, each visit marked by anxiety and desperation. Each time she saw me she would squeeze me so hard I felt crushed. All I have of her are the films and photos. The footage, about 15 minutes in total, revealed a side of her I never knew—bright, cheerful, and full of love. She was especially good at silent films, she was so incredibly animated. I think that she aspired to being a music and film star.
After receiving the box of films, I converted them to digital video. I then assembled them in no particular order, and one evening, when my daughter was visiting, we decided to watch them. We made popcorn and settled in, when suddenly, I was moved to find a silent movie soundtrack online to play along with the footage. The result was haunting. As I pressed play on both the film and the soundtrack simultaneously, we discovered that each film started and ended in sync with the music. The tempo matched the action on-screen—fast and lively during dance scenes, contemplative during more reflective moments. Grace and I were dumbfounded. Then she said, “Dad, I think we may have conjured your mother’s spirit.”
If you look closely at the footage of my parents’ wedding, you can spot my grandfather Russell playing the saxophone and my grandmother Annie playing the drums at the party..
Visiting Mom
My father worked hard to make me dislike my mother. He was extremely manipulative and, ultimately, his actions didn’t benefit me. He constantly spoke ill of her in a misguided attempt to keep me from wanting to see her. After their particularly vitriolic breakup, he did everything he could to avoid her. They had begun divorce proceedings, but with no visitation schedule in place, my dad took this as an excuse to avoid arranging visits with my mom. I think this did a lot of damage.
In late 1969, after nearly four years of separation, my dad drove me across the border from Canada to Buffalo, New York, to visit my mom and sister. Buffalo was about 200 kilometers from Pickering, just past Niagara Falls. I remember feeling full of expectation and joy, eager to see them again after such a long time apart.
When she first left, my mom had gotten a job singing Motown covers in a band called The 2 Plus 2. The band had a long term contract to perform in a lounge at a large tourist destination called The Leisure Land Hotel.
I remember being overwhelmed by the size of the place—it was like an amusement park. There was a 28-lane bowling alley, a café, a dining room, indoor and outdoor swimming pools, and a kids’ area with games and rides. It was incredible. I was told that whenever I got hungry, I could go to the café, order whatever I wanted, and charge it to my mom’s room.
One of my best memories of that time is the night my mom brought my sister Lori and me on stage and introduced us to the audience. She was with a new band called The Collage, which specialised in psychedelic rock. It was my first time standing in front of a crowd, and I remember being wide-eyed about the experience. My mom told the audience that it was our bedtime but wanted to sing us a song before we went to sleep.
The song "One Tin Soldier" that my mother sang was by The Original Caste, a Canadian counterculture folk rock group from Calgary, Alberta, the city of my birth. At the time, I didn’t understand the significance, but as I grew older, I came to realize that my mother was a passionate anti-war activist, a "hippy" who aligned with the ideals of peace. In contrast, my father was more conservative and hawkish, which ultimately contributed to their separation. It was his way or the highway.
The song One Tin Soldier tells the story of a mountain kingdom guarding a mysterious treasure. When envious valley dwellers demand it, the kingdom offers to share rather than surrender. Refusing the offer, the valley people invade, killing everyone. They finally uncover the treasure—a stone bearing the words "Peace on Earth." The tragic irony reveals the senselessness of their violence and greed, as the true treasure was symbolic, not material.
Moving West
Shortly after that visit, my father relocated us to Edmonton, Alberta, where he had been promoted to Regional Sales Manager, overseeing all of Alberta — a province booming with the growth of the oil industry. To get there, I took my first plane trip alone. Well, not entirely alone. I was placed in the care of two men in suits, who my dad said were his co-workers. It felt like I was being escorted by the Secret Service. They sat on either side of me on the plane, making me feel important and safe. The pilot even gave me a toy plane, and I got to see the cockpit. It was all very cool.
Meanwhile, my mother struggled with the separation. Though I don’t know all the details, I do know that she was deeply affected by my father moving me so far away—3,500 kilometers. She started to have health problems starting with nodes appearing on her vocal chords from singing incorrectly for too long. Then, one tragic day, while riding her motorcycle down the New Jersey Turnpike, she lost control and crashed headfirst into a lamp post.
She had to undergo plastic surgery to restore her face. Her music career was over and she decided to move, with my sister in tow, to Edmonton to be closer to me. This made my Father insane with rage and soon I was sitting in front of lawyers as the divorce got underway.
Life on the Farm
When we first arrived in Alberta, my dad took me straight to my grandparents' place to live for the summer while he found another family for me to stay with, sorted out an apartment and did his job. My grandfather only spoke Ukrainian, my grandmother’s English was broken, and they both relied on their 11-year-old daughter—my aunt, Dale—to translate. It was the first time I had met my grandparents, and it was a difficult experience. It felt like living with strangers.
My dad pretty much just dropped me off and left. There might have been some small talk, but all I really remember is how quickly he went out the door. I think my grandparents were angry with him for letting his marriage to their daughter fall apart because I don't recall him sticking around for any pleasantries. They likely knew about my mother's health issues and the accident, and I suspect they held him responsible.
My Aunt Dale, who was only a year older than me, was around and we spent some time together as playmates. However, she had many farm chores that kept her busy, so I was on my own most of the time with little to do. Those eight weeks were incredibly lonely, and I spent much of the time exploring every corner of the farm, finding my “special places.”
There was an old, rusting car and a tractor I liked to play in. At one point, I decided to take over a chicken coop and turn it into my clubhouse, not realising it was still in use.
I shooed all the chickens away, swept out the poop, cleaned the space, and dragged in some old, broken furniture I found around the farm. I was proud of myself—I finally had a place to hang out. It was going to be great. But when I came back the next day to enjoy the fruits of my labour, I discovered that all of my work had been undone. My grandfather, speaking through Aunt Dale, told me I couldn’t take over any of the structures because they all served a purpose. That was the chicken’s house and they need to live there.
I spent some time watching my grandma work in the kitchen, which always smelled amazing. She made perogies, holubtsi, donuts and pies, cooking constantly. Her days started early with milking cows by hand, feeding the horses, and separating cream from milk with a big mechanical separator. The food she made was rich, which might explain why everyone in the family was large.
We ate chicken a few times a week, and I was introduced to the process of beheading a chicken—a sight that completely freaked me out the first time I saw it. My grandmother was incredibly skilled, holding the flailing bird with one hand on a chopping block, swiftly decapitating it with an axe, and then letting it run around headless. That’s when I truly understood the phrase, “running around like a chicken with its head cut off.”
On one hot and sunny day, I followed my grandmother to the pigsty to watch her do some shovelling. I often followed her around, fascinated by her daily tasks. This time, she was clearing the pig manure that had built up around a gate.
I climbed up on the fence about 10 meters away from her and watched as she worked. She had put me in a pair of oversized rubber boots, and I decided to jump down into the pigsty to tromp around in the mud. I thought it would be fun.
A few moments later, I heard her yelling at me, but I didn’t understand what she was saying. There were pigs everywhere, and one of the larger male pigs had taken an interest in me. It started running toward me.
I froze in fear and began to shriek. My grandmother looked up, and I had never seen such a large person move so quickly. Shovel in hand, she leapt across the pigsty in what seemed like just three giant strides. She swung the shovel hard, striking the attacking pig on the snout, and then scooped me up and lifted me out of the pen.
She was visibly shaken and firmly told me never to go into the pigsty again. She explained that the pigs were hungry and wouldn’t hesitate to knock me over and eat me.
I never went near the pigsty again. After all, I didn’t want to get eaten!
My grandmother was a large woman with calloused hands that had seen decades of hard labour. She always smelled distinctly of “farm.” I think she felt bad about how displaced I was. She often took me into town to shop for supplies. On one trip to the local general store, she let me pick out some toys. I chose a space station with rockets and astronauts, and it became my go-to source of entertainment for at least a week.
Canada only had three television channels at the time, and my grandparents—unsure of what to do with me—let me watch TV whenever I wanted. Dale told me they rarely watched TV because they couldn’t understand what was being said.
One memorable event was a wedding we attended at the church. I don’t know whose wedding it was, but I was surprised to see my grandparents setting up drums and music stands, then later playing polka music for everyone to dance to. The room was packed with about 100 people. For the first time, I met other kids my age.
I later learned that everyone in that room was part of my extended family on my mother’s side. At the time, I didn’t grasp the significance of that. Having grown up without any real sense of family connection, the concept of "family" felt foreign to me — more like something that only existed on TV shows like Happy Days or The Brady Bunch. I met many people and had a wonderful time, but I never understood who was related to whom, how they fit into my family tree, or even that I had a family tree at all.
Looking back, it feels like a lost opportunity. I regret not recognising the importance of those connections while they were still alive. By the time I understood who they were and what they represented, most of them had either passed away or moved on. No one seemed willing or able to guide me through it all, and I didn’t know how to ask.
Eventually, summer ended, and my dad came to pick me up. I don’t remember seeing him at all during my time there—I think he was probably busy. That was the pattern: arrivals and departures with no time for roots to grow. My childhood had become a series of exits, each one erasing a little more of me.