I was sitting at my computer working on a column, when I glanced to my right, where a birthday card was perched. It had been there for a few days, but this time the number on it jumped out. “I am 70 years old,” I muttered. This can’t be. There are days when I feel like I am still 18. One of these times is when I am driving my little convertible car and listening to music through ear buds. Then, I glance at the rear-view mirror and see an old face and thinning gray hair.

On Sept. 7, my family gathered for a birthday barbecue to celebrate my big day. It was one of those 30-degree days, so we inflated a pool that is about six feet long, four feet wide and two feet deep. My grandchildren, ages two to five, splashed around in it, as did my 20something-year-old daughter-in-law, Mikki, who is a kid at heart. For a reason unknown to even myself, I went and put my trunks on. When the kids were on the outskirts of the pool, I dashed toward it and hit the water butt first. (Note: I left my t-shirt on for fear of traumatizing my grandchildren and everyone else in sight.) My wife Sandy bought a bunch of water pistols and we had a great battle. There were no teams. It was every auntie, grandchild and old fart for themself. (The two-year-old was off limits.) It was about as much fun as a birthday can be. Everyday with my family is special. I have recognized that more and more over the years.

My earliest memories are when I was about three. I can recall a glimpse of being on a ferry from Vancouver to Victoria. I can also recall going to a hospital with my dad to pick up mom and my baby brother. I remember the pain of the needle when a doctor made a house call to give me a measles shot. I thought it was when I had spinal meningitis, but my mom thought it was for measles. I will concede to her on that one. Back in the day, people had to get blood tests in order to be married. I worried that my fear of needles might force us to cancel the wedding. I suppose we could have eloped. I positioned a garbage can in close proximity to where I was getting the shot, gritted my teeth and survived. I haven’t had a fear of needles since. I have always loved sports, especially curling. My baseball and hockey careers ended before I hit my teen years.

I curled somewhat successfully, but gave it up in 1980, when my career as a sports reporter at the Saskatoon StarPhoenix was taking off. We worked evenings and I wasn’t disciplined enough to throw rocks during the day. That is a turn-back-the-clock moment. A sports department is like a sports team. We played hockey, slow pitch, fastball and tennis together. We shot pool and played cards. One of the guys played tennis with a cigar in his mouth. Those were good days. I worked at the StarPhoenix for 33 years before joining some friends at the Saskatoon Express. It was a privilege to share the stories of so many wonderful people and organizations in the city. I got teary-eyed or outright cried after a few interviews.

One time I was going to a support group for those who have lost pets. My dog had died just a couple of months before, so I found myself participating. I interviewed three women who lost loved ones to suicide. I interviewed a soldier with PTSD. I interviewed a woman whose brother killed their mother. He was schizophrenic. (Note: a low percentage of people with schizophrenia have violent tendencies.) I interviewed a woman who started a support group for those with depression. She said in her worst moment she locked herself in the bathroom, where she contemplated taking her own life. She didn’t think she deserved to be a mother. I cried when I got back to my car. She was med free, and started a support group for people with depression. Each of these stories were done to direct people to support groups and other services.

I wrote many “happy” stories as well. I found I liked interviewing people such as the quilter of the year more than pro athletes or musicians or politicians. That said, I laughed when I interviewed Kreskin and he asked if we had ever spoken before. Shouldn’t a mentalist know that? By the way, we hadn’t spoken before. I remember each of my sons being born, of course. My first, Ryan, was eight pounds, 15 ounces which was problematic for my spouse, who was about 110 pounds before pregnancy. The second son, Brandon, was a couple of ounces lighter. Our family doctor tried to deliver him before calling in help. I remember the nurse, an old battle axe, telling Sandy to compose herself. Sandy didn’t curse during any of her deliveries. She wanted to be dignified and was and always has been. Sandy was in labour for hours and hours with our first child. When it came to the second one, at about 8 in morning, she said, “I think we better go to the hospital.” Thinking we were in for a long day, I told her I was going to have a shower and grab something to read while we were waiting. She said, “No, I mean now.” I am not sure what the hurry was. Brandon wasn’t born until two hours later. I remember Sandy’s father calling when she was in labour with our third son, Jay. She talked with her dad and never said, “I better go, Dad, I am about to have a baby.”

About 20 years ago, I spent a night in hospital when I could no longer tolerate the pain of a kidney stone. A nurse told me the pain was somewhat like having a baby. I told her I have three children and it didn’t hurt like this. She wasn’t impressed.

I wasn’t a very good sports dad. I got too emotional too many times. I have regrets. I learned that some of the emotions I felt in sports and in other phases of my life came, at least in part, from mental health issues. I have written about them before, so I won’t do that again, other than a few paragraphs. When I was a teenager I knew something wasn’t quite right. I would get what I later discovered were panic attacks in closed settings. I would run from the situation, things like walking out of theatres and restaurants. I could run, but I couldn’t hide from these attacks.

One week, in about 1990, I was paralyzed with panic and couldn’t leave my home. A woman at work directed me toward the help I needed. The help wasn’t a cure, but it provided an understanding of what was happening. There are many support groups and services for those with mental health problems. You don’t have to suffer alone.

I remember people telling me it was all in my head. Yes, that is the problem; it is in my head. It is not easy to sum up a 70-year life in 1,309 words. What I have written are thoughts that popped into my head as I was typing this.

I admit I have fears about growing older, and what is going to happen, and what I am going to miss out on. My five-year-old granddaughter asked me if I would come to her wedding. The math is a bit iffy, but I hope so. I know it is important to live for the moment and to count my blessings. I have enough of those to last a lifetime.

– Cam Hutchinson