There are certain moments in life you never forget. Your wedding day. The birth of your children. The day you win a national literary award for writing a book about your mother, whose obituary announced that she finally had the smoking hot body she’d always wanted—having been cremated.
And, apparently, the day your husband drops the bloody trophy.
But I’m getting ahead of myself.
First, There Was the Award…
In May 2026, I had the incredible honour of attending the inaugural CANREADS Awards in Toronto, where my book, I Finally Have the Smoking Hot Body I Have Always Wanted (Having Been Cremated), was nominated in the Memoirs / Biography / Autobiography category. The inaugural awards attracted more than 400 submissions from across Canada and beyond, recognizing literary talent across 18 categories!
A seriously impressive event.
The evening was an incredible celebration of authors and their stories, made even more special by the wonderful friends who surrounded me. Among them were my lifelong friend Nancy from Bathurst, NB and Cece Scott, who had initially reviewed my book and, somewhere along the way, became my friend.
Gord, unfortunately, wasn’t able to attend, but I certainly wasn’t short on love and encouragement that evening. I was thrilled simply to be included among the finalists. To be there, surrounded by people who had supported and encouraged me on this rather unexpected literary adventure, was already more than enough.
And then they called my name.
I had won!
Me! A woman from Peace River, Alberta, who had written a book about her mother, Alzheimer’s disease, grief, family, and the sometimes-ridiculous things that happen when life gets complicated!
It was an extraordinary evening. One of those rare moments when you look around at the people beside you, take in what’s happening, and realize just how fortunate you are. And to top it all off, I had a beautiful trophy to commemorate the occasion.
For a while, anyway…
Fast-Forward to Calgary…
Some time later, Gord and I were in Calgary for our daughter Emma’s bachelorette weekend. Now, before I go any further, you need to understand something about my husband. Gord is a good man. A very good man.
We’ve been married long enough (thirty-six years to be exact) so I know his expressions pretty well. I can usually tell when something is bothering him, when he’s worried, or when he’s about to tell me something I probably don’t want to hear.
On this particular day, he had come to where Emma’s party was being held to pick up our son Clark. (Clark was not a participating bachelorette.)
And something was definitely wrong.
He walked through the door looking positively solemn. His face was flat. Serious. Almost mournful. Then he approached me and whispered, “I need to talk to you.”
Oh, for God’s sake.
My mind immediately started racing. What had happened? What was wrong? For a moment, I died inside. And why, of all places, were we about to have what appeared to be a very serious marital conversation in the middle of our daughter’s bachelorette weekend?
I looked at him, waiting. He leaned in.
“I’m just going to come out and say it.”
Oh, dear God. What now?
“I’ve got good news and I’ve got bad news.”
Well, that’s always a reassuring way to begin a conversation.
“The bad news is…I broke your trophy.”
A pause.
“But the good news is… I’ve already ordered a replacement!”
And just like that, I could breathe again.
I immediately grabbed him and gave him a hug. I was so relieved. Honestly, judging by the expression on his face, I thought something terrible had happened. Instead, my husband had simply broken a trophy.
A trophy!
“Gord, don’t worry. It’s okay!”
Gord, however, was devastated. I could see how badly he felt, despite my assurances that everything was fine.
Before I could say much more, he explained that he’d already been in touch with the CANREADS organizers about getting a replacement. (They were fabulous by the way!) Apparently, he’d made his position quite clear. He didn’t care what it cost or how long it took.
He needed a new one.
I assured him again that it was okay. Seriously. It was just an object. The award itself—the honour of receiving it—hadn’t disappeared. My book was still an award winner. The judges weren’t going to phone and say, “Sorry, Barb, we’ve heard about the unfortunate incident involving your husband. We’re going to need that title back.”
Once I was satisfied that my husband wasn’t about to collapse from guilt, I asked the obvious question. “How did you break it?”
Well…
Earlier, I had asked Gord to take a photograph of my award. I wanted a picture to send to my sister and to post about it. Nothing complicated. Just a nice photograph of my lovely CANREADS trophy.
Being the nice guy he is, Gord obliged and went to take the photo. He went out to the vehicle, retrieved the award, and unboxed it. He arranged it with the event card and took his photograph. Mission accomplished.
Or so he thought…
Gord then proceeded to explain exactly what had happened. Apparently, as he was putting the lid back on the box, the box began to slide. It bumped against a ledge, tipped, and rolled over. The lid popped off, sending my beautiful trophy crashing to the ground, where it shattered into what he described as a million pieces.
“The whole thing happened in slow motion,” he told me. He described standing there, practically paralyzed, watching the box slide, tip, and tumble, knowing exactly what was about to happen but unable to do a damn thing about it.
You know those moments when your brain is screaming, CATCH IT! CATCH IT! but your body apparently hasn’t received the message? Well, according to Gord, that’s pretty much what happened. He was a helpless spectator to the destruction of his wife’s literary achievement.
And then came the sound of breaking glass.
No elaborate series of unfortunate events. No heroic attempt to save a small child from a falling literary award. Just Gord, standing there, watching the whole bloody thing unfold in slow motion.
And my beautiful trophy? Smashed to smithereens.
Of course, Gord did what any sensible person would do after accidentally smashing his wife’s award. He cleaned up the millions of shards, receiving a few cuts in the process, and then, before coming to confess his crime, contacted the organizers to arrange a replacement.
As if the good news might somehow cancel out the bad. Which, in fairness, it pretty much did.
Here’s the thing. I wasn’t angry. Not even a little bit. I was far too relieved that nothing serious had happened. And when I saw how genuinely upset Gord was, all I wanted to do was reassure him.
Because while I might joke about my husband breaking my award, there was something rather lovely about the whole incident. He understood what it meant to me. He knew how hard I’d worked on the book, how much my mother’s story mattered, and how proud I was to have received that recognition.
To him, breaking the trophy wasn’t simply breaking an object. It was damaging something that represented an important accomplishment in my life. And that bothered him. A lot.
Which, when you think about it, is rather sweet.
Still funny. But sweet.
The Award Is Broken. The Achievement Isn’t.
I suppose there’s a lesson in all of this. We spend a great deal of time attaching meaning to things. Awards. Trophies. Certificates. Plaques. We put them on shelves, photograph them, and occasionally dust them. And yes, they can be wonderful reminders of moments that made us proud.
But the actual achievement isn’t sitting on the shelf. It’s in the work. It’s in the experience. It’s in the people who helped us get there.
For me, the CANREADS award represents my mom, Sybil, and the journey of telling her story. It represents the people who have read my book and reached out to tell me about their own experiences with Alzheimer’s disease. It represents the families who have laughed through tears because sometimes laughter is the only thing that gets us through. And it represents the unexpected adventure of becoming an author at a stage in life when I certainly hadn’t anticipated winning.
None of that disappeared when Gord dropped the trophy.
I have to give Gord credit for one thing. He didn’t try to invent a story. He didn’t tell me he’d tripped over something. He didn’t blame the packaging. He didn’t suggest that perhaps the award had been defective. Nope. He simply admitted he’d dropped it and then took responsibility for replacing it.
That’s my Gord. And I love him for it.
Besides, the way I see it, I now have something even better than a literary award.
I have a literary award AND a story about how my husband smashed it.
And as any writer knows, a good story is worth its weight in gold.
Even if the trophy isn’t.
So, thank you, CANREADS, for recognizing my mother’s story and honouring my book. And thank you, Gord, for ensuring that the award will forever have an additional chapter attached to it.
There’s a certain irony in all of this. Gord couldn’t be there when I received my award, but somehow, he still managed to become part of its story.
P.S. Gord, honey, when the replacement arrives, I think I’ll take the photograph myself.
Love you!
You can see the official winners, including my book, on the 2026 CANREADS Awards website.
Oh how i love your stories ❤️ lol 😆