Hi there,

One deeply gratifying aspect of my work is that we get to host visiting scholars and clinicians from around the world to share research and knowledge with the international community. Everyone benefits from these exchanges of ideas.

We recently had a visit from Hisato Tagawa, a bereaved father who spearheaded the building of a children’s hospice in Yokohama, Japan, in honour of his daughter, Haruka. I was deeply moved by Mr. Tagawa’s story and his dedication to improving care for families in Japan.

Bereaved Father’s Day is August 30th this year. In our ‘Big idea,’ Mr. Tagawa shares how his daughter Haruka’s death has meant lasting change for many families in Japan. I think you’ll agree, both he and his daughter are inspiring.

Short quotes

“Whenever you add value to the lives of other people, you are leaving footprints on the sands of time that live on, even after your demise.” – Emeasoba George

“The great and glorious legacy of a human being is to live with purpose.” – Robin Sharma

Maybe we can
Find a place to feel good
And we can treat people with kindness – Harry Styles

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Big idea

Twenty-nine years ago, my daughter Haruka died from a brainstem tumour at the age of six. When we were told, “There is a tumour in her brainstem, and her life expectancy is about six months,” our world changed forever. Five months later, she was gone. Yet what I could not have imagined then was how profoundly her short life would continue to shape not only my own path, but the future of pediatric palliative care in Japan.

After Haruka’s death, I spent years reflecting on the meaning of her life. As I looked back on our experience, one truth became impossible to ignore, medical care at the time did not adequately consider the feelings and perspectives of children and their families.

That realization led me to establish family support programs and, eventually, to help launch the Yokohama Children’s Hospice. At the time, children’s hospices were largely unknown in Japan. Building understanding was just as important as building a facility. We worked with health care professionals, educators, community leaders, and government partners to introduce a new way of thinking—that children with life-limiting illnesses deserve not only care, but joy, choice, friendship, and meaningful family time.

My motivation came from Haruka. All of these actions and efforts became part of her legacy. Through her life and death, I came to believe that children who pass away before their parents have the power to change society, that they possess a great soul. Haruka guided me toward work I never expected to do. She taught me that even a short life can create lasting change.

In Japan, cultural attitudes around illness, death, and grief have often led families to suffer in silence. Some families feel pressure to manage everything privately, afraid of judgment or misunderstanding. Isolation can become another burden alongside grief. This is one reason I began the children’s hospice movement, to reduce the isolation families experience. By creating spaces where families can gather, be heard, and simply be themselves, we are helping change that culture.

Every family supported, every child welcomed, and every community that embraces pediatric palliative care is part of her continuing legacy. Her life was brief, but its impact continues to grow.

– Hisato Tagawa, founder, Ocean and Sky Children’s Hospice, Yokohama, Japan

Short question

What does legacy look like to you?

Short thoughts

• Ocean and Sky – Yokohama Children’s Hospice

• Lasting love – Amy Bradshaw’s pressed flowers for her daughter, Maggie

• 5 rules for living that almost nobody lives by – Science and Soul, Substack

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Short Canuck Place updates

Honouring beautiful Savanna – The Gervais Family

• Help Texts – Get help when life gets hard, Facebook

Thank you for being part of the Life is Short community. If you find our offerings meaningful, please share this newsletter with someone you love.

Take good care,

Natasha

Dr. Natasha Datoo is a pediatric oncologist, hematologist, and palliative care physician in Vancouver, BC. Dr. Datoo continues to work in both fields as a staff physician at Canuck Place Children's Hospice and BC Children's Hospital. Dr. Datoo is an assistant professor at the University of British Columbia, where her passions include teaching trainees about effective communication in healthcare and integrating the palliative approach into acute hospital medicine. Dr. Datoo volunteers with Two Worlds Cancer Collaboration to promote and teach palliative care in Southeast Asia. She is also a volunteer consultant for Doctors Without Borders.

Hello there,

I hope you’re enjoying summer and having some outdoor fun. I’m delighted to welcome my new colleague Dr. Jared Rubenstein to Life is Short.

In this issue, Dr. Jared writes beautifully about the many shifts he’s noticed while learning from families in his care. I feel this change too and am grateful for the genuine insights families and children bring to my life and to their own experiences through this spirit of reciprocity.

Jared also explores how these new insights have affected his life outside of work, and why it’s so important to talk about death and dying. As scary and unfortunate as the death of a loved one can be, we will all die one day, and that process can be made easier when we’re prepared or have at least thought about what it might mean.

Short quotes

“We are here for a reason. I believe a bit of the reason is to throw little torches out to lead people through the dark.” – Whoopi Goldberg

“There’s mystery in the dying process. I feel there can be good deaths; I believe that wholeheartedly. I’ve been at the bedside for the final breaths of children hundreds of times, and I believe good deaths happen more often when there are people who have the expertise in communication, in pain management, and in good care. The body knows what to do in dying, but the community should know how to support that good death.” – Camara Van Breeman, Canuck Place Nurse Practitioner

“The meaning of life is that it ends.” – Franz Kafka

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Big idea

Working in pediatric palliative care has reshaped not only how I practice medicine, but how I understand being human. When I think about the biggest shift in my beliefs over the years, it comes down to this: care works best when power is shared, when we talk honestly about what scares us, and when we remember that even in the hardest moments, there is still room for hope, connection, and meaning.

Early in my training, I absorbed the old model of medicine—the doctor as expert, decisionmaker, fixer. But families taught me something different. One mother once told me, “Doctors always tell us we need to be good advocates for our children, but doctors are never told that they need to learn to be good listeners.” That line has stayed with me, rattling around in my head, reshaping how I show up. It reminded me that expertise isn’t a hierarchy. It’s a partnership.

That shift in power, away from control, away from abandonment disguised as autonomy, has changed everything. We used to swing between extremes: either ‘I know what’s best’ or ‘Here are the options, you decide.’ Neither felt right. What families need is guidance rooted in their values, not ours. They need someone willing to ask, What’s important to you? What does a good day look like? Before talking about treatments or decisions.

They need someone willing to listen for what’s said…and what isn’t yet said.

Avoiding the conversation doesn’t protect us, it isolates us. And it leaves families facing the unimaginable without the language, support, or community they deserve.

One of the most powerful tools we have is curiosity. Asking families what they’re hoping for opens doors. Research shows that parents can hold eight to ten hopes at once. Their first hope is almost always, I hope my child gets better. Instead of shutting that down, I’ve learned to say, I’m hoping for that with you. While we’re hoping for that, are there other things you’re also hoping for? That simple shift allows families to name hopes we can help with: better pain control, a trip to the beach, walking the stage at graduation. Listening itself becomes healing.

This work has changed how I live my own life, too. Being a parent made the emotional landscape visceral. And being with families through grief and love has taught me that life isn’t about living every day like it’s your last, that would include far too much ice cream, it’s about noticing the small, bright moments even when things are hard. It’s about gratitude, presence, and letting go of the idea that there’s one right way to live.

If there’s one big idea I carry now, it’s this—care is not about fixing, it’s about witnessing, partnering, and honouring what matters most to each family uniquely.

– Dr. Jared Rubenstein, Medical Director, Canuck Place Children’s Hospice

Short question

How can you shift from control to collaboration?

Short thoughts

• What is family-centred care – Alberta Children’s Hospital

• How to talk about death and dying – Hospice UK

• The sun – David Whyte, Substack

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Short Canuck Place updates

• Say hello to our employee of the month! – Gaia!

• Thank you Brad Skeets for 5000 hours of volunteering – LinkedIn

Thank you for being part of the Life is Short community. If you find our offerings meaningful, please share this newsletter with someone you love.

Take good care,

Natasha

Dr. Natasha Datoo is a pediatric oncologist, hematologist, and palliative care physician in Vancouver, BC. Dr. Datoo continues to work in both fields as a staff physician at Canuck Place Children's Hospice and BC Children's Hospital. Dr. Datoo is an assistant professor at the University of British Columbia, where her passions include teaching trainees about effective communication in healthcare and integrating the palliative approach into acute hospital medicine. Dr. Datoo volunteers with Two Worlds Cancer Collaboration to promote and teach palliative care in Southeast Asia. She is also a volunteer consultant for Doctors Without Borders.

Hello there,

Community can mean so many things. Sometimes our ‘people’ find us when we need them most, not by trying but by letting new faces enter our sphere when we need support. A kind of nurturing network that can hold, encourage, mourn, and celebrate with us.

And sometimes our sense of community is driven by the connections made through children—our own, or other people’s.

Susan Poitras has worked as a registered nurse, child psychotherapist, and registered clinical counsellor. In this issue of Life is Short, she explores the many ways that caring for small humans helps us connect with the larger world.

Short quotes

“My humanity is bound up in yours, for we can only be human together.” – Desmond Tutu

“I was born into a culture that lived in communal houses. [...] In houses like these, throughout the tribe, people learned to live with one another; learned to respect the rights of one another. And children shared the thoughts of the adult world and found themselves surrounded by the love of their people.” – Chief Dan George, Tsleil-Waututh Nation

“She was struck by the simple truth that sometimes the most ordinary things could be made extraordinary, simply by doing them with the right people.” – Nicholas Sparks, The Lucky One

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Big idea

Community is what connects us. Something in common, a shared identity, a hope for children and families.

One way to build and grow in community is through children. Families, caregivers, and supporters caring for children foster mutual support around them. I am especially reminded of the part children play in building community during the summer, the season of outdoor life, gatherings, a slower pace, and time to reflect on what has bloomed in my life.

Children have been my focus as a parent and provider of healthcare. Reflecting on what children have brought us and what they teach us is part of this season.

Working in health care and supporting families throughout my career, every child and family I have met and supported has taught me lessons in love, commitment, resilience, hope, and faith.

When the community supports health, it holds many valuable gifts—a purpose that offers companionship, shared stories and life experiences, and something to reach for in uncertain moments. Sometimes this means being part of a community no family wants to belong to, like a children’s hospice. Still, I’ve seen many families who are grateful it exists when life presents with illness and a need. Children facilitate this valuable connection, and my community exists because of them.

This summer, with the warm breezes, picnics, and days at the beach, I am filled with gratitude for the smiles, friendship, purpose, hope, understanding, fun, acknowledgement, validation, kindness, help, walking together, guiding, adventure, seizing the day, meaning, and love this community has brought to my life.

– Susan Poitras - registered nurse, child psychotherapist, and registered clinical counsellor

Short question

How has community added value to your life?

Short thoughts

• Skateboarding is community! – Instagram

• Forget-me-Knot FC brings grieving dads together – BBC

• The Cookie Queens – YouTube

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Short Canuck Place updates

• Savannah lit up every room - The Gervais Family

• Perspectives on children’s palliative care – Dr Jared Rubenstein, The Globe and Mail

Thank you for being part of the Life is Short community. If you find our offerings meaningful, please share this newsletter with someone you love.

Take good care,

Natasha

Dr. Natasha Datoo is a pediatric oncologist, hematologist, and palliative care physician in Vancouver, BC. Dr. Datoo continues to work in both fields as a staff physician at Canuck Place Children's Hospice and BC Children's Hospital. Dr. Datoo is an assistant professor at the University of British Columbia, where her passions include teaching trainees about effective communication in healthcare and integrating the palliative approach into acute hospital medicine. Dr. Datoo volunteers with Two Worlds Cancer Collaboration to promote and teach palliative care in Southeast Asia. She is also a volunteer consultant for Doctors Without Borders.

Hello there,

I know the feeling, you want to tell a friend or family member what they mean to you, but the words get stuck in your throat. You might be worried that they won’t return your affection. Or maybe you’ve grown up in a family or culture that doesn’t express emotions openly.

Sometimes the instinct is to keep those feelings to yourself. The whole thing could be embarrassing. Or maybe fear or the risk of being vulnerable is holding you back. In this issue of Life is Short, author and speaker Riaz Meghji explores the transformational process of telling it like it is, especially for men.

We don’t need to wait until the end of life or a hospital bedside to declare our love and gratitude. Send the text, make the call, or write the letter. Any day is a good day to say the words.

Short quotes

“Just in case you ever foolishly forget; I’m never not thinking of you.” – Virginia Woolf

“Feeling gratitude and not expressing it is like wrapping a present and not giving it.” – Wiliam Arthur Ward

“Let us be grateful to the people who make us happy; they are the charming gardeners who make our souls blossom.” – Marcel Proust

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Big idea

Earlier this year, while facilitating a leadership session in Vancouver, something happened that genuinely moved me. A participant agreed to share an experience that had changed his life, in front of a room full of sixty people in business suits and uncomfortable shoes.

Jim explained that the turning point had come during a defining conversation with his mentor. A man who five years before had looked at him and asked, “Are you just comfortable or are you living up to your full potential?” The question invited deep reflection. And it changed Jim’s life when he chose to pursue the Executive Chef role he currently has today.

Then he looked at me and said, “I want to FaceTime him right now.”

So we did.

When Jim’s mentor came onto the screen he said, “You are such a special person. I have always believed in you. I always knew you could be a great guide in this life.”

As they signed off, Jim looked at his mentor through the screen and said, “Hey man. I love you.” Not, luv ya. “I love you.” His hand was shaking. I could see raw emotion in his eyes. And the room—sixty people who had walked in that morning thinking about quarterly targets and team performance, witnessed their beautiful exchange.

This man had strutted into the conference that morning as the most confident person in the room. Composed. Put together. But while talking to the man who had encouraged him to do more with his life, all that armour came off and he became utterly human.

Research tells us that this kind of openness is genuinely harder for men. Studies on emotional expression find that men are more likely to suppress feelings of love and affection, because while they feel it, they were never really given permission to say it out loud. The rules around masculinity are mostly unspoken, but they’re very loud.

Which is exactly what made that moment so powerful. When two people say, “I love you” without the mumbled “yeah, you too,” without the quick subject change, something opens up in the people watching. They think of their own person. The one they haven’t called.

We know who those people are. Many of us just haven’t acknowledged it. Think about the people who helped nurture you. The mentor who saw something in you before you could see it yourself. The friend who showed up when it mattered. The parent who supported you when times were tough.

Do they know how you feel about them? And think about the people you love right now who haven’t heard you say it lately. In the way you actually mean it.

I love you.

His hand was shaking. He said it anyway.

Who needs to hear from you today?

– Riaz Meghji, author, speaker, moderator

Short question

Who would you like to acknowledge today, and why?

Short thoughts

• I love you, bro! – Dose of Society

• 12 ways to communicate feelings – Susan McGarvie Ph.D., Positive Psychology

• Speak your mourning in whatever dialect feels native to your sorrow – Elle Daniel, Substack

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Short Canuck Place updates

• Pediatric palliative care makes all the hard things better – Dr. Jared Rubenstein, Canuck Place Medical Director

• The brightest sparks stay with us forever – The Gervaises, Canuck Place Family

Thank you for being part of the Life is Short community. If you find our offerings meaningful, please share this newsletter with someone you love.

Take good care,

Natasha

Dr. Natasha Datoo is a pediatric oncologist, hematologist, and palliative care physician in Vancouver, BC. Dr. Datoo continues to work in both fields as a staff physician at Canuck Place Children's Hospice and BC Children's Hospital. Dr. Datoo is an assistant professor at the University of British Columbia, where her passions include teaching trainees about effective communication in healthcare and integrating the palliative approach into acute hospital medicine. Dr. Datoo volunteers with Two Worlds Cancer Collaboration to promote and teach palliative care in Southeast Asia. She is also a volunteer consultant for Doctors Without Borders.

Hello there,

Knowing what to do or say around someone who is freshly grieving can be really tough. I’ve learned from the families I’m honoured to support that staying present in this intimate and raw time can be messy work. And sometimes that awkwardness is what it takes.

Father’s Day was last weekend. In this issue of Life is Short, Federico Angel, a dad whose beautiful baby boy Alejo died in 2021, shares what true presence felt like and meant to him and his family as they traversed the most difficult ground a parent can walk.

We are also grateful to share wisdom from some of our loving team members who have years of experience in the field of grief and loss. If you’re new to grief, or it’s your old friend, we can all benefit from their words.

Short quotes

“The children and families we care for are going through some of life’s most challenging experiences, and I don’t ever want them to feel like they’re alone in that. Everyone deserves person-centred care that helps them figure out their goals, then really pulls out all the stops to make sure they get care that fits their goals and honours their values. That’s demonstrating presence in its most powerful form.” – Dr. Jared Rubenstein, Canuck Place Medical Director

“Kids have taught me that it’s actually the little moments that mean more. We tend to want big gestures, and I’ve learned it’s often hanging out and watching them play video games and telling me which characters they like, or singing along to their favorite Disney movie, or finding some way to get that kid into the hot tub because she loves the hot tub and her cancer wouldn’t let her get into it.” – Rachel Neufeld, Canuck Place Nurse Practitioner

“Holding space is deep compassion—seeking to understand another through genuine humility. And in creating that space, there is a shared experience, a shared energy. And research shows that when we tune in to the energy of an emotion, the person receiving it actually senses that attunement. So, there’s something really profound happening with holding space.” – Linda Wollschlaeger-Fischer, Canuck Place Manager, Counselling and Bereavement Services

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Big idea

There’s something I’ve learned through my son Alejo’s life, and through losing him, that I wish more people understood—you don’t need the right words. You just need to be there.

Alejo only lived for five weeks, and my wife Erin and I spent that time at home, surrounded by family. Looking back, that’s what I hold onto most—not what we did, but how we were. Together, fully there, not trying to fix anything or make it something it wasn’t.

The word presence became real for me on the day Alejo passed. I still don’t fully understand how our nurse, Nadine, did it, but we never felt interrupted. We never felt like anything was being imposed on us. In fact, most of the time, we didn’t even know where she was. And yet somehow, whenever we needed her, she was there.

After Alejo passed, we received the same steadfast support. The same feeling that we weren’t alone, even though everything had just fallen apart. That was our introduction to what presence really means. And it didn’t stop there. Through our grief, we worked with our counsellor, Mary. I call her our angel. She didn’t try to rush us or fix us. She helped Erin and me learn how to be present—not just with each other, but with ourselves. To actually sit in what we were feeling. To validate it, instead of running from it. Because grief doesn’t go away. It exists because love exists. You don’t get one without the other.

A lot of people don’t know what to do when someone is grieving. They hesitate or worry they’ll say the wrong thing. I get that. But I’ll tell you honestly—there are no right words. You can craft the perfect sentence, and it still won’t feel right. So just say something. Say their person’s name. Ask about them. Tell me a story. Sit with me in the silence if that’s all you can do. Because what we feel is not whether you got the words right, we feel that you showed up. That you’re with us.

Alejo’s life was short. There’s no way around that, but his impact is bigger than I ever could have imagined. My wife Erin and I sometimes say he didn’t make ripples, he made a tsunami! He brought so many people into our lives, connected us to a community that we didn’t even know we needed.

We honour Alejo by showing up for each other, for other families, and for ourselves. Because when time runs out, that’s all that’s left. Not the perfect words. Not the things you meant to say. Just the moments you were truly there. And I can tell you from experience that presence is the biggest gift there is.

– Federico Angel, Canuck Place Dad

Short question

In what way has someone truly been there for you when you needed them?

Short thoughts

• Jealous of grievers with good friends – Insight Timer grief guide, Shelby Forsythia

• Healing moments in the classroom – Upworthy, Instagram

• I get by with a little help from my friends – Hozier and Lake Street Dive, The Late Show with Stephen Colbert

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Short Canuck Place updates

• To all the dads who carry their kids in their hearts - The Cleughs, Canuck Place Family

• Strengthening palliative care across Nepal -- Rachel Neufeld, eHospice

Thank you for being part of the Life is Short community. If you find our offerings meaningful, please share this newsletter with someone you love.

Take good care,

Natasha

Dr. Natasha Datoo is a pediatric oncologist, hematologist, and palliative care physician in Vancouver, BC. Dr. Datoo continues to work in both fields as a staff physician at Canuck Place Children's Hospice and BC Children's Hospital. Dr. Datoo is an assistant professor at the University of British Columbia, where her passions include teaching trainees about effective communication in healthcare and integrating the palliative approach into acute hospital medicine. Dr. Datoo volunteers with Two Worlds Cancer Collaboration to promote and teach palliative care in Southeast Asia. She is also a volunteer consultant for Doctors Without Borders.

Hello there,

In my work, I am often present with families when they experience the devastating loss of their child. I don’t think there is a greater form of sorrow than this—no parent ever wants to outlive their child. And yet, time and time again, I have seen parents, family members, and caregivers transcend these unimaginable losses to become more evolved, deeper humans. As awful as the experience is, the process holds some kind of inherent transformative quality.

This week, I’m delighted to welcome Sheleana Aiyana to Life is Short as our guest contributor. Sheleana is a bestselling author widely known for her grounded insights, clear, practical guidance, and her expertise in the realms of heartbreak, relationships, and inner work.

Sadly, none of us are immune to grief. In fact, maybe that’s one of the most common traits we share. And what we do, or become, in the wake of great loss, can redefine us.

Short quotes

“I can accept the idea of my own demise, but I am unable to accept the death of anyone else. I find it impossible to let a friend or relative go into that country of no return. Disbelief becomes my close companion, and anger follows in its wake. I answer the heroic question ‘Death, where is thy sting?’ with ‘It is here in my heart and mind and memories.’” – Maya Angelou

“She was no longer wrestling with the grief, but could sit down with it as a lasting companion and make it a sharer in her thoughts.” – George Eliot

“The reality is that you will grieve forever. You will not ‘get over’ the loss of a loved one; you will learn to live with it. You will heal, and you will rebuild yourself around the loss you have suffered. You will be whole again, but you will never be the same. Nor should you be the same, nor would you want to.” – Elisabeth Kübler-Ross and David Kessler, On Grief and Grieving: Finding the Meaning of Grief Through the Five Stages of Loss

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Big idea

Guest contributor, Sheleana Aiyana

One of the tender truths I’ve come to understand is that healing is not about holding on to who we once were. It is about allowing ourselves to be reshaped. In the wake of tremendous loss, our identity does not remain fixed—it softens, unravels, and reforms in ways we cannot anticipate.

When we lose someone we love, there is no part of us untouched by that loss. A part of us dies alongside them, and yet something else, something deep and genuine, begins to emerge in its place.

In these moments, I return again and again to the image of a river. Grief can feel like being swept into a current we never consented to. Our instinct is to resist—to cling to the familiar shoreline, to try to stay the same. But healing asks something radically different. It asks us to open our palms, to lean back, and to allow the river to carry us. There will be rapids and rocks, unexpected drops, and you won’t yet know who you are becoming or what’s on the other side, and you can’t plan that. And yet there is a profound intelligence in the flow, guiding us toward a place we cannot yet see.

Wendell Berry’s words reinforce this wisdom: “To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight.” Grief is not something we can illuminate or control. We cannot map our way through it. To truly meet it, we must be willing to step into the unknown without certainty, trusting that the path will eventually reveal itself—not on our timeline, but in its own time.

When we ask what the prime aspects of healing after heartbreak are, the answers are both simple and difficult. First, it takes the courage to feel everything—without judgment, without trying to fix or rush the experience. There is no right way to grieve, and there is no timeline that can contain it. Healing also asks us to let ourselves be seen, to allow a few trusted people to truly witness us in our sorrow. We are not meant to walk through loss alone; connection is essential.

Motherhood has deepened these understandings in me in ways I never could have imagined. It opened my heart to a love so vast it was almost unbearable, while simultaneously revealing how little control I truly have. I once believed that loving enough could protect my child from suffering. Instead, I learned the painful humility of powerlessness—that each soul carries its own path. That realization softened me. It invited me to loosen my grip not only on my child’s life, but on my own expectations of how life should unfold.

In my forthcoming book, The Four Seasons of Heartbreak, I explore this terrain through the rhythms of nature. Grief, like the seasons, cannot be rushed or bypassed. Each phase carries its own medicine, its own quiet intelligence. We are not meant to skip over the winter—the cold prepares the ground for what will eventually bloom.

Loss reorganizes us. It redefines what matters. And while it may dissolve our sense of identity as we once knew it, it also opens the possibility of living more truthfully—carrying both love and pain together and allowing them to shape us into someone new.

– Sheleana Aiyana - Rising Woman

Short question

How have you recalibrated after a significant loss?

Short thoughts

• Weeping may be the closest to enlightenment – David Whyte with David Perell

• The loneliness of a changed identity – Gina Moffa, Substack

• The musical hug that is Fix You by Coldplay

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Short Canuck Place updates

• A Father’s love lives on – Father’s Day is June 21

• The remarkable legacy of Dr. Hal Siden – LinkedIn

Thank you for being part of the Life is Short community. If you find our offerings meaningful, please share this newsletter with someone you love.

Take good care,

Natasha

Dr. Natasha Datoo is a pediatric oncologist, hematologist, and palliative care physician in Vancouver, BC. Dr. Datoo continues to work in both fields as a staff physician at Canuck Place Children's Hospice and BC Children's Hospital. Dr. Datoo is an assistant professor at the University of British Columbia, where her passions include teaching trainees about effective communication in healthcare and integrating the palliative approach into acute hospital medicine. Dr. Datoo volunteers with Two Worlds Cancer Collaboration to promote and teach palliative care in Southeast Asia. She is also a volunteer consultant for Doctors Without Borders.

Hello there,

This issue of Life is Short is about honouring our loved ones, in writing. Tributes tell an important cultural story about how we remember each other and can reveal what societies value in life. Even, and perhaps especially after death, our special people live on through the memories of others. This remembrance can take on many forms, but most common is the obituary.

The way we remember our dearest also provides a framework to process and understand our own existence and offers us the chance to interpret our own unique lived experiences and what constitutes a meaningful life. We’re delighted to have Mary McGreevy of “Tips from Dead People,” explore this notion in our ‘Big idea.’

When you look in the back of your local newspaper (if you can find one!), chances are you’ll read an obituary about someone who had a family, a career, and some singular characteristics—it’s these features that are always the most engaging, and for me, the most important.

Short quotes

“Obituaries teach us about how people live and help us better understand those we share the planet with.” – Jen King, obituarist, The Guardian

“A tribute is a form of communication that is more than just a summary. It is a gesture of compassion and remembrance. It captures who the child was as a human being, not just their diagnosis. It allows us to talk about their favourite songs, the way they lit up when their sibling entered the room, the stuffed animal they insisted on bringing to every appointment. Writing these tributes has also been beneficial and healing for me as a clinician.” – Dr. Natasha Datoo, Canuck Place Physician

“Obituaries are just like biographies, only shorter. They remind us that interesting, successful people rarely lead orderly, linear lives.” – Charles Wheelan, PhD, professor Dartmouth College

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Big idea

Guest contributor - Mary McGreevy

My relationship with death started when I was a kid, long before I was posting on social media as “Tips from Dead People.” My mother was a journalist in my hometown of Sioux Falls, South Dakota, and for a brief time she edited obituaries at the local paper. I remember reading them and thinking, instinctively, there has to be more to this story. Even in those short, formal notices, I could see whole lives trying to reveal themselves. Something essential was missing.

Years later, after living in several cities, I realized I always read the obituaries in the paper first. I saved them. Hundreds of them. Not because I was morbid, but because they felt honest. They held clues about what people valued once the formality fell away. When I eventually began sharing them publicly, I learned something that surprised even me: people weren’t coming to watch my videos for death. They were coming for permission to live differently.

What obituaries dismantle, again and again, is the myth of success. The things we are taught that equal success—a job, the size of your house, money, a straight career path—these obituaries have taught me that’s not true.

One story that has stayed with me is Crawford’s. He died at 22 after a childhood shaped by brittle bone disease—constant fractures, constant pain, constant limits imposed from the outside. Yet Crawford insisted on living fully anyway. He made friends. He stayed social. He was obsessed with athletes and sports, even though he knew he would never be one himself. He met the athletes he admired and wrote about them, drawing inspiration from their strength. What struck me most was this: his life, short and physically brutal, was every bit as inspiring and worthy of celebration as the people society elevates for their accomplishments or strength. His obituary overflowed with absence and abundance at the same time. It quietly destroyed the idea that length determines value.

If obituaries have changed anything for me, it is this: they have lowered the stakes. We will be forgotten after two generations; it’s just the truth. And that truth, oddly, is freeing. It makes the risk of choosing small, joyful, interesting ideas much smaller. It reminds us that productivity is not a moral virtue, and perfection is not required.

The overall message that I want to share with people, because it was something that I needed to hear for many, many years in my life, is for the most part, what you’re doing is okay. It doesn’t matter if you achieve this or that, or if your relationships are perfect or your figure is perfect or whatever. Those are human-made standards. They say nothing about your value.

So, if there are things in your life that are tiny but joyful, that are interesting, it doesn’t have to be related to productivity. That’s okay. You’re doing okay. One step ahead of the other. That’s all you need to measure yourself by. That’s a gift. What remains, in the end, are not the metrics, but the moments, the love, and the honesty we allow ourselves now.

– Mary McGreevy, Tips from Dead People

Short question

How can contemplating the end of our lives help us live with more intention now?

Short thoughts

• Remembering Crawford Brown Edwards III – Mary McGreevy, Instagram

• Why kids should read obituaries – The Commonwealth Beacon

• A positive dent in the fabric of life – Lux Narayan, TED

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Short Canuck Place updates

• Reflection on Tributes: An important form of Communication for Clinicians –Trends in Pediatric Palliative

• Here’s to all the memory keepers – The Cloughs, Canuck Place Family

Thank you for being part of the Life is Short community. If you find our offerings meaningful, please share this newsletter with someone you love.

Take good care,

Natasha

Dr. Natasha Datoo is a pediatric oncologist, hematologist, and palliative care physician in Vancouver, BC. Dr. Datoo continues to work in both fields as a staff physician at Canuck Place Children's Hospice and BC Children's Hospital. Dr. Datoo is an assistant professor at the University of British Columbia, where her passions include teaching trainees about effective communication in healthcare and integrating the palliative approach into acute hospital medicine. Dr. Datoo volunteers with Two Worlds Cancer Collaboration to promote and teach palliative care in Southeast Asia. She is also a volunteer consultant for Doctors Without Borders.

Hello there,

If there’s one group of people I rely on daily, it’s nurses. They are the glue that holds most medical organizations together. This week, I want to salute all nurses for the intuitive, intelligent, and thoughtful work they do under often challenging circumstances.

Beyond their technical skills, I’ve witnessed nurses soothe children through play, comfort devastated parents with simple gestures of kindness, and support caregivers in innovative ways. Nursing is way more than a job, for many it’s a calling that requires stamina, heart, and intention.

National Nursing Week in Canada ends today, but it’s never too late to thank a nurse for the extraordinary care and compassion they provide.

Short quotes

“Caring for another person is a deeply human act that restores dignity to both the giver and the receiver.” – Toni Morrison

“Caring for children in palliative care means becoming a small rainbow on their cloudiest days. Bringing comfort, easing pain, and adding gentle moments of joy. Not changing the sky, but softening it, so each moment feels a little lighter and filled with warmth.” – Hira Samad, Palliative Care Nurse, Pakistan

“Unless someone like you cares a whole awful lot, nothing is going to get better. It’s not.”  – Dr. Seuss, The Lorax

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Big idea

I’ve been a nurse since 2003, but the truth is, nursing has been part of my life for as long as I can remember. My mum is also a nurse, and as a child I watched her come home with a sense of fulfilment that was impossible to miss. She carried stories of connection, gratitude, and purpose. Seeing that shaped me. I knew early on that I wanted to be part of a profession that could hold people through their most vulnerable moments.

My early years were spent in the NICU and adult ICU, where I learned quickly that nursing is far more than clinical skill. It’s advocacy. It’s presence. It’s the quiet courage to sit with families when their world feels unsteady. Over time, I felt a pull toward supporting children and families living with life-limiting illnesses—toward being a steady voice when everything else felt uncertain.

What keeps me in nursing is the privilege of witnessing humanity at its most honest. Families let you into their lives in ways that are deeply humbling. They show you what matters most to them, even in the darkest times. Their insight grounds me. It reminds me that every child has dreams, humour, quirks, and a full identity beyond their medical story. As nurses, we often see only a snapshot of their lives, but that snapshot carries profound meaning.

I try to use my voice in a way that is gentle yet empowering. Children and families are experts in their health journeys, and the care team is there to support what is truly important to them. As nurses, we stand close by and embrace families when they need it and encourage them to live in ways that matter to them. I believe nurses are guides when families need it most.

One young adult I cared for near the end of their life shared some insights that will stay with me forever, what made them laugh, what they valued, what they wished they had more time for. Sitting beside them, truly listening, changed the way I show up for others. It taught me that presence is powerful.

Nurses make life-changing impacts every day, often in ways we don’t realize. Families remember how they felt in our care—the tone of our voice, the steadiness of our hands, the space we create for them to just be and breathe.

I hope my colleagues feel that I am someone they can turn to, someone who listens, collaborates, and believes in their growth. When nurses are empowered, the ripple effect is immeasurable. It strengthens our practice, our confidence, and ultimately, the care we give.

Every day, I am reminded that nurses don’t just support families, we enrich their lives in ways that last long after the moment has passed.

– Laura Wallbridge, Canuck Place Nurse

Short question

When has someone simply being there made all the difference for you?

Short thoughts

• Moments nurses never forget – UC Davis Health

• The nurses who show up and stay – eHospice.com

• The scared is scared – short film by Bianca Giaever and 6-year-old Asa Baker-Rouse

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Short Canuck Place updates

• If I wasn’t a nurse – Canuck Place nurses

• I get to be his mom — Ashley Clough, Canuck Place Mom
  

Thank you for being part of the Life is Short community. If you find our offerings meaningful, please share this newsletter with someone you love.

Take good care,

Natasha

Dr. Natasha Datoo is a pediatric oncologist, hematologist, and palliative care physician in Vancouver, BC. Dr. Datoo continues to work in both fields as a staff physician at Canuck Place Children's Hospice and BC Children's Hospital. Dr. Datoo is an assistant professor at the University of British Columbia, where her passions include teaching trainees about effective communication in healthcare and integrating the palliative approach into acute hospital medicine. Dr. Datoo volunteers with Two Worlds Cancer Collaboration to promote and teach palliative care in Southeast Asia. She is also a volunteer consultant for Doctors Without Borders.

Hello there,

Until I became a mom, I didn’t realize how emotionally complex the landscape around Mother’s Day can be for many women and families. It’s a beautiful celebration of motherhood and can also be a sad reminder of loss.

On the first Sunday in May, Bereaved Mothers’ Day honours women who have lost a child under any circumstances or are unable to become mothers. It provides a safe and supportive space for acknowledging grief, honouring memory, and fostering connection.

I ask you to take a moment and turn your attention to this often invisible grief and assure bereaved mothers that they and their children are not forgotten. If you know a bereaved Mom, I encourage you to say the child’s name, light a candle, send a thoughtful text, or simply say, “I’m thinking of you and your child.” Today is a powerful reminder that love does not end with the death of a child.

Short quotes

“I held you every second of your life.”
– Stephanie Paige Cole, Still

“I’ve lost sleep. I’ve lost time. I’ve lost weight. I’ve lost money. I’ve lost friends. At times, I’ve even lost myself. I mourn the children that could’ve been, the time we could’ve spent together, the opportunity for them to meet their grandparents, and the moments they didn’t get to be a part of.”
– Hilary Walton, Butterfly Support Network

“Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye
You were bigger than the whole sky
You were more than just a short time
And I’ve got a lot to pine about
I’ve got a lot to live without
I’m never gonna meet
what could’ve been, would’ve been.”
– Taylor Swift, Bigger Than the Whole Sky

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Big idea

In the six months since we said goodbye to my son, Tommy, I have searched for ways to feel close to him and have discovered that the most accessible way is through my body.

This realization was most noticeable a few nights before Tommy died, when I was alone in bed with him at Canuck Place and he was struggling. I thought we were losing him and all I felt was fear. Trembling, I called in the rest of the family to come be with us. While I waited for their arrival, our nurse Bethany and I did everything we could to help support Tommy. We finally found a position that worked, I laid on my left side, facing him, and we propped his upper body against my soft belly and felt him melt into me and relax into a deep sleep. Magically, I felt no aches or pains despite not being able to move for hours.

Later, my partner Tim and our two other children, Ben and Cora arrived, and I experienced the bliss of having all three kids fall asleep on top of me. I was aware of the rarity of the moment. I consciously filled my soul and my memory with all the love and gratitude I have for each of them. I got to hold all three of my sleeping babies simultaneously, knowing I would never have this moment again. A calm washed over me as I understood my body was their safe place, and the sensation felt divine. All fear disappeared and in its place I welcomed a deep sense of peace. I somehow knew then that we would survive Tommy’s passing, and we would do so by holding each other close. That feeling of peace stayed with me all the way to the very end, which would come a few days later. Once again, we were all crawled into bed together and bore witness to Tommy’s brave surrender.

I invoke memories of how his low tone supported a complete melting of his body into mine. I remember the sensation of my chest rising and falling against the weight of him, his gentle breath warm on my cheek, stroking his downy soft hair and feeling silky smooth strands slide between my fingers, the sweet smell of his head, like fresh lavender, my lips pressed against his smooth forehead, kissing him over and over, and the texture of his little hands as I caress each chunky finger. If I listen closely enough, I can hear his tiny giggles, too.

I am awe-struck by how easily I can be with Tommy in these moments, a reminder of the boundless love of Motherhood, which transcends all, even death. My body was his first and last home, and I am reminded that even in death, I can hold him close, which is where I find my peace.

– Kim Faulkner, Canuck Place Mom

Short question

If you know a bereaved parent, how can you recognize them and their children with love today?

Short thoughts

• Infertility is largely invisible – The Butterfly Support Network, Hilary Walton

• A golden retriever in Wisconsin – The Red Hand Files

• Small Bump – Ed Sheeran

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Short Canuck Place updates

• Being bereaved has made the most beautiful parts of me – Katie Jameson, Canuck Place Mom

• Why didn’t we meet you sooner – Dr. Jared Rubenstein, Canuck Place Medical Director

Thank you for being part of the Life is Short community. If you find our offerings meaningful, please share this newsletter with someone you love.

Take good care,

Natasha

Dr. Natasha Datoo is a pediatric oncologist, hematologist, and palliative care physician in Vancouver, BC. Dr. Datoo continues to work in both fields as a staff physician at Canuck Place Children's Hospice and BC Children's Hospital. Dr. Datoo is an assistant professor at the University of British Columbia, where her passions include teaching trainees about effective communication in healthcare and integrating the palliative approach into acute hospital medicine. Dr. Datoo volunteers with Two Worlds Cancer Collaboration to promote and teach palliative care in Southeast Asia. She is also a volunteer consultant for Doctors Without Borders.

Hello there,

Many years ago in a yoga class, the instructor began by announcing that if students were not into doing the poses that day, we could simply lie on our mats and she would “hold space.” At the time, I didn’t understand what she meant. Now I do.

Holding space is a powerful tool caregivers, friends, coworkers, and family members can consider using when others are working through or with something difficult.

To me, the expression means offering children and families the time and room to process what is happening in a way that feels right for them. To welcome powerful emotions and unanswerable questions. It can also mean doing nothing at all.

National Volunteer Week is April 19–25, and we celebrate the nearly 350 special people who generously share their time, love, and kindness with families at Canuck Place.

Short quotes

“Grief knits two hearts in closer bonds than happiness ever can; and common sufferings are far stronger links than common joys.” – Alphonse de Lamartine, French statesman

“Encouraging someone to be entirely themself is the loudest way to love them.” – Kalen Dion, poet and visual artist

“Learning how to be still, to really be still and let life happen—that stillness becomes a radiance.” – Morgan Freeman, actor

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Big idea

I learned something very special when I first started volunteering that has spilled into all aspects of my life. Sometimes the most important thing we can offer is not an action at all, it’s our presence. It’s holding space and existing. It’s being together without fixing anything. 

Grief is ever-changing and always evolving. Many of us carry it with us our whole lives; it never quite leaves. It’s uncertain, messy, and doesn’t adhere to a perfect timeline or schedule. When people are grieving, they don’t need someone to fix it; they need time and space, and most importantly, they need someone willing to stay with them. 

One of the first stories I heard about the impact volunteers have was from Dr. Hal Siden, Canuck Place Research Initiative Scientific Director. He shared the story of a volunteer who sat with a child on the nursing floor one evening, simply being present. No big activity, no pressure to act, just existing together at that moment in time. The child’s mom told Dr. Hal that she felt solace in knowing that her child was not alone, that someone was there with them.  

This kind of care is quiet. It can look like listening to a sibling without interruption, it can be folding laundry while a child and their mom take a nap together, or it might be playing with a child while their caregiver catches a breath. Often, it is just doing ordinary things in the service of others. This is exactly what we can learn to do in our own lives—we can slow down and meet our families and loved ones exactly where they are, with compassion and gentleness. 

One of the most rewarding aspects of my work has been seeing the growth of our volunteers, especially our younger volunteers. I often see a 16-year-old walk through our doors, nervous and uncertain about their first volunteer shift, transform and open up as they hone their new skills and learn to be more comfortable holding space for children and families in the ways they need. I’ve heard from volunteers about how their experiences with sharing grief impact their lives beyond the hospice walls. The same kind of care they practice with children and families is reflected in the care and compassion they hold for their own loved ones.  

Volunteering teaches us that we don’t need to have all the answers to be of service. We can simply allow room for others to be seen, heard, and met as they are. As time goes on, the perfect words or memories are often forgotten, but the way you make a person feel stays with them forever. 

– Navjot Sandhu, Canuck Place Operations Coordinator

Short question

How can you hold space for a loved one who’s grieving?

Short thoughts

• Holding space, in SPACE! – Artemis II crew names crater on the moon, CARROLL

• Why longterm grief feels lonely – Jamie Herzog, The grief table

• Sara Bareilles debuts new song about grief – Anderson Cooper 36

  

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Short Canuck Place updates

• Welcome Dr. Jared Rubenstein – New Canuck Place Medical Director

• Finding joy and meaning in times of uncertainty — The Letcher Family

Thank you for being part of the Life is Short community. If you find our offerings meaningful, please share this newsletter with someone you love.

Take good care,

Natasha

Dr. Natasha Datoo is a pediatric oncologist, hematologist, and palliative care physician in Vancouver, BC. Dr. Datoo continues to work in both fields as a staff physician at Canuck Place Children's Hospice and BC Children's Hospital. Dr. Datoo is an assistant professor at the University of British Columbia, where her passions include teaching trainees about effective communication in healthcare and integrating the palliative approach into acute hospital medicine. Dr. Datoo volunteers with Two Worlds Cancer Collaboration to promote and teach palliative care in Southeast Asia. She is also a volunteer consultant for Doctors Without Borders.

Happy Easter to those who celebrate it, I hope you find some chocolate,

Though it never gets easier, I am accustomed to being in the room with families at their most heartbreaking and confusing times. And here is something I’ve noticed. The human body holds grief in fascinating ways. At times, its weight can be almost more than our scaffolding can bear – shoulders surrender, eyes stream, and strong legs buckle. The body knows.

And science proves it, too. The physical impacts of loss can include overwhelming fatigue, digestive issues, heart irregularities, muscle pain, and trouble sleeping, among others. The mind, heart, and body are deeply connected.

In our ‘Big idea’ this week, Dana Warburton, a mother who has experienced multiple pregnancy losses, explains, through the language of water, how profound sadness feels in her body – and the visceral ways her grief makes its impact known.

Short quotes

“Grief doesn’t fade. Grief scabs over like my scars and pulls into new, painful configurations as it knits. It hurts in new ways. This grief, for all its awful weight, insists that he matters.” – Jesmyn Ward, novelist and professor

“The sorrow which has no vent in tears may make other organs weep.” –  Henry Maudsley, pioneering British psychiatrist

“You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.”
– Anne Lamott, writer

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Big idea

Grief lives in the body just as it lives in the heart. It is felt viscerally—sometimes in ways that surprise us, sometimes in ways that take our breath away. Long before we find words for it, grief announces itself through sensation: heaviness in the chest, nausea in the pit of our stomach, exhaustion deep in our bones, a tightness we can’t quite explain. As humans, we are not just thinking our way through grief—we are feeling it, moment by moment.

People often say that grief comes in waves, and that metaphor has always resonated deeply with me. I have found myself drawn to the water when nothing else can embody what I am feeling. The grief of a life that turned out much differently than expected. Multiple pregnancy losses made me feel like I was walking under water, and I have learned to surrender to the waves and even take comfort in them. Waves take many shapes, many sizes, many forms. The ocean’s surface mirrors grief’s unpredictability and its power.

Some waves rock you gently. Others crash into you without warning, pull you under, and threaten to drown you. Some arrive so forcefully that all you can do is surrender and gasp for air. Others catch you off guard—leaving you soaked in an instant.

When nothing else moves you forward, waves can carry you places no other force can—sometimes miles from where you began—offering distance, perspective, and unexpected clarity. From the water, the land looks different. What once felt enormous shrinks on the horizon. What once felt blurry comes back into focus. Life offers you new joys, small and big, that you never imagined could be experienced.

Waves can mesmerize you. Watching them roll in and out, in and out, their rhythm can lull you into stillness. There is comfort in their familiarity, in the sound they carry, in the ways they repeat themselves. And yet, those same waves can crash loudly enough to wake you from your sleep, jolting you back into the sharp reality of pain and loss.

Some waves make you seasick. The nausea is overwhelming—your body rejecting the weight of what it carries, never knowing when relief will come. Others lift you high, letting you ride on top of the world for a moment, feeling almost weightless, almost free.

Like a skilled surfer, you learn when to stand, when to hold steady, and when to let yourself fall. You learn to glide when the sea is raging below. Not every wave is meant to be conquered. Some are meant to be endured.

And their current always brings you back home eventually. Everything is pulled far away—almost out of sight—and then, it rushes back as predictably as the tides. Grief does the same. It takes, it returns, and reminds you of what you’ve lost and what you’ve loved.

Grief feels different every day, depending on the weather, the landscape that surrounds you, and where you’re standing when it arrives. Some days it comforts you. Other days, it knocks you down and leaves you staring out at the vastness, holding both gratitude and sorrow at once.

Yet, you are still here—floating, swimming, resting, learning how to move with the surges. Finding comfort in how familiar their presence can feel, connecting your mind and body, and allowing grief to become part of you.

– Dana Warburton, Family and Patient Engagement Advisor, Canuck Place

Short question

Can you identify how your body carries grief?

Short thoughts

• Let me know if you need anything, and other things one should stop saying to someone who’s grieving – Jamila Reddy, Substack

• All the empty rooms – Oscar winning film, Netflix

• How the body responds to grief and ways to cope – Dr. George Slavich, UCLA Health
  

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Short Canuck Place updates

• Slow walks –The Letchers, Canuck Place Family

• We cannot expect to sit with suffering and remain unchanged – Mary Coleman, Canuck Place Counsellor

Thank you for being part of the Life is Short community. If you find our offerings meaningful, please share this newsletter with someone you love.

Take good care,

Natasha

Dr. Natasha Datoo is a pediatric oncologist, hematologist, and palliative care physician in Vancouver, BC. Dr. Datoo continues to work in both fields as a staff physician at Canuck Place Children's Hospice and BC Children's Hospital. Dr. Datoo is an assistant professor at the University of British Columbia, where her passions include teaching trainees about effective communication in healthcare and integrating the palliative approach into acute hospital medicine. Dr. Datoo volunteers with Two Worlds Cancer Collaboration to promote and teach palliative care in Southeast Asia. She is also a volunteer consultant for Doctors Without Borders.

Hello there,

As we step gently into spring, I’m noticing buds bursting on the trees and the sound of birds in the mornings. I’m grateful for the distinct seasons we get to experience here in the Pacific Northwest. And seasons are part of our lives as humans, too. Sometimes we’re strong and well, sometimes we struggle and need a little help.

There is a Buddhist proverb that says, “If you light a lamp for someone else, it will also brighten your path.” This lifting of others is the spirit driving different forms of advocacy — when we make a point of advancing others, everyone gets pulled along.

April also brings Vaisakhi, the Sikh New Year celebration. As Dr. Randeep Gill, physician, health care equity advocate, and Canuck Place board member, shares in our ‘Big idea,’ “Vaisakhi celebrates renewal, community, and gratitude. It is also a time to reflect on what it means to stand beside others in their hardest moments.”

Short quotes

“Even one person raising their voice can make an impact — especially for those who cannot safely speak for themselves. Individual courage becomes a lifeline for the less fortunate.” – Malala Yousafzai, Pakistani activist, Nobel Peace Prize winner

“Every time we protect a fragile voice, the ancestors place another star in the sky to guide us home.” – Joy Harjo, Muscogee Nation

“We hold one another across distances — not because we are unbroken, but because we refuse to let the broken be alone.” – Dionne Brand, Canadian poet and novelist

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Big idea

Advocacy has been a thread pulling through my life long before I ever imagined becoming a doctor. When I was seven, my father became a quadriplegic after a devastating car accident. For years, my family lived inside the big emotional swings of hospitals and rehabilitation, uncertainty and hope. I remember what it felt like when illness entered our home and changed everything. I remember the kindness of caregivers. I remember watching my dad’s ability evolve from small movements into full dependence. I remember what that shift did to my mother, to our home, and to me.

By the time my father passed when I was eleven, I understood something that would shape the rest of my life: we cannot always change medical outcomes, but we can profoundly change how families experience the journey. My father’s painful decline taught me that compassion is not optional in medicine — it is foundational. I believe deeply that tragedy does not have to define a family’s future. With the right care, community, and structure around them, families can rebuild meaningful lives.

Advocating for vulnerable communities in healthcare matters to me because I have lived on the supporting side of critical illness. Vulnerability is not just a medical descriptor — it becomes a family identity. It reshapes finances, relationships, and emotional landscapes. When a child is ill, every person around them is transformed. Advocating effectively is to recognize that care must extend far beyond the patient.

As a physician, I’m especially drawn to research that improves quality of life for children with complex and life-limiting conditions — symptom control, neurological care, culturally sensitive approaches, and long-term models of psychosocial support. Advances that help families cope, grieve, and rebuild are just as vital as advances in medical protocols.

I honour my father’s journey, my mother’s strength, and the families who entrust us with their most fragile chapters. To me, advocacy is not just an action — it is a form of gratitude, and a way to live as fully as I can in each moment.

– Dr. Randeep Gill, Physician and Canuck Place board member

Short question

How can you use your voice and skills to improve life for others?

Short thoughts

• Why Hamnet is a relief to watch from a bereaved parent’s point of view —Michaela Evanow

• I get by with a little help from my friends – Hozier and Lake Street Dive

• You can win gold and still feel the floor drop – Rebecca Soffer, Modern Loss
  

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Short Canuck Place updates

• I used to live in black and white, and now I live in colour — Kerena Letcher, Canuck Place Mom

• A reflection on tributes – Dr. Natasha Datoo, Trends in Pediatric Palliative Care: Special Oncology Issue

Thank you for being part of the Life is Short community. If you find our offerings meaningful, please share this newsletter with someone you love.

Take good care,

Natasha

Dr. Natasha Datoo is a pediatric oncologist, hematologist, and palliative care physician in Vancouver, BC. Dr. Datoo continues to work in both fields as a staff physician at Canuck Place Children's Hospice and BC Children's Hospital. Dr. Datoo is an assistant professor at the University of British Columbia, where her passions include teaching trainees about effective communication in healthcare and integrating the palliative approach into acute hospital medicine. Dr. Datoo volunteers with Two Worlds Cancer Collaboration to promote and teach palliative care in Southeast Asia. She is also a volunteer consultant for Doctors Without Borders.

Happy International Women’s Day!

In this issue, I want to pay tribute to my female colleagues who approach their work with gentleness and wisdom, and to acknowledge the role models who have shaped and inspired me.

During the pandemic, I watched Dr. Bonnie Henry’s leadership and was struck by both her clear decisions and her presence. During those daily press conferences, she was calm, measured, and deeply compassionate. She leaned into qualities many women share: attentive listening, thoughtful communication, and steadiness in the midst of chaos and fear.

For generations, these traits were dismissed as weaknesses in medicine. But I’ve watched as they have proven to be profound strengths. Today, I feel fortunate to practice in an era that increasingly recognizes these qualities—and to be guided by female mentors who lead with authenticity and care.

Short quotes

“Medicine is not only a science; it is also an act of human connection, shaped by empathy, humility, and doubt.”
— Dr. Danielle Ofri, What Doctors Feel: How Emotions Affect the Practice of Medicine

“The future of medicine depends on voices that have been historically excluded—voices that know how to listen.”
— Dr. Siddhartha Mukherjee, Laws of Medicine

“I am a doctor, but I learned early that the deepest wounds are not always visible, and not always curable by medicine alone.”
— Dr. Nawal El Saadawi, A Daughter of Isis

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Big idea

Today is International Women’s Day, and Women Physicians Day is coming up on March 11. Milestones and titles are wonderful, but I find myself thinking more about how women show up in medicine. For much of my training, I absorbed the unspoken lesson that leadership looked a certain way: decisive, loud, unyielding—traditionally male traits. Historically, medicine has rewarded certainty over curiosity, efficiency over emotion. Many of the qualities I carried naturally—listening deeply, pausing before speaking, leading with compassion—felt out of step with that model.

And yet, these are the very qualities that anchor me in my work.

I am the physician no parent ever hopes to meet. As a pediatric oncologist and palliative care physician, I am often present at the most difficult moments of a family’s life. When I enter a room, emotions are already high—fear, grief, anger, disbelief. In these spaces, I have learned that leadership is not about controlling the conversation. It is about staying calm, curious, and open enough to hear what is not always spoken out loud.

Before discussing diagnoses or treatment plans, I try to learn who a family is beyond their current situation. What brings them comfort. What they are most fearful of. What they hope for. This approach may appear inefficient or “soft,” but I have seen its power again and again. When families feel seen and heard as people, not problems to be solved, trust forms. And from that trust, honest care becomes possible.

This understanding deepened for me after becoming a mother—an experience I never imagined would be part of my story. My daughter, Indigo, arrived loud, spirited, and unapologetically herself just one day before International Women’s Day last year. Motherhood has not changed how I practice medicine, but it has sharpened my awareness of the invisible labour families carry—the logistics, the exhaustion, the relentless mental load that accompanies caring for a child, especially one with complex needs.

Through this lens, I see care expressed in thoughtful details: accessible parking, warm meals prepared with kindness, nurses who are steady and trustworthy, clean beds waiting at the end of long days. These acts may seem small within a healthcare system, but they hold families together. They say, You are not doing this alone.

Women physicians lead not by dominating space, but by holding it. We lead through presence, patience, and compassion. We lead by listening first and speaking with intention. On Women Physicians Day, and every day, I honour this quiet, enduring kind of leadership, and all the strong female mentors who have guided me along the way.

Dr. Natasha Datoo, Pediatric Oncologist and Hematologist, Canuck Place

Short question

What qualities matter most to you in a caregiver?

Short thoughts

• A history of women in medicine – Lynda Malcolm

• How to support the health and wellness of female physicians – Canadian Medical Association

• Space for grief – Fran Rawlings and Ziyan Hossain, Founders

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Short Canuck Place updates

When life slows down, love comes into focus – The Letcher Family

• “I’m playing like a normal boy, aren’t I?” – Laura Fielding, Canuck Place Recreation Therapy
  

Thank you for being part of the Life is Short community. If you find our offerings meaningful, please share this newsletter with someone you love.

Take good care,

Natasha

Dr. Natasha Datoo is a pediatric oncologist, hematologist, and palliative care physician in Vancouver, BC. Dr. Datoo continues to work in both fields as a staff physician at Canuck Place Children's Hospice and BC Children's Hospital. Dr. Datoo is an assistant professor at the University of British Columbia, where her passions include teaching trainees about effective communication in healthcare and integrating the palliative approach into acute hospital medicine. Dr. Datoo volunteers with Two Worlds Cancer Collaboration to promote and teach palliative care in Southeast Asia. She is also a volunteer consultant for Doctors Without Borders.

Hello there,

I’m pleased to introduce our guest contributor for this issue, Oliver Burkeman, a British writer whose work focuses on mortality and the power of limits. In this issue of Life is Short, Burkeman expands on the term finitude, defined as “the state of having a limit or end.” Its definition is rooted in the word ‘finite’ and the concept that all beings are created with limits to their lifespans and capabilities. And these limits are, unfortunately, heartbreakingly, unavoidable.

As Burkeman, the author of Meditations for Mortals and Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals, shares in our Big idea, “the future never truly belongs to us.”

Some philosophies teach that it’s the resistance to our temporary nature—our own, and that of our loved ones—that causes us pain. But what if embracing the idea added value to our lives? What if, in accepting that life is short, it becomes richer?

Short quotes

“I can never be all the people I want and live all the lives I want. I can never train myself in all the skills I want. And why do I want? I want to live and feel all the shades, tones, and variations of mental and physical experience possible in my life. And I am horribly limited.”
– Sylvia Plath, personal journal

“Do not grow old, no matter how long you live. Never cease to stand like curious children before the Great Mystery into which we were born.” – Albert Einstein, theoretical physicist

I don’t want to get to the end of my life and find that I lived just the length of it. I want to have lived the width of it as well. – Diane Ackerman, poet and essayist

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Big idea

Oliver Burkeman on lifespan, problems, and anger

I sometimes worry that the title Four Thousand Weeks sounds glib in places where glibness might seem disrespectful. But the number was never meant to be clever. It was meant to point at something universal—finitude: the simple, unsettling fact that our lives will eventually stop, all of us, and that the future never truly belongs to us. In that sense, the end could come for anyone at any time. None of us is guaranteed even an average lifespan. So yes, Life is Short, most always shorter than we’d like.

But one of the strange truths I’ve come to believe is that the question itself doesn’t fundamentally change. Whether you have decades ahead or far fewer weeks than you hoped, you are always choosing from an infinite field of possible lives with only a tiny slice of time. Even a lifespan of 150 years couldn’t fulfill every dream. Finitude is not an exception. It is the rule.

This is one reason I was drawn to a phrase in one of your previous Life is Short newsletters, “Waste time with the ones you love.” If wasting time means not serving a productive goal, then being truly present is, by definition, a waste—and also the opposite of one. There is enormous relief in letting go of the idea that time is a precious gemstone to be optimally polished. Watching a mediocre sitcom together, having a nothing conversation, sitting quietly in the same room: this is not a failure of attention. It is life, as it mostly is. The mundane is not an obstacle to meaning—it is the only place meaning ever shows up.

Facing struggle is part of what it means to be alive as a finite human being constrained by limits of time, control, energy, and chance. That doesn’t make suffering fair, or acceptable, or evenly distributed—it clearly isn’t. But railing against the mere fact that a problem exists often adds a second layer of pain.

Anger, though, is different. There’s an important distinction to be made between being angry about having to face challenges and feeling the anger. Feeling anger can be an important part of expressing what it means to be fully alive, a force that arises when we stop insisting that reality should be something other than it is, and instead allow ourselves to feel what is actually here—an expression of care, of love, of protest. When someone you love leaves, or is about to, perhaps your anger is a perfectly appropriate reaction.

Every life is full of “last times,” most of which we never recognize as such. In that sense, each moment is the last time we will live that exact moment. This isn’t meant to add pressure or sentimentality. It’s an invitation to solidarity. Finitude is what unites us. No matter how different our circumstances, we are all, always, doing our best within a time that was never going to be enough.

– Oliver Burkeman, author of Four Thousand Weeks: Time Management for Mortals

Short question

Acknowledging that life is short, how can your priorities shift away from quantity and toward quality?

Short thoughts

• Most common regrets at the end – Alua Arthur, Going with Grace

• Ideas to find inspiration in your daily life – Michael Yi, Australia

• Reasons to stay – Ben West, Instagram

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Short Canuck Place updates

• Upcoming workshops with the Butterfly Network include: Building your support network, a virtual workshop for those who have experienced pregnancy loss and concurrent losses and Envision, for those navigating infertility & IVF journeys

• Not knowing how long you have makes time precious – The Letcher family, Instagram

Thank you for being part of the Life is Short community. If you find our offerings meaningful, please share this newsletter with someone you love.

Take good care,

Natasha

Dr. Natasha Datoo is a pediatric oncologist/hematologist and pediatric palliative care physician in Vancouver, BC. Dr. Datoo continues to work in both fields as a staff physician at Canuck Place Children's Hospice and BC Children's Hospital. Dr. Datoo is an assistant professor at the University of British Columbia, where her passions include teaching trainees about effective communication in healthcare and integrating the palliative approach into acute hospital medicine. Dr. Datoo volunteers with Two Worlds Cancer Collaboration to promote and teach palliative care in Southeast Asia. She is also a volunteer consultant for Doctors Without Borders.

Today feels dark and shocking with the loss of so many lives in Tumbler Ridge, BC, and with the students, parents, and families who are facing significant tragedy. Canuck Place Children’s Hospice holds the families, students, and community of Tumbler Ridge close to our hearts during this devastating time and in the difficult hours, days, and months ahead.

We want to acknowledge the teachers, and everyone at the school, clinicians in health care, first responders, and emergency services, mental health and other community leaders who are on the front line in BC’s little northeastern town acting in the best way possible.

When the unthinkable happens, there is often a swirl of questions from parents and families about how to navigate hard conversations with their children and loved ones. The following list of resources aims to provide guidance on how and when to have these conversations.

When talking about tragedy and loss, it’s important to remember to use honest, developmentally appropriate language. Acknowledge your own emotions as they come up and know that it’s okay to not have all the answers. While these conversations can feel hard to navigate, it’s important to remember why we have them. Engaging in these conversations serve as a reminder that community care, informed knowledge, and open communication all play a vital part in community healing.

Helpful phrases when talking to your child might include…

“I know this is all really scary, how are you feeling about____?”

“Can you tell me what you know about what happened?”

“Something very sad happened at ______. It’s hard to understand why someone would do something like this. I’m confused too, and that’s okay, we don’t need all the answers right now”

“A lot of people might be feeling angry or scared right now. I know I feel those things too. What other words describe how you feel?”

Reactions to these conversations may change based on age. Young children might cling to their safe person more than usual, and in some cases, can regress. Elementary and middle school children may experience a fear around attending school. When talking with youth, they may be more likely to outwardly express anger and frustration. When your child expresses an emotion, try your best to meet them where they are at. Sit with them in the discomfort and remain curious. While your focus is likely on your child, caregiver self-care is an important part in supporting your child.

For more resources on how to talk to children about tragedies, please refer to the list below:

• BC Health Crisis Line: Available at 1-800-784-2422 or by calling 9-8-8.

• Talking with Children about Tragic Events: A document by The Dougy Center that provides tips on how to talk to children about tragedies.

• A Community of Caring: Suggestions for Supporting Grieving Children, Youth, and Their Family - Lighthouse For Grieving Children: A tipsheet for supporting grieving children.

• TDC_Tips_for_Teachers__School_Personnel_2018: Tipsheet for teachers and school support on how to talk to students about death and loss.

• Educational Videos | Children and Youth Grief Network Canada: A collection of videos that provide practical tips and phrases to use when talking to children.

• Tips for how to talk to children about school shootings - Save the Children Canada: Provides 5 tips on how to talk to your child about gun violence in schools.

• How to Talk to Kids About School Shootings | Tips & Advice: Offers strategies to deal with both child and parental anxiety around school shootings.

• Ways to Help Children and Youth Following a Tragedy or Crisis Event: A tipsheet by the Halton District School Board that includes how to navigate these challenging conversations in times of crisis.

At tragic times like these, we lean on each other, gather in community, and share our sorrow, confusion, and love for each other. We honour and cherish all those lost, and those still fighting for their lives.

Hi there,

With Valentine’s Day, Family Day, and International Childhood Cancer Day coming soon, I’ve been thinking about how our primary relationships can be impacted by grief. It is commonly believed that the loss of a child can be damaging for a marriage. I’ve seen a figure floating around indicating 80% of relationships that endure child loss end in breakup.

I’ll spare you the statistics and citations, but the results of many published papers suggest that’s not true, in fact, the divorce rate after a child’s death is on par with the national average. Research shows a child’s death can cause “detrimental as well as cohesive effects on a couple’s relationship.” And many, many variables come into play.

Canuck Place Counsellor, Janet Littlejohn tells us in this week’s Big idea, that our basic personalities have a lot to do with how we grieve as a couple, and “the responses of one individual are rarely identical to another.” It is in this gap that couples can find space to strengthen their bonds.

Short quotes

“We walk separately, because each of us walks with the child we lost.” – David Grossman, Falling Out of Time

“When we talk about mortality, we’re talking about our children.” – Joan Didion, The Year of Magical Thinking

“What they could not speak of lay between them like a second life.” – Edna O’Brien, The Country Girls

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Big idea

Grief is unique for everyone and yet so common to the human experience. The responses of one individual are rarely identical to another, and yet there is often comfort in the similarities. In the couple relationship, the differences, when left unexplored, can become points of misunderstanding and alone-ness. Undoing the aloneness inherent to the grief experience is part of the long path of healing and re-making.

It’s quite common for one partner to focus on action, while one experiences their grief through sensation and emotion. Action focus can revolve around projects, advocacy, planning memorials and rituals of remembering (instrumental grieving). While the other partner may inhabit their grief with more emotional intensity—waves of sadness and tears, perhaps turning inward for a time, but often very open about their experience with those close to them (intuitive grieving). Both are normal reactions to the death of a child. However, as you look at these two styles of mourning, you can see the challenge that can arise in the home. If the action-oriented griever wants to be out, have people over, be moving and doing, while the intuitive griever needs quiet, time to talk with one person, and space to cry, then their needs may not align. Reconciling these differences and holding the knowledge that both versions are valid and carry deep pain, can help bridge the gap.

Connection keeps the relationship strong.

If talking about your emotions does not come naturally, that’s okay, too. Presence is also holding your partner as they cry, reminding them you are there, letting them know you’re sad today. Sharing even a sentence like, “I was remembering making her smile today,” can be an important way to share with your partner that you are grieving, too. If you grieve through action and projects, let your partner know things like “this project is for him.”

Another common pattern is for one partner to dive deeply into their grief while one takes more of a support role, and then, the roles shift. For many, it’s instinctual to remain strong and steady while one is deeply grieving and to let their own tears flow when their partner appears more stable. In these times, support may look like a hug, a cup of tea, just being close or a short “I’m here.” Resist the urge to judge your own emotion or your partner’s when these differences arise.

Companioning grief is not about fixing it. In fact, learning how to tolerate the discomfort and turn towards each other, in the midst of it, goes a long way as you navigate all that grief brings.

– Janet Littlejohn, MA. MFT, RCC, Canuck Place Counsellor

Short question

When you look at your relationships, what patterns do you see?

Short thoughts

• 3 secrets of resilient people – Dr. Lucy Hone, TED

• Presence is the cheapest medicine – Hanna Leana Kuss, Instagram

• Strategies for handling grief in a marriage – Eddins counselling

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Short Canuck Place updates

• Spring 50/50 is back!

• Expanding pediatric palliative care research in India – LinkedIn

Thank you for being part of the Life is Short community. As always, if you have thoughts you’d like to share with us, please send a note to: lifeisshort@canuckplace.org

Take good care,

Natasha

Dr. Natasha Datoo is a pediatric oncologist/hematologist and pediatric palliative care physician in Vancouver, BC. Dr. Datoo continues to work in both fields as a staff physician at Canuck Place Children's Hospice and BC Children's Hospital. Dr. Datoo is an assistant professor at the University of British Columbia, where her passions include teaching trainees about effective communication in healthcare and integrating the palliative approach into acute hospital medicine. Dr. Datoo volunteers with Two Worlds Cancer Collaboration to promote and teach palliative care in Southeast Asia. She is also a volunteer consultant for Doctors Without Borders.

Hello there,

As a palliative care physician, I’ve seen over and over how grief refuses to follow a straight path. Often, it weaves its way through our relationships with others, including animals. Our creature friends offer a unique kind of support in these moments: nonverbal, nonjudgmental, and attuned to our emotional states.

Research shows that interaction with animals can reduce pain perception and lower stress hormone levels, supporting both physical and psychological comfort.

There’s a reason Gaia, our PADS Accredited Facility Dog, spends so much time with families at our two hospices; she inherently knows how to be. She’s quietly present and she listens with her whole body.

As Canuck Place mom Hollie Hall shares in this issue’s Big idea, animals can ease agitation, foster connection, and help us express what words cannot. In moments of loss, animals help anchor us in the present. They remind us to walk and to rest. Their affection can soften the sharp edges of sorrow. In life’s most vulnerable moments, animals often show us how to stay.

Short quotes

“The animals know things we no longer remember. The dog understands loss in a way that does not require explanation. He waits. He listens. He stays close to the place where love last stood.”
– Linda Hogan, Chickasaw Nation, Dwellings

“The animals moved through the world
without asking why,
and I envied them that mercy.” – Yusef Komunyakaa, Neon Vernacular

“Animals do not console us.
They remain.
Which is sometimes the harder gift.”

– Pattiann Rogers, Firekeeper

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Big idea

As a family, we have always had pets—cats, gerbils, goldfish, guinea pigs, and even tarantulas. We would occasionally “borrow” a dog from our neighbour. Sadly, we lost two cats in 2019. One of them was very special to our daughter Lily, who had been diagnosed with brain cancer five years earlier, when she was just 13. To lose her buddy on top of fighting that terrible disease was devastating. A few months later, we decided to take Lily on a trip to Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. She was feeling pretty good and was excited to take a much-deserved break.

A couple of days before we left Mexico, Lily and I decided to go shopping. In a cute little jewelry shop, we discovered three small dogs wandering around keeping the owner company. They were all rescues that she was fostering before putting them up for adoption. They were so cute, and we thought it was great that they would be getting a second chance with new forever families. We each bought a beautiful ring and went on our way.

The next day, I discovered a bit of discolouration on my ring, so Lily and I went back to the shop. One of the dogs lay in the corner on a blanket. The shopkeeper told us her name was Sandy. When Lil, who was in a wheelchair, called out to Sandy, she came bouncing over and put her little paws up on Lily’s lap. Lily got to cuddle with Sandy, and there was an instant connection between the two of them. We both fell in love with that little peanut.

Two weeks later, our beautiful little terrier-chihuahua cross, whom we renamed Lita after the town Sayulita, came to live with us. Lita fit in instantly. She was an unofficial therapy dog to Lily, comforting her when she was anxious or sad. Lily was always cold due to her treatments, so Lita was her cozy hot water bottle. Lita even rode on Lily’s lap when we were out on our walks.

Lily’s health continued to deteriorate, and tragically, 15 months and 15 days after Lita came to live with us, Lily passed away. With the support of the Canuck Place nursing team, she was able to slip away peacefully at home in our bed with all of us surrounding her. Even Lita.

In the very dark days that followed, our pup was always by our sides. She was there to soothe us by letting us pet her fur, licking our salty tears, and getting us out of the house. I would often sit in Lily’s bedroom and weep, with Lita comforting me like she did with Lily.

It’s been five years since our beautiful daughter’s passing and our little Mexican rescue continues to be a faithful and loving part of our family. I am certain Lily is beaming down from above, knowing that we didn’t just rescue Lita, she rescued us as well.

- Hollie Hall, Canuck Place Mom

Short question

How have animals offered you comfort and compassion?

Short thoughts

• Health and Mood Boosting Benefits of Pets – HelpGuide.org

• The Grieving Body and 16 other adult grief books – Jessica Correnti, MS, CCLS

• How animals grieve – BBC Earth

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Short Canuck Place updates

• Gaia and Diana, best buds – Instagram

• What is pediatric palliative care? – Canuck Place Children’s Hospice

Thank you for being part of the Life is Short community. As always, if you have thoughts you’d like to share with us, please send a note to: lifeisshort@canuckplace.org

Take good care,

Natasha

Dr. Natasha Datoo is a pediatric oncologist/hematologist and pediatric palliative care physician in Vancouver, BC. Dr. Datoo continues to work in both fields as a staff physician at Canuck Place Children's Hospice and BC Children's Hospital. Dr. Datoo is an assistant professor at the University of British Columbia, where her passions include teaching trainees about effective communication in healthcare and integrating the palliative approach into acute hospital medicine. Dr. Datoo volunteers with Two Worlds Cancer Collaboration to promote and teach palliative care in Southeast Asia. She is also a volunteer consultant for Doctors Without Borders.

Happy first newsletter of the year,

I hope you had a peaceful winter break. As we get our feet back under us and look toward the building light of a new year, I feel rested and ready to move. How about you?

Of course, we know the physical health benefits of exercise, but movement also alters our mental state, including grief—it can help shift that uncomfortable feeling of being closed in and stuck. Just as grief lives in the heart, it also lives in the body, and gentle movements can help to shift or diffuse the pain and stagnation we hold.

And that energy doesn’t have to be grand to be helpful. As Natasha Zacher shares in our Big idea this week, “even when it looks like we are still, inside, our molecules are moving.” That’s a pretty cool concept.

Please take a moment to notice the small changes you’ve made as you progress into 2026—each shift is a way of healing.

Short quotes

“I walked the long roads because movement was the only thing that didn’t hurt.”
– Sara Baume, Irish novelist, A Line Made by Walking

“Every step is a small repair, a stitch pulling the torn world closer.”
– Khaled Mattawa, Libyan poet, Tocqueville

“The body moves even when the heart cannot; this is its mercy.”
– Maya C. Popa, poet, American Faith

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Big idea

At the end of my expressive arts therapy program, we were tasked with creating a small art piece that in some way captured our experience in the program, and could serve as a supportive reminder for when we experience doubt, uncertainty, and loss in our personal and professional journeys to come. We were invited to embed a secret message in our art piece that only the maker knew of. Scribbled on and wrapped up in torn pieces of leftover paper, I spelled out the phrase move with. I don’t know why I chose those words in particular—they were the first and only to come to mind, so I figured they were important.

Move with.

On days when I’m feeling stuck, movement of some variety is often the only way to get out of my head and into the world. Engaging our limbs bilaterally, in activities that use both sides of our bodies like dancing, walking, or swimming, can be particularly beneficial in supporting emotional processing. It asks our brains to communicate between their right and left hemispheres, increasing overall brain activity and boosting neural plasticity—our brain’s ability to form new connections.

But what happens when life grinds you to a halt and demands stillness to cope? You might be recovering from an illness or injury, have recently endured a stressful period, or are navigating the profound unknown of grief. Deep and tender emotions and experiences can ask this of our bodies, and sometimes all we can do is respond with what we have. Yes, even when it looks like we are still, inside our molecules are moving—seven octillion (that’s 27 zeros) atoms in each of us perpetually in motion. Vibrating, adapting, renewing.

Taniss Hugill, with the Dance Movement Therapy Association in Canada, notes, “Humans have the capacity to create through movement from when we are growing in the womb to when we are reaching the moment of death.” A gentle touch on the shoulder of a loved one is movement. Leaning against a wall to borrow its steadiness is movement. The rise and fall of your breath are most certainly movement.

There are many gentle methods I turn to often, both in my personal life and when offering counselling support. Simply place a hand on your heart and notice the feeling of your chest expanding and relaxing as you inhale and exhale. As a next step, you might cross your arms across your chest, then slowly tap side-to-side, performing a ‘butterfly hug.’ If you have a little more energy, you might consider standing and performing a gentle sway, shifting your weight from side to side, allowing your arms to undulate with you. The rhythmic and repetitive nature of these practices can help soothe and regulate our nervous systems, drawing on that bilateral brain connection.

Whether you have extra energy to move with today or need to tune into the quiet motion inside you in its simplest forms, I’ll be moving with you.

– Natasha Zacher, Canuck Place Counsellor

Short question

What happens to your grief when you move with it?

Short thoughts

• Gentle Exercises to Let Go – Holden QiGong, YouTube

• Time alone doesn’t heal all wounds – Trauma Research Foundation

• The magic of walking with grief – NPR

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Short Canuck Place updates

• Dr. Hal Siden awarded 2025 Pediatric Award of Excellence – Canadian Pediatric Care Alliance (CPPCA), Canadian Network of Palliative Care for Children (CNPCC)

• I really do see more love than anybody – Camara van Breeman on 30 years of care

Thank you for being part of the Life is Short community. As always, if you have thoughts you’d like to share with us, please send a note to: lifeisshort@canuckplace.org

Take good care,

Natasha

Dr. Natasha Datoo is a pediatric oncologist/hematologist and pediatric palliative care physician in Vancouver, BC. Dr. Datoo continues to work in both fields as a staff physician at Canuck Place Children's Hospice and BC Children's Hospital. Dr. Datoo is an assistant professor at the University of British Columbia, where her passions include teaching trainees about effective communication in healthcare and integrating the palliative approach into acute hospital medicine. Dr. Datoo volunteers with Two Worlds Cancer Collaboration to promote and teach palliative care in Southeast Asia. She is also a volunteer consultant for Doctors Without Borders.

Hello there,

As 2025 fades to its natural finale, I’ve been thinking about endings and how so many of them carry their own brand of sadness and, at times, renewal. Breakups, lost jobs, arguments with friends, not meeting your own goals, financial blows, empty nests, and retirement all come with their own forms of grief.

In this issue, former Vancouver Canuck Dave Babych expands on what the end of his big, exciting NHL career felt like and taught him about change. There’s a lot to be learned from this gentle giant.

Acknowledging different kinds of loss can help you understand them, move through them, and grow with them.

Thank you for reading our newsletter this year. We enjoy curating it for you. Please share Life is Short with your friends.

May the New Year bring you peace and wonder.

Short quotes

“There is such a shelter in endings—however painful—that allows us, at last, to stop carrying what we cannot change.” – Zadie Smith, On Beauty

“When it’s gone, it’s gone. What you have left is your memory of it, and how you carry that is the real ending.” – Kazuo Ishiguro, Never Let Me Go

“What is lost leaves a shape behind, and the shape can still hold us until we’re ready to step into what’s next.” – Monique Truong, The Book of Salt

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Big idea

Endings are tough. Even for guys who might look tough on the outside. When I think back on my career, the scope of it still surprises me—hockey took me from a young kid in Edmonton to the Stanley Cup finals.

I was drafted by the Winnipeg Jets in 1980 at nineteen, spent six seasons in Hartford where I met my wife Diana and we started our family, seven seasons with the Canucks, and I played my last NHL game in 1999 with the Los Angeles Kings. Nearly twenty years in the league is a pretty good run. But no matter how long you play, or how much success you have, nothing quite prepares you for the moment it ends. Even now, every fall when I smell the leaves turning, I feel like I should be getting ready for training camp.

For me, the reality didn’t hit until that final game in L.A. As I sat in the dressing room afterward, looking around at the guys, the gear, the chaos, it dawned on me—this might be it. One minute, everything is structured, intense, meaningful; the next, there’s an abrupt silence. A rope cuts. And you’re standing in a kind of vacuum thinking, now what?

What I missed most wasn’t the spotlight or the travel or the celebrities in the dressing room, it was the team—the friends and camaraderie. When you’re part of a group like that, you can count on people, and they can count on you. If you make a mistake one night, there’s always another game, another chance to fix it. Coaches are there to guide you. When that rhythm disappears, so does a part of your identity. You wake up with no schedule, no plan, no locker room full of guys pulling in the same direction. Physically, too, you go from being fine-tuned to…well, not. For a lot of former athletes, that transition hits harder than they expect.

And the truth is, endings can make your world feel very small. Your phone stops ringing as much. Some of the people drift away. Mentally, it can be really challenging. You start to wonder whether you’re still relevant, which is never a healthy question. Diana and I decided to make our home in Vancouver, our boys had mostly grown up here, and we had to start all over.

There’s another side to all of this. Change, even painful change, forces you to stay open. Over time, I learned to step outside the box I’d lived in for so long. I tried new things—renovating places, coaching kids, charity work, player development for the Canucks—not everything stuck, but each step led to another door. Now I’m helping build a golf course for the Délı̨nę First Nation, up in Délı̨nę, Northwest Territories.

If I have one piece of advice for anyone facing an ending of their own, it’s this: keep moving. Have friends outside your familiar world. Walk through the next door even if you’re unsure what’s on the other side. The loss is real, but so is the possibility. There’s always a bright, shiny light coming—you just have to look for it.

- Dave Babych, Vancouver Canucks alum

Short question

When has a painful ending offered the chance to grow?

Short thoughts

• Ambiguous loss: the person beside you on their device – Esther Perel, Instagram

• A mistake is your greatest opportunity – Salma Hayek, YouTube

• When your expertise becomes obsolete – 20Forty, Substack

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Short Canuck Place updates

• Fin knows giving feels good!

• I really do see more love than anybody – Camara van Breeman on 30 years of care

Thank you for being part of the Life is Short community. As always, if you have thoughts you’d like to share with us, please send a note to: lifeisshort@canuckplace.org

Take good care,

Natasha

Dr. Natasha Datoo is a pediatric oncologist/hematologist and pediatric palliative care physician in Vancouver, BC. Dr. Datoo continues to work in both fields as a staff physician at Canuck Place Children's Hospice and BC Children's Hospital. Dr. Datoo is an assistant professor at the University of British Columbia, where her passions include teaching trainees about effective communication in healthcare and integrating the palliative approach into acute hospital medicine. Dr. Datoo volunteers with Two Worlds Cancer Collaboration to promote and teach palliative care in Southeast Asia. She is also a volunteer consultant for Doctors Without Borders.

Happy Holidays!

… or maybe not. This time of year can be rough, even more so if you’re missing someone close to your heart. Sometimes, there’s an ache behind the gingerbread and sparkle. There’s nothing wrong if you’re not “feeling” the season. In fact, it makes sense to redefine what the holidays mean for you right now.

For Katie Jameson, who generously shares her wisdom as a bereaved parent in our expanded “Big idea” for this holiday issue, profound loss can set you apart. “Longing feels like looking through frosted glass. I remember the feeling vividly, the fear of making anything meaningful, of stepping into a season your child will never see. But I also know this: the anticipation of the holidays is often harder than the holidays themselves.”

Katie explains that simply making something by hand may help narrow the gap between what you’d like the holidays to feel like and that hollow feeling in your chest.

The winter solstice is coming soon, and it’ll get a little lighter each day.

Short quotes

“The holidays are loud, but grief is louder. It follows you from room to room, tapping its glass heart against yours.”
– Warsan Shire, Somali British writer and poet

“Folding paper, painting patterns, and gluing fabric—all of these provide my hurting heart with somewhere to rest. I’ve realized that grief-driven holiday crafting isn’t a distraction, it’s survival, hidden in the guise of creativity.” – Katie Jameson, Canuck Place Mom

“Colonial holidays come with ghosts. The calendar says celebration, but the body remembers something else.” – Leanne Betasamosake Simpson, Michi Saagiig Nishnaabeg writer, musician, academic

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Big idea

When your child is gone, the holidays don’t arrive in the same way—they come the moment you notice the world edging towards joy.

With the first knowing: I have to live through this season without my child.

For all of grief’s many unpredictable arrivals, it is a perpetual teacher that time is no longer linear. The calendar doesn’t move from one season to the next with predictability, instead, anticipation stretches out like an endless landscape. The days before significant dates—birthdays, anniversaries, holidays—become heavy with pressure and fear.

The first Christmas after my son, Lochlan, died was unlike any I had experienced. Lochlan had been gone for eight months, and the world around me was trying to burst with cheer, celebration, and tradition. I had always put up lights early, played festive movies in the background, and found joy in small seasonal rituals. But, that year, I couldn’t even bear to untangle a single string of lights.

It was supposed to be his first Christmas. It was supposed to be magical. Instead, we closed our doors, ordered take-out, and wished the season away. We didn’t celebrate. We didn’t decorate. And we didn’t pretend. December was something to endure, not enjoy.

And something I didn’t expect: No one came to get us. No one noticed we disappeared into the folds of our sorrow.

It wasn’t that people didn’t care. It’s that grief—especially child loss—magnifies isolation. This kind of loss demands an understanding that you can’t comprehend until you feel it. I didn’t know how to invite someone into my December of darkness. And they didn’t know how to find me. So, with eleven years of hindsight, let me gently nudge my chair next to yours and explain. If your child should be here but is not…

You don’t need to hang lights.

You don’t need to sing songs.

You don’t even need to be festive or happy, or whole.

But I want to show you one small way back to colour. A soft entry to a season that otherwise feels so very hard.

My friend Kim’s son, Tommy, died in early October. She is enduring the coldest kind of air, the kind infused with the shock of loss—that unbearable, sharp grief where you can’t believe the world still turns and people still buy groceries or pay bills. Kim loves crafting, and Christmas, and I know neither of those things feel good or even safe right now. So, I invited her to come over and sit at my table and make a holiday craft.

The paradox for grieving parents during the holidays is that we ache for joy, but joy can feel slippery and dangerous. We long for tradition, for what once was, but fear that getting too close might burn.

My body would brace for impact when the first wreath appeared in a store. I grieved anything that brought me closer to a Christmas without my son—the first leaf to fall, the first holiday-flavoured coffee, the first snow. So, I invited Kim over, hoping to help her steady herself before the sparkle of the holidays felt too bright.

We brewed coffee. We played music. We cried. We laughed so hard we cried some more. We coloured and cut out tiny wreaths. We swore at the universe. We welcomed grief to take up as much space as it wanted. At the end of the three hours, we held something homemade in our hands, something that came out of the heartbreak. Our little garland houses didn’t fix anything, or erase the pain, but they gave us an opportunity to name our grief, to invite it into a warm home where we could mother it. And there is healing in that.

“Micro joys are how we survive macro grief,” writes storyteller Glo Atanmo, and I think that sentiment might be the answer. Choosing small, soft ways to step into the holidays might be the bridge we have been looking for. Joy doesn’t need to soak everything around you, and grief doesn’t need to either. We don’t have to choose one or the other; joy and sorrow can coexist—two guests, at the same table.

Over the years, I have discovered that crafting helps me process my grief. I’m not particularly talented at drawing or sewing anything spectacular, but I am improving at sitting with my grief, giving it space, and letting it breathe.

Folding paper, painting patterns, and gluing fabric—all of these provide my hurting heart with somewhere to rest. I’ve realized that grief-driven holiday crafting isn’t a distraction; it’s survival, hidden in the guise of creativity.

This is what I offer you—not a cure, but a practice. A way to hold the ache and the love in the same hands. A way to honour your child who is gone, but not gone from you.

May whatever you choose to create this season, small, tender, and imperfect, be proof that your love and connection continue. Proof that they were here.

Proof that they still are.

– Katie Jameson, Canuck Place Mom

Short question

Listen, what does your heart need most this time of year?

Short thoughts

• Seven strategies to cope with grief during the holidays – Canadian Military Family

• The Suitcase and the Jar – Becky Livingston

• Hanukkah and grief – Let’s talk about loss

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Short Canuck Place updates

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• Cailyn, Canuck Place sibling, remembers her sister Diana

Thank you for being part of the Life is Short community. As always, if you have thoughts you’d like to share with us, please send a note to: lifeisshort@canuckplace.org

Take good care,

Natasha

Dr. Natasha Datoo is a pediatric oncologist/hematologist and pediatric palliative care physician in Vancouver, BC. Dr. Datoo continues to work in both fields as a staff physician at Canuck Place Children's Hospice and BC Children's Hospital. Dr. Datoo is an assistant professor at the University of British Columbia, where her passions include teaching trainees about effective communication in healthcare and integrating the palliative approach into acute hospital medicine. Dr. Datoo volunteers with Two Worlds Cancer Collaboration to promote and teach palliative care in Southeast Asia. She is also a volunteer consultant for Doctors Without Borders.