Pop 89: It doesn't get any better than this

By Madonna Hamel

Drifting off to sleep on the couch in the lounge of the Cancer Care Lodge last weekend, I am lulled by the sound of the baseball game on TV. Seated in lazy boys and couches, from right to left, sits Brent from Outlook, Brian from Mozart and Bob from Wymark.

I am reminded of childhood Sundays, when various playoffs, Bowls and big games permeated the living room with the murmur of men's voices, including my father, brothers-in-law, my brother and his buddies and neighbours. I find the litany of stats, the running commentary about everything from ball speed to swing arc to pitch call challenges to even the latest obscene pitcher contract of 342 million dollars over a six year period, strangely reassuring.

Take me out to the ball game, I sing to myself at the top of the seventh inning, just like I did in my thirties when I attended minor league games in pretty little ball fields across this country, beer and hot dog in hand.

Take me out to the ball game, take me out to the fair, buy me some peanuts and cracker jacks, I don't care if I never come back. That is, at least while a brain tumour tries to take me out of the game. And while I dare not drink beer on chemo, I am thankful for staff making the rounds with bowls of ice cream and bags of popcorn.

I catch myself saying: "It doesn't get any better than this."

On a bad day, saying that feels awfully close to: "it won't get any better than this." But in fact it's a reminder that we are, all of us, doing the best we can with what we have at the time. We are announcing that we are actually content in the moment, and, if we are lucky, we are not alone, but surrounded by others.

A lot of "It doesn't get better than this" moments in my life happen after somebody does something silly or stupid, usually me, and we all get a good laugh out of it. Or we are spent from a long day of work, or driving, or both. Touring with my ex's blues band across America meant long days, often starting at 2 a.m., the hour the last show in the last town ended, and we'd loaded the van before heading to our next gig. After negotiating turnpikes, tolls, crazy traffic, surly border guards, finding the club, setting up the stage, playing the gig, chatting with fans and selling a few CDs, exhaustion gave way to hot showers and snuggling on a hotel bed watching NBA highlights or Bob Ross painting his "happy little trees." Some nights (mornings, actually) I'd pop a bag of microwave popcorn before we drifted off, but it didn't get any better than that.

Another moment: I recall a cold beer in front of a roaring fire on a frozen winter day after a hike along the Bow River. I was with my sister Michele and her wifey Siona. We were in a pub, and laughing about a picture Siona took of me with my pants down, my butt hovering over a snow bank, part of a photo series she'd started of people peeing in the wild.

Later we made burgers at their house.

Shared food seems to always enter into these moments of contentment. Like the time I actually caught a trout and cooked it myself after canoeing with my Scottish boyfriend on a camping trip on Vancouver Island.

Also right up there: a giant plate of nachos my brother Dougie made both of us not long after his stroke, when he looked up and realized that, despite his plight, he was actually "going to miss this."

Then there was the chicken dinner in a small Illinois town after an epic road trip tracking the Great Cicada Migration of 2024, with my buddy Avril.

And I cannot fail to mention another migration, this one the epic move Michele and I made when we finally left Toronto where I worked in radio and she in the film industry. We loaded up our cars and headed West, via North Dakota, where we found a road house on the edge of an overflowing river. We ordered Blue Moon beers and chicken wings and read each other's animal tarot cards. Hers assured her she "didn't have to act so tough, she was already strong."

We were intrigued by a man sitting by the fire we'd convinced ourselves was a famous author, to the degree that the waitress was willing to get his name off his credit card. He was no one we'd heard of, but we enjoyed speculating, nonetheless.

And now I'm remembering Dougie and I barreling along the TransCan on our way to Lake Louise, laughing and singing along to Bruce Springsteen's greatest hits blasting through the truck speakers. I was working up the courage to break up with my boyfriend at the time and I was barely keeping it together. Thankfully, Doug was newly in love, so there was a lot more laughing than crying on that drive. By the time we got to the resort where he was hired to install a new door, he sprung for steaks for both of us.

And then there are the life-saving rituals: that first coffee in the morning. The last page of a good book read during an evening's hot bath, provided I don't nod off. Clean sheets. Flannel pajamas. A bowl of fresh tomatoes on the front porch, left by the neighbour. A new shoot poking out of the top of my prickly pear plant in the window. A letter from an old friend. The shock of the full moon rising before me, and lighting my way, as I hike to the top of 70 Mile Butte. It does not get better than this.

I would love to hear about your Doesn't Get Better moments, too. Feel free to email me at madonnahamel@hotmail.com. Or contact Kate Winquist, my editor at Your West Central Voice. (It doesn't get better than Kate.)