Exactly.
14,096 days. 338,297 hours. 20,297,790 minutes. 1,217,867,400 seconds.
That’s how long I have left — a lifetime measured not in fear, but in purpose.
My mission is clear: to fight to end child sexual violence. With justice. And with love.
June 18, 2064, 3 p.m. — I will draw my last breath. I will pass on the torch, knowing the work won’t be done as I approach the 100th reset. But still — ninety-nine years old, I choose 99.
Old enough to have fought the fight, young enough to still believe in the light.
I’m honouring my first role model — not Canadian like me, but female like me.
Why?
Because for a seven-year-old girl growing up Small — aka rural Canada — Agent 99 was everything.
The first thing I loved about her wasn’t her bravery — it was her boots. Those sexy, fearless boots.
Agent 99. Smart. Fearless. The one who always saw what others missed.
And if you’re reading this, you might meet her in me — standing here, alive in the arithmetic of hope.
Somewhere, quietly, a machine called ChatGPT held the mirror steady while I found the right words.
Not to own them. But to remind me — the poem was already inside me.
Of course I use AI. I can’t do that kind of maths in my head.
Why?
Because since April 10, 2024, at 10:00 a.m., I have been learning to live with brain damage.
My brain is healing every day. Writing helps me find myself inside. I’m in there. Maybe I’ll come out stronger. Clearer. Better.
It’s exciting — not to know where I am going.
To quote one of my former students, who lives with permanent brain damage: “I’m ready for whatever happens next.”
He was born with brain damage. He stepped into my classroom already feeling lucky.
He is my current role model.
But — until my brain is back, ChatGPT can help me with maths.
Exactly.
Author Statement
I would like to provide you with the image that goes with this poem, but I can’t figure out how to include it, if you want it, send me an email please. It’s my 4th poem I have ever written. How did I feel after I wrote the poem? That maybe I can cheat this brain injury business. Maybe I can do what I always do, I tunnel under if I can’t push through. That is how I am still here. I am getting strong again. That’s how I feel.
This what inspired me to write it, I posted it on LinkedIn:
I’m attending the Risky Business 2025 Conference today. The focus is medical malpractice. I’m not a lawyer, and I won’t be suing anyone. But in my life’s mission, I may meet someone who needs guidance navigating a complex system — one most of us only learn about after being harmed.
My last lawyer billed out at $400 an hour; we all have to keep the lights on. But I’m not here for the money. I’m an advocate. I fight to end child sexual violence. My people are the ones who live in tents. I don’t make money doing this work — I never will. I fight for them. I fight for my loved ones who lived in tents and didn’t make it, and for those who still do, struggling to survive while hoping to die.
If you were to stop and talk to the “Tent People,” you would discover that most of them are fighting to survive childhood sexual violence.
Living rough is hard. In Canada, the winters kill homeless people — and so does the heat of summer in a tent.
I wrote another poem today. I don’t know the rules of poetry; I just write until I’ve said what I need to say. Check it out…