For seventy years, I have never been out of a relationship. Not for a single day.

Brenda.

Barry and Brenda.

Barry.

I knew Brenda for sixty-six years—just two months shy of sixty-seven. And that doesn’t even count the nine months we spent as womb-mates. Of course we were going to be close. That’s just the truth of it. Ask any twin.

Then I met Barry in mid 1993. That relationship lasted for almost 32 years. Overlapping Brenda.

I didn’t take to marriage right away. I often still confided in Brenda more than Barry. I found it difficult to confide in Barry about some of the things I always confided in Brenda.

I once asked Barry if he found marriage tough. He didn’t. Huh.

I was always so independent and did as I pleased and now I had to consider a husband. I don’t know how other people coped but I remember it taking me a while. But little by little I learned to trust him. Appreciate how he didn’t try to change me. As a matter of fact he was one of my biggest fans. That surprised me. And of course made me happy. Ya gotta love a guy who loves you just the way you are and actually that’s why he married you.

Neither relationship was easy but Brenda and I learned this early on. We would fight - a lot - but for the life of me I can’t remember now what we used to fight about. But we always made up or more like we just carried on immediately after the fight as though it never happened. We said our peace and life moved on.

Being a twin taught me how to be a wife. Specifically, we learned how to compromise and communicate and always consider each other.

So here I am, now at 70 years old without a relationship. First time in my life.

To the degree that I miss them is staggering.

When Bren was sick, Barry was getting a bit sicker and I remember thinking - he’ll be ok because I couldn’t lose him too. There’s no way this could happen to me.

But you want to know the worst of it? I couldn’t tell Brenda - the person I would tell everything to. And that’s because she would have worried about me. I couldn’t do that to her.

So, it began - our relationship was falling away long before she passed. The sadness would just envelope me but I had to keep it to myself. My container of secrets was disappearing.

My inner circle was shrinking.

How did this happen? We never imagined this could happen to us. We thought we’d grow old together.

Not too long after she passed, there was no denying that Barry’s cancer was now terminal. We’d gone for so many years - 7 in fact - where they just kept giving him different drugs to keep his cancer at bay. Of course that couldn’t last but you just never allowed yourself to think about it.

But reality hit like a ton of bricks - Barry was going to die. I just remember thinking that I was in a dream. A bad dream. This cannot be real.

It was inconceivable.

And yet, it was real.

So here I am now - without a relationship. Yes I have friends and family and extended family. And I am so grateful for that. But no one is Brenda or Barry.

There has never been a moment in my life when I wasn’t in a relationship. That I didn’t have an inner circle that no one else belonged to but the three of us.

There are times I walk around our apt and think - how did I get here? How did this happen?

I find myself surprised that I’ve never been alone. Truth be told, I’m a bit embarrassed about that for some reason. I started to ask myself - does this mean that I haven’t been as independent as I thought I was?

It also makes me wonder - who am I without being a twin or a wife? Who is Debbie Dunne with these two very important relationships now gone?

I remember as a very young teen, writing a poem titled: Who Am I? I guess I’ve always been interested in finding the meaning of life and how I fit into it. The search continues.

My circle has collapsed.

HELL

Just when I thought I was in hell - there was yet another hell around the corner.

Hell #1

When we received Barry’s blood work it indicated such a decline that they expected he’d be gone within a month.

Hell #2

He survives the month. The hell part is when the doctors look surprised and change the prognosis to ‘weeks.’ How many weeks? Anybody’s guess.

Hell #3

He asks to go into hospice. Again, not a hell. You’re relieved. It was getting to be too much. So then what is Hell #3? Leaving your husband at the hospice and go home. Alone. Knowing he will never ever come home again. He’s in hospice and I’m home. That’s its own special kind of hell.

Hell #4

He decides to take the palliative meds to allow himself to sleep through the pain, restlessness and fear. You’re actually happy he made that decision. So what’s the hell part? Saying goodbye.

Hell #5

He passes. He’s gone. Life feels lopsided. And cruel.

Hell #6

You bury him. He is now forever gone. If you didn’t accept it before, you have no choice now.

Is there a Hell #7?

I can’t say I’m in Hell #7 but it’s definitely unsettling. Life now begins without Barry. We’ve been married 29 years.

What’s to come? I don’t know. And maybe not knowing right now is ok. Maybe I just let life unfold quietly, gently… and see what happens.

Sadly, Barry passed away on Tuesday at The Carpenter Hospice. He was 72 years old.

He was a simple man. He didn’t like a lot of attention. He was shy, so he only had a small circle of people in his world — just the way he liked it.

So when he began to talk about the end and what he wanted, he was very clear. He only needed three people with him when he drew his last breath: his daughter Jenn, his sister Susan, and me.

We honoured his request.

He was proud of his daughter and her family. Barry loved his son-in-law, Eric. And the apple of his eye were his grandchildren. He loved them beyond measure. He was endlessly entertained by what new things they were discovering. Andrew at 11 years old was becoming quite the entrepreneur. He engaged in most sports and Barry really loved going to the ball diamond to watch him play. Makayla is 8 years old and is enjoying the artistic side of life. She gifted us some of her artwork and I was the recipient of some of her jewellery. She’s even just taught herself crocheting. And she does love her friends. Being with people gives her a kind of energy.

Barry was a funny man. And to me this was one of his funniest moments. I asked him to leave me his GPS chip because my twin-sister Brenda didn’t when she passed. He humorously answers: ‘Oh no, I’m going to find Brenda, grab some popcorn, and we’re going to get front-row seats to watch you. I’ll whisper to her, ‘Watch this — she’s going to turn left when she should turn right,’ and then we’ll laugh and laugh.’

He made me laugh. Often. I always wished he would let everyone see that side of him but he was shy and quiet. And quite frankly didn’t need the attention. As a matter of fact, he said the sweetest thing to me…’It’s enough for me that you find me funny’. Be still my heart.

His first love was music. All things music. Drumming. Jamming with friends. Doing the odd gig at their high school. Concerts. Just imagine seeing Jimi Hendrix at the tender age of 14 - wow! He went on to see many more concerts over his lifetime – Jefferson Airplane, Jeff Beck, Led Zeppelin, Tina Turner, the list goes on.

He took up photography after he retired from Stelco in 2005. I loved how he captured the best of the outdoors. He brought the outside inside and filled our walls with his beautiful photos.

As a matter of fact, in 2008 one of his photos was chosen for the Mayor’s Gala. He felt like a celebrity :) when he had to sign 100 copies. And then just last year, another photo was chosen for the Mayor of Burlington’s 2026 calendar. His was a fall photo and was chosen for the month of September. Auspicious because his daughter was born in September.

He loved Jim Croce’s Photographs & Memories because he lived it. ‘Not a day goes by when I don’t have a song in my head and a photograph in my mind.’

And I wouldn’t be doing justice to Barry if I didn’t mention his grit. His quiet grit. The last two years had been challenging once the cancer spread to his bones. We wondered how much time he had. We came to learn that there are only guesses at best.

January 29th his bloodwork indicated a marked decline. Consequently, they thought he only had about a month. And then the month came and went. And on March 5th another prognosis – weeks. So what did he do? He dared himself to ‘dip my toe into April’. Why April? Because it was stretching the bounds of the weeks prognosis, of course. No one was going to tell him when he was going to go.

So, he not only dipped his toe into April but decided a nice little swim would be his reward. And on April 7th he quietly passed away.

But 26 hours before he took his last breath he asked to be sedated. He was tired. His decision. His timeline. The sedation did not hasten his passing. But rather it gave him much needed peace.

His grit knew no bounds.

So, my man - this family man - this quietly strong man did it his way.

Quiet in nature. Strong in spirit. Forever in our hearts.