from Jane MacDougall of the National Post,

It was a year that just about killed me. It was the year I moved not once, not twice, not three times, but four times. I didn’t just move within my city. Or province. Or time zone. Or country. I moved to places I had never been to before. To places I had no interest in moving to, or even visiting. And I did so on short notice. I had no say in the matter. I was a hockey wife — and it just about killed me.

For a spell, I was married to NHL veteran Kirk McLean. He was a lovely guy who had a long and stable career as a net-minder. He’d proposed, I’d said yes, but within the week he’d been traded. I’d presumed that life would have continued as the courtship had: a predictable program of practices, games and road trips with the team for which he’d become a marquee player. I was wrong. I learned that life in the NHL is like being in a faulty witness protection program. I learned what NHL really stands for: No Home Life.

And so it came to pass that we moved to a rental in Florida, then bought a house, then sold that house, then returned to Vancouver where we were renovating a house, then headed off to New York to look for a house, then buying a house after determining that apartment life in Manhattan was an adjustment we didn’t want to make. All this took place within 11 months. I was still settling the loss and damage claims from the first move while we were embarking on the third move.

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