I am forty and looking at it in the mirror. Mountains and a sea of evergreens are reflected in the glass from the window behind me.

I consider my patched face, one blue eye, brown hair, small smile with a bit of overbite. Beautiful, strong, courageous; disfigured, weak, cowardly. I have to see and decide for myself. I cover my left eye area and feel the warmth easing from hand to socket as I imagine richly coloured silk patches with maybe the glint of a gem in the corner.

I am alive and part of this world. I have a loving partner and four beautiful children to share my journey. I am a survivor of illness, depression and a suicide attempt, of a savage anguish rendered voiceless by my fear of rejection. I am the survivor of a grizzly bear attack.

On a narrow ledge beside me is a tiny grizzly carved from turquoise. I take it down from time to time and hold it, running the tip of my finger over the minuscule hump on its back. I bough it after hearing how some believe a person attacked by a bear assumes that bear’s wisdom and powers. Only now am I starting to know.

Reprinted with permission from Douglas and McIntyre Publishing Group.