OKAY UNIVERSE. I'M LISTENING (but enough with the brain tumours already)

I have always believed in Signs. Oddball or stranger-than-usual coincidences that grab your attention, even for a split second, and you just KNOW there is a message there somewhere. 

How one is to interpret or read those Signs is another thing.

What the hell use is there of a message one can't understand? Ah...well, I'm beginning to think only age and experience can reveal that answer. Not a satisfying revelation, I must say.

Take, for example, the events of the past month: we all get good news and bad news, that's life, but how often do they come in patterns that repeat. It may be a pattern that has visited me before but I was too young and racing at Indie 500 speed to notice.

Youth doesn't pertain to me anymore. Speed isn't my friend.

So, here's the thing. Twice now, I have gotten either fun/good news that is immediately followed by truly harsh and unimaginably sad news. I'm talking within seconds of each other!

Just weeks ago, someone in my immediate family (cant say who cuz they would shred me) won a few coins in the lottery. $500,000.00. Quite a few coins actually. And within 3 seconds of hanging up the phone in wonder and awe of how many Creamsicles one could buy with half a million bucks, the phone rings to say our dear sister-in-law in Austria died of a brain tumour. Andrea was the beautiful wife of my husband's youngest brother Michael. She was diagnosed and hospitalized only 2 weeks before passing. It was a shock and sorrow double-punch to the gut. You reel back at the sudden tragedy and grasp for answers that nobody can answer. She was a kind and lovely soul.

And it feels somehow worse because Fate had made your heart extra happy first, lifting you up high so the fall is worse. Felt more keenly.

'Okay', I said.  'That's just bad timing. Such is life. Deal with it and carry on carrying on.' (like the posters say). Struggle with the happy thoughts of the good news battling the tears of the sad. All day long. All week long....

But then today, it happened again. 

The Happy High wasn't a big lottery win (that would have made it a Proclamation, not a Sign) but a silly fun win. I had written the Chimes candy company weeks ago, whinging that my bag of Ginger Mango Chews ripped me off with an empty, air filled wrapper. It had been like the 4th time this happened and I was right pissed off! Trivial, perhaps, but it seemed unfair to not get what you paid for...so there ya go. Old People World Problems. Loads of Pandemic Time on my hands.

Imagine my surprise when I got a phone call from California (I am in Canada) from the Chimes company PR rep who apologized profusely for my deep suffering at the loss of my single ginger mango chew (with sincerity, not a trace of condescension) and explained to me that the weight of each bag is consistent, and the empty wrapper was common but irrelevant. Then he offered to send me some free chews for my trouble and sweetly said goodbye. Nice!

I clicked off my phone with a massive Cheshire grin, and immediately within seconds of hanging up, received the news that my son-in-law Duncan had died of a brain tumour. Duncan was the husband of my eldest daughter Chantal, and father to their three young children. My gorgeous grandchildren. It was another shock and sorrow double-punch to the gut. With the added shank to the back because, well... kids.

Ummm...hello? Universe? Are you trying to tell me something?

Admittedly, the Happy High wasn't as lofty as the lottery win but I was floating on a cheeky win nevertheless and doing the happy dance, then, well, you know. Devastating sadness. Unspeakable heartbreak. For everyone. And the loss of a wonderful guy. So funny, so smart, so good.

'Okay', I said.  'That's just bad timing. Again. Such is life. Deal with it and carry on carrying on'. (like the posters say).  But now there is the added absurdity of that Californian sun-soaked voice repeatedly saying "I am SO sorry you had to go through that..." about a fucking piece of missing candy, while my mind sporadically spits out sparks of reality to my head about poor Duncan. All day long, making me fight tears that wont change a bloody thing.

So yea. This is a repeated Sign I have to figure out what the message is about. And soon. Or I just wont pick up the phone again.

Not worth the risk. 💔

(💫Believe it or not, I just remembered this pattern happened before: In Year 2000, we took the kids to Europe for 6 weeks on a first ever family tour, and when we returned, all Happy High, I called a best buddy Lana to chat about our amazing trip, she told me her husband Bernie, the most adorable man ever created, was diagnosed with a brain tumour just after we left, and died a week after we returned. Man...I need to process this...)

DONATE: If you wish, please donate what you can to the CURE BRAIN CANCER FOUNDATION (click capitalized name for email link). In memory of Duncan Cutler, Australia, if you like. THANK YOU.💓

BETTER HANDS ON A SNAKE: A Brother Broken By Disease and The Sister Who Picked Up The Pieces

Rhonda picked up Bob’s hand and placed it gently on the Stanley Cup.

Splaying his fingers so they could feel its cool steel patterns, she helped them travel down the side and up again, allowing a slow and thorough sweep over the decades of engraved names.

She avoided looking at his tear-filled eyes, giving him a period of grace to enjoy a personal moment of wonderment and awe, and a sliver of the privacy that his disease had stolen. Bob knew he could never die a happy man, but he and Bobby Clarke had touched the same Cup. That was happy enough.

Millions of people go to see the Stanley Cup, but how many people can say the Stanley Cup came to see them?
                                                                            *

Born in a small prairie town in Canada, my brother Bob and sister Rhonda could not have been further apart. In every sense. A fifteen year age gap leaves a lot of dead space between siblings. The rare shared experiences don’t really stick. There is just a thin shared branch of a family tree.

Where Bob was a tall, fit, Hollywood-handsome jock with the kind of aloof self-assurance and blue eyes that melted chastity belts like chocolate bars on a June dashboard, Rhonda was a sharp-tongued girl with a pleasant face and the meaty Ukrainian thighs the women of our family were legally required to own. Where Bob walked under a perpetual spotlight of attentive admiration, Rhonda was, I admit, largely ignored by her shitty babysitters (read: the sisters, including myself). A household with seven children is bound to have issues, and we had our fair share, but we were always close-knit. We laughed a lot and went through myriad decks of playing cards. That’s my memory anyway. Until that awful summer.    

                                                                              
Most of us had grown up and left home...going off to university, finding jobs, getting married or, in Bob’s case, joining an NHL farm team in St. Louis, Missouri, USA. Mom had a scrapbook full of Bob’s headline-news hockey career, and we were all mighty proud.

He was 19 when St. Louis nabbed him. 6’0”, 185 lbs, playing Centre with a smooth, effective style. He played for the Billikens first, and then went onto play in Syracuse, New York, and a few other American teams. 

Like all his teammates, he was waiting to get called up to the big leagues. He had always been a top-notch hockey player and much of my childhood was spent being a rink-rat watching him play with the local Junior A Hockey club, The Dauphin Kings.

Captain Bobby Buchy. Always the star of the show. At least in my eyes.

Well, maybe not just my eyes.

Scoring 5 goals a game was not unheard of for him, and when a team in Montreal tried to trade 4 of their players for him, it wasn't a surprise. They surreptitiously flew him out to Quebec to court him, but Coach Steve 'Boomer' Hawrysh wasn't having any of it. He called them back to block the steal and refused to let him go. 

Bob was a joy to watch. And funny at times too: I can't count the number of times the games were stopped so the rink staff could shovel the ice to find Bob's lost contact lens, the jam packed crowd of 2000 fans cheering uproariously upon its recovery! 

His dream, like most Canadian kids who slept with their blades on, was to play in the NHL and nothing was going to stop him. 

However, Multiple Sclerosis had other plans. 

I was 9 when Bob left home. He started his professional career with all the eagerness in the world, but all too soon, he just wasn't doing as well as he knew he should be. He wasn't feeling himself. Was it nerves? Not enough sleep? These things were never an issue before, so why now? There was nothing obvious to point to, so it must be that he just wasn't as good as he thought he was. His stats never grew and neither did his confidence. He blamed himself. Who else was there? 

He then moved from team to team, his total points dropping while his penalty minutes rose. At home he'd been a lover, not a fighter! 

Not anymore.

Now the only life he had ever wanted was slipping from his fingers.

Desperately unhappy, with his self-assurance and dreams now shattered, Bob left hockey and entered dental school, trying to wrap his head around his unfathomable loss and stark new reality. But his naturally positive good nature and instinct for survival soon helped him refocus and his new path began to look brighter.

And then we got the call.

I was 14. My big brother was my hero, and now my hero was blind and couldn’t move. MS had drawn his name on Fight Night and it was Round 1.

Sucker punched. A TKO.

He was sick for months, and then unexpectedly he went into full remission. But at age 24, he was forever a changed man.

He began the life of a Free Spirit. Quitting dental school, living in the bush up North, building log homes, grabbing at pleasure at every turn, doing whatever the hell he pleased and living in constant fear of a relapse. People who didn’t know him thought him an odd duck, a drifter...or a Charismatic Pirate who was quick to laugh and cheat you at cards. And steal your girlfriend. 

He wandered.

And that was Bob’s life until, 10 years later, MS rang the bell for Round 2. This time it wasn’t a TKO, but he was on the ropes. And he’s hung there ever since.

A lifelong, slow and unrelenting attack.

Playing cards at the kitchen table (a family tradition), Bob would sometimes stand up and his legs would wobble. Those long muscular legs that used to pump like an iron horse on the ice, thrilling us all with their solid elegance, now barely able to push back his chair. Struggling visibly, he would shun anyone stupid enough to offer assistance, and then leaning on the countertops and walls, he’d drag himself, tortured step by tortured step, to the bathroom. The usual 10 second walk became a 10 minute ordeal. One way.

We would sit back and wait, feigning interest in small talk. An unspoken agreement to provide a half-assed background din so Bob wouldn’t be embarrassed by us overhearing his difficulty making it up and back down the hallway. Grunting. Shuffling. Heavy breathing. None of us making eye contact with each other, only half hearing each other speak, listening instead with perked ears for the dull thud of a fall. Or a call for help. Lost in our private anguish at the unseen evil that was attacking our brother. All of us helpless to fight back. Not allowed to help.

He would make it back eventually, sweating and red-faced from the effort, and we’d start up again like nothing happened. Deal the cards.

A true warrior, he fought. And he fought. And he fought.

Much later, suicide notes were found tucked in-between book pages: I will NOT end up in a wheelchair. I’d rather die.

What does one do with old suicide notes?

Rip them up.

Cry.

Don’t tell Mom.

                                                                    *

Although my brother won his battle against Suicide, he lost his war with The Wheelchair.

Rhonda had remained at home and soon, mom and dad couldn’t live without her selfless, invaluable help. It suited them all perfectly and they had their routine down pat.

Then at age 35, health worsening, Bob had to move back home. Rhonda was now 21.

Things slid downhill quickly after that.

Defeated and dejected, Bob was learning to cope, but our family home wasn’t very big and definitely not wheelchair friendly. His legs were near useless now and his hands were starting to numb. Mom catered to him devotedly but inside, she was crushed. And scared. Dad just lived in some kind of blind denial. Accepting the truth would have broken him. The weight of all that fear and sadness became tangible and the symbiotic nature of their home drastically changed. Duties shifted and allowances were made, whether they were welcome or not. Rhonda fumed. Bob fumed. Frustration and anger mounted. Clashes of personality began to hit hard and daily petty spats between Rhonda and Bob eventually turned into shouting matches. 

I think it was Mom’s obvious distress that finally made them run up the white flags, and they simply recognized that they were just two people who were pissed off at what life had dealt them and they’d become each other’s convenient punching bag. The wall of contempt fell and the healing began.

It started with civility. No more name-calling or rudeness. No arguments. They ignored each other for a while but spoke politely when circumstance necessitated. And then one night during a regular game of Rummy with Mom, Bob couldn’t hold his cards easily anymore. His fingers could barely move so they called it a night.

Next game, Rhonda unexpectedly joined them and helped Bob deal the cards. She then shifted them around in his hand with his instruction. Looking at his cards, he shook his head somberly and said, “I’ve seen better hands on a snake.”

The laughter around the table was loud and cathartic. Like a giant chalkboard brush wiping the slate clean.

                                                                           *

Bob, ever defiant and hungry for independence, soon decided he needed to be on his own and wanted to live in his old cabin by the lake. How’s that possible, one could ask? Great question. How can a man who cannot walk or move more than a finger look after himself?

He can’t.

And so the Charming Pirate re-emerged and with assistance from his new ally and astonishingly resourceful sister, arrangements were secured to have help come up twice a day to the lake to 1)  get Bob out of bed and 2) get Bob back in bed.

In-between those times, save for the odd visitor, he was all alone.

 It wasn’t ideal. We worried. A lot.

“What if a hungry bear comes by, or your cat curls up on your face and smothers you one night? ”

“Then I die. My choice.”

Freedom to choose saved him from despair. Complete autonomy became his standard, and his life became bearable. 

Then years later, at age 58, his condition worsening, Bob finally threw in the gloves and moved back home. Our aged parents were a handful for Rhonda to manage, and Bob, now a quadriplegic, became a full-time job in his own right. Drastically lessening the hours (and income) from her job as a Teacher's Aid, she became nurse, secretary, chauffeur, concierge, personal shopper, cook, maid and most importantly, lottery ticket and bingo card buyer to them all.

Bob was in and out of hospital with so many near-death bouts of pneumonia, we lost count. We’d visit him in hospital and he’d whisper-sing the Fred Penner kid's tune, ‘The cat came back, the very next day…’ and we'd laugh through our tears.

A cat with nine lives, indeed! But then the whispering stopped.

MS took his voice.

So Rhonda and Bob developed an exasperating and painfully tedious way to communicate that we dubbed 'AlphaBlinking'. When lip-reading fails, Rhonda starts with ‘A’ and works her way down, all the while looking to see if he is blinking once for ‘yes’, or twice for ‘no’.... slowly spelling out his words.

YOU try it. Good luck.

Once, I flew home cross-country to see Bob in  the ICU at the hospital, thinking his time had finally come. I tried to AlphaBlink his final words to me and failed miserably. I was devastated. Rhonda stepped in to help and we eventually realized that he was asking about his old battered goalie stick from his childhood that had been recently unearthed from the deepest dregs of the basement. He had been spelling it G-O-L-I-E and it had been throwing us off for 20 minutes! We laughed so hard... until he was airlifted to Winnipeg and I knew that damn stick might be the last thing we ever talked about.

But, the cat came back.

Predictably, set routines drastically changed after he needed a tracheotomy: feeding tubes; perpetual throat suctioning; nightly distress-checks every 2 hours. Very much like a newborn babe needing regular feeding and changing. 

If anyone asks Rhonda if she has kids, she doesn't know how to answer. Her life was like motherhood!

My brother and sister carved out a life for themselves with the tools they were given. Neither are prone to verbally expressing affection (NOT a family trait...the rest of us are embarrassingly mushy), but they give each other the gifts of kindness, laughter, and a love that is never spoken, but always shown. Every single day.

I love getting pictures of Bob's bright, colorful birthday parties. His brilliant, hilarious Halloween costumes. Their lovely Christmas celebrations. Scenic day-drives to the parks and lakes.

What could top that?

Well...there might be ONE thing.

                                                                       *

It happened on August 22 2018, when Rhonda gave Bob the most treasured gift of his life.

Any true fan would kill to touch the Stanley Cup, and one day, to Bob’s utter amazement, news hit that it was coming to the house.

To THEIR house!

Dauphin Kings Alumni and Head Coach of the Washington Capitals Barry Trotz brought The Cup to town to raise money for charity. Hearing that Bob couldn’t possibly come to the fundraiser to see it, he brought Lord Stanley to see Bob.

Why would he do such an amazing thing?  

Barry once said, in a SPORTNET article: " [my] favourite player was a centre named Bob Buchy. He reminded me of Jean Beliveau — tall, graceful, skilled. Everyone has a favourite player growing up and I guess a lot of them are [NHL] stars these days. Mine was a player from our hometown.” (link to article CLICK HERE )

Carrying the large, iconic trophy carefully in his arms like a big shiny baby, Barry walked up the wheelchair ramp and into our hearts. My brother’s eyes were as wide as any Knight newly gazing upon the Holy Grail.

Rhonda’s face split into such a wide grin, she found teeth she didn’t know she had.

A chat.
Pictures.
Pure magic.

They say that our experiences in life are like Deposits that we save in the Banks of our Minds. The more we experience, the more we save, and then in our solitary Golden Years when its hard to get up from our rocking chairs, we can make Memory Withdrawals, enjoying them over and over again. My brother had led an interesting life for a while, but MS robbed him from filling that memory bank. That special day did much in way of enriching that vault.

There must be a special place in Heaven for people like my sister Rhonda and Barry Trotz…but Bob? Well, I’m not sure where pirates go…

                                                                            *

                                                          

                                                        **UPDATE**

My beautiful brother Bob quietly passed away in his sleep on Oct 22 2022. My tribute to him can be read here: THE CAT DIDN'T COME BACK

                                     PHOTO ALBUM:

AGE 19: CAPTAIN BOBBY BUCHY of the Dauphin Kings:

                                                                              

   

Off to play in St. Louis: (Rhonda is in this pic too!)

 Number 19:

Handsome bugger!

Me and my Hero:

In remission:

Many years later, already in his wheelchair:

                                        Bob and my twins Scott and Chaelan circa 1992

Bob with Mom and Dad:

Happy holidays and celebrations with Rhonda: here in Christmas 2019

And my personal favorite:

Bob, Barry and Lord Stanley:

And finally...
                                                  

Bob and Rhonda:                          

                                                                    THEN AND NOW

                                                                    Here in 2010:

THE END? Nope, not by a long shot...

***

NOTE ADDED:

I was delightfully surprised at the overwhelming reaction this blog piece received on the hometown Facebook page I posted it on (as a last minute link in another story actually) but my most cherished comment(s) of all, was from retired Senior Associate Chief Justice of The Supreme Court of Manitoba, The Honourable Jeffrey Oliphant, who was born and went to school in Dauphin. Here is his post, which is followed by a dozen other back and forths (not shown)... mostly me gushing all over the poor man for his encouragement. *facepalm*

OUTLANDER, RED HERRINGS & OCCAM'S RAZOR: FRANK RANDALL 'SAINT OR SINNER'?

"I am unable," yonder beggar cries, 

"To stand or move!" If he say true, he lies.

~John Donne (1572-1631)

Red Herrings.

Not since Professor Severus Snape, have skillfully placed Red Herrings lead a fandom to hate and revile a character as much a Frank Randall.

  

If you recall, Snape looked like your average 'bad guy'. A man bereft of heart and soul, a selfish, cold bastard who was wished a death by piranha in a salt bath. But then he was proven, in the end, to be the Ultimate Tragic Hero and he was afforded an immortal place in the hearts of mankind and The Seat of Honor at the table of novel history’s Most Misunderstood.

Another academic professional who oozes a near-the-surface sexual tension within a barely hidden Bad Boy You Don’t Wanna Fuck With persona, is Outlander’s Professor Frank Randall, historian, husband and Fedora Sex God, and he may well be earning a seat next to Snape.

As administrator of the largest Outlander book and Starz TV show fan club on Face Book (OUTLANDER SERIES; present membership 57,500+) I see it all…every imaginable opinion, criticism, rage, praise, you name it, I’ve read it. And the current, and let's face it usual opinion is that Frank is a real shit.

Or worse.

Most fans agree that the show portrays him in a kinder light that the books. But for the sake of clarity, I will refer to the book for the most part as it is the original, and his True Self will be revealed there and remain there for eternity. I may, however, slip into bits of the show now and then…just a heads-up.

So, Frank is written almost as a footnote in the books in that he is not vetted completely, or even a little really, and we don’t know much about his life, his war years (VERY important) and what makes Frank 'Frank'. He is never in the spotlight very long or very clearly. We see him through Claire’s eyes and we never see the story from Frank's perspective. Yet. I am hopeful (and I am also selling my jewelry, house, stocks, gold teeth and 3 of my 5 children to raise bribery money to entice Diana to write a Book of Frank).

The story is given to us in both 1^st and 3^rd person narratives but what we know about Frank is almost a blank page with a few scribbles. In crayon.

The scribbles that stand out for most people don’t paint a very nice picture, although they hint of a deeper color for those not color blind. For examples, lets look at a few 'facts' that fans bring up all the time which they point to as proof that he’s a massive jerk and/or a despicable cheating arsehole. I will rebut in bold font beneath them: (*yes, I enjoy debating all by myself. So much quieter and I always win.)

1) The biggie: Frank cheated on Claire a) during the war and b) after the war when they got back together c) when Claire calls him out for his affairs he says “I thought I was being discreet” d) Claire found a ‘love note’ to Frank from one of his students in his wallet. *RESPONSE: a + b combined) There is simply no proof. None. In fact, I will leave it to Diana to answer this one:

(From Diana Gabaldon's Compuserve Writer's forum)

Q: Did he admit to having a mistress, or affairs?

A. No.

Consider...what if he was still working for British Intelligence, and his absences were connected with that? Wouldn't the suspicion of his having affairs (not necessarily suspicion from Claire, but from whoever might be watching) be an excellent cover?

As for women calling Claire--almost any good-looking college professor has had the problem of female students falling in lust with him, and occasionally that leads to very overt behavior on the part of said students. Sometimes the feelings are reciprocated, but definitely not always.

Nope. Y'all just don't know enough to say for _sure_ what Frank was doing.

-Diana

She has a LOT more to say on this subject and answered a Frank-hater with this lengthy but excellent explanation of Frank and his 'affairs': *scroll down and past this if you don't want to read the whole thing but want to finish my blogging...

(once again, this is part of a post from Diana's Compuserve forum: for a full link to her forum answer, click here) 

Nov. 13, 2005 
“As to L’Affaire Frank…<g>
Geez Louise. You guys. <rolling eye>
Of course Frank isn’t “a pathetic slimeball.” Where do they come up
with these ideas? (My personal guess would be that the people holding
this particular opinion are possibly not that fond of their own SO,
and would trade him in for Jamie in a heartbeat. Ergo, they project
things onto Frank. But that’s only a guess.)
Look. In the books, we see Claire and Frank’s relationship only from
Claire’s point of view. Which is understandably a trifle biased,
following her return through the stones.
What we see prior to her disappearance is an awkward but affectionate
relationship between two people who are married, but who are
effectively strangers-they’ve barely seen each other in six years, and
have been back together for only a few days. They’re feeling each
other out, trying to reestablish the connection they once had, and
struggling to overcome the fact that they are now quite different
people than who they once were.
Frank asks her diffidently at one point whether she had ever been
tempted to stray during the war-assuring her that he would understand
if she had. Claire-and the reader-think that his reason for doing this
may well be that he had strayed, and would feel better about
confessing his own transgression if she had suffered similar temptations.
Well, maybe he did, and maybe he didn’t. It’s actually not an abnormal
question to ask a mate you haven’t seen in six years, and one whom you
know has been working closely with hundreds of wounded (and thus
possibly emotionally appealing) men, in conditions that you know are
stressful, dangerous, and highly conducive to passionate, if
short-lived, physical attractions.
He’s trying to ask it tactfully, but-they’re strangers. She takes
offense, and he hastily drops the question. He doesn’t bring it up
again, in the time they’re together-which is fairly short. So you have
to draw your own conclusion there:
1) he hasn’t been having affairs himself, but can’t help a certain
male feeling of curiosity/jealousy about what Claire might have been
doing,
2) perhaps he had a brief fling, which he regrets, and wants to
confess this to Claire, so their marriage can resume without his
feeling constant guilt, or
3) he’s been screwing every woman who crossed his path, but would like
to find out that Claire’s had her own affairs, so he can throw it back
at her in case she ever finds out.
OK. There is NO evidence favoring any one of these three alternatives.
None. Any one of them is as likely as another. The reader’s
conclusions depend on the reader-and each reader brings his or her own
experiences and background to the act of reading.
Now, Claire disappears. No warning, no trace, no nothing. What do you
reckon happened, when she didn’t come back? A police search, no
leads-and probably deep suspicion of the husband, who is the Most
Likely Suspect. So Frank’s left panicked, then grief-stricken, while
probably being interrogated and threatened about his wife’s
disappearance. But this must obviously have all died down in the next
three years, and Frank begins to rebuild his life.
Does the rebuilding involve any kind of relationship with women, or a
woman? Quite possibly; he’s a handsome, personable man, with friends
who would think it their duty to introduce him to women.
BUT.
Claire comes back. Filthy, malnourished, and hysterical, if not
outright demented. And, of course, pregnant. She tells him an
unbelievable story, presumably the product of a disordered mind, the
result of whatever horrible abduction/captivity/rape has resulted in
her present condition. She tells him to leave her.
Does he leave her? No. Does he produce another woman and explain that
actually, dear, while you were gone, Mary and I. No. He replies
shortly that no one but a cad would leave a woman in her condition.
So, OK. HE doesn’t think he’s a cad. Why on earth should anybody else?
He does stay with Claire, not only while she’s recovering, but
thereafter. There’s no hint that he’s pursuing a love affair started
while she was gone; in fact, he takes her to Boston, so that no hint
of scandal will attend Bree’s birth. If he did have some relationship
while she was gone, plainly he’s broken it off (and perhaps the
removal to Boston is to make such a break more definite-we don’t know,
because we don’t know what he was doing during those three years).
All right. From this point on, Claire’s view of Frank is definitely
suspect, because her own state of mind makes it impossible for her to
connect fully with him, save for brief interludes of tenderness, when
they’re able to reach one another physically (like the night he makes
love to her on the floor of the nursery). Yes, their relationship is
strained-we know that, because we see it. But the relationship of any
new parents is strained (believe me on this <g>), even if the two
parties aren’t on difficult terms to start with. And these two parties
definitely are.
Claire thinks he may be having affairs, but she doesn’t ever have
evidence of it. Either the guy is very dang good at hiding this stuff
(and unfaithful spouses almost always give themselves away)-or he
isn’t having affairs. He may well be seeking companionship, sympathy,
and ego-reinforcement from other women (he ain’t gettin’ a lot of
those things at home-but note that he isn’t leaving, either), but it’s
at least possible that he isn’t crossing the line into actual physical
infidelity. Note that Claire says that now and then she forces her
sexual attentions on him, trying to prove that he’s been with someone
else (and thus unable to respond to her)-but that every time, he does
respond to her, even if with mutual rage.
On the other hand, Frank knows beyond the shadow of a doubt that
Claire’s been unfaithful to him. At first, he most likely thinks she’s
been raped, but she goes on insisting on her absurd story. If it’s
true in any way-then she did it on purpose. This can’t do his feelings
any good. But he stays, because only a cad would abandon a pregnant
woman with no resources-and he isn’t a cad.
See, all these red-eyed readers are identifying with Claire (for the
excellent reason that she’s telling the story)-but they’d do better to
watch Frank. He clearly has a code of honor, and by God, he’s sticking
to it, dearly though it may cost him. Would a man with this kind of
code then proceed to have promiscuous affairs?
Maybe-but maybe not. His own image of himself as an honorable man is
probably as valuable to him as Claire is, at this point; if he won’t
abandon her, he won’t abandon that image, either."

So there ya go. If you still think Frank had affairs and is a bad guy, and won't even believe the author of the story, then you be need'n a Snuggie darlin':

c) Frank is a MI6 Foreign Intelligence Operative. A bloody 007 secret agent! So when Claire confronted Frank and said she had had 6 of his lovers phone to talk to him, he turned white and was obviously upset at the news. He looked ‘alarmed’ but turned flippant. I think he was shocked that people were phoning and asking about him in any manner. His true identity and whereabouts might be something he wanted kept hidden, for his own safety but even MORE SO for Claire's and Bree's. His flippancy was bitter sarcasm, not a glib confession. He wears a mask and he let it slip for a moment. One of the biggest red herrings in the story line.

"But 6 separate women phoning Claire!" you say? Okay...my theory explains some, but  Diana has an explanation, without giving any potential secrets away, that you will find most enlightening:

(again, by Diana from Compuserve)

He's a Roman Catholic, evidently fairly observant.  He's an honorable man (_vide_ assorted evidence attested to elsewhere).  He did and does love his wife.   However, he's also understandably tortured, owing to her patently not loving him, or no longer loving him in the way to which he was accustomed.   He's an attractive man, who works in an academic setting, rife with female secretaries, nubile young graduate assistants, female professors, etc.   OK. 

Sooooo, is it possible that he attracts the attention of some of these females?  Yes.  Is it possible that he enjoys the company of one or another, whether out of simple friendship, and/or finding it soothing to his bruised ego?  Yes.   Might the woman involved develop hopes of the friendship moving to a deeper level?   Seems possible.   BUT, there's that nasty little hitch about the honorable man/Roman Catholic thing--because IF Frank (being an HM/RC) found himself suddenly confronted with a young lady who thought she could make him happy and begged him to leave his wife, what would he be likely to do?   (I said you're _excused_, Emily...)

    Would he promptly assure her that he'd leave his wife (having no intention of doing so) and take her to bed?  Or would he more likely apologize for leading her to believe that there was more to their friendship than he had intended there to be, noting that he _is_ married, and (being a Roman Catholic) doesn't believe in divorce?

    If the latter...would the woman in the case meekly say, "Oh, all right, I misunderstood.  See you for lunch next week, then"?   Just as likely that she'd get mad, slap his face, and stomp off, but those are the risks you take when you attempt friendship with a member of the opposite sex.  However...if the woman was determined not to take no for an answer, what might be her next move?

     Well, Frank's not budging--he's already said he doesn't believe in divorce.   But he couldn't stop his wife leaving _him_, now, could he?   And what does the Other Woman have to lose, by going round and giving Claire an earful, in hopes that she'll believe the OW's story and decamp, thus leaving a broken-hearted-but-available Frank to be scooped up?

    See?  If you don't know the whole story from everyone's point of view...you don't know. - Diana

THANK YOU Diana.

and finally 

d) All because Frank had a love note from an admirer in his wallet doesn't mean he knew it was there. Maybe it was JUST put in the day Claire found it. Perhaps Frank hadn't even known of its existence. (I have shit in my purse I KNOW I never put in there; it seems my whole family thinks it's a junk drawer). A female admirer might have slipped it in hoping to get his attention. Or, looking at it under a more James Bondy kind of light, it could be an important code hidden in an innocent note, one any thief/spy would toss away as frivolous.

2) Frank is more interested in his books than Claire. In their bedroom, he sits on the bed and opens a book and she is the one to initiate sex. *RESPONSE: The man is a gentleman! What do you want? Ass grabs, ripped buttons and wild jungle sex before she even kicks off her shoes? Yes, that can be fun too but the 'first time together' after 6 years calls for a little gentleness and low-pressure tactics, don't you think? I do...Frank did...and it worked. *in the show it REALLY worked! Claire couldn't get enough of him and even 'forgot' to wear her panties church! Those confessionals are roomier than they look.. (okay, that last part isn't true, but damn fun to imagine!)

3) When she scalds herself, he is not particular kind and is rather unsympathetic and even rather emotionless. *RESPONSE: Again, Frank was a British Intelligence Agent. A secret agent. Who knows what he saw and did in the frenzied heat of war? He was responsible for the lives of many people and as he said once, many that he sent out, never returned. I believe he was traumatized during the war and his backstory will reveal he suffers from PTSD (Post Traumatic Stress Disorder). The symptoms include an inability to experience positive emotions, or react with proper emotional responses; difficulty maintaining close relationships, feeling emotionally numb; irritability; angry outbursts or aggressive behavior.

Sound familiar?

I think he is an Unknown War Hero and can hardly wait to read it in black and white. (I am practical though and have a case of very expensive wine ready to drown my sorrows in if he isn't).

4) He spends too much time on their ‘second honeymoon’ record searching and paper chasing with Rev Wakefield in the library and study etc…and ignores Claire. *RESPONSE: See #3. PLUS, we must remember that a) Frank has a hunger to learn about his ancestry that may be a necessary plot point in future books and b) if Frank didn't research so much and talk to Claire about his research so often, there wouldn't even BE a goddamn story! Claire would have been killed with Jamie and Dougal etc...near Cock Rock (am I remembering that name right? yeesh!) at the ambush site she told them about etc... as well as a million other historic facts she knew. (*also, one can only madly screw their brains out so many times when the flesh finally needs to rest and heal. That is why God invented football).

5) He wants to take Bree away from Claire and move. *RESPONSE: He raised her, taught her how to shoot and ride and prepared her for a life that might take her through the Stones. Claire spend her life in medical books and Frank was the main caregiver, he thought Bree was safer with him, as any wonderful father would.

6) In the book, Frank never tells Claire he believes her Time Travel story and he seems to plant the fake gravestone to cause pain and suffering. *RESPONSE: Can we all say 'plot device'? If not for that gravestone, Claire would have never seen she was wrong about Jamie's death, she would have never gone back to him and we would have never had any further books to drool over. 

There a lot more that get the odd mention, but I am old, my memory sucks and my casserole is burning. So let’s move on.

‘Entia non sunt multiplicanda praeter necessitatem’: which means 'Entities should not be multiplied unnecessarily'.

That is Occam's Razor. A principle that has, since the 14th century, been shaved and whittled down to mean, for some: "The simplest explanation for something is probably better than the more complex explanation."...which is wrong. That is not the original intent of the belief. Nevertheless…it is a flawed opinion, for one basic reason: fiction, at its very heart, is a road purposefully littered with improbability and complications, for it is our pleasure in trying to navigate that road and finding the way to the end, guessing/hoping, loving/hating, believing/disbelieving, all of this…that gives us the pleasure of reading it. IMHO

In other words, if it were simple and logical, what the hell kind of fun is that? 

This came up as one member of our group wrote that she didn't think Frank was faithful, despite the numerous explanations and theories around, because 'all the theories are so complicated. When there are too many complicated answers, the simplest is the best.'
 
I disagreed.

The more skilled the writer, the more she/he can have us ‘know’ one thing, and have that knowledge turn upside down to surprise us, shock us, vindicate us and even anger us. Red herrings, assumptions, innuendo, half-truths and different POV (points of view) with varied narrative tools (1^st and 3^rd person) all can be combined to weave a complicated web of necessary deceit. And we see it the way we want to see it.

I think Shakespeare called it when he said ‘Nothing is either good or bad but thinking makes it so.'

And I think my darling Frank is a Saint. I just wish that my thinking made it so.

So, have I proven that Frank has earned his place next to Snape? No. Not at all. And that is the beauty of Diana Gabaldon. Even after all my blustering, I could be dead wrong and having Red Herring for supper. 

Gaaak!

Damn you woman!!  

*shakes fist in the air in the general direction of Scottsdale, Arizona*