YEARS OF MAGICAL THINKING

Kissell, Natasha; Landscape; St George’s Hospital; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/landscape-87465

Part of the “This is the Moment” series

August 27th

Many years ago, when my boys were in grade school, I used to trek down the street every weekday morning with them to the corner where they caught the school bus. This was the late 80’s and also the 90’s (because Christian is 8 years younger than his twin brothers), and most of the parents congregating on the street corner—many with younger children in tow—were mothers.

For a brief period during that time, the bus stop was a 10-minute walk away, and that’s what put me in contact with Mary, who lived just a couple of houses from the spot where we gathered.

I never got to know Mary well. The broad street her family lived on was busy: there was a high school within sight of her house, which meant lots of school buses and city bus stops and cars. Just behind and east of the high school was—and still is— an elementary school and Catholic church.

Mary was fair-haired, as were her three young children, and pretty, but the lingering image of her, that mental snapshot that remains years later, is of how bedraggled she and her children always were. She couldn’t have been much more than thirty, but she also always looked as though she hadn’t had a minute to run a brush through her thick hair in months, nor her children’s mop tops either. Her eldest, a girl, wearing thick bangs cut straight across her forehead with what could have been gardening shears, by the look of them, was there to take the bus to school, but her younger brothers, little more than a year apart, stayed close to their mum while they poked and teased each other and hung onto Mary’s clothes.

Her husband, who was involved in the local soccer association, was a good twenty years older, short, pot-bellied and a chain smoker. He was as blond and dishevelled as his children. The whole family spoke in British accented English.

I wish I could remember what part of England they were from or what brought them to Montreal. I wish I had made an effort to talk more to Mary, even for only a few minutes each morning. She must have been isolated in that house with her young children, far from home.

But there was one day, on that same street corner, when we spoke just long enough for, of all things, the subject of sky charts to come up. Mary was interested in astrology. Would I like for her to do my sky chart? It was such an unexpected question that I said Sure! Why not? even though I’ve always seen the Zodiac and all things astrological as mysterious and fun and…a fiction. And so, I gave her the date, place and hour of my birth and that was that.

Years went by and I forgot all about it. I didn’t run into Mary and her brood any more. Maybe the bus stops had been changed again; I no longer remember. And then one day, as I was walking to the post office, I saw Mary. None of the details are clear, but I think she looked more settled, more solid. She was alone, and that makes me suppose that her boys were now in school as well. She greeted me, but you could tell that she had somewhere to go. She seemed to have found herself.

And then, just as we were parting ways, she said to me: “I never did give you your sky chart, did I?”. And I just answered something like: “Oh, gee, I’d forgotten about that, it doesn’t matter.”

Me, age 2

She stopped then, stretched her arm towards me and said: “What HAPPENED to you in childhood?”, with such intensity that she stunned me. We were still just strangers.

What did she “know”? What had she “seen”? I just remember answering something like: “Well…there were difficult times for my sisters and me…”.

It was such an unexpected turn. Who was this woman and what was this insight she possessed? But she simply looked at me with kindness and said: “Well, I’m sorry about that, but I wanted to let you know that you’ll live to a very happy old age.”

I don’t remember ever speaking to Mary again, and within a few years, I think she and her family had moved on.

This was her gift to me, on that day. She had seen something, seen deep pain, and had given me those soothing words: […] I wanted to let you know that you’ll live to a very happy old age.”

I haven’t written this because I felt like telling a story. I’m sharing this because, astonishingly, I held onto those words for all of these years. I believed Mary. Her words burrowed their way into the networks and channels of my body and mind with the power of an oath, a promise, a guarantee. Mary’s words were such a comfort to me, with their magic that restored an unexpected balance in my life. That made me feel blessed. Protected by some benevolent force…

Dahl, Johan Christian Clausen; Mother and Child by the Sea; The Barber Institute of Fine Arts; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/mother-and-child-by-the-sea-33070

Mary’s words are at the heart of a kind of magical thinking that has comforted me in dark moments for decades and given me a soft place to escape into when the pain of living has brought me close to my limits. It has nurtured an already natural tendency in me to put stock in the overwhelming grandeur of life.

And it made it harder, these past 5 years, to recognize that cancer was growing inside me. At some level, the mundane facts of my cancer were incompatible with my deepest sense of who I am. I couldn’t relinquish the magic.

At the CHUM last week, my last chemo cocktails of that day

 

 

 

 

 

2 thoughts on “YEARS OF MAGICAL THINKING

  1. Once again you left me wanting for more, for the next chapter in this insightful and thought-provoking narrative. It provides yet another glimpse into a journey that is intensely personal and yet so important to share as this instalment no doubt resonates with many of us. Who hasn’t, at some point in our lives, found ourselves living in that realm of magical thinking and finding peace and solace, refuge and respite in it?

    Like

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