MOVING BETWEEN SERENITY AND SADNESS

Bennett, David; Slipway 1; ArtCare, Salisbury District Hospital; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/slipway-1-64745

March 23rd 2019

 Yesterday, I spent a part of the afternoon beginning the process of resigning from my position as a French teacher in adult education for the CSMB (Marguerite-Bourgeoys school board). The woman on the phone told me I should receive the papers in a week or so. The next step will be filling out the documents required to receive my small teacher’s pension. It’s very small because my professional life only got seriously started in my forties—though everything I did before that was leading me to that profession. I don’t qualify for my federal pension for five years…

It isn’t nearly enough. It’s a pittance that will help pay for food, and maybe the odd bill, but will mean being dependent on others, or else—and more realistically— running through what money I have left from my separation and the sale of our house—in effect leaving nothing behind for anyone.

It’s so startling (and ironic!) to think that there could come a day when I’ve outlived my ability to support myself, even in this group living arrangement that I have with my son and soon, our friend Cindy.  And even with cancer. I could find myself rooting for death rather than indigence, or, more honestly, being utterly dependent on my children, which is not an acceptable option.

Millet, Jean-Francois; Gust of Wind; Amgueddfa Cymru – National Museum Wales; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/gust-of-wind-116875

There are notes of melodrama there, because the people who love me would never see it that way and will probably feel like bonking me on the head when they read this, but…there’s truth here too. I can’t work for at least two years, and if I’m still alive at the end of the clinical trial, then Dr. Aubin, who leads this trial, told me point blank that she’s prepared right now to sign any document which states that I should never work again, because, well…I think she knows that magic rainbows aren’t awaiting me at the end of the two year trial, but she simply said –remembering that I’ll be 62 by then (using the future tense feels lovely) : “No, I don’t like the idea of you being submitted to the stresses of teaching,”  (which include driving all over the place) “I think you qualify for a disability pension, and I’ll sign a paper right now that states that you shouldn’t work anymore.”

My age is a factor in her decision-making process. She’s hopeful of extending my life and knows what could, and won’t, help me to reach that goal. And I probably shouldn’t write this, but I believe that when I walk into the small examination room she uses when she comes to the 14th floor of the CHUM, and we sit and talk and plan out the next treatment, she’s happy to see me, and has grown fond of me, in a professional way. I think she’s rooting for me.

I felt immediate relief, which was in part because she understood the demands of what I do. Did.

And also, because there’s so much struggle in my life right now that adding to it, even only on a list of possibilities, is too much to take in. But I still haven’t begun getting together the paperwork for a disability pension. The next step.

Schwarz, Hans; Lisa Dunwood, Teacher; Girton College, University of Cambridge; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/lisa-dunwood-teacher-195231

As I made the phone call yesterday, a workbook was sitting on this table where I write. A terrific book for learning French, published in Quebec (part of the Par Ici series), that I began using a few years ago when it first turned up. I can’t remember how it got there, but seeing it and leafing through it helped me fully appreciate the finality of never teaching again. I loved that book, despite its shortcomings (there are ALWAYS shortcomings: that’s what the teacher’s for). I love all the memories associated with it, the classes where my students were caught up in role play: one, the building superintendent and the other, the tenant with a broken kitchen faucet; or one, shopping for posh clothes being served by an obsequious sales person; or my beginners, struggling to ask questions about an Airbnb lodging they were looking to rent…

Just some of the things that have ended in my life.

It’s a long and precious list of roles I no longer play, responsibilities I no longer have, people I no longer see of whom I had grown very fond, teaching them once, twice, three times a week for 2, 3, 4 years… Ben, Armina, Peter, Christine, Arthur, Amira, Veli, all of my Filipino gentlemen…So many over the years that I cannot begin to name everyone…Day classes, evening classes…Many still Facebook friends.

And strangers I will never meet. Humans who might have been, but won’t be my students. I won’t have the chance to learn from them. A part of my future, which seemed so predetermined, now amputated.

I was so changed by my experience of teaching, which opened me up to myself and to others; which helped me feel so much better about the human race; which awakened me to the richness of otherness.

There are times, here in Hudson, when I feel myself shrinking. Losing confidence, losing my sense of purpose. The Incredible Shrinking Woman. No more Elastigirl. Leaving teaching was as far from my thoughts as would be leaving writing. I just assumed I would do both until…I couldn’t. Ah. There it is.

But I can still write (even though my eyes are bothering so much as a result of chemo that I’m forced to use reading glasses that are almost double my prescription (from +2.00 to + 3.75! and still, I don’t see clearly).

***

Over the past seven months, I’ve adapted to the routine of going to the new CHUM so often, and to the older Hotel-Dieu buildings too. I complain about the repetitiveness of it, and worse, the boxiness of it, but there are elements of these experiences that are almost ritual, and they’re soothing.

Getting Monday’s pre-chemo tests and examinations done quickly, and leaving the hospital early enough to make the 12:30 pm train home is the ultimate goal. It’s never more than half full, and it gets me on track (literally) to be home by roughly 2:15 pm.

The train is my principle mode of transport. Though I’m guaranteed free parking at the CHUM. I’ve never used my car to get there. Instead, I leave it where Simon teaches, in Sainte-Anne-de-Bellevue, at the train station.

The train at Montreal West Station, March 25th 2019

The train never failed me this winter. Not once. Not even during the worst snowstorm of the year. On the way in to the city, because my station is one of the first on the line, I’m lucky enough to get a good seat and settle in. But this is morning bustle time. People are off to work and to school. Most seem to carry with them a sense of mission. A purpose. Some are munching on their ersatz breakfast, while others, those with earbuds, have disappeared into their phones or tablets.

Returning home always feels different, but especially if it isn’t rush hour. The train is peaceful, and I love to ride the second floor—the quietest space. It creeks, and seems to rock more, left to right, at these times, in a gentle motion that soothes and settles everyone down. From my perch, I watch the strip of world that was carved out when the tracks were laid, some of them more than a century ago.

I watch Westmount and Montreal West roll past my window, showing ravines, a golf course, the ugly backsides of cheaply constructed and ramshackle garages and small grocery stores, and all of the big old gorgeous houses that passed for single-family dwellings back then, with attics and additions poking out unexpectedly.

On the train, during a snowstorm, February 2019

I love leaving Montreal’s edges behind, and reaching Lachine, Dorval, and the stations of my former home—three in all (the most!)— Pointe-Claire. They line the highway, and the houses have shrunk in size (the up-market homes are of course near the lake or in posher neighbourhoods).

But as we push westward, the cookie cutter suburbs begin to lose their geometry, and where no businesses and warehouses have yet been built, there’s still open fields, and finally, the farmlands of McGill’s MacDonald campus.

A few times, I’ve ridden the train right off the island, all the way to Vaudreuil, and once, Hudson itself (the train only stops in Hudson at 6:50 am and 6:40 pm), but they’re still working out the kinks in their system, so I’ve become partial to Sainte-Anne.

Riding the trains connects me with my past. It evokes the thrill of shopping trips downtown with my sisters or with friends when we were just thirteen or fourteen; and the years when I was a student at Concordia U, then McGill, and then finally l’Université du Québec à Montréal (UQAM), always preferring the train to anything else.

I hopped the train to go buy my wedding dress downtown. I hopped the train to attend Christian’s performances at FACE high school, and later, as a professional actor. I hopped the train to attend Simon and Jeremy’s graduations from Concordia (having become a biologist and an engineer), and later, Christian’s too…

On the train during a snowstorm, February 2019

These days, when I look out the window from the commuter train, I don’t have the sense that it might also take me to Toronto or New York, as it has in the past. I try not to see it as a means of going away or getting away, but try instead to appreciate how lovely it is to move back and forth between the places and people who are helping me to stay alive, through their love and care, making the serenity worth the sadness.

 

 

 

 

 

 

SECOND SKIN

“…the human being to lack that second skin we call egoism has not yet been born, it lasts much longer than the other one, that bleeds so readily.”
― José Saramago, Blindness

Robertson, Carol; Second Skin; Bodelwyddan Castle Trust; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/second-skin-178299

 

I’ve arrived at a place of discomfort.

Every day I’ve lived since last July has in some way been about me getting through the day, getting to tomorrow, and then the next day; and by extension, everyone around me has been caught up in helping me get through to a future beyond now, beyond this week, or this month, or year…

Making good meals for me when I’m useless (an all too frequent occurrence); shuffling schedules so that I’m not alone at chemo; remaining open and patient with me when my filters break down and I’m whimpery, and discouraged; adjusting their lives around my needs…These are just some of the things that my sons (especially), wonderful friends and family do for me every day.

How self-centred I have become.
Forced into it to some extent, perhaps, but indulging myself too.

And all of these words I’ve poured out to you—more than 35 000 so far—have they not principally been about me highlighting me?

Higgins, Tony; Skin Deep; University of Stirling; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/skin-deep-127895

While my own skin is showing the battle scars of cancer treatment, a second, invisible one is slowly enveloping me. It’s the skin of self-centredness. At least, this is an apprehension of mine that’s been there from the very beginning of this unchosen journey.

In part, I think, this withdrawal into myself is a survival mechanism. I’m not sure how much I can do. I’m not sure what will happen to me. I’m not sure what it means when I suddenly have no energy and my legs start to shake beneath me, or tears pour from my eyes as easily as I breathe. Self-absorption, my second skin, is in part controlling the flow of what life demands of me. But still… It has made it all too easy to hide away in the two-week (one in chemo, one off) life cycle that I live inside.

***

Last week was spring break for my grandchildren: Penelope, now 7, from grade school, and Graeme, who turns 5 in April, from pre-school. It was study week at John Abbott College, so Simon had more free time to enjoy (though he still had tests and lab reports to mark and things to write), and I was not in a chemo week. Jeremy  was away on business in Hong Kong and Japan, leaving behind an unfillable gap in his young family, in spite of the fact that Anne is an extraordinary life partner and mother. For Christian, unfortunately, it was business as usual: work –work—work—work.

This created an opening. They were home! Anne was happy to have company and support. And so, she and Simon busied themselves making plans to fill the days with activities the kids could look forward to.

Early in the week, we would go play with them all day at their house. Then, on a different day, we would take them to the movies. Next, they would come to our house in Hudson and play all day (from 8 am to 7 pm!). Finally, upon their papa’s return from Japan, we would go celebrate Penelope’s birthday over pizza at a local restaurant.

Our love for Penelope, Graeme and their parents is such that just being near them makes us feel happier. And yet, I see how I have pulled away from them since my diagnosis. Or maybe it’s truer to say that circumstances have made it hard to be with them the way I used to—circumstances which include my cancer and treatment, but also the simple fact that they are both at school and have busy, happy lives and a full calendar, which doesn’t always match up well with my physical highs and lows.

It’s been as though an invisible chord snapped when I learned how sick I was. They say that dogs can smell cancer in a person; I wondered if perhaps young children have a similar sensitivity to things that are going wrong. I didn’t want Penelope and Graeme to sense this…decay when they were around me, and I was feeling so changed and so damaged.

unknown artist; Old Lady with Two Children; Bradford Museums and Galleries; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/old-lady-with-two-children-22343

Last week, I played with my grandchildren with pure joy—something I  hadn’t done for weeks and weeks, because these experiences opened up a melancholy spot inside me: the whisperings of uselessness; of being superfluous and unable to follow the stream of their lives (while everyone else entered and exited their daily existence so effortlessly). I’m speaking of the loss of the kind of intimacy one can create with children that is tender and trusting and of such honesty that it replenishes the soul and reminds us of a different world—a minute by minute world—in which all good things are possible.

On the day they came to play at our house, for some weird and frustrating reason, I was exhausted and having trouble keeping my eyes open, almost from the time I woke up. It was as though magnets were pulling my eyelids shut. This has never happened to me before and all I could think of was going to take a short nap—maybe that would snap me out of it!? But Graeme was by my side, wanting to play and do all of the fun things that are possible here, and I would have been mortified to disappoint him, and so I reverted to closing my eyes for a few seconds at a time–taking the sneakiest, shortest micro-naps every chance I got. And at the end of one of them, there was Graeme, staring at me intently with the most accepting smile (given the circumstances), saying: “It’s okay, Grand-maman, it’s just your sickness.”

 ***

The love and well wishes that have rained down on me since last July, and especially because of this blog, have been a daily source of strength and inspiration for me. I cannot overstate this. Maybe it’s the magnitude of it that has alerted me to my unworthiness. It is love overwhelming. It is kindness and support beyond reason.

Thank you.

Thank you.

 My life depends on the willingness of my loved ones to do all of the thankless, repetitive and life-invading tasks that cancer throws in their path.

What can I do besides accept their love and attempt to return it to them in gratitude whenever I can, and understand that we are all called to love in every way possible?

Making amends…Making it up to them…

These turns of phrase that come to mind imply indebtedness. If their love has left me in debt, then I may not live long enough to repay each and every one of them.

Still, a way to lighten the weight of my second skin must surely be found in being kinder and more forgiving of every perceived wrong, no matter who it involves; being generous of heart and letting go of past slights and hurts; practicing more empathy every day, so as not to forget those dark moments that I am responsible for; and being more open to accepting love that I may never be able to return in equal measure.

It’s a wonderful feeling to owe one’s life to so many.

The Evening of all Days, the Day of all Evenings by Anselm Kiefer, 2014