FOR THE SAKE OF SURVIVAL

Part of the THIS IS THE MOMENT series

May 1st, 2019

I suppose that today, of all days, it’s appropriate for me to scream May Day! May Day!

It wouldn’t help my situation, or make any difference though, would it?

I started chemo in late August 2018, which means that I’ve just entered month number 9 of chemotherapy (these days, “treatment” feels too much like a euphemism).

Yesterday, I went to have my 4th CT-Scan done at the CHUM (including the original diagnostic scan). Since I began chemo, I’ve had a CT-Scan every eight weeks—a requirement of this clinical trial. By that count, I’ve passed 32 weeks of being poisoned for the sake of survival.

Yesterday started off just after lunchtime in such a weird and inauspicious way. With my scan scheduled for 3 pm, I planned to go first to the hospital’s open eating area on the first floor, where I’ve spent hours this year, waiting for whatever was next. It’s a vast, windowed, very bright space with dozens of tables where people sit—including many hospital staff—to eat and unwind.

This time, however, before I had even reached the escalator landing, I could see that there was something crowding everyone (they all seemed bunched up) and creating shadow. When I reached the top at last, I was met by an 8-foot high, 25-foot-long puffy pink tube, with lumps and bumps here and there on its surface. This was the monstrosity that was responsible for making seating far scarcer than it should be. When I walked further into the hall and found a spot to sit (I shared a table with a nurse who was on her lunch break), I realized that the big pink tube was a shadowy tunnel that people were visiting. But what I felt when I read the signage in front of it…

It was a giant section of intestine, made to be strolled through. It was there to educate hospital staff and visitors about colorectal cancer.

Fuck. Really? (That IS what I thought) I mean…really? It was hard to see it as humorous. It felt more…ominous. As mental preparations for a colorectal cancer CT-Scan go, this was truly awful. And definitely unwelcome. And I didn’t visit it! There seemed no need to go see tumours and polyps up close and Godzilla-size.

Thrown off somewhat, I ate quickly and then went up to the 14th floor for a blood test that’s now required by Bristol- Myers Squibb before each scan: a simple embryonic enzyme test, which, I think, measures tumoural activity (my results have so far been good, dropping steadily, which is what the oncologists want to see).

My univein !

The only good, fat surface vein I have for blood tests is on my left arm. Just the one. There simply isn’t anything visible to work with near the surface of my right arm. This, as time goes by, will become a problem. My poor univein is beginning to harden, though up to now, the CHUM’s phlebotomists (drawing blood is an art!) say that it still has bounce (they say: Elle est encore rebondissante!”). But, because I knew that a catheter would be inserted into my champion vein for the Ct-Scan, I asked the nurse if he could perhaps use a vein on the surface of my right arm, one that Chantal, my research nurse and guardian angel, told me was big enough. He opted instead for a vein on my right hand. With his magic hands and a tiny needle, he managed to get what he needed. It was only when I entered the Tomodensitométrie area (in English, that translates as “computed tomography” or CT), that I felt pain and throbbing in my right hand. When the nurse installing the catheter in my left arm (in my plucky univein) saw my sore hand, she said: “Il vous a rupturé ça pas à peu près!” which translates to something like: “Whoa! He blew that one up good!”

There I was, back in an area I’ve written about previously, wearing a hospital gown, and not much else except my shoes and socks, in the company of close to a dozen others adults who looked about as attractive and gloomy as me.

But this, of course, is where it all gets so serious. And it’s when the culture clash between the worlds of medical professionals and the people they call patients is so clear to me. It must be hard to lead with your heart when the patients who stream through your department all look alike: gowned and pale, their education, work life and personal histories unrevealed. They, the medical staff, are so comfortable in their working environment and we, the patients, are anxious, and diminished, and longing to get out and go home. And the technicians who operate the super-high-tech diagnostic equipment are generally kind and polite and concerned that we fare well while inside the giant, noisy scanners and imaging machines, and tolerate the claustrophobia and the chemicals injected into us, while we lie there terrified of what these machines will tell the radiologist who will decode their data…

Yesterday, I sat waiting, in my gown, between a fifty-something man and an older, heavier woman, who gave off signals of wanting to be left alone inside her bubble. The man seemed content to sit in silence too. It makes so much sense: aside from each person’s disease or reason for being there, what is there to talk about? Apprehension was the elephant in the room and it was visible to each of us.

And then, the first woman was taken to her test, and another woman, younger (perhaps in her late forties), sat down beside me. We didn’t get to speak for long, because I was soon called, but in the brief time we had, I mentioned to her that I could see that this wasn’t her first scan, because she was sporting the same regrowth of grey-white hair that I was— though hers was shorter than mine. I just wanted her to know that I saw her as a sister-patient, that she had all my empathy.

Then she said: “And I’m going to lose it all again. My treatment isn’t working. It isn’t working And I have to start chemo again.”

It was such a heavy, meaningful, ominous thing to say, and as she spoke, there was still the trace of the smile that her face was meant to wear and that might otherwise come so easily to her…

My name had been called. What could I say? All I could manage was (in French): “We’ll see each other again here, with our beautiful pink complexions…” and then I was led off to the CT-Scan area.

What will her scan show? What will mine?

I should have taken her in my arms and just held her.

Carson, Rosemary; Patients Waiting to See the Doctor, with Figures Representing Their Fears; Wellcome Library; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/patients-waiting-to-see-the-doctor-with-figures-representing-their-fears-125800

 

 

 

 

 

AFTER THE LULL

Part of the THIS IS THE MOMENT series

The CHUM, yesterday

January 14th, 2019

I’m back at the CHUM today, after an almost month long hiatus from chemo. It was an unplanned winter break. It felt a little like playing hooky, like an unexpected escape, like getting away with something.

But clinical trials don’t let you off the hook for very long, and today, it’s back to a full dose of reality: pre-chemo blood tests, a visit with Dr. Aubin, the chief oncologist involved in this trial (a young, petite, brilliant woman who has been wonderful with me), and SURPRISE !, my second CT Scan (the study requires a scan every 8 weeks).

I didn’t know this was on today’s calendar. This serious return to reality is unwelcome.

I should feel optimistic; everything so far has indicated that my body’s response to my treatments is positive, but I would have liked to coast on that feeling a while longer. There’s a whisper inside my head cautioning me to prepare for the possibility of disappointment.

What would disappoint me? I have to think about that.

(I have lots of time to do so: 4 hours in fact, because it’s 10 am, I’m done with Dr. Aubin and my scan is scheduled at 2 pm)

—If my tumours have recovered and even grown, I will…I will…

I can’t complete that thought.

It belongs in the Do-not-go-there-until-you-have-to category. The place of the unwritten future. May it remain banished there.

The CHUM, yesterday

—If my tumours have shrunk a lot less than on the first scan?

Yes, this would definitely disappoint me, but it seems quite plausible, doesn’t it? My body has been adapting to the poisonous drugs invading it; surely the tumours are pursuing their own survival strategies?

When you have cancer, things get real very quickly.

The holiday is over.

But you know what? Almost 5 months into chemo, I’m not frightened the way I was before it started. I live more comfortably within my life’s new landscape. Forward momentum means very little to me now.

What’s just bubbled up from my memory are images—like footage—of all of those summers of my childhood, when we would pile into the car with a trunk full of suitcases, and a cooler full of food, and off we’d go, on vacation, usually eastward, spending hours and days in the car, my sisters and I seated in the back seat, sometimes with our grandmother; my parents in the front with one of their daughters wedged between them if grand-maman was aboard, watching cars whiz past us, in both directions of the Trans-Canada highway, and the scenery along with them. Whoosh! Whoosh!

That’s how my life has felt, for the last decade at least: me speeding through the days, and rarely in the driver’s seat, constantly monitoring the passage of time and feeling it running out…

Cancer brings the stillness of a dropped anchor.

January 15th

What struck me yesterday in Radiology was how sick people were. So many were rolled into the CT-Scan and MRI area in gurneys, that I lost count. One older man could barely stand, but still tried to avoid using the wheelchair provided for him to move about. He sat very still while having a catheter installed in his arm. He couldn’t speak, just the faintest whisper was possible for him, because there was some wound or incision in his neck. But every single one of his breaths was audible as he shuffled to the room he was called to.

I remember my first scans well. On that day last July, I was to have the first of my two diagnostic scans: the MRI and the CT-Scan—those that ultimately revealed the advanced stage of my cancer. I was still new to the stages of malignancy, to the CHUM, and to the hijacking of my life by a disease. On that summer day, waiting seated along that same wall where I found myself again just yesterday, with a good half-dozen other patients, I felt and looked like the newbie. I felt younger, and vibrant. I could still smile and act relaxed. But right next to me was a woman at the other end of the line. She made eye contact with me immediately and I could see how much she wanted to talk. She may have been only 5 or 6 years older than me but she was ancient by the standards of health. Her pale blue hospital robe—just like the ones the rest of us were wearing—accentuated her pallor and that unmistakable yellow-beige “chemo” complexion that’s so common to patients who’ve been battling cancer for a long time. Her hair was short and patchy and her eye lashes and brows were virtually gone. But she turned to me and smiled an exhausted smile, and though I’ve forgotten her exact words, I remember that she was three years into her battle to survive breast cancer that had travelled to her bones and was now in her brain. I remember that she touched the port-a-cath, that visible square bump under the skin of her upper-right chest—which is just like the one I now have implanted in me—and said: “This is what you want, it’s fantastic.” She was right. It is.

I’ve thought of her often. I wonder whether she’s still fighting to survive, five months later, or whether her body has reached the point of exhaustion. I think about her will to live, about her gentle smile, and about the distance between us and how much of it is delusion.  How many patients like her are there? Where does their strength and determination come from? Their willingness to be stripped of almost everything but their pulse?

Hawke, Marjorie; Probe; Royal Free Hospital; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/probe-123837

You enter the area, you walk into a small room and lock the door, because you have to get undressed. In an impressive, succinct combination of images, words, and alphabetical order, you follow the guidelines written out for you on a poster hanging on the wall.  Instructions A, E  and F pertained to my situation. When you leave that change room, you’ve left behind your distinctiveness, your spark, your colour, and most of your joy, because you’ve become indistinguishable from everyone else. The hierarchy of illnesses is almost invisible. Everyone is just a patient.

No one could stand this for very long. We all need the recognition and validation of others. We need to experience agency in our lives. We require the dignity that comes with being able to speak for ourselves, to be treated as individual, precious humans who also express themselves by means of their clothing, their demeanor and their social interaction. Sometimes, just the look in our eyes is enough. Some of us are positively heroic in our endurance of pain and our astonishing resolve. Some of us are sad, some angry, some terrified and some, all of the above.

Illness and injury reveal us to ourselves. And to our loved ones, I think.

Yesterday afternoon, I couldn’t wait for my CT Scan to be done. I lay there, on the mobile slab inside the big white ring that vibrates and hums and lights up, with my arms above my head and the catheter placed uncomfortably right where my left arm bends, and held and released my breath as prompted by a disembodied voice, and felt the hot, fluttery rush of iodine as it entered my bloodstream and quickly made it all the way to my bladder. And then it was over. My catheter was removed, I gathered my things, re-entered the change room and recreated the person I am by dressing and leaving Radiology, walking down the long, labyrinthine hallways of the CHUM, till I reached Champ-de-Mars metro station, blending in with everyone. Similar, but Me nonetheless—and free.

Croker, Michael; Milton Keynes Hospital at the Millennium; Milton Keynes Hospital NHS Foundation Trust (managed by MK Arts for Health); http://www.artuk.org/artworks/milton-keynes-hospital-at-the-millennium-27098

 

 

 

WHAT AM I AFRAID OF?

Stout, Jennifer; Untitled; University of Dundee, Duncan of Jordanstone College Collection; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/untitled-108170

October 31st, 2018

Part of the THIS IS THE MOMENT series.

In my lifetime, a lot of what I’ve thought about is fabricated within the trap my mind has set for me by keeping me preoccupied with the future. I wonder if I haven’t spent at least a quarter of my life planning for the future, thinking of what would be, what might be… Worrying about what my children’s lives will be like (they are grown men of 27 and 35, for heaven’s sake) what will happen to them, and their children (with climate change and everything going on in the world, it’s hard to zig and zag away from those worries).

Until 2017-2018, there was also what would happen to me in teaching, as the school board went through endless personnel restructuring; how I would manage to hold onto my job and  do everything I wanted to do: teach, write, be a loving mother, daughter, wife, friend and grand-maman;, take care of my body and health; how I would fit it all in as I age, in spite of the cumulative fatigue and significant stress…How well I would live that “second life” (a life after life) promised to so many women who are mothers…

Peart, Tony; Fear of the Unknown; Darlington Borough Art Collection; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/fear-of-the-unknown-44103

Would I be able to keep living with my husband? Would I ever find a way to redress the mistakes of my past that brought me to the place where I was: a mixture of daily passion, joy, love, buried sadness and marital stress…

When would my health begin to fail? (well, it was already failing, wasn’t it?). Would I be afflicted with breast cancer like my mum? Heart disease or lung cancer like my dad? Alzheimer’s? (I honestly never thought about a violent death)

How would I reconcile the different parts of me that pulled in different directions: the teacher, the emerging writer, the mother, the friend, the daughter, the disillusioned spouse, the person as yet undiscovered (because I feel that too—none of us ever stops changing and becoming)?

Aarrestad, Katharine; ‘This is the end of you’; Aberdeen Art Gallery & Museums; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/this-is-the-end-of-you-106556

Would there ever come a time when I got my life exactly right, that is, when I became the best person I could be—the very best version of Michelle, who got all her shit together and arrived at the end of her life having worked through most of the distractions and mistakes and simply become a genuine, good person?

(The worry generator in your own mind undoubtedly produces similar thoughts, like small, irksome movies that eat away at your serenity.)

And then there was my cancer diagnosis, that peeled away everything extraneous, and focused an intense beam. It brought all of my fears right in front of me, reducing my field of vision. What have been my worries since July? Not the big, broad strokes on the canvas. It’s the details of my life that are preoccupying. I have become myopic.

Brown, Neil Dallas; Shroud; Glasgow Museums; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/shroud-83397

What’s chemo doing to my body? What is this change in the pigmentation of my skin? Is it dangerous? Permanent? Can a person develop melanoma while undergoing immune therapy and chemo? Are these changes to my body—its premature aging—reversible? Will my body recover its strength and musculature? How long will it take for my hair to grow in and for my body to return to its “normal”, familiar appearance?

And what about after chemo? Will there be radiation? Will every lesion in my body be hunted down relentlessly? Will there be surgeries? How many? What if the metastases make a spectacular resurgence? How much time will I have after this first wave of treatment ends before cancer returns? How many years like this year can I endure? How strong am I? What if cancer goes to my brain? How long will I accept to live with that before I choose release? What if it migrates surreptitiously to my bones? To my pancreas? (these are among the worse-case scenarios because they’re the most painful)

Deacy, Brendon; Stolen Woman; Wolverhampton Arts and Heritage; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/stolen-woman-19504

What if I can never teach again? Do I want to teach again? What if I run out of money? What if, what if, what if…There seems to be no limit to the apprehension my brain can manufacture.

So many waves of angst that could just keep rolling over me, drowning out everything else. Which they did for a while.

But something has happened. It rose out of my life and almost completely snuffed out the fear that I was stoking and that swirled around me. It emerged out of a thousand threads: from the thoughts, messages, prayers, benevolent intentions and wishes, warmth and LOVE of the dozens, perhaps hundreds of people who have hugged me, messaged me, called me, visited me and rooted for me since my diagnosis; from the impeccable, humane, professional and all-encompassing care I’ve received at the CHUM; from the radical transformation of my life which brought me to this peaceful house in this quiet town that is encircled by nature; from the tranquility I find here, which allows me to simply exist in moment after stressless moment; to the resolution of the sadness and pain of my marriage through separation; to the gift of TIME, which was foist upon me by the exigencies of chemo, and created large spaces of forced idleness that I filled by writing, napping, reading, thinking, listening to music alone, and watching television all curled up in a blanket…I know I’m repeating myself here, but it stills feels unreal to me.

Uhlman, Fred; My House in Wales; University of Warwick; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/my-house-in-wales-55850

The truth is, I’ve never been so stress-free. Imagine that. It makes no sense, but the fact remains that since I’ve learned that I have metastatic cancer, I’ve moved closer and closer to a place of calm and peace. Maybe that’s because these past three months have not only pulled me out, by the roots, of my previous life and patterns, but have also stripped away all of the weeds and strangling things in my life, placing me squarely before the starkest possible truth: that I am mortal, that I WILL die, that I have NOW, and that my future is unwritten. NO ONE KNOWS what lies before me, except that I will die, as will we all.  I don’t want to live for all eternity, so why should I be afraid? Or put another way, why should a fear of pain in the future cause me pain in the present?

On November 13th, I’ll undergo the first CT-Scan since I began chemo. The results could be crushing. They could also indicate that the treatments are working beautifully. They’ll be given to me roughly a week after that. There are indications from my body that there have been positive changes: certain symptoms of my cancer have simply vanished. What should I do with these thoughts in the meantime?

Mostyn, Thomas Edwin; Peace; Manchester Art Gallery; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/peace-205642

In a lovely, thought-provoking novel by Matt Haig that I’ve just finished, titled How to Stop Time, I found this series of questions. To the question: What am I afraid of? ,  I would add: Why am I afraid?

 And then, I would turn to this list of questions, which is nestled at the end of Haig’s How to Stop Time, and I would delight in the answering:

 “And, just as it only takes a moment to die, it only takes a moment to live. You just close your eyes and let every futile fear slip away. And then, in this new state, free from fear, you ask yourself: who am I?

If I could live with doubt, what would I do?

If I could be kind without the fear of being fucked over?

If I could love without fear of being hurt?

If I could taste the sweetness of today without thinking of how I will miss tomorrow?

If I could not fear the passing of time and the people it will steal?

Yes.

What would I do?

Who would I care for?

What battle would I fight?

Which paths would I step down?

What joys would I allow myself?

What internal mysteries would I allow myself?

How, in short, will I live?”

 [This is an excerpt from Matt Haig’s How to Stop Time, Harper Collins, 2018, p.314]

Mostyn, Thomas Edwin; Peace; York Museums Trust; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/peace-8073

 

 

 

 

MOVING ON

It has begun surfacing once again— intermittent, sudden, fleeting.

Something that I can best describe as an internal lurch; a quick and uncomfortable dropping feeling in my belly that catches me off guard.

And I’m reminded that though I’m absorbed in what I’m doing: preparing to teach, heading off to teach or actually in class with my adult students, my body knows that change is just around the corner, and sends tiny internal depth charges to remind me.

It’s a very familiar feeling of apprehension mixed with a drop of dread that’s part of a cycle that I’ve lived with for the past 7 years.

 

It’s almost time to move on.

 That’s my body’s message. For five of the ten groups that are mine right now, our story ends next week.

That’s because all of the contracts that allow me to go to students working in companies around the city eventually come to an end—usually after five to eight months.

  

When I start a new contract and meet a brand new group of students, strangers all, it always feels fresh and hopeful, the way beginnings should feel, and the road ahead feels clear and promising. It’s the luxury of time.

Though I’ve had many dozens of such groups since I began teaching French, and come to this point of parting with them time and time again, it’s still as hard as it was the first time.

 

When you care about things, it ends up wearing you out.” 
― Sakisaka Io

 

I first started in my school board’s adult education centre. It was a real boom period then, and classes were filled with people committed to learning French thirty hours a week. Imagine that. Thirty hours. Groups of twenty to twenty-five people brought together, full-time, hoping to emerge speaking a new and essential language.

I was always given the beginners, the newbies, which is a fantastic privilege because it gave me the chance to welcome them into this new French-speaking world. To set the tone. To make them forget all of their fears and previous experiences of school. To relax and trust themselves, and trust their classmates, and trust me.

It has always felt important that my students enter class with a smile, but even more so that they leave smiling.

 

Oh! the insanity of it. Because each level lasted only eight weeks. Intense as it was, our time together was a mere two months. Sometimes I got to take them a further 8 weeks, but not always. And so, that last day of each term was a big, messy, bittersweet party that included an international (and delicious!) pot luck lunch.

It was incredibly gratifying and also just exhausting for me and I always came home feeling wrung out, a bit low, and relieved that the pressure of parting had been released.

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Parting with friends is a sadness. A place is only a place.”– Frank Herbert

 

The special allure of adult language education is that each student in my class is a peer. And each is a potential friend. Could be. Might become one.

Going into companies to teach changed things around for me because in most places, I only see my students once a week for two to three hours—just a drop in the bucket—but we journey together this way for four or six or nine months at a time.

 

 IMG_3111

The average size of a group is usually six, though it can drop to three or go as high as a dozen; and this has freed me. In the intimacy of a small group, no one is ever looking at another person’s back—we are always in a circle, always face to face. In a small group, names are learned quickly and a far more personal tone is set. Also, the possibilities of what I can bring to them and what we can discuss and undertake isn’t as rigidly structured as the Ministry of Education program. Everything is fodder for conversation in French.

You can’t hide in a small group.

IMG_20160427_143023

 

Each develops its own, unique chemistry that leaves a distinctive imprint on my memory. I remember them in feelings. I remember the interplay between them: the unexpected pairings of personalities that emerged in class. I remember what made them laugh. And which of them made me laugh. I also remember what made them fearful and stressed—lay-offs and company closings are the darkest possible clouds that we’ve travelled under.

 

Also, I suppose I wanted to say goodbye to someone, and have someone say goodbye to me. The goodbyes we speak and the goodbyes we hear are the goodbyes that tell us we’re still alive, after all.” 
― Stephen King
Wolves of the Calla

 

When I say goodbye to five of my groups next week, it will be without knowing how long these goodbyes will last.

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Just two days ago, in the company cafeteria, a man tapped me on the shoulder and said Bonjour Madame, and I recognized Luren, an intense and interesting man who had been my student in 2012 at a different company location. He was starting his day and only had a minute, but he wanted me to know that he had been back to Peru and had married a woman that he had known since childhood, and that he was very happy. When we parted he said, smiling, that perhaps we would meet again in a French class.

These are special moments in my life, when I feel how lucky I am that my work brings me into this stream of humanity.

 

Album art work for Pink Floyd’s The Endless River 

Next week, we’ll say hopeful au revoirs. Maybe classes will begin again some time next year, and many of these wonderful people will re-register. In an ideal world, we could pick up where we left off.

Maybe some will find me on Facebook and I will be given a different window into their lives.

Maybe that’s it, and I will never see them again.

Or maybe, like Luren, we will meet unexpectedly one day.

When that day comes, even if it’s years down the road, please, may I remember their names.

Here’s to:

Paola, Leon, Ying Yao, Anita, Liang Yu, Leonardo, Georgi, Graham, Chih Tao, Daniel, Yun, Azer, Leo, Keith, Jun, Pramod, JiaCong, Hong Ming, David, Manish, Stephen (Big Steve), Amira, William, Cristinel, Calin, Azadeh, Emanuele, Veli, José, Li, Yan et Manmohan.

IMG_3436

There is no real ending. It’s just the place where you stop the story.” 
― Frank Herbert

 

 

 

Leaving on a Jet Plane

On Saint-Patrick’s Day, 2014, the phone rang at our house. It was Rodney Cottier, the Head of the Drama School at the London Academy of Music and Dramatic Art (or LAMDA) on the line.

LAMDA is one of the finest drama schools in the world and a month earlier, my youngest son Christian had auditioned in Toronto for LAMDA’s Masters in Classical Acting program. Rodney’s call was to inform Christian that he had been accepted.

It isn’t always possible to know which of the choices, or which of the curves thrown at us, or which of the harrowing experiences, or successes, or events, or chance encounters will be seminal in our life, and I think that’s a good thing.

Christian waiting for the evening's performance.
Christian waiting for the evening’s performance.

But on that day, Christian knew. We all knew…that his life had just jumped its tracks, that its course had been indelibly altered, that he was going to live an adventure the likes of which he had only daydreamed about.

And so began the saga of Christian’s year in London.

That story is his to tell.

Mine is about how the story ends. It ends with success and immense shared joy. It also ends with a trip to London, which I began on September 11th, because it was unimaginable that I should miss seeing my son on stage performing Shakespeare in the greatest theatrical city in the world; and that he be left to graduate alone, and to pack up and move back to Montreal alone.

I arrived at Heathrow on September 12th. What followed were 15 extraordinary days during which a lifetime of hopes and what-ifs and imaginings about the land of Shakespeare, Sherlock Holmes, Stephen Fry and BBC drama were measured against the reality of Great Britain’s capital, and found to be totally up to snuff.

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What I also realized during my time across the pond is that while Christian was at LAMDA, his father, brothers and I were in London with him for a part of every day: with every Skype and Facetime session, with every Facebook post and Message, every story, every experience he shared with us, every problem, every fever or cough.

 

This is the way we love each other. Our London was discovered vicariously, but it had its own reality.

Here begins my LONDON JOURNAL. Bon voyage!

September 11th, 2015

Facebook post from the airport:

Okay! I made it through airport security and here I am at gate 59.

A year ago, I had just walked Christian to his security check point.

There was such strong emotion on that day; such an acute feeling of separation, anticipation and apprehension…in us both! Finally, Christian disappeared behind the wall of security and what was left was the most painful happiness I have ever known.

Now, I go to see who he has become and what he has accomplished in London, at LAMDA which, for me, still feels more like fiction than fact.

“The truth is life is full of joy and full of great sorrow, but you can’t have one without the other. “
Andre Dubus III

The Thames Walk, Hammersmith, London
The Thames Walk, Hammersmith, London