RELUCTANT, RESISTANT, FRIGHTENED

Kilpack, Sarah Louisa; Salvaging the Wreck; Guernsey Museums and Galleries; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/salvaging-the-wreck-136547

I’ve been away from THIS IS THE MOMENT for a while. This past month, I’ve been thinking that if ever I succeed in shaping these pieces into a book, that it will have a long title, It will have to be named:

THIS IS THE MOMENT

 Cancer, Chemo and Covid-19:

Two improbable years in a clinical trial

 It’s certainly the alliteration that rocked my world. I wonder if the best portrayal of the person I was when I was diagnosed with stage 4 cancer in July 2018, is of a woman with training wheels: not yet competent and ready for the ride ahead?

But 2020, my gosh, what a year so far! Four months in, and I don’t dare look around the corner—which I think is a reasonable response.

* * *

In February 2020, Covid-19 wasn’t yet a familiar word. Instead, I was hearing warnings and reports about a new coronavirus outbreak in China…so many miles away…But Simon, versed in epidemiology, already understood that something was up, and was reading the available scientific literature about it.

By the first week of March, the coronavirus had begun to loom over everyone and everything, as we were starting to grasp the fact that it posed a very serious, yet still mysterious threat. It was Spring Break in Quebec. Many Québécois were gone for the week: to ski locally, to see the sights of New York City, to the beaches of sunny Florida, to Europe and on cruises. They had, in fact, for the most part, picked the worst possible destinations. The worst infection zones. My cancer keeps me welded in place, so instead, we had friends and family over for dinners, my grandchildren for a full day of jewelry-making and baking and fun.

The news grew worse. The expression “social distancing” was read and heard more and more. My inner alarms had activated. I knew I had to go into Montreal twice the following week, to the CHUM, for my usual chemotherapy but also the standard pre-chemo blood tests etc. Two consecutive days: March 9th and 10th, and that I would have to take the train and the metro and hang around at the hospital for hours, both days.

It was a torment. The word pandemic had emerged by then.

And my innards began resisting. I felt chronically upset and anxious. More so than I’d felt since I was first diagnosed. I didn’t want to go into the city and take all of those risks, but neither did I want to miss life-sustaining treatment.

I went into the CHUM that Tuesday reluctant, resistant, frightened. During the preceding days, I exchanged several emails with my research nurse, hoping she’d say something magical that would keep me safe.

The week before Spring Break, the strangest thing had happened. My oncologist, Dr. Aubin, who is always gracious and kind, but who also weighs every word carefully, had greeted me in her office with the warmest smile. Bonjour Mme Payette, she’d said, and continued to smile. And after the usual questions about any side effects I might have, she’d simply said (in French): “I’m so happy. You’re doing so well. Really! Bravo!” , and she’d looked at the spreadsheet with all of the information gleaned from my blood work that filled the large screen of her computer, and had said: ”I’m really very happy for you. This is the Nivolumab we see at work [the immunotherapy drug|. And honestly, you can’t really be considered immune-suppressed right now.”

Sedgley, Peter; Corona; Arts Council Collection; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/corona-64096

 This never happens. This kind of unguarded, spontaneous revelation? Never. Reassurance that things are going in the right direction? Yes. That my tumours have shrunk almost 60% since I started? Yes. But this smile that revealed that, as an oncologist, this was truly gratifying progress (stage 4 cancer is at best a chronic disease)? Never.

For a few days, I got to live in an almost carefree state. Or at least, in a mind space that I could sprinkle optimism and a newfound joy into.

Ten days later, the human world seemed to be imploding. And still does. It’s a world smothered by Covid-19, the name of the virus we will all have been branded with, whether infected or not.

Daily catastrophic news and statistics poured in, and not so long ago, I found myself thinking: I don’t want to NOT die of cancer!

* * *

The empty commuter train

When I arrived at the train station early in the morning on Tuesday, March 9th, I was so stressed that I felt a bit sick to my stomach. There were two cars in the parking lot which usually accommodates more than a hundred, maybe even hundreds: mine and a blue one, side by side. It was 7:09 and I thought for sure that I wouldn’t make it up to the actual boarding area on time for the 7:10 train. But when I climbed the concrete stairs, the train was just idling there. Its doors open. No one in sight. Not a soul. A ghost train.

The empty commuter train

Unsure what was going on, I boarded, and saw a young man in the next car and felt immediate relief. And then the doors shut. Almost soundless. And the train started to move, with stealth. I was completely alone in my section. There were eleven stations left before I was meant to get off. I saw two or three people, at the most, get on at any of these stations. No one ever joined me in the section I had chosen. This should have been the most packed train of the morning. Standing room only. Rush hour. Instead, it felt dead. Post-apocalyptic. It took just a few minutes for my sense of relief at not being at risk of infection turn to a terrible, lonely feeling. I got a lump in my throat. I felt the urge to cry. I felt anguished. The part of my brain that Malcolm Gladwell wrote about in his book, BLINK, was signaling unease, unease, unease, something’s off, something’s wrong…

When I reached Vendôme station to take the metro, it was much the same.

At the underground entrance of the CHUM, again, near desolation.

The empty commuter train

It was as though the physical world had transformed itself into the way cancer made me feel during those first months and seasons of treatment.

The cues that guide us every day had disappeared.

Since then, I’ve grown more accustomed to this strange, empty world. I head into chemo alone now. Only the very weak, those suffering the most, are allowed companionship and that’s the way it should be. I miss Louise, my precious friend, who accompanied me so regularly, then drove me all the way home after chemo, and stayed for supper. But I’m lucky, my son Jeremy who is now working from home, has come all the way to the CHUM to pick me up and bring me home several times. I miss Christian, who often popped in on a day he wasn’t working, to keep me company.

The desolate parking lot at Ste-Anne-de-Bellevue station

Simon is here, teaching online. Keeping his energy up. Keeping me informed. Making delicious meals and, I’m sure, feeling starved of the physical company of the colleagues, friends and family he so happily mingles with and opens this home’s doors to at every opportunity.

In truth, my life has changed less than most people’s. I’ve been in training for the past 19 months, learning to stay put, monitor my health, avoid germs and stay out of harm’s way.

* * *

Last Monday, I had to return to the CHUM for my scheduled CT-Scan (every eight weeks, like clockwork). On this day, I waited a long time for my turn: several hours, sitting in a hospital gown, a catheter stuck in my arm, on a stiff plastic chair in a cool hallway staring at a wall. When I was finally called, I did as asked, and lay down on the sliding “bed” that is part of the scanner. And then the phone rang, and the technician told me without a shred of gentleness in her voice to get up, that someone suspected of having coronavirus was on the way, and I would have to go back to the waiting area.

And so I got up off the machine, and looked at this woman, and wondered why they couldn’t just do the scan which barely takes 5 minutes. And then I think I said (in French): Well, I’m not sure that after 19 months of cancer treatment, coronavirus is very good for me either…”

 It wasn’t my finest moment. I was imagining the virus lingering in the room. It’s what fear does. And being cut off from fellow humans. And getting worn down.

Waiting area in Cancérologie at the CHUM, .

I’ve noticed how, in the metro, the train, and all the enclosed spaces where we’re asked to practice “social distancing”, we’ve stopped making eye contact. We’ve reduced each other to mobile, possible threats to our wellbeing.

That incoming patient on the way to be scanned…

I don’t know who they were: man, woman, young, old. I don’t know if every intake of air into their lungs was agonizing. I don’t know if they were accompanied. But I’m sure they were scared.

I’m also sure that the CT-Scan technician has seen many such patients, and that the area she works in had to be scoured and decontaminated for the umpteenth time that day, that week, that month…

Her tone had changed when I was eventually called back in. Some of the stress had left it.

I will receive my scan results tomorrow. I want to say  “as usual”, but those words ring hollow.

Paul, Celia; Study: My Mother and the Cross; Lakeland Arts Trust; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/study-my-mother-and-the-cross-145440

 

 

 

 

 

THE NEW NORMAL

Part of the THIS IS THE MOMENT series

August 6th, 2019

I was told last week about someone (to whom I have no direct tie) who has recently received a diagnosis of lung cancer. Those last two words usually make my heart drop, but she was told that her cancer appears to be localized—that it doesn’t seem to have spread. What good luck wrapped up in her misfortune! She was put on a protocol of chemotherapy that requires only that she take a pill a day, at home, for the rest of her life.

To me, this is the stuff that science-fiction is made of. My understanding is that she was told that her treatment should be sufficient to allow her to live for a long time. This seems like magic. May her medical team be correct!

Shackleton, William; Wings of Silence; Leamington Spa Art Gallery & Museum; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/wings-of-silence-54462

But then the person telling me this story said that she was having a terrible time. That the daily pill was making her sick, causing nausea and diarrhea. That she was depressed. Scared. Not managing. That she had said to one of her two children: This is the new normal, and I don’t know if I can bear it (or something very close to that).

The trusted person sharing this news with me wanted to know if I had any ideas about how to help her, because, though she lives here, in Montreal, her two grown daughters live out of province—one, thousands of miles away—and this mother of two is also divorced. She is alone a lot of the time, when she’s not at work.

The new normal. Three words that say so much. Three words that every human being who has received any kind of devastating news about their health (or, I would argue, about the health of a precious loved one) learns are both literally true and dismally euphemistic.

What this woman is trying to describe IS different than great upheavals such as being forced to move away from a place one considers home; or traumatic events such as a car accident, or the loss of a job…All of which can require tremendous adjustments and adaptation and cause immeasurable stress. But all of which leave their victims with a sense of still undefined horizons.

But this woman, this cancer patient, is referring to the feeling of having her existence hijacked overnight and waking up to a life in which she must face death every day. She’s lost sight of the horizon. Her goal is stark: to survive. The means to achieve it: to swallow every 24 hours a modern poison so strong, even death shuns it…at least for a while.

Osborne, Jeannine; Cage; University of Dundee Fine Art Collections; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/cage-91199

1 pill/day = life. This is the equation. These are the terms of survival.

If this is the new normal, then I don’t know if I can bear it.

Ross, William A.; Segregation Cell; Galleries of Justice; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/segregation-cell-46307

Of course, at first, upon hearing about her, as far as I was concerned, she’d won the cancer lottery: one pill a day, minimal hospital visits. But the truth is, every time she takes that pill, she thinks of cancer and of death. And, it seems, every time she takes a pill, it makes her feel sick. I imagine, too, that it makes her feel vulnerable, and frightened, and alienated from her own body. And that her sense of the future has begun melting away, leaving in front of her a sparse, barren-looking landscape.

In this way, she reminds me of another cancer patient, a beautiful New Zealander who has lived most of her adult life in Sweden, and who began writing to me when she stumbled upon THIS IS THE MOMENT online. She reached out to me—she chose to make contact. And all I think she really wanted from this, at first, was to hold a virtual hand. To feel less alone but also, to feel kinship. She was so brave to do this. She wrote (and her words have stayed with me—they’re part of me now): “I still don’t know how not to be afraid”. I believe that I loved her from that moment.

I want to tell the woman struggling with the abnormality of her new normal that one branch of medicine that oncology has made huge progress in is the management of side effects, and that there’s no reason for her to be feeling so sick all the time—and that she needs to insist upon finding a specialist who can help her manage these debilitating symptoms of poisoning (and not to discount the therapeutic effects of medical marijuana).

I was told that she is someone who has always taken care of everyone around her. I want to tell her that her new normal will have to include arrows of caring and helping that come from the outside and work their way towards her. That she has to love herself better.

And then, I want her to find a way to plant a garden. It can be filled with plants, flowers and trees. It can be filled with friends, neighbours and family members. It can be filled with acquaintances newly made through activities in her community. It can be vital energy that grows in her workplace and helps her to feel useful and…”normal”. But she needs to grow her life till the daily pill is an afterthought.

It isn’t time to dig a hole and shrink within it.

Ward, Martin Theodore; Two Fox Terriers in a Landscape; York Museums Trust; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/two-fox-terriers-in-a-landscape-8174

I’m fortunate. I have people to drag me out of that hole—one that even writing can open up around me. They bring me to my grandchildren, friends, family and they bring the latter to me—and I try to remind myself, afterwards, of the tingling feeling of human connection and love that I surfed on for hours and days afterwards—and remember, too, not to give in to reflex behaviours.

McLean, John; Catalan Blue; University of St Andrews; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/catalan-blue-125588

 

 

 

HAZMAT HOME- Emotional side effects part2

Part of the THIS IS THE MOMENT series.

November 29th, 2018

 I don’t know where to begin to describe the past 11 days. It’s been an epic encounter between chemo and the pathogens of the outside world.

It actually started when my sister Marie came to visit from Vancouver. Although this would be her 4th trip in a few months—to different continents and in very different time zones— the giant heart that beats inside her was committed to coming here, a week after her return from Chile (where she had worked very hard resettling her daughter, son-in-law and granddaughters into a new life there).

She wanted to accompany me to a chemo session, but found out only after her plane ticket was booked that I had had a week off because of a low blood count and scorched hands, and my treatment was now a week later than expected. “Fair enough”, she told me, “I’ll go with you to the appointments with the endocrinologist and to see your oncologist.” And that’s what we did, on the Tuesday.

Marie is a human generator, with energy that seems inexhaustible. It was so good to have her with me on that soggy, cold day when we headed into the city and went from appointments at one hospital, l’Hôtel-Dieu, to others at the CHUM, which is three metro stops away. We were gabbing so much that a couple of times, we found that we had set off in the wrong direction and had to backtrack.

At the pub, when all was still well.

It was the beginning of the week, and we knew that we had the luxury of many quieter days ahead to spend together. But as soon as our pace slowed, as soon as we settled in here, in the house, to talk and catch up, I noticed that Marie was speak-yawning, quite literally. There were all these things she wanted to say, but all her brain seemed to want her to do was yawn. And there were shivers too. She felt cold, she said (well, the house was cool, but Marie walks around in shorts in Vancouver on cold days and never seems bothered). It was as though her body no longer knew what time zone it was in.

The week passed, and then it was Saturday, two days to go before she headed home to the West Coast. We were having friends over because this was a scheduled IKEA-thon:  8 or more floor-to-ceiling bookcases had to be assembled so that we could finally get our cherished books out of cardboard boxes in the basement and up into the living room/library, where they would be close to us.

But, surprise, I never made it out of bed. I woke up sick as a dog, with what was either gastro-enteritis or food poisoning (my money’s on the latter: the thought of that smoked meat grilled cheese sandwich at the pub the night before still makes me feel green around the gills). I spent the day in bed, away from everyone: the fun, the voices, the laughter, the dinner, all of it. And thought non-food-related thoughts. And left my door open so I could listen in on the gregarious chatter.

But of course, a cancer patient is never really sure what’s going on inside their body, and I wondered if maybe something was going wrong with one of my medications. I was so relieved the next morning, a quiet Sunday, to wake up feeling shaky, but much better. Gastro or food poisoning it was!

And then I went to the den, to the giant sectional sofa Marie was camping out on, to see if she was up, and found her unable to speak, with full-on laryngitis, congested breathing, weak and sick as a dog, with a flight home to catch the next day.

Now it was her turn to be sequestered. Simon made that eminently, seriously clear. I was NOT to go near the den and Marie was NOT to leave the lower level she was on. This was to be my first true insight into my vulnerability as a chemo patient, and the havoc it can wreak. Simon wasn’t messing around. I HAD to stay away from whatever was making Marie sick, because as a chemo patient, I’m always immunosuppressed, and there’s no way to know how my body will manage to fight any virulent bug.

Marie slept all day, and recovered just enough, poor thing, to endure the slog to the airport the next day, the rental car return, and the 5-hour flight home (she seems to be doing fine these days). Meanwhile, Simon set to work sterilizing the den: each cushion, pillow, blanket and surface that Marie had touched, using a spray disinfectant and steam. I wasn’t even able to give Marie a hug before she left.

Simon, master disinfector

I suppose this should now be seen as the first test of our household’s HAZMAT response, because just four days after Marie’s departure, on Friday, Christian fell sick with an infection that mirrored Marie’s in many ways. He woke up so congested he struggled to speak and breath. His temperature hovered around 101 F. He was so weak he could barely get up. He was seriously ill.

Realizing what this could mean—his bedroom is next to mine and we share a bathroom—he contacted Lucie, my physician sister-in-law, who set off all of the alarm bells she could: this could be the flu; the flu could be lethal to me, his mother. I could wind up in intensive care. It could kill me. It would be best if Christian left the house. He was to have NO contact whatsoever with me. He was NOT to leave his room (except to use the bathroom across the hall which was now a contamination zone). He was to wear a mask any time food or water was brought to him. Anyone going near him (mostly just poor Simon the house biologist/parasitologist) was to wear a mask, gloves and maybe a lab coat too. Anything taken from Christian was to be washed and rewashed and the gloves were to be thrown out each time.

Simon on the attack

Friday, Christian’s temperature and symptoms were unchanged. Saturday, the same. Sunday, the same. He had soaked through his comforter, blankets, sheets, mattress cover. The minute he stopped taking Advil, his temperature shot up again. By Monday, the tension in the house was getting to me, and Simon’s hyper-vigilance was taking its toll: he was on edge and tired.

Aside from the microscopic parasites that were waging battle inside Christian’s body, I was the source of all of this anguish and anxiety and worry, and of the safety protocols worthy of the WHO (World Health Organization). It was me who was responsible for the tense, mobilized atmosphere in the house. Because of the chemo that has so compromised my ability to fight infection of any kind.

Christian was trapped in his room, isolated from civilization, because it was dangerous to me. And so, he has spent a week in there, watching TV, or online, or staring at the walls, alone, because of me. This is an intensely unwelcome side effect of chemo.

I’ve been feeling this way for days, now, and remembering a situation 6 years ago, when Simon, who lived in an apartment then, caught the super nasty H1N1 virus during Christmas vacation, and fell dramatically ill. I remember that the first thing he did was come home, to his parents’ house. I remember that we settled him in the living room, on the love seat, with blankets and a pillow and a TV table nearby on which we kept fresh tea and cold water, and monitored his temperature (there was one day when it stayed stuck at 104 F and scared us silly). And we were right there next to him, and we put on one DVD after another—many of which he slept through—and though he felt like death warmed over, he had us there.

Christian wound up going to the hospital with his father on Monday, where they waited and waited from 9 am to 10 pm. What is known, at this moment, is that flu (influenza) has been ruled out, and so has pneumonia. This is good news to both Christian and me. Blood was drawn for cultures to be done, and Christian should find out today if it’s a virus or some bacteria raising hell…

Dickson, Rodney; Sickness; Atkinson Art Gallery Collection; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/sickness-66470

I’ve found this past week excruciating. Having us separated from Christian, with all three of us stalking around masked and gloved…It scared me. Illness reared its unwelcome head three times in less than a fortnight, and turned us all into hyper-alert germ fanatics. And the terrible thing is that it was necessary, and that it was on me. I am the antithesis of Typhoid Mary.

I don’t know that I’ve ever felt so disempowered and helpless to do anything to help my own sons. While he was at the hospital on Monday, Christian’s phone battery started to die, so he had to reduce contact to the weakest trickle. The lack of contact was painful to me. Like a connection between us was being stretched beyond bearing. I felt impotent. Useless. And like a giant pain-in-the-ass sickly obstruction.

I have to accept that during periods of contagion at least, I cannot be a mother, nor a caregiver.

Right now, I’m dealing with a bad case of emotional side-effects.

Cairns, Joyce W.; The Wounded Heart; Glasgow Museums; http://www.artuk.org/artworks/the-wounded-heart-83450

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

ESTRANGEMENT SICKNESS

My son Christian arrived home Wednesday, October 18th, his hundred days in northern Baffin Island finally over.

This was the arithmetic of his return:

4 am wake-up + 2-hour bus-ride to the airstrip + 6-hour flight to Mirabel airport (the forlorn and once beautiful place where The Terminal was shot) + 45-minute bus ride to Pierre-Elliott-Trudeau airport (Montreal) = HOME

Christian was the luckiest of the hundred people also leaving the mining installation and port to travel with him that day, because he had reached his destination while most still had flights to catch, taking them due West (to British Columbia) and due East (to Newfoundland) —and points in between—for thousands of kilometers more. Such is the vastness of Canada. And such is the pull of home, because almost all of these men (and Geraldine, the only woman on board) will make the same trip in reverse, in two weeks, beginning a new rotation.

Milne Inlet. Baffin Island. Photo by Christian Daoust

The tides of the lives of these men are set by the rotations of a mining installation: two weeks on site, two weeks home. Only the Moon does things with more inevitability. But the gravity of Christian’s life and his Captain’s—the port captain—was governed by the activity at the port: day one of their stay marked its opening for the brief, ice-reduced summer, and their final day was marked by the ice-congested port’s closing. For a hundred days, they stayed put, watching people come and go. The only two to do so.

No matter what he was told by those who employed him and the handful of people who had actually been there previously for short stays; no matter what Christian had imagined of Milne Inlet, whatever wild and barren landscape and hardscrabble life he had fashioned in his mind, nothing could have prepared him for the absolute immersive experience he volunteered for.

Latin-infused words best encapsulate Christian’s hundred-day stay at Milne Inlet: deprivation, seclusion, sequestration, isolation, alienation and even, at times, incarceration. All words that Christian and his Captain would agree upon. And also, austerity.

Milne Inlet, Baffin Island
Photo by Christian Daoust

Christian’s daily routine at the mining camp at Milne Inlet consisted of moving between a small room with a bed, a TV, a closet and a shower (and a window covered over in aluminum foil to keep out the perpetual summer sun), to the galley for food, to the truck that he drove to the port, to the trailer box that was the office in which he worked days with, for the most part, no discernible beginning or end because he was always required to be available. He certainly wasn’t the most important person at the port—his Captain, the stevedores and many other people did work that was critical and shouldered heavy responsibilities, but Christian was the only person at the Inlet who had no backup—not even for a couple of hours. Ever.

Christian is eloquent, and a wonderful, often hilarious writer, and he sent me regular, detailed two-page letters attached to his emails, with meticulous discipline, and which I then shared with friends and family at his request. These opened up his world to us, and allowed us to catch a glimpse of a life so withdrawn from the world—at once so exotic, eccentric and bare-bones—that it felt fictional.

Christian on his morning drive to the port

On the day he arrived home, my understanding of his experience changed. It started the moment I saw his face as he stood, eyes locked on me, in the arrivals area at the airport. It was him. Of course it was him. But across his face, which is so distinctive, there was the shadow of loneliness and bone-weariness and also, I think, a mixture of joyous relief and disorientation. And something deeper and more private. Estrangement sickness. Like the astronauts of the international space station, he was experiencing the shock of re-entry.

It was hard for him to absorb the fact that his adventure was done. To believe that it was over. And I realised that he was overwhelmed by the people, the sounds, the colours and the smells of his home.

When astronauts return to Earth after months on the space station, a lot is made of their physical rehab and the effects on the body of their prolonged stay in orbit. The battle to regain as much of their previous physical form as possible is front and centre, and we hear far less about their mental struggles.

Christian has told me that the Arctic Circle is a truly xeno environment: in summer, it appears to be as barren as Mars, with its reddish soil and absence of vegetation and only the odd arctic fox and polar bear moving about. There’s no birdsong. There are only ravens the size of turkeys who lurk in ominous silence. In winter, which lasts three seasons—it was -25 Celsius when Christian left— the Arctic becomes itself, splashing extraordinary hues of white, grey, blue and turquoise over the waters, the sky and the ground. At the Milne Inlet settlement, besides the mechanical noises of trucks and generators, tug boats and the iron ore loader, there is very little natural sound—at least to the ears of visitors. Neither can you witness the aurora borealis; the Inlet is simply too far north. When the sun eventually begins to set again and night falls, it brings a darkness as black as ink; an impenetrable curtain. Christian never saw a single starry sky, and we still don’t understand why.

This past week, I’ve observed many things in Christian. On his first night home, at the end of a long and rewarding day, Christian said to me that he was reluctant to go to bed, that he felt anxious. When I asked him why, he said that he was afraid that he would wake up in Baffinland. I think that Edmond Dantes probably felt the same way after he escaped the Château d’If. This literary reference is meant to make you smile, but the photo below, of the scrap of paper Christian held on to from Day One, and on which he marked the days till his Arctic stay was over, suggests that there’s as much of fact as of fiction in his fluttering feelings.

 

Marking off the days.
Photo by Christian Daoust

 

And then, just five days after his return, he made plans to go downtown to return the company laptop he’d brought back with him. As he prepared to walk to the train station, he told me how uncomfortable and antsy he was, how anxious the thought of going into such a developed, populated place made him feel. The hubbub. The crowds. All of it. And I realised the extent to which Christian’s experience had altered him.

All of the days and nights in a compound where straying from the makeshift road could mean death at the paws of a polar bear; all of those hours spent filling out prodigious amounts of paperwork, listening to the conversations of mariners; all of that time trapped in a place that didn’t provide enough bandwidth to Facetime or Skype with loved ones; each and every one of those days eating fish, meat and frozen vegetables; the sheer weight and repetitiveness of it all had forced Christian inward, into his deepest reserves.

A week has now passed since his return, and Christian’s skittishness has faded very gradually as all of the life he has here flows back to him, filling the lonely places that had opened up inside him. He has returned to the garden of earthly delights that is so familiar to him; he is back with the people he loves and the life he wants and hopes to live.

Glittering pieces of iron ore from the Milne Inlet mine.
Photo by Christian Daoust

I’ll never know just how altered he was by his hundred days at Milne Inlet: perhaps he misses the hyperreal colours of the water and skies, the unique tang of brackish water, and the stories of the men, especially the seamen who arrived with their ships.

It has also struck me and Christian (through whose eyes I’ve come to see so much) how wide is the gap between the indigenous people of the Canadian Arctic, the Inuit, and everyone else. I think it’s what fascinated Christian the most, observing the coming and going of the Inuit men hired by the mining company and talking with them in the galley at every opportunity. Their experience of the world, their daily life is the product of a matrix so radically different from everyone else’s that in some ways, it’s as though we are from different planets.

And one wonders how the gap between the two worlds can ever be bridged, and whether it should be. To have grown up in a barren, beautiful, unforgiving, extreme habitat of vast spaces and limited sounds, in almost endless cold and opaque darkness at nightfall, where “close by” means a two-day boat ride to the next settlement and time unfolds without increments…These are realities that Christian glimpsed just long enough to understand what many of his Inuit companions must feel when they enter his world, how their suffering must be the reverse of his, and include the pain of immersion, congestion, crowds and clamour; the nonsense and indecipherability of it all ; and the absence of solitude, quiet, immense expanses and kin. Their own estrangement sickness.

“Not for the first time, Peter thought about how much of our lives we spend sequestered inside small patches of electric brightness, blind to everything beyond the reach of those fragile bulbs.” 
― Michel FaberThe Book of Strange New Things

The view on a beautiful day
Photo by Christian Daoust