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.
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.
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 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.
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…
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.