March 2001.
Life is changing. Chapters are closing and new ones beginning, and in between there’s a little space for some freedom. I am excited.
I’d just graduated from University and moved from the island to the big city, the “really big city”. University in Victoria, “the not so big city”, was a perfect stepping-stone. I’m working a day job at a restaurant and am fully enjoying a little respite after four years of study. This break is just what I need before I start the next chapter and kick off my career.
My girlfriends and I booked a one-month trip to Thailand. Carefree. Sunshine. Ocean. Bliss. The perfect bookend to celebrate all the hard work we put into our degrees. Now that we are home, it’s time to get back to reality. How little I am prepared for the reality that awaited me.
I’ve been very fortunate to have traveled a fair bit in my 23 years. After each trip, I have a little ritual. Regardless of whether or not I still live at home, I always make sure to get in a few days on the island with Mom and Dad, to ground myself surrounded by love.
The trip back has been eventful. I was sick the entire flight and am jet lagged. Somewhere along the way I thought I’d do a quick load of laundry. The result? I’ve washed my passport, which was almost full of stamps from backpacking Europe, and managed to dye ALL of my clothes a blue-ish tinge because of a colourful Thai bag that snuck into the load.
I hop the last ferry to the island. Dad picks me up, and when we get home, Mom’s already asleep. This home is my ‘home home’. Dad built this house. The smell of the trees and the night air, my name written in stones on the chimney, are all small details that are immensely comforting. The smell of the woodstove, I crawl into my warm bed - Mom and Dad turned on the heat before I got home as they always have. Before I came into the world, my room was supposed to be the winter garden, so it’s not as warm as the rest of the house. I sleep deeply, in my own bed, surrounded by the familiar darkness.
In the morning, I make my way into town to surprise Mom in her classroom. She’s been the kindergarten teacher here for eighteen years - I was in her first class. She’s a born nurturer - she loves helping these precious little ones make a smooth transition from home and family into a new way of being, at school. And boy, do these kids love her back. She has such a gentle way with them. If she’s is in the middle of a conversation and one of the kids has something to say, they’ll come up and put their hand in hers. This way they aren’t interrupting, and they know that she knows that they’re there. “Put your hand in mine.” It is their little signal and her silent acknowledgment.
I stand at the back of the classroom, as I often do, watching her with these kids she adores, waiting for her sixth sense - her mother’s intuition and our unspoken connection to kick in. I am so very fortunate to have a mother who is also my best friend and kindred spirit. We have a connection that is I know is unique and I am grateful for it. Then she’ll look up with a big smile, knowing I am there. As I look at her now, I feel tightness in my solar plexus. Something is not right. She is not her radiant, glowing self.
I am home for a week. Looking back, that week is still a bit of a blur, even after fifteen years. It’s like a view master, the one we had as kids? There are these snippets that are clear as day. I could close my eyes and be back in those moments in a heartbeat, but the transitions and threads between moments is choppy. It’s white space, blank.
Mom’s been having a hard time eating, so she goes to the hospital to get hydrated. The nausea is so intense that it’s hard for her to get through a day of teaching. I find out she’s been feeling sick most of the time I was away - she didn’t share this with me, of course, because she wouldn’t have wanted to worry, to ruin my trip. Mom’s been going to lots of tests, lots of appointments. It could be some kind of bacteria causing this, one that can be dormant for a long time, something she’d picked up on her travels thirty years ago. More tests. More IV’s to hydrate.
I'm sitting on the counter in the kitchen, in my spot, right next to the sink. One of two spots I like to st in. You know the spot where you have those deep talks or full belly laughs. All the good stuff happens in the kitchen. I hear the car pull up. Mom walks in first and right away I knew it was bad. That tightness, in my solar plexus, again. "I have cancer." That words. Changes everything. Like in the "choose your own adventure" novels, where you can go down a completely different path and have a new story. Except this next chapter we didn't choose. We cry. We all cry.
- Krista
photo: Krista McKeachie