Life in a high-rise

 For the past few years, my husband and I have been living in separate places.  He retired from his career at a small liberal arts university, and then accepted a call to ministry in a downtown urban congregation in Ottawa, about 1200 km away from home.  For a variety of personal and family reasons, we agreed that I would remain behind.  The original intent was for him to return after five years, but it is looking like his time away will stretch a little farther.  Although the reasons I chose to stay behind no longer exist, at this point, it doesn’t make sense for me to move to be with him for only one year.  

Parliament Hill, Ottawa

So this fall, I decided to take a leave of absence from my job and spend most of it in the city with my husband.  It has been fun to be here, especially as Christmas gets closer. I’ve done a variety of things one does in the big city – professional hockey and football games, concerts, craft sales, attending Parliament, visiting art galleries.  

My husband lives in a 14-floor apartment building that is part of a complex of three buildings.  It is an older building, and the apartment units are roomier than many of the newer units on the market.  There is quite a bit of green space around the complex, and it’s very close to the Rideau River and to the transit station, so it’s an excellent location.  

This is the first time I have experienced life in a highrise apartment building.  Over the past few months, I have had opportunities to observe a few things about this little community.  There are two 14 floor buildings and another taller (maybe 24 floors) building in this complex.  My wild guess is that there are approximately 1000 units in these three buildings.  It is mind-boggling to think that in this (relatively) tiny footprint, there are potentially as many people as live in the core of Sackville (not including students).   

There is a high ratio of people of other nationalities living in these buildings.  I am guessing most of them are immigrants and international students, and perhaps some refugees.  I have seen women in saris, many women wearing abayas and hijabs, and men and women in African attire.   

One of the best things about living in this vastly diverse multicultural community is the smell of cooking.  It seems like it doesn’t matter what time of day it is, when I leave the apartment and go into the hallways, there are delicious, mouth-watering food smells.  I often feel like I want to knock on some doors and invite myself for dinner.   

The apartment buildings each have outdoor tennis courts.  My husband’s apartment overlooks his building's courts.  I have very rarely seen people actually play tennis on these courts.  However, they are well used.  Almost every afternoon in the summer and early fall, in the late afternoon, a group of men came onto the court and played rousing games of cricket (using tennis balls), cheering each other on, occasionally hitting the balls over the fence.  Later in the summer, a small group of young boys occasionally beat the men to the court, bringing their junior version of cricket wickets and bats, and they played with enthusiasm and very few arguments.  Occasionally the two groups would play together. When the management company circulated an e-mail saying that the tennis nets were not to be removed for any reason, I was disappointed, but after a few days of empty courts, the cricketers found a way to work around the nets, and the cricket matches resumed.  

Almost every afternoon, a group of Muslim women, sometimes as many as 12 or 15, congregated in the green space beside the playground with their babies and young children.  They sat on the grass while their children played, sometimes for hours, before slowly trickling back into their apartment buildings.  I envied them a little bit – they seemed to have formed a mutually supportive community among themselves, and there was a lot of laughter. 

For several weeks, there were four young children who played outside regularly.  They didn’t appear to have a parent with them, but presumably the apartment of at least one of their families was easily accessible, and someone as keeping an eye on them.  There were three boys, probably between the ages of six and ten years old, and a small girl, who looked to be about two or three.  The children were affectionate with each other, and the oldest boy seemed to feel a great deal of responsibility for the others, especially the little girl.  They usually had a soccer ball to kick around, and the boys included Tiny Girl in their games.  Tiny Girl appeared to have some sass, and reminded me of some of the other Tiny Girls I’ve known.  I looked forward to watching them interact while
I sat on the balcony in the late afternoons.   

My husband’s apartment is on the third floor of his building, just high enough to be able to witness human interactions without being observed most of the time.  One of the sweetest things I saw was a young man trying to teach his wife how to ride a bike, holding on to the back of the seat like we do with children.  She was not having much success, and at one point, she stopped, leaned over and laid her head on his chest and burst into tears.  The man patted her back and talked quietly to her, and let her cry for a few minutes.  Then, she was back at it, and within about 15 minutes, she was joyfully riding her bike without any assistance!  

Now that it’s December, the activity outside has changed.  Kids are back at school, for one thing, and the lazy, hazy days of summer are long gone.  But the first snow fell yesterday, and as I left the apartment building, I could hear squealing and laughter from above me.  Looking up, I saw two young women, probably university-age, standing on their balcony without coats or mitts or hats, with their arms outstretched, catching the snowflakes as they fell, expressing their pure joy at the wonder of the snow.  (Someone cynically said “That will change once winter sets in,” but it was a lovely thing to witness).  This afternoon, there were a couple of parents with very small children and plastic sleds trying to slide down the VERY SMALL HILL in the playground, the children laughing with delight.   

It is almost time for me to return to my warm and cozy house and normal life back in the Maritimes.  And while there are a few things about apartment living that I do not enjoy (getting stuck in the elevator, and the nearby neighbour who continually smokes pot, with the smell leaching into this apartment, for example!), I must admit that a part of me will miss watching life unfold in front of me.  When I come back next summer for a visit, Tiny Girl won’t be so tiny, and maybe the cricket boys will have moved on to something else.  But maybe there will be new and entertaining things to witness.  Time will tell. 

The carousel of time

I don’t like listening to documentaries or news stories about cancer “survivors” and how their lives have been transformed for the better because of their cancer.  I try to avoid them.  But today when I was in the shower a documentary came on the radio about a man who was diagnosed with cancer when his wife was 33 weeks pregnant with their second child, how he went through the treatments and successfully “beat” cancer and underwent a complete lifestyle change and he’s now a rockstar at enjoying life to the fullest.

I am not one of those people.  I have not radically changed my lifestyle since I was diagnosed with cancer.  I did not suddenly become a vegan or start running marathons.  I haven’t travelled to exotic places on my “wishlist” or walked or biked across a continent.  I haven’t become a super cancer fundraising organizer.  Since my diagnosis 13 years ago, I’ve only attended one Relay for Life, because it was important to my daughter to see me walk the “Survivors’ Lap,” but even that one Relay was difficult.  Events like this always feature stories about the amazing things that cancer “survivors” have accomplished.  I don’t necessarily believe that’s a bad thing.  But that is not me.  I haven’t accomplished anything amazing because of my cancer diagnosis and I’m not much of a “rockstar” at anything.

My entire life has been footnoted at key times by cancer.  My mom had 5 surgeries for breast cancer.  Her first mastectomy was when I was a young child.  Once I had just left home to go to school.  She had cancer again just before I got married, and then just before my first child was born; the doctor I worked for at the time removed her sutures when she came for the birth.  My own cancer was diagnosed the week after my dad died suddenly.  The shock was not THAT I was diagnosed, but WHEN I was diagnosed.  So yes, cancer has deeply affected my whole life.  And it continues to affect me, daily when I take my medication and see my scars, when I have infusions and MRIs and mammograms and doctor’s appointments, and every single time I hear of a friend, relative, neighbour, or community member who has been diagnosed with or died of cancer.

I really dislike the terms “cancer survivor” and “beating” cancer.  They imply weakness on the part of those who don’t “survive.”  But I think the ones who don’t survive, and their families, are much, much stronger than those of us who come out the other side.  I have not fought this battle and won. This is not a game to be played, and really, in the end, most of the time, we have very little say in whether or not we will “win” the battle.  Unlike a war or a football game, there is no strategy that we can draw up on paper with x’s and o’s that will guarantee a “victorious” outcome if we do certain things.  I have had surgery and treatments that, fortunately or providentially, have “cured” my cancer, at least for now, and enabled me to continue to live my life.  I remember discussing my treatment options with my oncologist: chemotherapy, radiation, medication, eventual amputation of my breast(s).  I said to him at the time, “There’s no guarantee, right?  I could have all the treatments and still have a recurrence, or I could have no treatment at all and never have cancer again.  It’s really a total crap shoot, isn’t it?”  He agreed. 

In saying this, I’m not discouraging people from having treatment, or from changing their lifestyles to be more healthy.  I am fully aware of the fact that there are lifestyle changes that can reduce the odds of developing cancer.  And maybe I’m looking at this the wrong way, but to me, that’s what they are: odds.  Especially if you, like me, are genetically predisposed to develop cancer. 

I do appreciate the cycles of life more, I think, and I am aware that every spring (and summer and autumn and winter) could be my last spring (or summer or autumn or winter), depending on what my body’s cells decide they are going to do.  So maybe the biggest gift that cancer has given me is that it has taught me to try to intentionally appreciate each day and each season, and to try to find some beauty in every day that I’m on this earth, no matter how bad a day it might seem.  And most importantly, it has given me love and appreciation for the people in my life who are always there for me, most especially my family. 

For today, then, I am going to enjoy the beautiful things around me: the birds (mostly finches) twittering outside my windows, the sun breaking through the clouds, and the evidence in my surroundings that the circle of life does indeed continue to turn.

And the seasons they go round and round
And the painted ponies go up and down
We're captive on the carousel of time
We can't return we can only look
Behind from where we came
And go round and round and round
In the circle game

-- Joni Mitchell

* I do want to add a disclaimer.  This is how I have navigated my personal experience with cancer.  If it isn't your way, that's okay.  If you're a cancer rockstar survivor, that's fabulous, but that's your experience.  I'm not criticizing it, I'm sharing my own personal feelings.  There are no right or wrong feelings when it comes to dealing with cancer or any other traumatic illness. Love to all. 

 

My mother-in-law

 It is once again that time when we take stock of the year that is ending. In my family, we experienced a few major life changes in 2023: I finally graduated from university in the spring, after years of taking one course at a time here and there (I wrote about it here); we travelled to Manitoba to bury my mother’s ashes beside my father in a little country cemetery; our daughter got married; and while we were still in Manitoba, just after we had buried my mother’s remains, my mother-in-law died.  

My mother-in-law was born in Bedfordshire, England. She was eventually sent to live with an aunt in Northamptonshire, the next county over, and went to school there. She used to talk about seeing the Duchess of Spencer, Princess Diana’s grandmother, at county events. She married her childhood sweetheart in April 1953; they were married for 64 years before he passed away. 

I was lucky to get to know her as part of my family. I have happy memories of her as a companion on day trips that we would take while we were on vacation, trips to the South Shore of Nova Scotia, to Oaklawn Zoo, to Halifax, or explorations we made when she came to visit us in Ontario. She was relatively quiet and refined, but she had a wonderful sense of humour, and the most adorable giggle. My husband tells the story about watching a baseball game with her on television one day. Somewhere along the lines, some wires got crossed and instead of the audio for the baseball telecast, opera music was playing. The two of them were in stitches – I can only imagine! 

My M-I-L was, in many ways, a perfect M-I-L. She never made me feel like she was judging me, and I never heard her utter one word of criticism about me, which is rather miraculous, given what she had to work with! She did not offer gratuitous advice about how I should or should not be raising my children, and she never parented my children over me.  She loved being “Grandma,” and was always interested in what the children were up to.  

I am sure it was not an easy life for her in many ways. Her husband was away for work for a time when their children were very young, in that time before the instant and constant communication that we all enjoy now, and then they immigrated to Canada in the 1960s, away from everything and everyone that was familiar. I think she probably lived a lot of her public life outside of her comfort zone. But through it all, she remained a lovely, warm woman. 

The one word that I have repeatedly heard to describe her is “gracious.” According to the dictionary, a definition of “gracious” is “courteous, kind, and pleasant.” Other similar words that come to mind are “tactful,” “hospitable,” and “warmhearted.” The word “grace” comes from the Latin word gratia, “esteem” or “favour.” My M-I-L was all of those things. She was, I think, basically a shy person, but when her husband eventually became the President of a well-known liberal arts university, she stepped into the role of hostess. She hosted millionaires and renowned scholars, and she welcomed, with equal (maybe more) warmth and kindness and esteem, town people and timid first year students from rural Maritime villages. She welcomed me, not only into her home, but into her family.  

She was 94 when she died. Like so many others, she found the culture created by COVID difficult, and we were not able to see her very often. However, for the last few years of her life, she really enjoyed reading the birthday cards she received from her daughter’s elementary school class.  

Her funeral was on Saturday, August 26, which turned out to be an incredibly stormy, rainy, windy weekend, shortly after another devastating storm had washed away roads and bridges, and claimed four lives. We weren’t sure if everyone in the family would make it to the funeral, but with some luck and good planning, we were all able to be together. The burial was a private family event immediately after the service, and as we gathered under the shelter that the funeral home had provided, the rain stopped, and the wind let up, and miraculously, for a brief moment, the sun broke through the clouds and shone on her and on us, a beam of blessing on a life well lived. 

My 50th Post! "Stuff" and stories

This is my 50^th blog post.  It’s interesting to look back at what I’ve had to say over the past nine years, and to see which posts were read the most, and which ones weren’t.  When I started, I had good intentions – a post a month, at least.  Lately, it’s been more like one or two a year.  Along the way, I’ve lost some of my biggest “fans” – my aunt and my mom, for example, although perhaps “encouragers” would be a better word to describe them.

My most-read post, from November 2014, is about football.  That’s surprising to me in some ways, because I know a lot of people who are not sports fans, and who actually consider sports barbaric and uncultured (I know, right??).  The others in the top 5 are posts I wrote about my father-in-law, my father, two Grey Cup games I attended (more football), and some not so great experiences I had as a community volunteer.

My least read posts are about PEI, Life Lessons (reflecting on my experiences with cancer), Going Home to places where you once belonged, Christmas Cheer, and reflections on the recent Coronation of King Charles III.

In between, I’ve written about my experiences with the local refugee coalition, motherhood, research interests, feminism, significant places, tragic events, and a lot of other random topics that captured my attention. I’ve had one guest blogger (my daughter).  For the most part, I haven’t written about anything terribly controversial, although the post about my existential church crisis garnered some personal comments.  My posts are not intellectually deep, but more reflections on things that are going on in my life or my world. 

Anyway, you’re reading this, so you already know all this.

I was trying to come up with a really great topic for this significant post.  But the topic that keeps floating in and out of my mind relates to stories.  My story, your story, family stories.  And “stuff.”

If you’ve been in my house, you know that I have a lot of “stuff.”  Tchotchkes (I had to look up how to spell that!), trinkets, ornaments, bric-à-brac, knick-knacks -- miscellaneous stuff that sits on shelves or hangs on walls and collects dust, and doesn’t serve any useful purpose.  I’ve also recently inherited additional “stuff” from my aunt and my parents.  I’ve slowly been going through my mom and dad’s things since my mom had her stroke in 2019, trying to unemotionally assess what is worth keeping, what is worth trying to sell, and what is not worth anything.

My problem is that I’m hugely sentimental, and this task has been difficult and emotional.  How does one define “worth?”  How should “worth” be determined?  Strictly through monetary value?  Popularity in the current societal climate? (News flash: the “good” silverware, china dishes, the fancy kind edged with gold or platinum, and all those beautiful china teacups that our moms collected have absolutely no value today.  We are a lazy society.  People don’t want dishes they can’t put in the dishwasher).  I know there are a lot of minimalist people out there who attach no value to any material items – you can walk into their homes and not see one item anywhere that you couldn’t get at Home Sense or Wayfair.  I am not those people.

What I’ve realized, of course, is that to me and to people like me, all of this “stuff” has value, not only because it belonged to people that I love, but because
it represents our stories.  This “stuff” is a tangible, physical reminder of people, places, events in our lives.  I look up from my desk and see a stained glass goldfinch hanging in my window which was made from the windows of the church where I was married, and gifted to us by a man who attended that church.  I can see a silver tray with a North-West Indigenous design that was given to us by the family of a student who is now an RCMP officer.  I see a print made by another former student who became a good friend, and who died suddenly several summers ago, and another print given to us by a noted printmaker when our house was falling apart just after we moved here.  I see items that remind me of the time we spent in Greece and the Holy Land many years ago, and Japan in 2000.  Old tobacco tins remind me of my Mennonite grandfather and my father, who used them for nails and screws, which they used to build beautiful furniture.  There are things that my children made for me or gave me.  A sampler stitched by my great-grandmother in 1875 connects me to my mother’s roots.  The desk I’m writing at was built by my father for my mother, and reminds me of their deep, deep love for each other, for God, and for their family.  My mom’s teacups and china remind me of Sunday dinners around an overflowing dining room table and some of the people who shared those moments with us.  And there’s stuff that simply brings me joy because of its beauty.  How can these things be assessed for their true “worth"?

Their true worth, of course, is not in their monetary value, but in the memories they hold and the stories they tell.  Every piece of tchotchke, every item on the shelf or the wall is a piece of my story, a reminder of places travelled, people whose lives have touched mine, accomplishments, events, and experiences that have shaped and transformed me.  Individually, they are merely “things.”  Collectively, they tell the story of my life.  They remind me of who I am, where I’ve come from, what I have done and what I want to do.  They are symbols and reminders of my identity, my values, and the meaning and purpose of my life. 

The minimalist phenomonen that was sparked by Marie Kondo attracted a lot of followers; I prefer to embrace the “cluttercore” style, or as the BBC calls it, “creative chaos,” “beautiful eclecticism,” and “gorgeous abundance.”  That sounds much more attractive to me.  It celebrates a sense of place, of security, of warmth and joy, being surrounded by comforting things.  The tangible reminders of my story, my family’s story, are meaningful to me.  They are a part of me. My “stuff” comforts me because it reminds me of who I am and who I want to be. 

 Photo captions: 

Top photo: Items from time spent in Japan and Greece, and my great-grandmother's sampler. 

Second photo: a teacup brought by my great-grandmother from Ukraine to Canada in the 1870s, which travelled with her when they immigrated to Mexico in the 1920s, and found its way back to Canada, and was given to me by my aunt. 

Third photo: my mother's "good" glassware, which matched her china, used for Sunday dinners, and all special celebrations.

Fourth photo: pocket watches found in the midden on the farm in southwestern Manitoba where my dad built our first house; display case built by my father.

Fifth photo: tobacco cans used by my father and grandfather in their workshops; a cinnamon box; beaded flowers which I made for my mother when I was about 12.

Graduation Day!

This week, high school students in my area are celebrating their graduation from high school, with ceremonies and proms and parties.  It reminded me that recently, I finally graduated with my B.A. (an Honours degree in Canadian Studies with a History minor). I also won a prize for the top marks in the Canadian Studies programme, which was a really big, and much appreciated, surprise.  Here are some personal reflections on both Convocation, and studying as a mature student.

Convocation Day is always one of my favourite days on campus.  It is the culmination of students’ hard work, learning, extra activities, and living in community of the previous 4 or 5 (or more) years.  It is a day of joy, excitement, and pride on one hand, and nostalgia and the realization that this time as a community, this life in a bubble that is created on a small campus, is now irrevocably ending, and life will never be the same.  It is a day when those of us who work on campus say “farewell” to students we have come to know, and watch them spread their wings and leave the nest of university life.

This year, on my Convocation Day, was no exception, but I got to experience the excitement of the graduands as part of the graduating class.  It was heartwarming to watch students greet each other, sometimes with hugs, with smiles and laughter, and to be a part of their excitement as we were getting ready for the ceremony.  However, also this year, the overall excitement was tempered by a protest organized and led by a group of faculty against the awarding of an honorary degree to a former Ambassador to Israel and Afghanistan.  The protest took place as students were entering Convocation Hall and also apparently involved a faculty boycott of the Convocation ceremony.  Some students inside also silently protested while she addressed Convocation.  I admit that having just completed a stupendous amount of research, I did not independently research the alleged issues, and if I have learned one thing over my lifetime as a student, it is to always do your own research; therefore, I have no personal opinion as to whether she should have been awarded the honorary degree or not.  I respect the right of people to protest anything they want, and it was a relatively peaceful and mostly respectful protest.  However, my observations of convocations from the many ceremonies I’ve attended over the years is that it has increasingly become less about the real and often significant accomplishments of the graduating students, and more about the honours bestowed on people who have already accumulated a lot of honours… and more importantly for the university, have also accumulated a lot of wealth and connections along the way.  This year was no exception.  It was disappointing that there were less than a dozen faculty at my Convocation, and I felt for the young students who were graduating who did not have the opportunity to be celebrated by their professors.  The focus was not on the graduating students, but on faculty issues and ONE honorary degree recipient.  I’m not sure what was accomplished, other than giving her an even wider and more public platform, and taking the focus away from graduates even more than usual.  

At first, I wasn't that excited about Convocation.  I've been a student for a very long time, and really, it doesn't seem like such a big achievement to get your first degree after such a long time. Everyone else seemed really excited for me, though, and I was overwhelmed by all the messages and support from my colleagues, my family, and my friends, and their excitement and pride on my behalf.  Both of my children, AND their partners, insisted on attending, and sat through the long ceremony.  One of my two best friends travelled out to share in the weekend, and receiving congratulations from others made me more excited about it.  In photos that were taken as I was receiving my degree, I look really happy and excited, and in the end, I was.

And on reflection, I think I should be proud of myself.  I started my degree before I got married, then took time off to work so my husband could study, and had some awesome jobs along the way.  Then I had children, and chose to stay home with them.  I worked casual and contract jobs here and there, I volunteered with a LOT of organizations in my community, and every now and then I took one or two courses at the university.  A few years ago, I decided I needed to finally finish my degree, but then my 2-week temporary job to replace someone on sick leave turned into a full-time job.  So for the past 6 years, I've been working full-time, as well as studying.  And of course, like everyone else, I also had to deal with COVID.  This last year, in particular, was difficult.  My mom died last year, and even though it was not totally unexpected, it has been difficult.  Although I had a great deal of support from most of my work colleagues, I was the victim of workplace harassment by one person.  I had to do a reading course at the same time as my thesis, which involved reading at least 30 different works and producing an annotated bibliography.  And because of the intensity of the reading course, I basically ended up writing my thesis in one semester instead of two; the vast majority of my research was already done, but I still had to read in areas that were not covered in my reading course, which was mostly irrelevant to my thesis.  I am exceedingly proud of my thesis and the work I did writing and researching it, despite the fact that it was the lowest mark I received at this university other than my mark in Postmodern Canadian Lit (don't worry, it's still a very good mark!), and I am extremely satisfied that I have produced the most complete and accurate and in-depth biography of John Hammond that exists. But of course, research never ends, and there are still lots of things to discover about Hammond.

As for graduating as a (very!) mature student, I am proud of persevering, even though at this point in my life, a Bachelor’s degree is not going to make a big difference to me.  While the other graduates are just starting their career paths and lives, I am at the other end.  When I started studying at this university many years ago, there was a mature student advisor, and at some points throughout the years, there were mature student groups.  Now, there is no support, no formal acknowledgement of the added pressures of the juggling that sometimes needs to take place, the time management, and the other commitments that many mature students have to cope with.  As far as I know, there is only one award given at Convocation specifically for mature students, and the last time I checked, it was administered under the Meighen Centre, whose mission statement says that it “provides accessibility support to students with disabilities and medical conditions.”  Hmmm…………………. 

Earlier in my studies, I was included in departmental field trips and e-mails and opportunities for students within my programme of study, but as time went on, these notifications and e-mails seemed to end, and I felt excluded from these opportunities.  At times, I felt quite alone, and also sometimes felt that I was held to higher standards than the typical 18-24 year old students who were studying alongside me.  Maybe that’s a fair expectation, given that I have more life experience than the younger students.  I haven’t quite decided.

While I felt a general lack of institutional support at times, I am extremely grateful for the support I received from many individuals within the institution, including other researchers, individual professors, many of the people I work with, archivists and librarians, and my friends.  I was thrilled and overwhelmed with how many staff and faculty members were excited for me as Convocation approached.  My parents are no longer here, but they too always encouraged me to finish my degree, and I know they would have been proud and excited to see me cross the stage.

And my family?  Well, they have had my back all the way.  They are the ones who kept me going even when I questioned why I was doing this and felt like it was a waste of time.  They are the ones who encouraged me and uplifted me and cheered me on and never (I mean never) complained when I got bogged down in school work.  They are the ones who share the most in this accomplishment with me. 

In the end, despite things that frustrated me, I know that I am extremely fortunate to have been able to study at a well-respected institution.  I took some stimulating and thought-provoking courses and produced some fun and interesting assignments.  I’m fortunate that my professors allowed me to focus on issues that were important to me.  It is not lost on me that a lot of women in my shoes are never able to complete their studies, and of course, in many parts of the world, girls and women are not permitted even the most basic of education, let alone university degrees.  I am grateful for all of the opportunities that have been provided for me to finish my formal education. 

I have met many alumni from my university, and I always envied them for being “part of the club.”  Now I’m part of it, too, and I’m proud to be associated with them.  It feels strange to not be thinking about what courses to take next year, but I am more than ready to move on.