The Girl on the Train

 I took the Go train into downtown Toronto today...and as we approached Union Station, my mind flashed back a few decades, well 45 years ago to be more precise. As I looked at my reflection in the window, I remembered my 18-year-old self doing the same thing. I had my hair done in an up-to for a blind date I would soon meet.

My high school friends Cheryl and Debbie were nursing students at Toronto General Hospital. I was studying communication arts at Mohawk College. Most of my girl friends went into nursing or teaching. So I was invited to a nursing students dance at their residence.

A long, aqua dress adorned with matching ostrich feathers I borrowed from my sister was neatly folded in my overnight bag. I can’t remember my date’s name, maybe Gord, but he had very long hair that didn’t impress me but we all had a good time. I do remember a bed being loaded into the elevator and spending an inordinate amount of time in the washroom as I wasn’t used to drinking so many Singapore slings. I don’t think I’ve had a Singapore sling since.

Years went by. Cheryl and Debbie are now retired from successful nursing careers. A few years ago we reconnected and reminisced about that crazy night.

I look back at my reflection in the Go train window this March 21st, 2018. I’m no longer that nervous young girl wondering where that night would lead me and the days, weeks and years after that, but I see that same face looking back at me.

So many years later, so much life lived but here I am riding that same train into Union Station with the same excitement and anticipation of meeting a handsome young man. No blind date this time. It’s my son.

I’m meeting him at his office downtown Toronto. I’m so proud...yes of him...but also of myself....for he is my greatest accomplishment and I know that shy young 18 year-old girl whose face I saw in the Go train car window would agree.

Nursing Igor

She was once the head of Labour and Delivery at North York General Hospital...probably delivered as many, if not more, babies than the doctors.

After finding herself at the epicentre of the SARS crisis, she opted for an early retirement.

Now by this time, Terry had nursed, that includes IV and dialysis procedures, both a beloved cat named Moonie and a great big black dog named Snoop.

A revered nurse whose students she trained and colleagues she worked with, keep in touch to this day,

She is my oldest and dearest friend whom I met while working at the Red and White grocery store as high school students more than 40 years ago.

Christmas Eve parties in her parents rec room with her dad tending bar, we dressed alike, wore the same size, dated boys who drove the same sports cars and marvelled at how much we had/have in common: one of three sisters; would give birth to one son and inevitably, though we ended up living more than 90 minutes away from each other, would discover we had the same living room carpet and had bought the same dress on sale at Winners.

Our lives went separate ways during first marriages and career demands but today we live (part-time for me) four doors down from each other in cottage country. Our sons are grown, we have found our life partners and enjoy paddling down the lake for visits on hot, sunny days and cross-country skiing when the temperature plummets on a gorgeous frozen landscape.

We have shared life triumphs and tragedies...she more than I.

There were days when life seemed senseless and almost unbearable.

We propped each other up....and looked for the small joys, when one flew....or rather fell into her life.

A tiny newborn bird, tumbled from its nest, discovered by her son, featherless, near death.

He rushed it to his Mom....the nurse.

With her finger nail she pried open its tiny beak, feeding it pureed chicken every 20 minutes around the clock.

She folded the tiny broken creature into a sock, held it to her breast while she watched TV.

Six weeks later Igor regales me by treadmilling on a roll of toilet paper...he/she is a saucy little character playfully landing on our heads and pecking at our watches and rings.

We discover starlings are known for their intelligence; their ability to learn to talk and interact with humans.

Igor flies around the sunroom, and broke free one day when he/she figured out how to open his/her cage door while on the back deck.

Igor, Iggy for short, flew off

to the lilac bushes and had rounded the corner

towards the road; hearts stopped for a few short seconds before he/she flew back to the porch and...back to his/her cage.

Terry smiles telling the story and we marvel at this tiny bird brain which isn't so tiny after all , it seems.

For two hours, along with her husband and her dear dad, up for a visit from the nursing home he now calls home, we laugh at the antics of this little spirit.

Life's trials and tribulations and almost overwhelming challenges are forgotten.

Terry says she feels like her old carefree and happy self again.

One day we will learn if Iggy is a boy or a girl.

In the meantime, when you consider starlings can live for 30 years, well that's a lot of smiles and moments of pure, unbridled feathery joy.

And now we marvel at the incredibly unbelievable yet undeniable power of a near broken tiny being to give purpose, offer hope, dry up tears, release us from stresses far greater than we can ever imagine and...make us smile.

Medals and Milestones

 

 

There were 11 of us in all.  Sitting four rows from the front, and through the sopping umbrellas, I catch a glimpse of the familiar American Legion cap on one of the veterans.  I stifle a sob in my throat.  It could have been our Dad.  It was our Dad last year.  His name is called and my Mom and I hustle over to join the line of those laying wreaths in memory of those who have fought for our freedom; so many making the ultimate sacrifice.  Major Robert P. Smith, WW2 veteran, U.S. 5th Army, Royal Hamilton Light Infantry Reserve and founding member of the American Legion Post 19 lived a long life.  He was 87 and had been honoured many times for his post war service.  It's another milestone.

Since our Dad passed away five days before Christmas last year, we have soldiered on through all of those difficult milestones without him:  Easter, Fathers' Day, his birthday, Thanksgiving and now possibly the most poignant of all, Remembrance Day.

There is another milestone I'm observing this week.  Five years ago,  I said good-bye to colleagues and viewers who had followed my career, my various news reporting and anchoring positions and work in the community for more than 30 years . At the time it was devastating but the years and life itself  somehow put what we think will be the end of us into perspective.  Maybe it prepared me for what was to come, the tears but also the joys.

My long time friend Rosanne who also lost a job that day posted a beautiful message on Facebook marking our mutual milestone.

5 years ago this past week, a very important door closed on me. What I knew as work was no longer. As difficult as the following months and even a couple of years were with friendships lost, loss of my identity etc. many lessons were learned.
People come and go in life, with those that I no longer am in touch with, I have beautiful memories. For those of you that are still around, I am blessed to call you my friends.
As the saying goes, one door closes another one opens..... I have met wonderful, inspiring people while on this path and chapter in my life.
5 years have now passed and if i can give a little piece of advice for those of you that feel stuck in a situation, move forward and grasp at any positive opportunity that comes along.
It's amazing what you can do, if you only step forward a little and try. It took me almost 30 years to figure that one out! 

 

Like Rosanne I have  embraced all kinds of new opportunities, am still involved in my community and have the best boss in the world:  I only work between rush hours and usually take Fridays, even Mondays off and she lets me say yes or no to new projects.  My pay cheque isn't as regular as I'd like but my schedule allows me to spend more time with my family, friends and one-year-old Millie.  My new boss is me.

 

I like my freedom and to be valued as "me".  I used to think if it didn't happen on TV, it didn't matter. I have since learned that most poignant and life-changing moments unfold far away from microphones and cameras and don't need media to be meaningful (although, granted, the media can certainly help by bringing communities together and sharing the stories of those in need with those in a position to give; a message I will always convey to my students and in my public addresses!) 

 

Like my Dad, I have been honoured over the years with awards and medals.  I felt guilty at the thought of wearing them for I have never been and will never ever reach the stature of our heroes who so deserve them.  But my Dad insisted I do.  He was there, cane in hand, when I was presented most recently with the Order of Ontario. He taught me how to wear those medals proudly, over the heart.  So I wore them, proudly, at his military funeral.  And I wore them this Remembrance Day, by my poppy.  

 

After the cenotaph service, my family visited the Queen's Head Tavern in Burlington where for the past 20 or so years, my Dad met with fellow warriors for a dram of whiskey and a beer, a Bud, in honour of his American birth.  And there at the table where he sat all those years, his dram and beer sat in memorial.  I  learned from one of his many, many soldier friends who greeted us that day that protocol allows immediate family members to wear the medals of a fallen veteran, on the right side.  Next year, we will polish up those medal.  Our Mom will wear them, proudly and I will wear mine proudly too.