by Bobbi French
I made all the calls and I listened carefully to the warnings from colleagues and the people at the licencing boards, but I don’t think they got it. Apparently people don’t abandon their medical careers very often. They listened politely but I could tell they were on the other end of the phone twirling their index fingers by their temples while mouthing to their co-workers, “This one is completely gone.” But I stood firm, safe in the knowledge that I’d become unhinged long before they found out about it. I wrote up the official emails and hit send. I was instantly overcome by my own courage and sense of purpose. I was bathed in the glow of a new and extraordinary me. This was immediately followed by being bathed in sweat.
UNSEND! UNSEND! What have I done? A full-on wave of anxiety washed over me. For the first time in my life I am unemployed, my last pay comes next week and half a paycheque at that, and now I’m not a doctor any more. Neil found me standing in the kitchen, soaked and shaky, paralyzed with panic. I turned, a column of horror, and told him what I’d done. “Hey, high five,” he said, raising his hand in the air for the congratulatory slap, “What’s for lunch?”
I love this man. As usual, his calm tempered my storm, the seas parted and rational thought resumed. I wondered if I’d ever really stop being a doctor? On the up side I won’t have to deal with my significant fear of being on an airplane and hearing the announcement, “Is there a doctor on the plane?” Every time I fly I think of those doctors who saved a passenger’s life using a bag of pretzels and paper clips or some other MacGyver-inspired contraption and I wonder what I’d do in the same situation. At best I could ask them about their invalidating childhood and explore their feelings about dying on an Air Canada flight from Halifax to Montreal.
It’s hard to describe the experience of healing. Like anything else, after a while it becomes routine. You deal with the same crisis so many times that knowing what to do often takes no effort. Mostly it’s very serious and dark with rays of light here and there. The kids I worked with have stories so heavy that it’s hard to imagine how they will ever recover, and yet they do.
Not long ago I received a long, heartfelt letter of gratitude from a mother whose son I cared for while he was seriously ill. Much to everyone’s relief he recovered in hospital. She wrote that he was now thriving in school and in life. She thanked me for my compassion and said she was forever grateful to me for saving her son. It was so moving this letter that I was tearful reading it. I was amused, however, when she said she was sure that I received letters like this all the time. Almost never. But that’s not the point of doing it. I did it because I took an oath; it was my duty and my job. But make no mistake, it was also my profound privilege and it will be hard to top in terms of its place in the grand scheme of things. Anyway, this whole journey is supposed to be about embracing change and letting go, right? Too bad it doesn’t come with benefits and vacation pay.
THE GIFT OF PAIN
Normally I prefer to disclose sordid personal details, particularly health related ones, only to those within my comfort zone. But because I’m living in the opposite these days, I’m supposed to be doing things that challenge me and trust me, this one is tough for me to put out there. So here goes.
Since 1994 I have not lived a day without pain. To make a very long story short I’ve had three major spinal surgeries, two on my back and more recently one on my neck. No violent car crashes or anything remotely tragic, just faulty discs, the cards I’ve been dealt. Each episode was fairly dramatic, especially the one with my neck, as my spinal cord was badly compressed and an emergency surgery was necessary to avoid paralysis. For months I’d known that I had a herniated disc in my neck but I ignored the sound medical advice I’d been given (as many doctors do) and kept right on working. Three days before the surgery I remember waking up in the middle of the night with both arms dangling like useless flippers, panicked out of my mind yet hoping the situation would improve by morning so I could get through my day on call. By nine a.m. I had recovered enough to function (barely) and in between assessments in the ER, I begged a radiologist to squeeze me into the MRI machine. We both stood there looking at my films knowing too well the gravity of the situation, him asking why the hell I wasn’t seeking care immediately and me offering a smile and a cursory thank you for his time. I raced back to the ER to finish my shift before heading off to another hospital to have my own emergency looked after. I was despondent and terrified, yet my major concern was how the situation would affect my work schedule. This was how I lived. By the way I do not recommend anyone try this at home. Please remember I am a professional fool. Not surprisingly, as soon as I recovered, I began contemplating major changes to my life.
Five years before, my second back surgery had gone horribly wrong leaving me with a paralyzed right leg. At the time I was told that it might recover, it might not, I’d have to wait and see. I’m not big on waiting and seeing so, with the help of some physician colleagues, I organized a rehab program for myself, and after a year of gruelling training, I learned to walk again. I still have major problems with the leg but I can walk, top speed, like I always have. Looking back on it, I have no idea where I found the strength.
This long cycle of damage and repair has left me with scars, titanium plates and screws (but alas no Bionic Woman functions) and a whole lot of chronic pain. I’ve seen all kinds of doctors and tried all kinds of medications. I’ve had too many MRIs to count and it has become a very large part of my life. It also played a large role in the decision to move to France, land of the supposedly outstanding health care system. Like everyone, I have good days and bad days. I have a special mattress and pillow. I have to wear very practical shoes, and those stylish purses the size of suitcases? Forget about it. I used to have pretty decent legs and now, let’s just say shorts are for heat-wave emergencies only.
It’s so easy to focus on the things I can’t do. I miss moving without thought or planning, dancing however I want to, just moving through the world without fear of the next disaster. I look at people running and I wonder if they realize their good fortune. I long to be comfortable … oh someone pass the Brie to go with this whine. The reality is things are what they are and could have been so much worse. Many people would be grateful to have my problems instead of the ones they have. I’m upright (way upright) every day, fully functional, and for that I cannot express my gratitude to whatever has brought me this far.
So now, after lots of mindfulness training, I try to see pain as a gift. It reminds me of what I can handle, that I can get through anything if I have to. Without all this mess how would I have known what I was made of? That being said, if they invented a way to fix this tomorrow and the side effect was growing a tail, I’d be the first in line. But there’s always an upside to everything. I am now exempt from vacuuming and heavy lifting. Neil was with me for the last surgery and over the past five years he’s shown me what he is made of and the value of that gift has no measure. Now there will be new challenges with foreign doctors, different treatments and, of course, new ways of coping with pain (wine, pastries, French countryside). I try to take each day as it comes and stay hopeful that something new and helpful is on the horizon. While I’m waiting maybe a new life in France is just what the doctor ordered.
THE DEVIL IS IN
THE DETAILS
Living the dream. Now there’s a phrase I’ve been hearing a lot these days. At this point it still feels like a dream, some surreal concept that doesn’t quite belong to me. Even with the house deal signed and half our furniture gone, it hasn’t quite sunk in yet. The super shopper lady returned today with her movers and as the treadmill was rolled down the driveway, I had no sense of this actually coming to pass. I think I’m still in the infatuation phase with this dream life.
This is the part where everything is romantic. All that’s needed is an Edith Piaf CD to cue the movie in my head: me cycling up the hill in Semur to visit the little épicerie for fresh strawberries and thick white asparagus which I place in the basket of m
y vintage bicycle along with a bouquet of sunflowers. I’m wearing my jaunty French beret and a Givenchy Audrey Hepburn dress as I ride past an accordion player on the corner who serenades me with a perfect version of La Vie En Rose. I wave to him and, in perfect French, call over my shoulder, “Ah, Jacques, what a glorious day! Your music is like wine to the thirsty soul.” Then Neil comes rushing in the room frantic about his travel visa. Fade to black.
There’s fantasy and then there’s reality. We both have to-do lists as long as one of my bandy legs. Everything from passports to Pap smears has to be dealt with before we leave. The visa drama has revealed that in order for Neil to stay in France for more than three months he actually has to fly to Montreal for a 15-minute meeting where he’ll need to produce everything from our marriage certificate to fingerprints. Daily calls to Air Canada have become routine as we are still trying to get on the same flight. We still have to finish renovating and deal with the sale of the house, arrange for transatlantic shipping of the few things we are taking, stock up on things we can’t get once we’re there and try to see all of our friends before we go. Immigration policy must be studied, on and on. Of course this is all fine for me but Neil is still working full time between World Cup matches and golf opens.
I know how this sounds. Oh how she suffers, the toil and trouble just to get a new life in France. True, if this is my only problem in life things are pretty good. But to be honest it’s the details that scare me. They remind me of how many challenges we will face in a new land. Every now and then I worry that such big changes will affect the marriage I hold so dear. Everyone keeps telling me how brave this is, but late at night, when sleep eludes me because I’m reviewing my list for the next day, I feel the anxiety creeping in and courage seems a long way off. I tell myself that somehow everything on the list will get crossed off and that we’ll go whether we’re ready or not. I have to. Jacques is waiting for me.
JESUS MISSUS, YOU’RE
AN AWFUL HEIGHT
This is what a man in a bar in Newfoundland said to me one night. He left the bar alone. Some years later my cousin introduced me to a man at the Ottawa Jazz Festival. He turned out to be a fellow Newfoundlander and stood about five foot six. His eyes followed me slowly from head to toe, and without so much as hello he said, “Jesus, look at the height of ya. My tongue would be dry halfway up your leg.”
I’ve alluded to my excessive height a few times so here’s the lowdown on the up high, a constant theme in my life. I’ve been an Amazon for as long as I can remember. I was born tall. I reached my final adult height of six feet at age 12. Not a day goes by without someone commenting on my size and every time I meet someone their first comment is usually about my body. Whenever someone describes me, it’s the first thing they say: “You know her, tall, skinny, big mouth.” I’ve learned to accept it, as any significant shrinkage is unlikely.
It seems most people would like to be taller than they are. They always say, “Oh you’re so lucky, I wish I was as tall as you.” No, they don’t. Sure, in my view everyone could use a couple of extra inches, but this life as a giraffe has some clear drawbacks. I was always taller than everyone else at school, allowing me to secure plum school play roles like King Herod and Bully Number Two. I was clumsy and awkward and fell down a lot, once while roller-skating in my mother’s ceramic tile foyer, but I had that one coming. I still hit my head frequently, with my most recent moment of elegance seeing me smack headfirst into a stone doorframe, knocking me and everything I was carrying to the ground so far below.
Clothing has always been a special challenge. There’s a petite store on every corner but usually only one tall store that sells giant polyester pants with waistbands that extend to my armpits. When I was young I had to be crafty. I collected boots of every style and color to cover my flood pants. Even now I have to be content with a wardrobe that fits me rather than one I like.
I occasionally wish to be a small woman. I’m always fascinated by the way men deftly carry women about in the movies. I picture Neil trying to romantically sweep me off my feet, him sweating and panting, his back breaking, my hands and feet dragging across the ground. What a mess. I would love to have small, feminine feet. Mine are like pontoons, which I suppose is necessary to prevent me from falling face-first on a regular basis. I longingly gaze at women with those beautiful pixie haircuts but I know I would end up looking like a giant Q-Tip. But there are some advantages. I can reach every shelf at the grocery store, handy for me and for the five foot nothing person who is somehow always shopping alongside me. I can see at concerts and I rarely get lost in a crowd. I can gain 20 pounds before anybody notices, which will likely come in handy in the land of croissants.
I am a bit worried about fitting in, no pun intended, in my little French town. Here in Canada I have many lovely Amazon friends but in Semur the ladies are regular size. If anything, they are quite petite. I don’t want some Frenchman at my door expecting me to help him chop firewood because he heard a Canadian lumberjack had arrived. Maybe they’ll see it as exotically attractive and intriguing. Or at least something not worth selling tickets to see.
I SURRENDER
I’ve been at war with my hair since about 1990. It’s Texas hair, thick as rope and grows at an alarming rate. It’s unruly and expands in all directions like a big ball of cotton candy as soon as the humidity goes above 50 percent. I coasted through the ’80s like someone straight out of an episode of Dallas, spiral perm and all. It was big and swallowed my face whole, but it was stylin’ at the time so I was golden. Then two disasters struck. The world decided that thin, silky hair was all the rage and the genetic blessings of my parents revealed themselves. Enter the premature grey.
And so began two decades of attacking roots with every chemical in the beautician’s arsenal. I once had to have all the color stripped from my hair after a stylist, high at the time, accidentally dyed it Superman blue-black. My scalp was covered in scabs and it was a year before my hair colour resembled something from nature. Sadly, that wasn’t the most painful aspect of this nonsense. I figure that over the last 20 years I’ve spent about $45,000 on my head. I’m absolutely serious. Good to know but I wish I’d made a large cocktail before taking out the calculator. And yet I was completely panic-stricken to hear that while the French do bread better than anyone in the world, hair colour is apparently not their forte. I emailed some ladies I know in France only to discover the horrible truth. Apparently, I’d have to drive 45 minutes to and from Dijon and pay a small fortune for color that might be something like what I’m used to. I’ve mentioned that I quit my job. I’ll be trying to learn French and starting a new career as well as adjusting to a new culture and maybe trying to make a friend or two. How the hell does this hair business fit in?
But it seems I’m becoming practical in my middle age, a nice balance to the uncontrollable sagging and wrinkling. I decided enough was enough. The minute I handed in my letter of resignation I laid down my weapons of grey destruction and let nature take its course. Honest to god, I would have created less of a stir if I’d told people I was joining a cult. I was stunned by the strong reactions to this seemingly trivial decision. So I did some research and apparently this is actually a strange thing to do. There’s even a whole website devoted to supporting women in their decision to abandon hair dye and entire debates about this as a feminist issue. Is this not the Oprah generation run amok? “You’ll look old,” they say. “You’ll look tired,” they say. Well, I’m sort of old and I’m definitely tired, so this will work out just fine.
And it was fine, until I went for one last haircut. Within two minutes of entering the salon, I was surrounded, lost in a sea of perfectly highlighted heads. I heard a faint battle cry in the distance and I began to waver. I sat in the waiting area with the colour conflict raging in my head while across from me sat a startlingly beautiful woman, one of those women who mystify me with their seemingly effortless style. Her hair? A perfect shade of pewter with chrome highlights. I showed h
er my skunk stripe and she assured me that this two-tone, bingo-babe madness would pass soon enough. She told me going grey would be one of the best decisions of my life and she predicted I’d be as fabulous as she was. I won’t, but sweet of her all the same. And then she said, “I’m your sign to do it.”
And “do it” I did. Armed with a steely resolve I sat for the last time with my revered hairstylist, Claude. I glanced back at the Silver Fox and I thought who has time to wait for things to pass? This was no time for cowardly retreat. I took a long look at my shoulder length mass of processed hair and said, “Cut it off.” Claude, who lives for the dramatic makeover, practically levitated with joy. He snapped a shiny new blade in his long-handled razor and, quite wisely, spun me away from the mirror. Fifteen minutes later he turned me around to face my spiky silver hair.
They say a woman who cuts off her hair is about to change her life. This scarecut says I am too busy changing my life to give a rat’s ass about peroxide and flat irons. I have been liberated from my hair and there is peace in the valley. It seems small, but maybe a global cease-fire isn’t far off.
LOVE IT AND LEAVE IT
I’ve never been very patriotic. I marvel at the flag-waving Americans pledging allegiance to the republic left, right and centre. They always say that the USA is the best country in the world, and maybe it is. Certainly the Big Gulp at 7-Eleven and next-day delivery from Zappos shoes puts them high on any list. But as I prepare to leave Canada and live in France under my British passport, I’ve been considering this country of mine.
I’ve been trying to think about the things that make up Canada besides hockey and Molson products. Tim Hortons (like Starbucks, only with higher levels of devotion), maple syrup, Great Big Sea, loonies and toonies, David Suzuki, the Trans-Canada Highway, Anne Murray, the CBC, the RCMP, the Gordons (Pinsent and Lightfoot), k.d. lang and my personal favourite, Shoppers Drug Mart (like Walgreens or Boots on speed). I always think of Canada as a very civilized nation, a country that is humble and intelligent; fresh, clean and full of people who love canoeing and say they’re sorry when someone else bumps into them. We have no history as fascists or dictators and no matter what evil plans Prime Minister Stephen Harper may enforce, I think we can all agree he’s no Mussolini. We are relatively peaceful in the world and we don’t kill criminals for killing other people. Plus, we made that space shuttle arm thingy. But when The National proudly presents Peter Mansbridge trying to look hot while stirring the nation into panic and the CBC is no longer distinguishable from CNN, it’s time to go.
